Chapter Text
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Hyperspace turned the cockpit into a long, breathing tunnel of blue, as if the galaxy had been stretched into ribbons and wrapped around the Marauder’s windows. The ship rode the lane with a steady shudder that lived in the bones, not loud enough to be alarming, just constant enough to remind you: metal, momentum, and a whole lot of luck.
Hunter sat forward in the pilot’s chair, posture loose in that way that fooled people who didn’t know him. One hand hovered near the controls, the other held a scarred datapad like it had personally offended him sometime around Geonosis.
Behind him, Tech’s fingers moved across the console with precise taps. Not typing. Conducting. Lights blinked in obedient rhythms, readouts scrolled, and the Marauder answered like it had learned his habits and decided to tolerate them.
Wrecker was sprawled on the bench like he’d claimed it by conquest, boots where they absolutely did not belong, a crate of snacks balanced on his stomach like an offering. He tore open a crackly wrapper, inhaled, then grinned around the bite.
“This,” he declared, “is the good stuff.”
Tech didn’t look up. “Objectively speaking, ‘good’ is subjective. The nutritional value is suboptimal, and the sodium content alone could—”
“Tech,” Hunter warned, voice low.
Tech paused mid-sentence, blinking once. “Understood. I will refrain from explaining enjoyment.”
Wrecker snorted, delighted. “You never refrain. You just take longer.”
“That is inaccurate.”
“It is very accurate,” Hunter muttered, rubbing his temple with two fingers. The gesture had become a habit lately. There were a lot of things in his life now that lived somewhere between habit and survival tactic.
A soft hiss cut into the cockpit’s rhythm. The caf unit cycling. The smell came next, bitter and warm, slicing through the ship’s usual perfume of engine heat, oil, and old blaster smoke.
Lysa appeared in the doorway a moment later, one hand steadying a metal mug as the Marauder shifted. Hyperspace light washed her face pale, but her eyes stayed bright. Always bright, even when the war tried to grind everything into the same color of ash.
“Caf?” she offered, casual like she wasn’t delivering sanity in liquid form.
Wrecker’s arm shot up so fast he nearly launched the snack crate. “Me!”
“You’ve had three,” Hunter said without looking away from the forward viewport.
“Four,” Tech corrected automatically.
Wrecker pointed at Tech with the wrapper. “See? He knows. He gets me.”
Hunter’s shoulders lifted in a tired breath. “Your heart is going to attempt to leave your body.”
Wrecker shrugged. “Then it’ll be free.”
Lysa laughed, quick and bright. The sound bounced off the cockpit walls and made the Marauder feel, for half a second, less like a war machine and more like a place people lived.
She moved around Tech, set a mug near Hunter’s elbow.
Hunter’s hand hovered like he was deciding whether to accept kindness as a concept. He took the mug anyway, fingers closing around warm metal.
“Thanks,” he said, and it came out like an order he didn’t mind following.
Lysa’s smile softened. “Anytime.”
She turned, and the air in the cockpit shifted by a hair.
Crosshair had been there the entire time.
He leaned against the bulkhead near the rear hatchway, half in shadow, half caught in cold blue light. His helmet sat on the bench beside him. White armor scuffed where it had met the universe hard. His rifle lay across his lap like a sleeping predator. One gloved hand dragged a cloth down the barrel with slow patience, the kind that suggested he could do this forever and never once get bored.
His eyes were on Lysa.
Not obvious. Not warm. Not the way Wrecker looked at snacks or the way Tech looked at data. Crosshair looked like a scope looks: quiet, unwavering, built to notice.
Lysa pretended not to see it. She always did.
“Caf, Crosshair?” she asked, stepping forward. Sweet tone. Straight spine.
Crosshair’s mouth curled into something that wasn’t a smile. More like his face remembered the concept and decided not to honor it.
“No.”
Lysa lifted her brows. “No thank you?”
Crosshair’s gaze slid from her face to the mug like it had insulted him. “I said no.”
“Right,” she replied, bright as a beacon. “I forgot. Manners aren’t standard issue.”
Wrecker made an appreciative noise, delighted. Tech glanced up, interest flickering like a diagnostic alert.
Hunter’s temple throbbed.
Crosshair’s voice came out slow, gravel dragged through metal. “Careful, medic.”
Lysa stepped closer, and the Marauder chose that exact moment to hit a rough patch in the lane. The ship dipped. Her balance shifted. The mug tilted, caf threatening mutiny.
Crosshair’s hand shot out.
Not to steady her waist. Not to catch her. He snatched the mug by the rim with two fingers, fast and precise, preventing a hot splash from hitting her armor or Tech’s console.
For a heartbeat, their hands touched.
Glove to bare fingers. Heat meeting cold. A stupid, tiny contact that should have meant nothing.
They both froze anyway.
Crosshair’s eyes flicked to her face. Lysa’s breath caught once, and her expression tightened like she’d swallowed a spark.
Then he released the mug back into her grip as if he’d never moved.
“Watch where you’re going,” he said, flat.
Lysa blinked, recovered like she’d practiced. “Thanks for the concern.”
“It wasn’t concern.”
“Of course not.” She turned away, ponytail swishing with deliberate nonchalance. “Wouldn’t want you to develop a personality.”
Wrecker wheezed laughter. “He’s got one! It’s just… grumpy!”
Tech tilted his head. “It is plausible that his affect is a defensive adaptation. A behavioral armor, if you will.”
Crosshair looked at Tech like he was considering how far the ship was from the nearest airlock.
Hunter pinched the bridge of his nose. “Kriff.”
“Language,” Lysa called from the galley, gentle scold with teeth underneath.
Hunter stared out at the endless blue and exhaled. “You’re all going to be the end of me.”
Wrecker beamed. “Awww. That’s sweet.”
“It’s not.”
Tech, sincere as always, added, “Statistically, the likelihood of dying due to complications related to your team’s behavior is relatively low. However, stress-induced hypertension—”
Hunter raised a finger. Tech stopped mid-thought like someone had hit a pause button on a lecture.
A clean ping cut through the cockpit: the holo-comm indicator blinking.
Tech’s head snapped toward it. “Incoming encrypted transmission. Republic frequency.”
Hunter straightened, caf forgotten. “Put it through.”
The holo emitter in the center of the cockpit sputtered, then threw up a flickering image that wobbled with hyperspace interference. A Venator bridge resolved behind the speaker: durasteel, bright panels, uniformed crew moving like ants inside a machine.
A Republic officer appeared, crisp posture, clipped tone. Rank plaque caught the light. He didn’t look impressed by anything, including the concept of joy.
“Clone Force Ninety-Nine,” he said. “You are receiving priority orders.”
Wrecker sat up straighter, still holding snacks like evidence. “Ooooh. Priority!”
Tech’s fingers were already moving, pulling up a channel log. “Confirming authentication now.”
Hunter’s voice went flat and professional. “This is Hunter. Go ahead.”
The officer didn’t waste breath. “A civilian settlement on Vorid-Delta has been hit by a Separatist raiding element. Pocket of droids, likely a remnant detachment using the region to resupply. The locals sent a distress call through Republic relief channels.”
Lysa’s expression softened immediately. She didn’t even try to hide it. Crosshair’s gaze sharpened, attention locking in like a sightline.
The officer continued, holo crackling at the edges. “Settlement designation: Roth Vell Outpost. Population approximately four hundred. Primary assets: grain stores, fuel reserves, water purification.”
Tech murmured, almost to himself. “Agricultural hub. Low defensive capability. High resource value.”
“Correct,” the officer said, as if Tech had spoken directly into his brain. “Local militia is overwhelmed. Separatist units are stripping the outpost and disrupting evacuation. Multiple family groups separated in the chaos.”
Hunter’s jaw tightened. “Objective?”
“Primary objective: clear the outpost. Push the droids out of the AO. Secondary: secure the area long enough for Republic relief transports to extract civilians and deliver supplies.”
Wrecker cracked his knuckles with delighted menace. “Finally.”
The officer’s eyes slid briefly as if he could see through the holo and didn’t like what he found. “Minimal collateral. Those are civilians’ homes.”
Crosshair’s sneer was audible even without him speaking. Lysa’s eyes flicked toward him like: don’t you kriffing dare.
Hunter nodded once. “Understood.”
Tech brought up a tactical overlay, projecting it so the holo map floated between them: a small cluster of buildings, surrounding fields, a river curve, ridge line to the north. “Terrain suggests a ridge-based insertion would provide optimal overwatch. Recommend two kilometers northwest.”
Hunter leaned in. “We take the ridge. Crosshair gets eyes.”
Crosshair didn’t outwardly react, but the shift in his posture was subtle and immediate. Less lounging. More ready. Overwatch was where he lived.
The officer’s tone remained crisp. “You will check in once you are in-system. Republic relief is staging nearby, but they will not move in until the droid perimeter is broken.”
“Copy,” Hunter said.
The holo crackled again. “One more note. Reports mention at least one heavy unit. Possible AAT support or a modified super battle droid platform. Proceed accordingly.”
Wrecker grinned wider. “Proceeding accordingly sounds like blowing it up.”
Tech, without missing a beat, said, “That is a viable interpretation.”
Hunter shot Tech a look.
Tech added, “With controlled precision.”
The officer’s gaze flicked across them like he could hear the chaos through the comm. “Your medic is present?”
Lysa stepped closer to the holo, lifting her chin. “Still breathing,” she said lightly.
“Keep it that way,” the officer replied. “There are civilians on the ground. You bring your team back intact.”
Hunter’s voice went firm. “We will.”
The holo snapped off, leaving the cockpit in dim blue again, only hyperspace light and blinking instruments.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then Tech cleared his throat as if silence was simply a program waiting to resume. “Coordinates received. Calculating drop-out vector now.”
Wrecker’s boots hit the deck with a thud as he stood. “Gear up time!”
Hunter held up a hand. “Plan first.”
Tech flicked the map, adding elevation lines and possible approach routes. “Three primary access points: eastern road, southern service track, and an irrigation corridor along the river. The storage facility is central. Droids will prioritize it.”
Lysa pointed at the river corridor. “If families got split, there’s a chance people are hiding down there. Under bridges, in culverts, in the reeds.”
Crosshair’s voice cut in, low and sharp. “There’s also a chance it’s mined. Or full of clankers waiting for the first idiot to walk in.”
Lysa turned, smile still present but no longer playful. “Then we don’t walk in like idiots.”
Crosshair’s eyes narrowed. “You want to sweep it.”
“I want to make sure we don’t shoot someone’s farmer uncle because he’s covered in mud and terrified,” she said. “That’s not heroics. That’s competence.”
Tech nodded, pleased to have his caution validated. “Collateral risk mitigation is prudent.”
Crosshair’s gaze slid to Tech. “We do not have time for your ‘prudent.’ We clear the AO fast and move.”
Lysa crossed her arms. “And we do it clean.”
Crosshair’s mouth curled. “Clean gets you killed.”
“Dirty gets other people killed,” Lysa shot back, voice sweet and sharp at the same time. “Pick which one you can live with.”
The cockpit tightened. Not with anger exactly. With truth that didn’t have a safe place to land.
Hunter exhaled slowly through his nose. “Enough.”
Both of them looked at him, caught mid-argument like kids with rocks in their hands.
Hunter gestured at the map. “We do it quick. We do it clean. No unnecessary risks.” His gaze flicked to Lysa. “You stay with the team.”
Lysa’s mouth opened.
Hunter lifted a finger. “Don’t argue.”
Lysa closed it. Her jaw tightened, but she nodded once.
Crosshair’s eyes moved to her. Something flickered there for half a second that didn’t match his tone. Approval. Relief. Something he’d choke on before admitting.
Tech tapped the ridge line. “Insertion here. Crosshair overwatch position here. Wrecker, Hunter, and I will proceed along the western street grid. Medic remains center mass.”
Lysa huffed. “Center mass?”
Tech blinked. “In formation.”
Wrecker waggled his brows at Lysa. “Means you’re protected!”
“Means I’m supervised,” Lysa corrected, eyes cutting to Crosshair.
Crosshair didn’t bother denying it. “Good.”
Wrecker laughed like that was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. “You two are so kriffing weird.”
Tech’s head tilted. “What is ‘weird’ about tactical supervision?”
Lysa patted his shoulder. “You’re doing great, Tech.”
“I am aware,” Tech replied, entirely sincere.
Hunter’s hand went back to his temple. “Comms check in ten. Gear up in five. We drop out of hyperspace in twenty.”
Wrecker was already stomping toward the armory, excitement shaking the ship by proxy. “Twenty minutes! Plenty of time!”
“To do what?” Tech asked, following at a brisk pace.
“To get ready to fight!”
“We can be ready in five minutes.”
“Then we have fifteen minutes to be excited!”
Tech made a small thoughtful hum, as if trying to quantify excitement into a usable metric.
Hunter watched them go, then turned toward Lysa and Crosshair. “Both of you,” he said, voice flat with authority, “keep it professional down there.”
Lysa’s smile returned, softer now. “Always am.”
Crosshair’s sneer deepened. “I’m always professional.”
Hunter gave him a look that said I have eyes, trooper.
Hunter left the cockpit, boots heavy on the deck, the sound of responsibility walking away.
For a moment, it was just Lysa and Crosshair in the hyperspace glow.
Lysa turned to head toward the medbay.
Crosshair spoke, quiet, like he didn’t want the ship itself to hear him. “You don’t always have to argue.”
She paused mid-step, glancing back. Her expression was open and guarded at the same time, like she wasn’t sure whether to treat this as an insult or something worse.
“I’m not arguing,” she said softly. “I’m reminding you that people matter.”
Crosshair’s eyes narrowed. “People get you killed.”
Lysa’s voice gentled, but the steel stayed. “Pretending they don’t matter gets you killed in a different way.”
The words hung between them, heavy as gravity.
Crosshair’s jaw flexed. He looked away first, toward the viewport, toward the endless blue rush.
“Just… don’t wander,” he muttered, like it was irritation and not a plea.
Lysa’s lips curved, small and warm. “You mean you’ll miss me?”
Crosshair’s head snapped toward her. His stare could have cut durasteel.
“Kriff off.”
Lysa’s laugh was quiet, delighted, and she left the cockpit before he could decide whether to be angry about it.
Crosshair stayed where he was, eyes forward, watching hyperspace like it might try something.
His hand drifted to the comm on his wrist. Checked the channel. Checked the signal strength. Checked, as he always did, where everyone was.
His gaze flicked to the corridor where Lysa had gone, then back to the stars that weren’t stars.
Overwatch.
Not just for the mission.
For the team.
For her.
The Marauder shuddered again, a deeper vibration that signaled the coming drop out of hyperspace. The blue light began to tighten, like the galaxy drawing a breath.
Crosshair’s voice went onto squad comms, low and controlled.
“Prep to deploy.”
And somewhere down the corridor, Lysa’s voice answered, warm and steady.
“Copy that.”
The tunnel of hyperspace began to peel away, and the war waited on the other side.