Chapter Text
Hunter couldn’t sleep. Not really an unusual occurrence, but still an annoying one. They had been offered beds in the barracks, but had predictably declined. Hunter had just managed a polite refusal before Crosshair could open his mouth for a decidedly less polite one when Rex had made the offer.
The comforting noises of the Marauder, however, were muted. Usually Hunter could focus on the ship’s hum and the keening of the hyperspace drive when they were in transit, but locked in the hangar on the Resolute, all Hunter could see was quiet, all he could hear was dark, and all he could sense was anomalous and discordant.
It was not the recipe for restful sleep that he was looking for.
Hunter groaned and sat up in his bunk, swinging his legs over the side and making the short jump from the top bunk to the ground. He crouched in his landing, waiting for the gentle breathing of Tech and Crosshair on the lower bunks to assure him that they were still sleeping.
The snores streaking from Wrecker in bursts of vibration, light, and noise were enough to reassure him that the giant form on the floor beside the bottom bunks was definitely still unconscious.
Hunter stood and slowly made his way out of the bunkroom and then down the still extended ramp into the hangar bay of the Resolute. It was technically against regulations for anyone to sleep on a ship when docked, but really—they were the exception to most of the regulations, anyway. Rex hadn’t even batted an eye at it.
Though that clone he and his team had helped liberate just a few rotations ago apparently not only had something to say about it, but had the regulation subsection and exact wording memorized.
Hunter frowned, hiking a foot onto the access ladder on the side of his ship and climbing up onto the roof. He settled on the edge, surveying the night shift of the hangar bay as they continued to service ships and patrol the area.
The clone—Echo—had gone through a horrifying ordeal, but he’d been welcomed back with open arms by Rex and a select few of the other members of the 501st. It didn't bring Hunter any joy to consider it, but he thought it was foolish for the regs to not consider the possibility that Echo wasn’t as free of Separatist influence as they all seemed to think.
But at the same time, Echo had fought with them on Skako Minor. Beaten, drugged, basically comatose, and with a body unrecognizable to even himself, he’d still stood with them. Hunter had his doubts, but he couldn’t deny that after seeing Echo working with his team that he didn’t hope he was wrong.
During the battle in the village, Rex had wanted Echo as far away from the actual fighting as possible. Hunter had suggested he’d be paired with Crosshair and Rex had almost automatically vetoed putting his clearly traumatized brother with the sniper who’d just recently been a little uncouth about his being alive at all. Nevertheless—it was the safest place out of the heat of the battle and Crosshair would do his job. He’d protect the reg.
Hunter hadn’t even considered the idea that Crosshair would somehow, in the span of a single battle, grow to actually like the reg.
And with his dry wit and sad tooka eyes, Echo had all but accidentally hit every single one of Wrecker’s need-to-protect buttons, as well.
Hunter now found himself in the uncomfortable position of having half his squad enamored with a reg, of all things. Tech, playing to the probabilities, agreed with Hunter that Echo might not be in his right mind. Or, more likely, in control of his own mind.
There was a clamor near the service doors, the sharp sound of tumbling plastoid overloud to Hunter’s ears. He drew his legs up and then walked in a crouch to the tail end of the Marauder.
He narrowed his eyes and scanned the area where the noise had come from. There was no movement, but the noise came again and Hunter narrowed his eyes further at the closed and locked door.
He jumped down to the folded wing of the ship before making a second jump to the floor, landing with legs bent at the knees. He fiddled with his vibroblade, but ultimately decided against drawing it. They were flying over and in an active war zone so close to Anaxes, but he should be relatively safe aboard the Resolute. Hunter snorted–at least, relatively safe enough that the sight of his vibroblade would cause more panic than anything.
Hunter stalked towards the door, palming it open before stepping through and hesitating. Then a reverberating tremor hit his senses—it wasn’t a noise, but more of a feeling. He turned down the corridor and then another one, and then another before he was standing in front of the armory.
Hunter furrowed his brow—just how loud had those crashes been? He was easily a half-klick away from the cargo bay and his hearing was good, but it still had its limits. He didn’t know if he would have clearance to enter the armory, but the noises would grate on him if he didn’t figure out the source.
He reached over to the keypad to try his access code, but paused before pushing a button as he noticed the door was slightly ajar.
Hissing, Hunter did pull his vibroblade this time, nudging the door open with the tip of the knife, his left hand drawing his blaster as the door slowly cycled open.
Once the gap was big enough for him to slip through, he did so silently. He flipped the knife in his hand so the blade lay parallel to his forearm, raising his blaster so the barrel pointed in front of him as he slowly walked into the room.
He needn’t have tried to move so silently. He couldn't get a clear view of who else was in the room, but he could hear them and see flashes of cadet orange. They didn’t appear to care about being cautious; there was the tell-tale sound of sifting through piles of armor and weapons. As Hunter drew closer, weapons still out cautiously, he heard another piece of plastoid fall to the ground and then a muttered curse.
The voice was familiar and Hunter relaxed marginally as he realized it was a clone in the room with him. He holstered his blaster, but kept his knife out. He perhaps was being paranoid, but habits made on the frontline of a war were hard to break.
Rounding the corner of one of several racks of stacked armor, Hunter immediately saw who was in the room with him.
“Echo?” Hunter tensed, rethinking holstering his blaster.
Echo jolted and the cuirass he was holding tumbled to the ground as he whipped around in shock. A moment later and the motion caught up to him on legs he was still getting used to and he stumbled forward.
Hunter reflexively sheathed his knife and strode forward to balance Echo before the other man fell to the floor.
“Hunter,” Echo breathed as Hunter steadied him with both hands on his shoulders, “You startled me.”
“What are you doing in here?” Hunter couldn’t help the slight accusatory tone that snuck into his question. Old habits die hard and his suspicions were warranted.
He regretted it, nevertheless, when Echo flinched and hastily stood up and out of Hunter’s grip. Echo cleared his throat to smooth over the sudden tension, but that quickly turned into a cough which turned into several coughs which turned into Echo doubled up with his left hand and scomp resting on metal knees as his coughs started to sound more like gags and retching.
Hunter stared wide-eyed. He hesitantly reached out to pat Echo on the back, “Are you…are you okay?”
Echo cough-gagged one more time before wiping his mouth with the back of his left hand. He gestured with his scomp for Hunter to back up before he stood up himself, “I’m fine—just still getting used to these new lungs. It’s a process, right?”
Echo laughed lightly and Hunter smiled tentatively in response, “I can imagine.”
A moment passed and then Hunter remembered where they were, “Is there something in here you need?”
Echo glanced around, “Armor. I’m pretty sick of wearing cadet orange, if I’m honest.”
“I can’t exactly disagree with you there, but…” Hunter trailed off. How, exactly, could he go about accusing Echo of less than pure intentions to his face?
Echo’s face shuttered closed, as if he knew Hunter was accusing him of something, “My ARC codes still work and as long as I log everything I take out, I’m technically following all regulations. Armory hours are only guidelines.”
“I don’t think you shouldn’t have armor, I just—“ Hunter cut himself off. Better that Echo thought he was accusing him of being unfit for duty rather than just unfit. Hunter sighed and rubbed his eyes, “Have you found anything, yet?”
Echo shrugged his shoulders, his face still mostly closed off except the tightness of his eyes and the tug of his mouth was enough to broadcast just exactly how he was feeling to Hunter. Hunter was viscerally reminded of just how little it took for Wrecker to be all but wrapped around Echo’s finger. A single, soulful glance out of piteous eyes and Wrecker was sunk.
Glancing at Echo’s current expression—closed off, but clearly struggling with vulnerability, hurt, and a lack of self-assurance—Hunter could feel his own suspicions and standoffishness start to melt.
“You’re not exactly regulation size anymore, I’d say,” Hunter grunted and glanced away from Echo under the pretext of searching the stacks of armor himself, trying to ignore the swell of feeling in his chest as Echo’s expression broke into a relieved grin.
“Just lost a little weight,” Hunter snorted and Echo continued, “And muscle mass, and bones, and several life-sustaining organs.”
“Try these,” Hunter grabbed at what looked like a complete set of armor from the stack behind him. The armor was scuffed, dented, and an off-white gray.
Hunter set the armor down before handing the cuirass to Echo. Echo frowned, “Training armor—it’s not as sturdy, but it looks like it’s sized to fit a younger cadet,” he smiled up at Hunter, “At least I’m getting out of the orange, I suppose.”
Hunter smiled back. Kark it. He could see how most of his squad was won over by this reg. Hunter considered the man before him while Echo glanced at the pieces of armor, pulling a set of blacks down from another storage shelf.
While he couldn’t shake the idea that Echo might not be completely out of the Techno Union’s control, he was starting to wish it. The guy had fortitude, that was for sure. Hunter glanced around him one more time, locating what he needed before grabbing it and clearing his throat.
“You did well on Skako Minor. You definitely made an impression on Crosshair,” Hunter clutched the can of blue spray paint in his hand. Not his first choice of color, but on the ship housing the 501st it was unlikely he’d find any other.
Echo chuckled, “He seems like he’d be an acquired taste. But he’s not the worst I’ve met, not in this war. Besides, he’s too sarcastic to take seriously.”
“Just don’t tell him that,” Hunter reached out and plucked the cuirass from Echo’s hands before quickly spray painting a crude skull. It wasn’t his best work (he usually worked with stencils), but he hoped his meaning was clear.
Echo took the proffered armor back, wide-eyed, “Not my typical mark—it’s…one of yours, right?”
Hunter grinned, “Something to think about. When this all shakes out, after we complete this last mission here on Anaxes…just, something to think about.
“Thank you,” Echo mumbled and looked away. Hunter couldn’t stop mentally kicking himself. He was invested in this clone already, but what if he was right about him? Offering him a spot on his squad? Stupidest thing he could do.
But then Echo looked up and smiled larger than Hunter had seen him since Tech had pulled him out of that stasis pod and Hunter couldn't bring himself to take the offer back.