Jedi Fugitive (The Bad Batch)

36:

Astera:

No one had spoken since boarding the Marauder, a heavy, exhausted silence settling over the squad as soon as the ship had left Kamino and the smoking ruins of its cities behind. Along with Crosshair.

After all of that, he'd still chosen the Empire. They'd even offered him another chance, just like he had done for them in the training room. But he had not budged, and they'd been forced to leave him behind, again, for the Empire's scouts to find when they returned to pick through the wreckage. Our last exchange still rang through my mind, each word as crystal clear as though they had just been spoken:

I paused before stepping onto the Marauder's landing ramp, turning back to look at Crosshair one last time. Stiff and solitary, almost tiny against the expanse of the ocean behind him. And completely alone. I couldn't help but wonder if he felt abandoned by those he had once called brothers.

"What?" he snapped, eyes piercing into mine as he lifted his head, as though he could sense my pity. Even an hour ago his hostility would have grated on my nerves, but now, all I could feel was sympathy.

"Thank you," I said instead. "For saving my life."

Perhaps it was the surprise at my gratitude that caused his malice to diminish, even slightly, for when he spoke next, the words were quieter, rougher.

"Consider us even."

Omega had pushed past me then, to talk to him. I left them both there, dragging myself up the steps of the Marauder, where Tech was already waiting with a medical scanner.

My shoulder twinged again, and I shifted with a grunt, arm rubbing at the bandages and the newly attached sling wrapped around it. The damage had been worse than I originally thought - even Tech had let out a noise of surprise when he peeled away the armour and the form fitting sleeve to reveal the skin of my shoulder, swollen and nearly entirely black from the bruising. The normal healing time for a dislocated shoulder was six weeks, he'd told me. This, at his best guess, would take almost three months to heal entirely. I'd nearly choked at the thought - three months of not being able to use my arm for anything at all. Not ideal at all, especially considering I wouldn't have anyone else to rely on very soon.

Hunter's eyes were on me again, I could feel them boring into my helmet, as though willing me to look up and meet them. I didn't - I hadn't made eye contact with a single one of them since our narrow escape. Not Tech when he'd treated me, not Hunter, not even Omega. Instead I'd squirrelled away in the back of the ship, helmet on my head and stubbornly keeping my eyes on the floor in front of me. They were brimming with questions, naturally, but still I refused to look up, unwilling to answer them.

But it seemed like they weren't going to wait for me to be ready. The light above me was blotted out as a shadow fell over me - the three clones who had been kept in the dark this whole time about who I was.

"So." I finally looked up at Echo's sharp tone, arms folded over his chest as he stared down at me. Wrecker and Tech were right behind him - Hunter must have taken over flying the ship so they could interrogate me. "You're a Jedi."

"I'm a Jedi." I was too exhausted to correct them. Hell, I was too exhausted to face their accusations, but they weren't waiting. It would be best to get it over with now.

"You lied to us," Wrecker rumbled. "Why? We would have accepted you. We're not the regs."

"It was safer if nobody knew," I muttered, though the excuse was starting to sound old even to my ears. I didn't really believe it anymore. They were on the run from the Empire too, they were in just as much danger as I was from them. It was the lingering fear they would turn on me, I realised now. Even though I'd seen them remove their chips, some part of me was still afraid they would gun me down like the regs had tried to. Some self preservation instinct that had been awoken since Order 66 had first been issued.