Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“So there I was,” Phee says, leaning against the counter in the Archium. “Rappelling down the cliffs of Anantapar, a Kaski throwing blade in one hand, the diamond in the other, Trade Spine League smugglers hot on my trail. Then these flying reptiles the size of T-16s swoop in, and the next thing I know, I’m freefalling through the clouds. Landed in a mountain sassafras tree. Got a hell of a bruise on my ass, but didn’t damage …” She reaches into her bag. The curator leans forward, a little smile pulling at the corners of her lips. This is Phee’s favorite part. “This!” She brandishes the diamond, letting the diffuse white light of the Archium glint off its multifaceted surface, casting prisms of blue and pink and violet across the stone walls. “The ur-diamond of Nothoiin.” 

“Returned to its people,” the curator finishes. Her name is Nelli and she’s worked at the Archium for several years. Her deep brown skin is radiant, her hair’s tied in a brilliant blue scarf, and her tunic is the color of the Pabu sea at night. In comparison, Phee looks like … well, she looks like she just rappelled down a cliffside on Anantapar. Dusty, rumpled. A pleasant ache in her arms. A less pleasant ache in her lower back. It’s great. 

“Some of its people, anyway,” Phee says. “The ones who ended up here.” 

“More and more people are ending up here,” Nelli says. “With what’s going on in the Core.” 

“Ain’t that the truth,” Phee says easily, though she tries to avoid the Core if at all possible. It’s too developed, too contained, too sterile and sanitized and unimaginative. 

“Thank you, Phee,” Nelli says, laying her hand over Phee’s own. “Truly appreciated, as always. Now, I know you have about a dozen other people you need to see.” 

“And regale with a story, no doubt.” Phee turns around at the sound of Shep’s voice and accepts his hug when he reaches her. “Starting with me.” She probably holds on too long -- nothing beats Shep hugs, especially after months in the stars, talking to no one but a power droid (MEL’s had a lot of upgrades, sure, but not that many). 

“Brace yourself,” Phee says when they pull away. “It’s a good one.” 

“I don’t doubt it for a moment.” As always, he’s so serene. He’s in a green tunic and cream-colored trousers. Pressed to perfection, but somehow, he manages to look casual, effortless. As if he just wakes up like this. 

“Where’s my little pal?” Phee asks. 

Shep laughs, deep and reverberating in the quiet of the Archium’s lobby. “Lyana’s in school. And don’t let her hear you say that. Since she’s turned thirteen, she’s been adamant that she’s a young woman now, not a child.” 

“Thirteen,” Phee says, waving over her shoulder at Nelli as she and Shep stroll across the lobby. They step out into the glaring sun of a Pabu afternoon. “Still a baby, really,” she says, though all she can think is, Where the hell does time go? She’d met Lyana when the girl was four years old. It feels like yesterday. 

“Where do you want to go?” Shep asks. He shields his eyes with his hand, casting a shadow across his face as he blocks out the sun. “It’s too bright to hang around outside all day. And I assume you haven’t eaten.” 

“I’ve eaten,” she corrects. “I haven’t eaten well.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place.” 

There’s more than one reason Pabu’s her second home. Her first home being … her ship? Is that adventurous and cool or sad and lonely? She stomps her heavy boots, leaving behind a cloud of orange Anantapur dust. There are more important things to worry about. Like … “I could murder for some sushi right now. You ever had sushi on Bar Neth?”

“I thought Bar Neth was a desert planet.” 

“It is.” 

Shep chuckles, then asks, “Beyond the Sea?” 

“Hell, yes.” It’s their place. Though to be fair, it’s everyone’s place. Best sushi on Pabu, and that’s saying something. “Lead the way, Mr. Mayor.” 

* * * 

“The place looks different,” Phee says after the Bith waitress shows them to a velvet booth in the back of the restaurant. She can’t quite put her finger on it -- it’s still the same layout, the same cluster of little tables and row of booths. The same open kitchen and brick oven. Still built around a giant tree, its branches reaching through the roof. That would be a hell of a change to make, removing that tree. But something’s different. It’s like everything she knows, everything she remembers, has been shifted a few inches over, and she’s the only one who notices. 

She’s been coming here for years, since she found out about this planet, basically. Knows the cranky old owner, a rare asshole on an otherwise friendly planet. Knows the niece and nephew who work for him. Knows the Duros pastry chef who’s always talking about crystals and the phases of the moon. Which moon, Phee’s never been sure. There’s quite a few in the galaxy. She learned quickly with that guy that it was best to just play along. 

“New owner,” Shep says. “You’ve been gone a while.” 

They’re cut off when the waitress comes back. Phee orders their usual sushi platter and Shep adds a couple of fruity cocktail specials. “Day drinking,” Phee says. “I approve.” 

It’s not the waitress who brings out the platter full of sunfish sashimi and crab rolls and prawn nigiri, it’s the chef. “Phee,” he says as he lays the platter on the table, then crosses his arms over his barrel chest. “I heard a rumor you were back.” 

“Sam Darin,” she says. “It’s been a while.” 

“Too long,” he agrees. They’re not friends, exactly, but they’re friendly. The way she’s friendly with everyone here. She swoops in, she eats sushi, she swaps stories, she takes off for her next adventure. Then she sees them again when she returns, days or weeks or months later. 

“The place looks good,” she says. 

“Thank you.” Sam’s eyes crinkle with his smile. He has brown skin and long, dark hair tied in a topknot, and he’s wearing a magenta apron. Like most people she knows (and certainly everyone she likes), he has a storied past, but he looks good now. Solid. “You’re talking to the new owner.” 

“Look at you, all grown up.” She pops an entire crab roll in her mouth, mostly so she can watch Sam try not to glare. Chefs hate when you don’t savor food, when you shove it in your mouth like an expired ration bar. It’s hilarious. 

“Phee, I’m pretty sure we’re the same age,” he says, leaning against the booth as if he’s in no hurry to get back to the kitchen. She doesn’t blame him. It must be hot back there, next to the fire.  

“Maybe, but I’m more worldly, aren’t I? Experienced. Well-traveled.” 

“Can’t argue with that.” 

“No, we can’t,” Shep adds, picking up a piece of nigiri with his chopsticks. 

“No you can’t,” she agrees. “I don’t recognize anyone around here. You hire a whole new staff?”

“Basically. New head of wait staff, Naz Ola --” He indicates the Bith woman who seated them. “Head bartender, Ainda Grih --” He points to a Rodian woman who’s gripping a cocktail shaker like it holds the closely-held secrets of the galaxy. “Crosshair Howcet, new pastry chef.” 

He points again and she does a double-take that must look comedic at best. She recognizes him now and feels stupid that she didn’t earlier -- that tattoo is the perfect mix of tacky and distinctive. No one would be able to forget it, no matter how badly they wanted to. But he’s in a cable-knit cardigan, light blue, with the sleeves pushed up. He's kneading a loaf of bread. “The clone?” she asks, though she already knows the answer. “The one with the bitchy little attitude?”

Shep clears his throat. 

Sam smirks. “That’s the one. Though after a few drinks, Echo can say some shit.” 

“How the hell did that happen?” she asks. 

“Well, I mean, he’s picky, but if he gets his hands on a whiskey sour …” 

Phee can’t help but laugh. She picks up a sashimi roll and eats it more slowly. It’s delicious -- fresh and savory. The first real food she’s eaten in weeks. “Not Echo,” she clarifies. “Crosshair. And they have a last name?”

“They do now,” Shep says. “Omega came up with it.”

“And … I don’t know,” Sam adds. “He’s skilled.” 

Shep clears his throat again. Which is the Shep equivalent of jumping up and down and waving his hands in the air. “Enjoy,” Sam says. Then he takes off, heading back behind the counter.

“Okay, fine,” Phee says, turning toward Shep, who’s suddenly very interested in his crab roll. “What am I missing?”

“Them.” He inclines his head toward the open kitchen. Sam and Crosshair are leaning toward each other, and Phee doesn’t miss the way Sam gestures toward their table. And how Crosshair’s eyes narrow at her before he quickly looks away. “They’re dating. And you basically just said Crosshair’s a little bitch.” 

Phee waits for a minute for the room to stop spinning, then says, “Number one: Hearing you say ‘little bitch’ may very well be the highlight of this trip. Number two: He is. And number three: What?”

Shep shrugs, like all of this is normal. But Phee’s world is … it’s not affected. She barely knows these people. There’s no reason to … 

“So,” she’d said, sitting beside Tech on the nose of the Marauder while he reviewed plans of the Raven’s Peak compound on his datapad. She kicked her legs out in front of her -- she’d recently shined her boots, and the sun reflected off of them. “This brother of yours, what’s he like?”

Tech didn’t look up -- Tech never looked up unless someone forced him to. It was odd and annoying and cute. “Crosshair?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Phee said. “There’s not another one, is there? I already have too many of you to keep track of.” 

“He’s a sniper,” Tech said, as if that response followed logically from her question.  

“Okay. But what’s he like?” she pressed. 

Tech clicked something on his datapad and adjusted his goggles. “That is what he’s like. When you meet him, you’ll understand.” 

When she met him. He knew they’d be successful. He knew they’d bring Crosshair home. What he couldn’t have known -- what she couldn’t have known -- was that Tech wouldn’t come home with him. 

And she did meet Crosshair. And Tech was right -- she fully and instantly understood. 

“Phee,” Shep says gently, pulling her out of her thoughts. “Don’t you have a story to tell me?”

She turns toward him, and her grin feels disingenuous. But it must be convincing enough because Shep smiles widely in return. “So there I was …” 

* * * 

“Phee!” 

Phee could swear Omega has grown since she last saw her, so when Omega crashes into her for a hug, it almost knocks her off-balance. Omega looks different -- her hair longer and wind-swept, her skin a deeper brown from days spent on the beach. 

Phee’s just arrived at the clones’ -- the Howcets’ -- house for dinner. She’d taken a luxurious shower at Shep’s, and now she’s dust free and wearing her favorite blue trousers and a buttery leather jacket she found at the secondhand market on Ferrix. The evening air is just cool enough. 

Shep and Lyana deftly step aside for the whirlwind that is Omega, moving into the home’s courtyard to greet Wrecker, who’s at the grill, flipping a huge slab of fish. “I missed you!” Omega says, clinging to Phee’s waist. “Where have you been?”

“That’s a long story.” 

“Then you better tell it to us over dinner!” Omega grabs Phee’s hand and drags her into the courtyard as Hunter comes out of the house, carrying a bowl of fruit. And with him is … 

“Kala?” Phee asks. 

Kala Darin looks so much like her brother. Shorter, with a flashier sense of style. But she and Sam would be recognizable as siblings even to people who didn’t know them. And apparently, looks aren’t all they have in common. “Phee!” Kala says, setting down a bottle of Pabu blue lemonade and pulling Phee into an embrace. “You’re back.” 

“And you and your brother are …” She gestures between Kala and Hunter, hoping she gets her point across. 

“Dating siblings?” Kala finishes. She shrugs like, What are you gonna do? “Yes, we are.” 

“What do you know?” Phee asks as casually as she can, considering her heart is pounding. “Be honest, how much drama did it cause?”

Kala snorts out a laugh. “More than zero.” 

They’re interrupted when Wrecker shouts, “Dinner!”

Phee’s glad to see that everything hasn’t changed. Omega listens intently to her story as they eat Wrecker’s grilled fish. It’s fantastic, spiced to perfection. She gasps at all the right times and says, “I want to see the ur-diamond!” when Phee finishes. 

“It’s at the Archium,” Lyana says sagely, as if she herself is the curator. “We’ll go together.” 

“Tomorrow,” Hunter says with the tone of a parent who’s said the same thing over and over for years. “It’s a school night.” 

“So,” Phee says, ready, for once, to get the attention off herself. She turns toward Omega, who’d insisted on sitting next to her. “What’s with your name?”

“Omega?” she asks cheekily. “I think it means … the end?” She winks. “Saved the best for last.” 

Phee knows Omega’s being sarcastic. She’s so proud. “You know what I meant. Your new family name.” 

“I came up with it,” Omega says proudly. “It’s made of our names -- Hunter, Omega, Wrecker, Crosshair, Echo, Tech.”

“That’s cute,” she says. She thinks she sounds normal, but Shep reaches out and squeezes her hand, where it rests on the table. So she must not. 

Hunter very obviously notices Shep’s hand on hers (that guy is not subtle), but he says, “It’s helped us out a lot, too. Can’t exactly be a civilian family with just numbers and nicknames.” 

He says it so easily -- a civilian family. It worked. They’ve done it. Why does that make her feel so sad? 

* * * 

They’ve just finished dinner when Crosshair and Sam amble up the pathway in the company of the family’s lurca hound, which causes another round of hooting and hollering. Omega and Lyana decide they’ll all be playing a game, and they spread out hundreds of tiles, all hand-painted with brightly colored fish. “Crosshair!” Omega yells. “Did you bring dessert?” 

“You know I did,” he says as Sam sets a basket on the table. Everyone dives for it, and Lyana hands Phee a tartlet, filled with a fluffy chocolate mousse and topped with summer berries. She doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth -- give her a carton of salted bang-corn or a stuffed Kinyenian potato skin any day -- but it’s incredible, a burst of delicate flavor, sweet and tart and rich. 

“Crosshair!” Omega says through a mouthful of tartlet. “Come play with us!” 

He does, with a lot of huffing and puffing. Phee doesn’t know him all that well, but even she can tell it’s all for show. 

For once, Phee doesn’t feel like joining in. “Go play,” she says when Shep raises his eyebrows at her in a silent question. “I’ll watch.” She sits on the stone wall surrounding the courtyard while Omega tells everyone about the game (“We’re playing the slapsies version,” she says, to which Wrecker replies, “Oh, yeah!”). 

Omega kneels on her chair, reaching across three people to slap two tiles. Wrecker shouts, “Oh, man!” And Kala casually wraps an arm around the back of Hunter’s chair, like they do this all the time. 

The game is absorbing enough that she startles when Sam sits beside her and asks, “So how long are you in town?” He’s taken off his apron, leaving him in a magenta t-shirt and gray trousers, and he’s let his hair down so it falls just past his shoulders. 

She shrugs in response, then tilts her head toward the group playing the game. “Not joining in?”

“Hell, no. I’ve learned the hard way that once ‘slapsies’ are involved, I’m out. Crosshair’s a big sucker, but I’m not falling for it again.” 

“Huh,” Phee says with a little laugh. They’re quiet for a moment, and Phee surprises herself when she says, “I don’t know how long I’ll stay. A few days, maybe. I used to think I’d settle down here, but … maybe settling down’s not for me.” 

“Maybe not quite yet, but …” He nods toward Shep, who reaches for a tile. Lyana sneaks her hand under his at the last moment and Shep groans in a way that’s obviously exaggerated, meant to encourage the children. “He’s interested, isn’t he? You don’t want to be Pabu’s first lady?”

“Excuse you,” she says. “I’d be Pabu’s only lady.” 

“I don’t know what that means, but alright.” 

Phee lowers her voice -- though it’s not like Shep (or anyone else) could hear her over Wrecker banging on the table, sending tiles flying. Omega dives off her chair after them. “Look,” she whispers. “His wife died, what …? Ten years ago?”

“Something like that.” Sam’s voice is quiet too, like he’s offering solidarity. She hates it. “I was off-world at the time, but I remember hearing about it when I came back.” 

“Yeah.” She looks up at the sky. It’s so clear, so perfect. “And Tech … it hasn’t even been a year.” 

“Tech?” Out of the corner of her eye, Phee can see Sam turn to look at her in a way that makes her want to shift and squirm, like he’s seeing right through her. But she never shifts and squirms -- she keeps looking up at the stars like she’s feeling nothing in particular. “Were you with Tech?”

“You met him?” she asks, not sure what answer she’s hoping for. 

“No. I’ve only heard about him through …” He nods toward Crosshair, who’s muttering, “Sure, I’ll slap the tiles one-handed. That will work great.” 

“Yeah, what the hell’s up with that?” Now that the attention’s off her, she turns back toward Sam, tucking her feet up under her to sit cross-legged on the wall. “You’re dating the biggest jackass I’ve ever met? And that’s saying something. I once scaled the Blue Mountains of Vagadarr Prime with two sleep-deprived Rakaans.” 

“What can I say? I like ‘em mean,” he says with a shrug. “But that’s not what we’re talking about. Nice try, though.” 

Well, shit. She’s the one who brought it up. And now she regrets it. And she also doesn’t regret it. It’s confusing. “I wasn’t with Tech. But I think if we’d had more time …” 

“You would have been?”

“Yeah.” Maybe she’s mourning an idea, a possibility, more than a person. Maybe if Tech had lived, they would have gone on one date and decided to stay friends. Maybe they would have dated for a year, then ended it over a stupid argument during a treasure hunt on Abrion Major. Maybe they would have stayed together and bickered about ship repairs and hyperspace routes and how involved he was with his family. 

That’s the thing with possibilities -- you never know. She likes to think they’d have found something messy and joyous and flawed and hopeful. A real adventure. And nothing hurts more than never getting to find out if that’s true. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says. “I’ve heard a lot about him, and he seems like a great guy.” 

“Crosshair talks about him?”

“Yeah.” That’s all he says, like anything else would be revealing too much, would be a betrayal of Crosshair. And that makes her heart ache. 

Phee doesn’t know what makes her say it. Maybe Sam’s earnest face while he watches Crosshair begrudgingly hand Omega a few tiles. “Tech’s the reason he’s here. You know that, right?”

“I do know that.” He lets out a long, audible sigh. “I don’t know what to say, Phee, other than that I’m grateful. And I’m so sorry.” 

Phee shakes herself off. What does she want from him? To feel bad that he found a chance at love because she lost hers? That’s just how life goes. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, and smirks. “Well, you better remember that when you do the whole ‘I Honor Your Past’ thing.” 

Sam looks sharply over at Crosshair. Not like Crosshair would know what they’re talking about, even if he weren’t too absorbed being lectured about ‘slapsies’ rules by two teenagers. Phee’s been to a lot of weddings over the years, on a lot of planets. On Polyneus, they dive off a cliff into a lake, dressed in their wedding finery. On Goroth Prime they tattoo each others’ faces. Now that’s something worth seeing. On Pabu, they just drone on for hours about the past, present, and future. “Phee, for the love … It’s only been a few months. I’m not marrying him.” 

“Sure,” she says. “Keep telling yourself that, Darin.” 

* * * 

People start to break away after the game. It’s well and truly night, now, the island becoming more still, lights blinking off around the neighborhood. Sam and Kala both give Phee a hug and take off together, then Shep and Lyana a minute later. “Come by tomorrow?” Shep whispers into Phee’s ear.

She squeezes him tightly. “You know I will.” 

“Phee,” Hunter says before she can retreat to her ship for some peace and quiet. “Do you have a minute?”

“I suppose I do,” she says, sinking down into a seat at the table.

Wrecker and Crosshair head inside, the lurca hound with them, but Omega tries to sit beside Phee, like this is setting up to be a three-person conversation. “Omega, time for bed,” Hunter says. The words are well-worn, habitual. 

So is Omega’s responding whine. “But --”

“No buts. Be sure to brush your teeth.” 

“Okay,” she mopes, shuffling as slowly as possible while still technically walking toward the front door. It’s impressive, but Phee keeps that to herself. 

“And pack your school bag for tomorrow.” 

“Okay-uhh!” She stomps the rest of the way into the house, leaving Phee and Hunter alone in the courtyard, lit only by the twinkling stars and a soft golden light spilling out from the living room. 

Hunter sighs as he collapses into a chair. “Sorry about that,” he says. “She’s …” 

“A kid,” Phee finishes. “She gets to be a kid.”

It’s like she’s meeting them again for the first time. This one’s too big, this one’s too small, this one’s got a face tattoo … Back then, they seemed like … Well, clones. Soldiers. Now, they’re having family dinners, playing games, grilling fish and baking tartlets, acting like … People from Pabu. Just people. A family. They have a new house and new relationships and new jobs. Even a new name. They’re healing. Moving forward. Figuring out who they are now, in this new place, in this new galaxy. 

“You were right, Phee,” Hunter says, bringing her out of her thoughts. “About all of it.” The full force of his attention is a lot, so she leans back, hands behind her head, feet kicked up on the table. She looks up at the night sky, now a blue so deep it’s almost black. “This is where we’re meant to be. It’s been an adjustment, but we’re happy here. I promised myself that if you came back, I’d tell you.” 

“If I came back?” she asks, her voice tight. She’s the one who told him about this planet, after all. 

“I wasn’t sure,” Hunter says. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to, after …” 

And there it is. The truth. The thing she’s been dancing around, hinting at, skirting past -- not only today, but for months. Her grief. It’s nothing compared to theirs, and it’s … ephemeral, misty, like she can’t get her feet under her. Like she’s rappelling off a cliff, unsure what’s below. 

“Yeah,” she says. “I always figured I’d settle down here, but …” 

“Not yet?” Hunter offers. 

“Those ancient wonders aren’t going to liberate themselves, are they?” She means it as a joke, but her voice comes out sad. And she is, she realizes belatedly. She’s sad. Phee’s … well, she’s been stuck. Sure, she’s had her adventures -- she’ll always have her adventures. But maybe … maybe she needs to open herself up again, the way they have. Maybe she’s almost ready. “Not yet,” she says. “But soon.”

Chapter Text

It’s getting late when Hunter races into the living room, datapad in hand. The look on his face can only mean one thing -- a message from The Pabu School. He’s mellowed about Omega’s schooling over the three years since they’ve lived on Pabu, but once in a while, something new still gets him. Wrecker can’t blame him -- civilian life is so weird. Everyone’s always going, “Don’t blow that up, Wrecker! Don’t shout in the restaurant, Wrecker! Don’t chew so loud, Wrecker!” Okay, that last one might just be Hunter and his enhanced hearing. 

“Guys,” Hunter says like he’s about to brief them on a mission. Everyone but Omega is here -- Wrecker’s sprawled on the sofa, relaxing after a long day at the pier and the market. Crosshair is baking bread in the kitchen, with Batcher getting under his feet and snorting around for scraps. And Echo is visiting for the day after a mission on Coruscant. He’s got one of his prosthetic legs on the table, and he’s tinkering with it with a lot of clanging and muttering of “What the fuck?” 

Omega’s at a new friends’ house, and her curfew’s coming up quick. There are always new students for her to befriend because there are always new people on Pabu. Ever since they moved here, there’s been an ever-expanding cast of characters in their lives. Omega’s friends and their parents, Wrecker’s fishing buddies, people Crosshair tolerates but doesn’t really like. It’s awesome -- it’s like being back in the GAR, surrounded by friends and compatriots. Minus the whole being-shot-at thing. 

“You okay, Hunter?” Wrecker asks. Because you need to keep Hunter focused sometimes, or he gets lost in his own head. 

“Read this message.” 

“Hard to do from here with my leg off,” Echo says. Crosshair sniffs out a laugh. Hunter lays the datapad on the table in front of Echo and hovers over his shoulder while he reads it. “Looks like a standard briefing,” Echo says. “Nothing to do with Omega specifically.” 

“But what is it?” Hunter presses. “The Moon Blossom Dance? What does that even mean?”

“From context,” Echo says, “It’s a non-mandated gathering of students after hours. Where, presumably, they dance. I think the Moon Blossom thing is arbitrary.” 

“Then why does it say, Talk to your child about responsible behavior?” Hunter asks, pointing to something on the datapad. 

“That’s not a talk you’re qualified to have,” Crosshair says with a pointed look at Hunter. If there’s one thing Crosshair’s good at, it’s wearing a joke into the ground. Back on Kamino, he was always weaker than the other clones, thinner, less muscular. And he made up for it by poking and prodding verbally, finding peoples’ sensitivities and pressing on them until they bruised. 

And nothing annoys Crosshair more than when someone doesn’t get his insult. “What?” Hunter asks. 

“He’s insinuating that it’s sexual,” Echo says, glancing at Wrecker out of the corner of his eye like, Here they go again. “They’re saying you should talk to your kid about not sleeping with their date after the dance.” 

“At their age?” Hunter asks. “Is that young? Or is that typical?”

“Most people aren’t virgins at our age,” Crosshair says, smirking now that his tired old joke is back on track. 

“If you want to be technical about it,” Echo says. “We’re younger than they are. So statistically speaking, most people are virgins at our age.” 

“You know what I meant,” Crosshair mutters. 

“Crosshair,” Hunter says, rubbing his temple. “I think we all know I’m not … that … anymore.” 

“Eww,” Crosshair says. “Hunter. There are children on this island.” 

Echo attempts to muffle a laugh with a cough. It doesn’t work. Hunter blushes. Wrecker sits up and stretches, bored with this. They’ve had this argument over and over and over and it always ends with embarrassment and hurt feelings. He pulls one arm across his chest, then the other. Fuck, he’s sore. He caught one hell of a fish this morning, and he’s feeling it now. 

“You know how it is, Hunter,” Echo says. “Crosshair had sex three times while we were in the GAR, so he thinks he’s a god among men.” 

“Echo, how could you possibly know that?” Crosshair’s keading that bread way too hard. It’s going to come out chewy and Crosshair’s going to blame everyone else, somehow. 

“Am I wrong?” Echo says, and now he’s causing more problems than he’s solving. 

“Exceptionally.” Crosshair wipes his hand on a tea towel, then crosses his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing.  

If there’s one thing Crosshair’s bad at, it’s taking what he dishes out. He’s angry now, for real, when Hunter had just been a little flustered and annoyed. That’s how things always spiral with these two. They’ve gotten so much better since they settled on Pabu, and the last thing Wrecker wants is for them to regress, for himself and Echo to end up pulling them apart. He clears his throat. “I think they’re talking about drinking,” he says. Based on Omega’s stories about some of her classmates, he’s pretty sure he’s right. “And this is obviously an event for Omega and her schoolmates. Not us four old men. So why don’t we see if she even wants to go?”

They all have the I hate when Wrecker has a point look on their faces, which never fails to satisfy. Wrecker chuckles. 

* * * 

Wrecker always loves when he gets to pick Omega up from school, always looks forward to it. His work doesn’t allow it very often -- in the mornings, he fishes, and in the afternoons, he does whatever construction or demolition jobs need doing. And he loves it -- what’s better than knocking down a wall? Well, there’s one thing, and that’s spending the afternoon with Omega. 

She’s sixteen now, and Pabu’s a safe place. She doesn’t exactly need him to walk her home. But these days for just the two of them are rare, and he relishes them. 

When Omega emerges from the school, she’s eating a fruit leather and talking to her new friend, a Mirialan girl with pale green skin and delicate tattooing under both eyes. Her name is Niza, and her family fled Mirial after the Clone Wars, then wandered the galaxy for several years before making their way to Pabu. Wrecker doesn’t know her parents well, but Niza seems sweet enough -- like Omega, she’s outgoing and friendly, with a ready laugh and a penchant for mischief. 

“Omega!” Wrecker calls across the courtyard. 

Omega looks up sharply when she hears him. She waves to him like she always does, but something about her smile seems strained. She says something to her friend that Wrecker can’t hear, then makes her way over to him. “Wrecker,” she says, throwing her arm around him. She’s tall now -- as tall as Hunter, and it’s like it happened overnight. “Please tell me you brought food.” And with that growth spurt, she’s hungry all the time. Crosshair learned the hard way not to leave baked goods in the house unless he’s okay with Omega polishing them off. 

“No food on me,” he says. “Wanna hit the market?”

“Hell, yeah.” Wrecker’s supposed to correct her language -- Hunter’s told him that a million times. But instead, he laughs. 

She tells him about her day as they stroll down the path to the market, then chats with vendors while Wrecker buys a fish sandwich for each of them and a basket of fried honeyfruit to split. They sit on one of the docks, feet dangling over the edge. Omega tears into her sandwich, pulling it apart with her teeth. Wrecker’s so proud. He rips his own in half and shoves an entire half in his mouth to make her laugh. 

“Hey, Wrecker,” Omega says with her mouth full. “Did Hunter get the message from Mr. Costa?” Mr. Costa’s her Year Ten teacher, and she seems fond enough of him. Though he’s definitely messaged Hunter a few times about Omega talking too much in class. And once about her exploding a glass vessel during a scientific experiment. Wrecker's sad he wasn't there to see it. 

“I don’t know,” Wrecker says. “What did you do this time?”

“Wrecker,” she says, smacking his arm. “I don’t always do something.” 

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Omega says, sneaking her hand under his own to grab a handful of the honeyfruit. “Sometimes, it’s about my excellent academic performance.”

“Was it about your excellent academic performance?”

“No.” She pauses for Wrecker to laugh, then says, “It was about the … dance?”

“Oh,” Wrecker says, not sure why she sounds so hesitant. “Yeah. He got it. You gonna go?”

She shrugs, then goes quiet for a long time. “Wrecker?” she finally says, her voice strained. 

“Yeah?” 

“Why are …” She stares out over the water, silent. Omega usually doesn’t need space to get to her point. But Crosshair does, so Wrecker knows how to handle it. Knows how to wait patiently as if nothing in the world is more interesting than tossing a piece of honeyfruit and trying to catch it in his mouth. 

“Why are we different?” she finally asks. 

Wrecker doesn’t know how he knows, but he knows. This is important. This is one of those talks, the kind you look back on in your sentimental old age and say, That. That was quality time. That was family. That’s what it was all about. But he’s still … himself. So he says, “Don’t know, kid. Probably ‘cause I got knocked on the head one too many times.”

“Wreekuhh,” Omega groans, knocking her shoulder into his. 

“Alright, fine. What do you mean?” He shoves the basket with the remainder of the honeyfruit toward her, and she finishes it before answering. 

“I mean, we’re clones,” she says. “So we should be the same.” 

“I don’t know about you, but I’m defective,” he jokes, still not sure where this is going, still treading as carefully as it’s possible for someone like him to tread.  

“But even the regs,” she insists. “They’re not all the same, are they?”

Wrecker thinks about the regs he’s known over the years. Echo. Rex. Gregor. Cut Lawquane. Some guy named Shots who could drink even Wrecker under the table. “Not at all.” 

“So what is it? It’s like …” She leans forward with her elbows on her knees and rambles. “Hunter likes girls and so did Tech. But Crosshair likes boys, and you don’t like anybody.” She turns toward him abruptly and adds in a rush, “I mean --”

“I like everybody,” he says easily. He knows what she’s saying, and he’s far past getting bent out of shape about it. “Just not like that.” 

“Yeah. But … why?”

As honored as Wrecker is that she’s asking him, he has to wonder … why? Wouldn’t … anyone else be a better idea? Hunter, her usual confidant? Echo? Emerie, who must understand cloning way better than him? 

All of that … genetics and science and blahblahblah and whatever, it’s all so … boring. He likes sunshine because he likes sunshine. He likes tasty grilled moonfish because he likes tasty grilled moonfish. He likes to hang out and laugh with friends but doesn’t like romance because … he likes to hang out and laugh with friends but doesn’t like romance. He likes to blow stuff up because he likes to blow stuff up. 

He shrugs. “Does there need to be a reason? Maybe we’re all just … who we are.” 

Omega shrugs and crumples her sandwich wrapper into a ball and glances over her shoulder toward the market. Then turns back quickly, her cheeks coloring. Wrecker sneaks a glance at whatever she was looking at, like that will give him the answer. And for once, it does. It’s the Mirialan girl and her parents -- they’re at a market stall, looking at hand-thrown pottery. 

Oh. This isn’t about cloning or genetics or science (thank whatever’s out there). It’s about her. And her, he knows. “Hey,” he says. Then when she turns to look at him, eyes wide, he freezes up. This. This is one of those moments. There’s no one in this galaxy he loves more than Omega. He’d kill for her -- he has killed for her. 

He should say something, something deep and meaningful and profound. When they’d gone through this with Crosshair, Omega had been the one to jump in first, to loudly proclaim, “We love you!” and give him one of those hugs that almost knocks him over. That’s what he should say. People are who they are and like what they like and love who they love. I love you, our family loves you, no matter who you are, no matter who you love. Whatever you have to say to me, to us, will be met with nothing but open arms and full hearts. 

What comes out is, “People like people, say what.” 

Omega stares at Wrecker. Wrecker stares back. “I mean…” he starts. He can’t finish because Omega’s laughing so hard she drops her wrapper into the sea. Then she dives in after it with all of her school clothes on -- if there’s one thing they take seriously on Pabu, it’s littering. She’s splashing water everywhere, long limbs flying in all directions. Hunter’s going to be so pissed about her sopping wet sweater. Oh well. Worth it. 

* * * 

“I asked Niza to the Moon Blossom Dance,” Omega bursts out. She hasn’t said anything about it for a few days, since their talk at the pier. Wrecker had started to wonder if she’d changed her mind about the whole idea. 

It’s a rare rainy afternoon on Pabu, and one of Omega’s days off from school. They’ve all been working quietly at the table -- except Crosshair, who’s in the kitchen. Wrecker’s repairing his fishing pole, Hunter is glaring at him about it while painting a ceramic plate, and Omega is taking a break from her Galactic History essay to give herself a hormone injection. 

She twirls the syringe around and around in her hand and Hunter twitches, obviously holding himself back from lecturing her about it. Since she turned sixteen, she’s been in charge of her own injection schedule, and she’s as organized about it as Hunter had been. But as always, Hunter has a hard time letting go. 

The silence has gone on too long. It’s Wrecker’s job to make sure that doesn’t happen. “That’s great, Omega!” he cheers because she’s counting on his support. She can always count on his support -- he needs her to know that. 

Crosshair freezes, mixing spoon in hand. He drops it, and it clatters into the metal bowl with an echoing clang. Hunter glares at him sharply, then says to Omega in his I’m being calm voice, “What did she say?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Hunter,” Omega says with a smirk. Wrecker’s so relieved to see her smile that he reaches out to ruffle her hair. “She said yes, obviously. Because I’m the best.” 

“That you are!” Wrecker cheers. 

“Good,” Hunter says, obviously relieved this is turning into a happy conversation. “That’s good.” 

Crosshair plops a plate onto the table, which Omega takes as her cue to finally give herself the shot. She winces briefly, then dives in for the cookies Crosshair makes every injection day. Wrecker grabs one as well -- it’s not like he doesn’t benefit from this tradition. Omega had requested something with cocoa because You know it’s my favorite, Crosshair, and the chocolate cookies topped with toasted ettel nuts are delicious. “These are great, Crosshair!” Wrecker says. 

“You like everything,” Crosshair mutters as if that’s an insult. What’s wrong with liking everything? 

“I like them, too,” Omega says. She’s already on her third cookie, somehow. 

“So what do you need to do?” Hunter says. “To prepare for this … event?” Wrecker half-expects him to whip out a datapad and start taking notes the way Tech would have done. Something in his heart constricts at the thought. If Tech were here, he’d say, I’ll note the occasion. And Crosshair would say, What occasion? The dance hasn’t even happened yet. And Tech would say, I’m noting the day she secured an accompanying partner. And everyone would laugh about his phrasing and repeat it endlessly for the rest of time. 

“I think I just need an outfit,” she says. “Something fancy.” 

“And you should get Niza flowers,” Wrecker chimes in. Because he might not be into romance, but all he does all day is talk to people. He gets a lot of debriefs after peoples’ dates. He knows what goes over well and what doesn’t. 

Hunter looks at him curiously, but just says, “Alright.” 

“Crosshair?” Omega says. “Are you okay?” Wrecker turns to look at him. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed protectively over his chest, a sharp expression on his face. 

Crosshair nods once, then hurries out of the house, through the front door and into the rain. If it made any sense given the context, Wrecker would have said he’d stormed off. 

“What’s wrong?” Omega asks. “He’s not mad, is he?” 

“He’s not mad,” Hunter says, though Crosshair sure seemed mad. 

“I’ll check on him,” Wrecker says, hauling himself out of his chair. 

As he leaves, Hunter is saying, “So I suppose that means we should talk about this ‘responsible behavior’ note from the school.” 

“Huntuhh,” she says. “Can we not? Can I talk to Emerie instead?”

“You can talk to Emerie in addition, ” Hunter says. “But like I’ve told you before, these conversations are important, even if they’re uncomfortable. There’s nothing you can’t…” 

Wrecker doesn’t hear the rest before he leaves the house. He looks for Crosshair in the courtyard and doesn’t find him. The rain hasn’t stopped, but it’s slowed into a cool drizzle. 

Still, Wrecker’s glad he’s got his orange poncho to keep him dry. He strolls around the neighborhood for a while before he finds Crosshair, who’s sitting under the canopy of a Pabu elm tree, his back leaning against the trunk. “Hey,” Wrecker says as he lowers himself to the ground. 

And Wrecker’s good with people. He knows the right thing to say when it’s Omega. Hunter. Echo, even -- the trick is just to let him rant until he’s tired himself out. With Crosshair, sometimes a delicate hand is needed. And sometimes… “What the hell was that?” he asks. 

Crosshair sniffs. “I just …” He twirls his hand around, as if that answers the question. 

“Uh huh,” Wrecker says. He knows he sounds impatient. And he kind of is. It’s gross outside and warm inside, and Crosshair’s doing … his whole thing. “Omega thinks you’re mad,” he says to speed things along. Because whatever weird mood Crosshair’s in at any given time, he never wants to hurt Omega. 

“Shit,” Crosshair mutters. “That’s … Would that make any sense? Coming from me?” 

Wrecker knows what he means -- why would Crosshair judge Omega for who she likes when he struggled for so long to accept himself? But he’s not sure whether Crosshair actually wants to talk about that. So he says, “Oh, so now you make sense all the time?” 

“Fair.” He’s quiet for a while -- which Wrecker has come to expect. It’s better to let Crosshair get his thoughts together than to push too hard and be subjected to whatever the hell pops into his mind -- which is usually mean and better left unsaid. “It’s petty, but I was … jealous.” Whatever Wrecker had been expecting, it wasn’t that. “I was ashamed for so long. I still am, sometimes. I wish I had Omega’s … courage.” 

“Crosshair, that’s --” Wrecker says because his heart is breaking. He doesn’t know what to do, sometimes, to keep them all happy. To help them all feel loved and accepted. 

Crosshair holds up a hand. “Wrecker, don’t,” he says. “It’s not your job to come running every time I have a feeling.” 

And that’s … huh. As hard as it is to let go, to let him -- to let all of them -- take risks and mess up and get hurt, maybe he needs to. Maybe he doesn’t need to protect them from everything. 

“I need to apologize,” Crosshair says. “Don’t I?” 

“Usually,” Wrecker says. He stands and helps Crosshair up. 

“Fuck you,” Crosshair mutters, but it’s affectionate. Wrecker can tell. He can always tell. 

* * * 

When Omega steps out of her room, Hunter says, “Omega, you look …” He tears up. No surprise there. 

“Grown up,” Wrecker finishes. He tries to wipe his own eyes without drawing attention to himself. He barely recognizes the child they picked up on Kamino, the one who didn’t know what dirt was. It’s exciting and it’s bittersweet and it’s sad. “But I still think a poncho would have looked better,” he teases, just to hear her say, “Wreekuhh!” 

She’s in a suit, pale blue, with a jacket that looks like something a pilot would wear, only fancier. Wrecker doesn’t know much about clothes. But he does know that Kala is talented. She made his favorite poncho -- it’s a quilted one for cooler weather, a bright, citrusy explosion of his favorite colors. She made all of the blankets they have in the house. At Omega’s request, she even made a sweater for Batcher to wear to the Festival of Spirits (Batcher was “feeling herself” according to Omega). 

And when Omega couldn’t find anything to wear for the dance, Kala had made this suit. 

“I didn’t like anything at the market,” Omega had said as Kala measured her arm. “And I’m too tall for all of it, so …” 

“I get it,” Kala replied. “I’ve never liked anything there either. That’s why I got into textiles in the first place. This is a special occasion. You should have something you love. Something you feel good in.” 

And she’d agreed with Wrecker about the flowers. So that was a win. Omega scoops them up on the way out the door, saying, “You guys don’t need to come with.”

“Nice try, kid,” Hunter says as they wind their way down the path to the beach. 

“Yeah,” Wrecker adds. “You think we’d miss this?” Apparently, it’s tradition for the students and their dates to meet at the cove, families in tow to take pictures. 

It’s just Wrecker and Hunter accompanying Omega -- Crosshair’s at work. Wrecker would feel sad he’s missing this, but Omega and Niza and a whole group of their friends are going to his restaurant for dinner before the dance. Wrecker wishes he could be there to see the look on Crosshair’s face when the place fills with the kids in their fancy outfits. 

It’s crowded at the cove when they get there, filled with what must be most of the students in Years Ten, Eleven, and Twelve. Omega leads them through everyone until she finds her date. Niza’s in a long tunic, bright blue, that reaches almost to her ankles. Hunter shakes hands with her parents. All of them share the same tight expression, like they’re trying not to cry and embarrass their kids. 

Omega and Niza hug, a little awkwardly, probably because they’re in front of a bunch of old people with datapads. 

“Time for pictures,” Niza’s mother says. 

Niza groans, but Hunter chimes in with, “We need pictures for Echo and Rex.” As if this is all about Echo and Rex and not Hunter having something to cry over later. Wrecker doesn’t say anything because he’d also like something to cry over later. 

The girls pose, their arms around each other, and Wrecker takes a few pictures until he gets too emotional and Hunter takes over. He looks around at all of the families, all of the children in their formalwear, all of the youth and hope and excitement. 

Then everyone’s headed out, the families dispersing to their homes, the children walking toward Upper Pabu in a big cluster of sparkly blues and silvers and whites. 

“Have fun!” Hunter calls as Omega takes Niza’s hand and joins the group. “Make responsible decisions!” Wrecker can’t help but laugh. He trusts Omega. They all trust Omega. 

Omega waves over her shoulder and Hunter wipes his eyes. 

“Don’t be upset, Hunter,” Wrecker says after Omega’s disappeared around a corner and out of sight. “This is a good thing.” He’s saying it to himself as much as to Hunter. Omega’s off doing something on her own, something they can’t help with, not really. She’s growing up, which means taking risks and putting herself out there and likely getting her heart broken. And he can’t protect her from that. All he can do is be there when it happens. 

“I’m not upset,” Hunter says. “Well, I guess I’m upset that time is moving so fucking fast. But more than that, I’m … This is why we came here, isn’t it? So Omega can play on the beach and go to school and ask girls to dances. Like any other child.” He sniffs and Wrecker wraps an arm around his shoulders. “We did it, Wrecker. We fucking did it.” 

Chapter Text

“Crosshair, come in,” Echo says into his comm. It’s a rare lazy morning on the Remora, and Echo doesn’t want to get out of bed. They’re in hyperspace, Sideways is covering the cockpit, and Rex is … somewhere. The galley, probably. Echo’s got his legs and his scomp arm off, and he’s propped up on pillows -- he rarely gets to do this, and it’s so fucking comfortable. 

The last few days have been … rough. An infiltration at the Gree Baaker Labor Camp to extract three clones who’d been held there for the last five years. They were in bad shape, and Echo’s going to be seeing their sunken faces and emaciated limbs for the rest of his life. All three are in the Remora’s medbay, looked after by their field medics Silver and Tourniquet. Until the ship reaches Pantora and they can check the clones into Emerie’s clinic. 

Echo feels … haunted. And tired. And weighted down with all of the despair and injustice and horror in the galaxy. He needs a fucking break. 

Over the years, he’s actually come to look forward to his talks with Crosshair. To enjoy his dry sense of humor and his endless well of gossip and his bitchy, petty observations. Shockingly, he’s been the one who’s adjusted most seamlessly to civilian life -- likely because he can do his favorite things (complain about people and antagonize Hunter) anywhere. 

It’s not Crosshair who answers, it’s Sam. “Hey, he’s getting out of the shower, I’ll put him on in a minute.” There’s a scuffle on the other end and Sam mutters, “Batcher, down.” 

It’s not like Echo’s going anywhere, so he asks, “How are you, Sam?” 

“Hunter, I already told you, I’m not getting involved.” He says it in a laying down the law voice that Echo’s never heard from him. Sam’s a little cynical, sure (which is the trait Echo’s come to appreciate most during Sam’s five years with Crosshair), but he usually keeps things light. 

“It’s Echo,” he says. This happens every damn time. He doesn’t think he and Hunter sound at all alike, but for the life of him, Sam’s never been able to tell them apart over the comm. 

“Shit,” Sam says, his voice back to normal. “I was sure that time.” 

Well, now he’s curious. “What did you tell Hunter?”

“Nope,” Sam says. “I’m not falling for that again. Your drama is your drama. If Crosshair wants to get involved, that’s his own damn business, I’m not in charge of him. But I’m staying out of it.” 

Then Crosshair must come out of the bathroom because Echo can hear him say, “What’s going on?”

“It’s Echo on the comm for you.” 

“Let me guess.” Crosshair’s voice gets closer. “You thought it was Hunter?”

“Shut up.” 

Then Echo hears the clatter of the comm changing hands and Crosshair’s nasal laugh and Sam saying, “See you, Echo.” 

“Yep.” Echo settles further into the pillows, lays the comm on his chest, and closes his eyes. 

“How’s it going, Echo?” Crosshair asks. 

“It’s been hell,” Echo says honestly. “Distract me.” 

Crosshair huffs and launches into a story involving a divorce party his restaurant catered and the broken-heart cake he’d made for it. He tells it like he hated the whole process, but Echo can tell he’s proud of the cake (batter dyed red with Brekka beets, coconut icing infused with Malla petal syrup -- he only gives that much detail when he’s happy with the result). 

“Who has a divorce party?” Echo asks, just as the door to their cabin whooshes open and Rex comes in, carrying two steaming mugs of coffee -- overfull, Echo guesses, from the intense look of concentration on Rex’s face. 

“Not us, I hope,” Rex says. He sinks down onto the edge of the bunk slowly, then sips out of both mugs before setting one on the ledge beside the bed and turning the other so Echo can grab the handle. (“Thanks,” Echo mutters). 

“Hi, Rex,” Crosshair says. “And it’s women from Pabu who got married right out of school.” 

“Hey, Crosshair,” Rex says, then, “Hon, we’re coming out of hyperspace soon.” 

Echo nods and Rex gestures toward the door, eyebrows raised in question. Echo knows what he means. Do you want me to leave? Echo shakes his head. “Crosshair, I’ll have to go in a minute,” he says. “But what the hell was Sam talking about?” 

“Why would I know?”

“He said there’s drama between you and Hunter?”

Crosshair lets out an impressive, long-suffering sigh. Rex rolls his eyes and Echo tries not to laugh. “It’s about Omega’s ship,” he finally says. “She’s almost finished it and she wants to get the navicomputer from the shipyard over Kuat. But they contract with the Empire, and Hunter’s freaking out about it. He wants her to get one from Corellia.” 

Ah, yes. Echo should have known. This ship has been the subject of a lot of back-and-forth, ever since Omega decided she wanted to build one herself instead of having Hunter buy one for her. Hunter, Wrecker, and Crosshair have each paid for parts of it, as a present for her upcoming graduation. Echo hasn’t contributed his part yet, and even though he doesn’t want to get involved in this argument, he already knows he’s going to. “Huh,” he says because he’s not ready to commit yet. 

As if he can read Echo’s mind, Crosshair says, “See you soon, Echo,” in a superior little voice that makes Echo want to smack him. 

“So,” Rex says. “We’ve got a few days on Pantora with nothing planned. Do you want to go to Pabu?”

“Not really.” Echo sips his coffee and winces. There’s no way in hell Gregor didn’t make this. Like most things involving Gregor, it’s … too much.  

“Do you need to go to Pabu?” Rex presses. 

Echo sighs. “Yeah, probably.” 

Rex claps him on the shoulder like they’re squadmates, then when Echo glares at him (because they’ve talked about this a thousand times -- they’re married, for shit’s sake), he climbs into bed beside Echo and leans against him, head on his shoulder. “Better,” Echo says. “But it would be great if you just went and handled it.” 

“Keep dreaming,” Rex says, wrapping an arm around Echo’s waist. “They’re your family.”  

“By extension, doesn’t that make them yours?”

Rex shrugs. Echo doesn’t blame him. 

* * * 

The weather on Pabu is fucking gorgeous. It’s obscene. Especially considering it’s the cold season in Pantoran City and he’s had to find some way to wear a hat over his AJ^6, which looks lumpy at best and ridiculous at worst. Here, he doesn’t need a hat, or a glove, which is really fucking obnoxious to put on your one hand. 

He’s expecting Omega to meet him at the landing pad -- it’s almost always Omega who’s there waiting for him with a hug and a badly-thought-out plan. But it’s not. It’s Hunter and his girlfriend. Hunter holds out his left hand in greeting, and Echo clasps his arm. “Have you talked to Crosshair?” Hunter says. 

Echo can’t help but chuckle. “Good to see you, too, Hunter. You really know how to make a guy feel welcome.” He turns to hug Kala, who says, “Glad to have you, Echo,” so at least someone is attempting to be polite. 

“Glad to be here,” he says as they all make their way from the landing pad to Kala’s house in Upper Pabu. He debates how much to give away -- Hunter won’t believe it if he says he and Crosshair haven’t talked, since everyone knows they talk all the time. But if he wants to keep Crosshair as his source of intel, he can’t let on how much he knows about their conflict. It’s always a balance. “Last time I talked to Crosshair, he mentioned a divorce party,” he decides to say. “But I have a feeling that’s not what you wanted to discuss.” 

“Don’t bring that up,” Kala says. “He complained about it for a week.” They reach her place, stepping through the gate into the courtyard. Her house is older than the Batch’s, made of a yellowing stone that glows in the afternoon light. They all take seats at the outdoor table. It’s covered in a woven cloth, reds and oranges. 

“It’s about Omega’s ship,” Hunter says. (Echo says, “Oh,” like this is new information). “She needs a navicomputer, and I suggested a trip to Corellia, since it’s mostly out of the Empire’s reach. But she wants to go to Kuat. She thinks she needs a navicomputer programmed with Imperially mapped hyperspace routes if she’s going to have a transporting business.”

“And that’s her goal?” Echo asks. That, he hadn’t known. Omega wanting a career as a pilot, that’s not a surprise. But this … something isn’t quite adding up. 

“Yeah,” Hunter says. He wrings his hands together, studying them as if they hold the answer to whatever question he’s asking. “And Crosshair thinks it’s not a problem. He thinks she’s old enough to choose whatever she wants and we should stay out of it.” 

“Hmm,” Echo says. He doesn’t bother to ask what Wrecker thinks -- Wrecker tends to agree with whoever was most recently in front of him. 

They’re all quiet for a moment until Kala asks, “Hunter, could you put on some tea?” The words are barely out of her mouth before he’s up and heading inside. Hunter must think no one notices, but he so obviously likes taking orders much better than he ever liked giving them. 

As soon as he’s gone, Kala turns to Echo and whispers, “You’re a smart guy. You have to know this isn’t really about the ship.”

“What’s it really about then?” Echo asks, also keeping his voice as low as he can. There’s still no guarantee Hunter can’t hear them. His ability to hear things you’d rather him not hear was one of Echo’s biggest adjustments when he joined the Batch. 

“Omega graduating,” she says. “Building a ship means leaving. Most of her friends are either staying here to get married and join the family fishing business, or they’re taking off for university on Lorrd or Naboo. Omega … we both know she’s not into doing what everyone else is doing.”

He does know that. Omega does what Omega thinks is best -- Echo’s always admired that about her. He glances at the front door. Still no sign of Hunter. “And which of those options does Hunter want?”

She snorts out a laugh. “Neither. He doesn’t want her to feel trapped here, but he doesn’t want her leaving right away. What he wants is for her to stay young forever. He’s afraid of change, so he’s finding things to worry about.” 

Echo’s out of his depth here. “Your brother said he’s staying out of it.” 

Kala looks at him like Gotcha. And yeah, Echo gave too much away with that. What’s he trying to do, cause conflict in another family while attempting to resolve it for his own? “Well, Sam doesn’t have a child,” she says. “I do. I know what Hunter’s going through. So whatever you’re going to do, just keep him in mind, alright?”

Echo doesn’t get the chance to answer because Hunter comes back outside with a ceramic pot of tea and three cups. The cups are a little wobbly, so Echo knows immediately that Hunter made them himself. Then ditched them at his girlfriend’s house, apparently. 

Echo makes his decision by the time Hunter pours the tea. “What if I went with her?” he asks. “I haven’t gotten Omega anything for the ship yet. What if Rex and I take Omega to Kuat and make the navicomputer our contribution? That way she gets what she wants, and you don’t have to worry about her being alone on a planet crawling with Imperials. Or you can worry less, in any case.” 

“Should you be on Kuat?” Hunter asks, spinning his cup around in his hands. 

Echo sips his tea. It’s a delicate sea mint that you can only find on Pabu. He actually likes it. “Should anyone? At least I have armor. Weaponry.” 

“I have weaponry,” Hunter fires back. But he looks more relaxed than when this conversation started, so Echo will take that as a win.  

“A vibroknife strapped to your ankle isn’t weaponry.” 

“I know Omega’s capable,” Hunter says, ignoring Echo’s insult. “I’ve never doubted that. But after five years here, I don’t feel confident about any place that has a large Imperial presence. So if you promise me that you and Rex are on it, then I’ll trust you. All of you.” 

* * * 

Omega flies the Lambda-class shuttle like it’s stolen -- which, granted, it is. They couldn’t exactly glide up to the Kuat Drive Yards in the Remora or any of the other upgraded ships they’ve amassed. So Echo had nicked this one from Canto Bight, from some dumbass mid-ranking officer who got drunk and left it unattended. He’ll dump it somewhere when they’re done with this errand. 

“As much as I hate the Empire,” Omega says as they join the line of ships waiting to dock on the orbital shipyard. “I don’t hate how this ship handles. But the Mu-class is faster, more agile. That’s why I’m building one of those. Enough room for cargo and passengers, but still maneuvers well.” 

“That’s good reasoning, kid,” Rex says. He’s loitering around in the cockpit, leaning against the back of Echo’s co-pilot seat, shifting awkwardly back and forth in the storm trooper armor Echo knows he hates. “Gives you a lot of options.” 

“Yeah, exactly,” Omega says. “Options.” 

They pull up to the security checkpoint and a bored human woman says, “State your business.” 

“Hey,” Omega says. “How are you?”

“Your business?” she drones. She’s not that much older than Omega, but she seems world-weary, saddled with the weight of the galaxy. 

“We’re here to pick up a navicomputer,” Omega says too excitedly for their cover story -- a low-ranking officer (Echo) with a transport pilot (Omega) and their security detail (Rex), picking up a navicomputer to replace an outdated one on an Imperial freighter. “From Bam Drea. He’s expecting us.” 

“What’s it for?” the guard says in a monotone. 

“You’d have to ask my boss,” Omega says with a shrug. “Work, am I right?” Echo gestures at her to shut up. She does, but not before asking, “What time do you get off?” 

“Omega, this is a risky errand for your navicomputer,” Echo says once they’ve been given clearance to dock. “It isn’t a dating opportunity.” 

She lands the shuttle, saying, “Not with that kind of attitude, it’s not.” 

They disembark and wander through the Drive Yards. If you didn’t know you were on an orbital station circling Kuat’s equator, you’d think you were in a planetside factory. It’s huge, with cold recycled air and a low hum of machinery punctuated by the whir of high-pitched drills. Sparks fly as mechanics grind and weld ships in every stage of construction. 

There are ATs. TIES. Assault gunboats. And Omega stares at all of them. Not like an expert or an enthusiast. Like a kid from the Outer Rim. It’s sweet, but it’s going to get them found out. 

Echo looks up at her. She’s taller than he is now and it’s weird. Granted, most clones are taller than him. The longer the prosthetic legs, the harder they are to control. And he’ll take greater agility and responsiveness over height any day. But Omega … he still remembers when she only came up to his waist, when he had to kneel for them to be at eye-level. Looking up at her makes him wonder where the time has gone. “You’re not a tourist,” Echo mutters. “Act bored.” 

Behind them, Rex grunts and groans in his armor. That’s what he gets for having a face anyone would know anywhere. Omega and Echo don’t need to hide their faces. Out of context, no one would know they’re clones. Echo’s taken off his AJ^6 and put on an ugly-ass gray-green Imperial hat to go with his ugly-ass gray-green Imperial uniform. Which lets him blend in more, but also leaves him feeling … off. Like he has to think about everything. Move left leg, move right leg, breathe, remind yourself that this is a climate controlled station, it’s not actually hot in here. Step over that random hydrospanner on the floor. Breathe.

They get to the right booth, manned by a middle-aged Gran who has spanners and arc cutters spread all over a counter. Behind him, a TIE bomber is having its wing panels fitted. “Bam Drea,” Echo says, pitching his voice down to sound a little less like a clone. “I believe you have something for us.” 

“Oh, yes,” Bam says with the exact opposite of subtlety. “My Imperial friends. Who do look so very Imperial.” He looks at Omega and tilts his head, all three of his eyes blinking at once. 

“It’s casual day,” Omega says. She looks like … Omega. Blond hair in a high ponytail, brown trousers, red flight jacket, black bookbag that’s seen better days. One booth over, two imperials turn to look at them, then seem to think it’s not worth their time and move along. 

“She’s just the transport pilot,” Echo says, stepping on her foot. “You’re dealing with me.” 

“Your replacement navicomputer,” Bam says, gesturing to a crate on a repulsor pad beside his booth. “For your freighter.” Echo could kill this guy where he stands. It would lead to a massive firefight, and he probably wouldn’t escape with his life, but it’s starting to feel worth it. At the very least, they’re getting a new contact at the Drive Yards. It’s top priority the second they get back to Pantora. 

“If you’re the kind of buyer who wants something standard.” Bam looks at Omega like he knows she’s the real client. Echo doesn’t need to turn around to know that Rex’s hand is on his blaster. “Or …” Bam goes on dramatically. “Just in …” He points to another crate on another repulsor pad. “Brand new. ISB programming. The most recently-mapped hyperspace routes.”

Omega looks over at Echo. She wants it, he can tell she wants it. “You better not be scamming us,” Echo says. “Or I’ll have you spaced before your beady little eyes can blink.” 

Bam up holds both hands. “I swear.” 

It costs more, but Echo coughs it up without bargaining so they can get the hell out of here. Because he’s figured it out. What this is really about. The thing Echo couldn’t quite work out back on Pabu. Omega wants an Imperial navicomputer -- the best Imperial navicomputer --  because Omega wants to fight the Empire. And Hunter doesn’t know. 

* * * 

It’s clear and cool the morning of Omega’s graduation. The sun is about to rise, which is apparently meant as a symbol of the graduates’ new lives (this isn’t an ending, it’s a beginning, or something). If there’s one thing Echo’s learned about Pabu over the years, it’s that they love a metaphor. 

But that also means everyone’s gathered outdoors in Upper Pabu in the chill, dewy dawn, waiting for the ceremony to start. Rex rubs Echo’s back with a big, open palm, like he’s trying to warm Echo up. Echo’s not really cold -- all of the technology gives him better temperature regulation than most people -- but he doesn’t say anything because it feels nice. Rex probably doesn’t realize it, but he’s freer with his affections on Pabu, more open about their relationship in public. It’s not like he’s ashamed anywhere else, but they do have to watch it on Imperial soil. It’s illegal, what they have between them. And Echo gets it -- he wants them to stay alive as long as possible, to keep fighting as long as possible. But being here, among people who don’t even give them a second glance, it’s freeing. 

Next to Echo, Crosshair is openly shivering, his leg bouncing up and down. He hasn’t fully recovered from all of those head injuries -- he’s cold all the time, with a pronounced tremor that never quite goes away. Crosshair doesn’t say anything about it, but Wrecker takes off his poncho and passes it to Sam who passes it to Crosshair, who lays it over his legs like a blanket. 

Hunter’s on Rex’s other side, sniffling loudly. And the ceremony hasn’t even started yet. It’s going to be one hell of a day for him, Echo can already tell. Phee Genoa and Shep Hazard are behind them, and Phee mutters, “Makes you feel ancient, doesn’t it?” Echo can’t help but agree. 

A drumming starts, and the teachers take their place in front of the gathered crowd. The headmistress, an elderly Bith woman, steps up to a wooden podium. Then the doors to The Pabu School open, and the students file out, forming a line. They’re dressed in the colors of a sunrise -- pinks and yellows and light blues. Omega’s wearing a yellow flight jacket and orange trousers, her hair tied back in an orange bandana. She waves at her family even though Echo’s pretty sure she’s supposed to stay still. 

The drumming stops and a hush comes over the crowd. “Today marks the rise of a new sun on your lives …” the headmistress starts. The speech goes on for a while, long enough that the gathered families start to shift in their seats and the students sway back and forth. 

Then the headmistress finishes her remarks and calls up each student individually, lays a crown of maya flowers on their head, and says, “May the sun rise on your future and shine on your dreams.” 

When the headmistress calls, “Howcet, Omega,” and Omega steps forward, the whole family cheers. Kala takes pictures on her datapad, probably because Hunter’s too emotional to do it himself.  

Echo’s so fucking proud. And sad. And guilty. He hadn’t wanted the Batch to come here. He’d wanted to keep going, to keep fighting. To create a galaxy where everyone can thrive -- not just his own loved ones, but all of their brothers. All of the oppressed. 

But Hunter made this decision and stood by it for years, even as he himself struggled to adjust to their new life, to exchange the role of Sergeant for the roles of father and brother. Echo has always seen himself as the convicted one. But he realizes, as Hunter weeps openly while Omega bows to accept her flower crown, that this decision took conviction too. That Hunter had a mission as much as Echo did. And he’s achieved it.  

* * * 

Omega’s inside her ship, tinkering around in the cabin, when Echo finds her at the cove. He leans against the open door and says, “Needed a break?” 

Omega puts down her spanner and climbs out of the ship. Batcher follows, and the two of them sit on the ramp. “Something like that.” She’s put her flower crown on Batcher, who attempts to eat the petals off her own head. 

Echo can’t blame her. She must be overwhelmed -- it’s been a whole day of events. The ceremony in the morning, an afternoon on the beach. Dinner in the evening -- Crosshair and Sam shut the restaurant down for the day and threw a massive party with all of Omega’s friends and their families. Everyone was excited and happy and chatting about the future. And everyone was asking Omega about her plans, about what she wants to do next. 

“Looking good,” he says, gesturing toward the ship with his scomp. It’s not complete yet, but it’s obviously a Mu-class shuttle, and obviously cobbled together from bits and pieces gathered from across the galaxy. It’s perfect. 

“Thanks,” Omega says, leaning against Batcher. “I haven’t named it yet.” 

Echo sits on a rock across from her, kicking his legs out in front of him. “That’s alright. They say it’s bad luck to name it before it’s finished.” 

That finally gets a smile out of her. “I didn’t know you believed in that kind of thing.” 

“I don’t. But it can’t hurt.” They’re quiet for a moment, and Echo debates whether to go on. But more and more, with everything he’s seen, he believes that if you have something to say, you say it while you can. “I know what this means, Omega,” he says. “Even if they don’t.” 

“What what means?” she asks with a poor approximation of confusion. 

“The ship.” 

“What about it?”

“It’s a transport ship equipped with three laser canons,” Echo says. 

“You never know what you’ll run into,” she insists. 

“The ISB navicomputer?” Echo presses. “I’m not going to tell them. But you and I both know this is about the Empire.”

“Why do you look so mad about it?” she asks. She takes off her bandanna and runs her hands through her hair -- the ultimate Hunter is stressed gesture that she’s apparently picked up. “Don’t you always say we could be doing more?” 

Echo wasn’t aware he looked mad about it. He’s not mad. He’s worried, he’s conflicted. And he knows … “We could always be doing more. All of us. This resistance. This … rebellion. It’s going to last the rest of my life, I just know it. And your fight … it will come. Not today, but it will come. But when it does, I want it to be your choice. That’s what we fought for. We didn’t have a choice. You do.” 

“How did you know?” she asks. “How will I know? When it’s right.” 

Echo thinks back to that time, after the Clone Wars, when he was part of the Batch full-time. He had Hunter and Wrecker and Tech. He had Omega. He was separated from Rex, the person who -- he didn’t love, not just yet, but he trusted. Respected. Already knew that if Rex asked him to go, he would go. 

But he didn’t leave the Batch because he loves Rex. He loves Rex because they align so strongly, they understand each other so deeply. They express it differently, but they both love their brothers, love this galaxy, in a way that can’t be measured, can’t be contained. 

He thinks back to the exact moment he knew. They were on Ord Mantell. Hunter was arguing with Cid. Wrecker and Omega were playing dejarik and eating Mantell Mix. Tech and Phee were wrapped up in an oddly-specific conversation about whether a cockroach could survive on the surface of Bespin. And Echo stood there, amid all of it, among these people he loved, and … “I just felt it. A pull. Something in my soul that told me this was my time. This was my fight. It may start with the smallest thing, but it will ripple outward until you can’t stop it, no matter how hard you try.”

Omega looks at him beseechingly. “I don’t want to choose. Between my family and resisting the Empire.” 

“You won’t have to,” Echo says, because that’s one thing he’d never doubt. “You’ll always have our support.” 

“Yours, maybe,” she mutters. She’s so grown up, and she’s still a child. She’s the lost little girl he met and the soldier she became and the young woman she is now. The rebel she’ll be someday.  

“And theirs,” Echo says. “Hunter … He has a hard time letting go. But he knows you. He trusts you. Whatever you decide, however you create your future, he’ll be there. And so will I. One way or another, so will I.” 

Chapter Text

“Your supplies have arrived!” Omega announces, trotting into Emerie’s office at the clinic. “I mean, they’re not here, I dropped them at the loading dock.” As always, she looks absolutely thrilled about it. In Emerie’s experience, pilots are really into being pilots (and talking about being pilots). But Omega manages to outshine them all with her exuberance. Even after two years transporting all over the Outer Rim, her enthusiasm hasn’t waned. “And now I’m done for two days, so it’s time for sisters’ weekend!” She collapses into one of the chairs across from Emerie’s desk, sitting sideways with her long legs kicked up over the arm. 

Emerie’s about to shut down her computer (she’s been looking at this prosthetic order for so long her eyes are starting to cross) when there’s a knock at the open door. When she sees who it is, she can’t help but smile -- which she notices Omega noticing. Great. 

He’s leaning casually against the doorframe -- he manages to make everything look casual, where Emerie makes everything look formal and uptight. His golden hair is just slightly too long, falling into his face until he brushes it away. His golden eyes are framed in gold tattoos, sharp along sharp cheekbones, in stark contrast to his blue skin. And as always, he’s accompanied by his defective BD unit. “Hey, Emerie,” he says. “I’m here to fix the med droid in Bay 3?” 

“Yes, of course,” Emerie says. She can’t feel her feet as she steps around her desk. 

“Hi!” Omega says, a glint in her eye that tells Emerie this is about to be a long day. “I’m Omega!”

“Omega, this is Kizen,” Emerie makes herself say. “He owns the engineering firm we contract with at the clinic.” 

“Omega!” Kizen says, extending a hand. “The little sister, here for sisters’ weekend. I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“Have you?” Omega says in a tone that implies they’ll be debriefing this later. 

Emerie strides out of her office, hoping the other two will follow. Which they do. But they don’t stop their conversation. “Yeah, I hear you’re quite the pilot,” Kizen says. It’s the right thing to say. How some people always know the right thing to say, Emerie will never understand.  

“Just delivered supplies from Corellia,” Omega brags. “Now I’ve got two days off to hit all of my favorite places in Pantoran City.” 

“That’s great,” Kizen says, and his BD unit beeps in agreement. She’s a little purple droid with giant eyes who toddles around on two legs. His first big project, he'd told Emerie, before he really knew what he was doing. She’s wonky -- she wobbles when she walks and her little beep beeps are at a pitch that seems specifically designed to grate against human ears. But he’s nostalgic for those days and doesn’t have the heart to change her. 

“So cute!” Omega says when she sees the droid. “What’s her name?”

“Betty.” 

“Betty!” she repeats as Emerie leads them into the med bay. Kizen unstraps a tool belt from around his waist and uses one of the screwdrivers to remove the backplate from the surgical droid. Omega sits on the floor, eye level with the BD unit. “Hi, Betty! I just have a power droid named Gonky. And he’s the best, but …” 

“Power droids aren’t known for their versatility,” Kizen finishes, his speech muffled as he holds the screwdriver in his mouth while messing with the droid’s wiring. “They can’t exactly travel too far from their ships. What does Gonky look like?”

Omega snorts. “Like if a trash can could walk.” 

“Love it.” 

Emerie forces herself to stay still, her hands clasped together behind her back. She should have thought of the repair order she’d put in with Kizen’s firm, should have realized Omega would be here when he showed up. Is she ready for this? So far, Kizen’s acting like they’re acquaintances, or friends, maybe. But how long until she gives something away with her awkwardness? 

There’s a reason Emerie doesn’t normally do this. It should have been a one-time thing -- if that. She should have woken up the morning after their first date, come to her senses, and told him she didn’t have time for a relationship. But she’d woken up and found Kizen at the stove, flipping something in a cast-iron pan, a jug of iced tarine tea on the table. “What do you like on your toast?” he’d asked. “Other than ash, because that’s already taken care of.” 

So she kept going back -- over and over and over again. She took him to her favorite rooftop bistro. She let him take her to the university campus where he’d done his engineering degree and sat with him beneath the purple magnolia, where he used to study for exams. She walked with him through the city market, stopping for hot crispic rolls and cold melon water slushes. She went back to his flat and admired the exposed-brick walls, the collection of eclectic family heirlooms. And she slept with him. And she woke up with him and ate his burnt toast. 

“ … Then we’ll meet our other sisters at our usual cafe, and drink a bunch of green mimosas,” Omega is saying. 

“Sounds fun.” Kizen replaces the droid’s backplate, then makes eye contact with Emerie and winks. 

She clears her throat. “Thank you,” she says. “For … repairing the droid.” 

“My pleasure.” He packs up his toolkit like everything’s normal. Like their last conversation wasn’t a hard one, the kind you have when relationships are getting serious. I really like you, Emerie. But I know what I want for my life. And if you don’t want what I do, I respect that. Everyone isn’t the same. But I want someone I can share a life with. I want a family, children. To build a future together. Which is Emerie’s cue to see herself out. To remove herself from this kind man’s life before she ruins things, the way she always does. 

“It’s almost time for brunch,” Emerie says to hurry this along, to get herself out of yet another uncomfortable situation. Though to be fair, there’s probably no situation Emerie couldn’t make uncomfortable. 

“Not yet,” Omega protests. “There’s no way in hell you’re wearing that.” 

Emerie looks down at her gray coat and gray trousers, her standard uniform at the clinic. “What’s wrong with this?” she asks. 

“Nothing,” Kizen says. “You look great.” 

“He’s compromised,” Omega says. “Listen to someone objective. We’re stopping at your flat.” 

“Since when have you been objective?” Emerie says, but she lets Omega grab her by the arm and tug her out of the exam suite. She waves over her shoulder to Kizen as they reach the front door and step into the bustle of the Pantoran City street, as they go their separate ways. 

“Bye!” Omega calls. 

“Nice meeting you, Omega,” Kizen says. Betty says, Beep beep beep!

“You too.” Her grin is wicked, and Emerie is already dreading being alone with her. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing plenty more of each other.” 

* * * 

Emerie sits on her bed while Omega stands in front of her closet, flipping through a rack that’s mostly full of lab coats and uniforms, saying, “Nope, nope, nope,” as she examines each one. “So,” Omega says, still concentrating on Emerie’s wardrobe. “Who was that?” 

“Who was what?” Emerie asks, her voice wavering. She clears her throat. 

“Come on, Emerie.” She turns, holding up a tunic and a pair of trousers. They’re both cream-colored, detailed with gold. Emerie nods and Omega hands them over. “That Pantoran guy. The one who was all over you.” 

“I told you,” Emerie says. “His name’s Kizen Ek. He’s an engineer. He’s … I don’t know. Nice.” Nice. After everything, all she’s got is ‘nice.’ She’s grateful for the opportunity to get out of there as she darts into the adjoining bathroom to change. 

“He’s one of us, isn’t he?” Omega calls. 

Very little startles Emerie, but that does. “How did you know?” she asks as she tugs off her clinic uniform and pulls on the trousers, then the tunic. 

“I don’t know,” Omega says. “Just … vibes, I guess.” 

Vibes. Such a Pabu thing to say. Emerie isn’t a person who gets vibes. Kizen had told her. 

He told her about growing up on Pantora, everyone thinking he was a girl, screaming in the tattoo shop when his family tried to give him traditionally feminine tattoos. About the feeling beyond frustration, beyond annoyance, beyond sadness, beyond anger -- the horror of shouting who you are and not being believed. But Pantora is relatively open-minded. He found people like him eventually, his brothers. His family came around. He experienced the absolute, pure, unadulterated joy of being truly seen and known when he’d gone to the tattoo shop as a young man to be adorned the way he knew was right, the way that honored both his family and himself. 

She told him about growing up on Kamino, surrounded by beings who could not for the life of them understand the human concept of gender. Nala Se hadn’t argued with her when she said she was a girl. She just asked if Emerie wanted hormone treatment, then gave it to her. It was easy, on a practical level. But no one understood the emotional significance of that step, not until she met Omega and her other sisters. 

Kizen told her about his brothers, who taught him to shave and joked with him about his terrible cooking skills and encouraged him to turn his hobby of tinkering into a career as an engineer. Emerie told him about her sisters, who drag her out of her flat and make fun of her drab clinical clothing and drink too many green mimosas at brunch. 

“I’m happy for you, Emerie,” Omega says when Emerie emerges from the bathroom, still fixing her hair. 

“There’s nothing to be happy about,” Emerie says. Then feels a sudden and overwhelming sadness that it’s true. 

* * * 

Emerie never really felt at home on Kamino. Or Setron. And certainly not Tantiss. But Pantoran City is the kind of place you get used to, that you come to call home. She has a flat in walking-distance of the clinic where she’s done her life’s work treating her brother and sister clones. She has a favorite wine bar. She knows which stalls to visit at the market. It’s dangerous, this feeling.

She strolls down the street with Omega, who opens the door to their usual cafe with a flourish. “I’m starving,” Omega says. 

Their other three sisters have already arrived, and they all stand from their usual table, tucked into a dimly-lit back corner, to take turns embracing Omega. There’s Zip, an explosives expert who works for a local manufacturer and consults with Captain Rex. She’s in her usual no-nonsense uniform, short hair curling around her ears. Silver, a medic at the clinic and occasionally on field missions, wearing a dress and long hair in loose waves. Charlie, long hair in a low ponytail, wearing a tunic similar to Emerie’s. New job every week -- new boyfriend just as often. 

They’ve barely sat down when Omega says, “Let’s talk about Emerie and Kizen.” 

“Let’s not,” Emerie cuts in, glancing at the holo-projected menu as if they don’t eat at this cafe so often that she knows exactly what she’s going to order -- the peko peko egg omelet with the house-made sourdough and one mimosa. One. No matter what Zip tries to talk her into. 

“Shit, don’t get us started,” Charlie says, leaning back against the booth. “It’s all Kizen this and Kizen that.” 

“Immediately followed by, I don’t talk about him that much,” Zip adds. 

“And don’t forget the old I’m too busy excuse,” Silver piles on. Great. Now they’re all ganging up. And Emerie has learned over the years that once her sisters get involved, there’s no convincing them to let it go. People think the male clones are a lot. They have nothing on Emerie’s sisters. 

She thinks she’s going to get a break when the server droid comes to take their orders, but no such luck. As soon as the droid’s recorded their choices and taken off for the kitchen, Omega asks, “How long has this been going on?”

“Too long,” Silver and Charlie say at the same time. 

“And no one told me about it?” Omega demands. 

“We would have, but Emerie was being … Emerie about it,” Zip says. “She didn’t even tell us, we had to figure it out.” 

“What does that mean?” Emerie demands. “Being Emerie about it?”

They all exchange glances and pass identical looks of skepticism back and forth. It’s annoying. Then they all start in at once, talking over each other, making terrible attempts at imitating Emerie’s voice.  

“Am I having too much fun?”

“Shouldn’t I feel guilty right now?”

“Oh, no, I don’t deserve it!”

“Is this something good? Happening to me? Seems suspicious.” 

“Happiness? Love? Don’t want it!”

She does want it, that’s the problem. She spends far too much time, when she’s alone in her office at the clinic, when she should be thinking about her patients and their treatment plans, shamefully imagining her future. She thinks about waking up in a flat with exposed brick walls, decorated with family heirlooms and art purchased at local galleries. She imagines the smell of burnt toast and brewing tarine tea and the city breeze through open windows. 

She fantasizes about walking through the marketplace with Kizen, picking out crisp field greens for dinner and golden apples for dessert. Kizen wearing a sling, holding a tiny, babbling child. Their child -- half-human, half-Pantoran, with light blue skin and golden eyes …

And then she thinks of Sami -- the Pantoran girl from Tantiss. Sami’s here on Pantora, reunited with her father and her grandmother and her aunts. But not her mother -- her mother was killed by a bounty hunter when Sami was abducted. Who is Emerie to think she could be someone's mother when Sami is deprived of hers? Who is she to think she could be someone’s partner when she couldn’t even be an ally to her brothers, the closest thing she’s ever had to family? 

But she can’t tell her sisters any of that. Because her sisters are good people. 

Emerie wants to say something to change the subject, to divert their attention from her. But she doesn’t have to because Omega sighs hugely and says, “Well, since we’re not getting anywhere with her, let’s talk about me.” 

“What’s going on, Omega?” Charlie asks. 

“Okay, so …” Omega takes off her bandanna and fiddles with it -- she must be nervous. “This is a sisters-only conversation because I don’t want to tell my brothers until I’m sure, but … I’m thinking of leaving Pabu.” She looks at each of them in turn, like she’s gauging their responses, seeking their approval. 

“Do you know where you’ll go?” Emerie asks. 

“Not yet. It’s just … I love flying, obviously.” 

“Obviously,” everyone else says together. 

“But I feel like I could be doing more with it. I could --”

She’s interrupted when Zip’s comm buzzes. So does Silver’s. Two at once is never good news. “Shit,” Silver mutters, looking at hers. 

“What’s going on?” Emerie asks. 

Whatever Silver would have said in response is cut off by the crackling of Omega’s comm. “Omega, you need to come home.” It’s Hunter’s voice, and he sounds … devastated. 

“What’s wrong?” Omega asks into the comm, her voice shaking. 

“It’s Echo.” 

* * * 

Omega’s in a daze, Emerie can tell. Not even grief yet, just shock. Omega leans against Charlie’s shoulder all the way back to Emerie’s flat, then stands there, glassy-eyed, while Emerie and Zip pack up her ancient purple backpack and her bedroll. Silver hoists them both over her shoulder. 

Emerie leads them to the landing pads and they all climb aboard Omega’s ship. Zip and Charlie head to the cockpit. Zip gets them clearance to leave and has them through the Pantoran atmosphere in minutes. Emerie settles Omega on the cabin bench beside Silver, then steps into the cockpit as Zip eases them into hyperspace. “Do we know what happened?” Emerie asks. 

“No, but they’re bringing the survivors to the clinic,” Charlie says, staring ahead at the blur of hyperspace. “I told Cody that Emerie and Silver wouldn’t be there.” 

“Rex?” Emerie asks. 

“He’s alive, that’s all Cody said.” 

“Shit,” Zip mutters. “I mean, I’m glad he’s alive, just …”  No one says what they’re all thinking -- Rex is the most principled of all of them, the most dedicated, the most driven. But as much as he loves all clones, as much as he fights for them every day, as much as his beliefs propel him forward … None of that compares to his love for Echo. Echo is his whole world. Emerie can’t imagine how Rex is feeling in this moment. She doesn’t even have anyone like that and she can’t imagine.

When Emerie comes back out of the cockpit, Omega is lying on the bench, her head in Silver’s lap, Silver stroking her hair. “I’m sorry,” Omega says over and over. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Silver whispers. “We’re sisters. This is what we do.” 

* * * 

The house is full when they get Omega there -- dozens of people milling about. Hunter, Wrecker, Crosshair. A bunch of random people Emerie’s heard stories about but doesn’t know. Neighbors, maybe. Friends. Emerie’s never been here -- she stays away out of respect for Crosshair. So Charlie had to guide them down the path from the landing pad to the lower part of the island, nearer the sea, to Omega’s family home. 

Omega stands in the open doorway for a long moment, watching everyone. Emerie lays a hand on her back. “You’re home,” she whispers, and she doesn’t know why that, of everything she’s seen and heard today, is what makes her want to cry. 

All three of Omega’s brothers step forward at once, then they’re in a four-way embrace. And Emerie feels … alone. She’s not, she knows she’s not. She’s surrounded by her sisters. She has work that’s meaningful. She’s contributing to a greater cause. After everything she’s been through, everything she’s done, that should be enough. After the chance Echo gave her to do the right thing, that should be enough. This … intimacy. Family. Love. She neither needs nor deserves them. 

Silver, Zip, and Charlie all offer condolences to Omega’s brothers, all ask friends and neighbors what they can do to help. But Emerie just stands there, frozen. 

It’s chaotic. 

Omega is being hugged by two young women -- friends of hers, presumably. 

Hunter says, “Sam, a minute, please?” to a man Emerie doesn't recognize, then pulls him outside without another word, leaving Crosshair staring after them as if confused. 

An older bald man, who seems to be in charge, speaks into a comm. “Wrecker won’t be available. There’s been an emergency … I’ll tell him.” 

Wrecker says, “Crosshair?” Emerie turns in just enough time to see Crosshair’s eyes roll back in his head. Wrecker catches him before he can hit the ground and lifts him easily. That finally snaps Emerie out of her trance. She springs into doctor mode and follows Wrecker to one of the bedrooms. But when Crosshair stirs, laid out on his bed, Wrecker hovering over him, he opens his eyes, sees Emerie, and panics, his hand flying up to cover his neck. “You’re not there,” Wrecker says soothingly. Emerie bolts out of the room, finds Silver, and sends her in to deal with it. 

When she gets to the living room, Hunter is back inside, shouting over a comm link. “Bring him here, Cody, this isn’t a negotiation … I don’t care what the fuck he wants. We lost Echo. We won’t lose him, too.” 

Emerie can’t stay in here for one more second. She steps around three people and darts out the door to the courtyard, sinking onto a rough wooden bench. Her comm link buzzes with a message. 

Kizen: Hey, I left a spanner at the clinic. So I came back here, and they’re telling me you’re off planet. You okay?

Emerie’s eyes well up in gratitude, but she forces her emotions back down. It’s a relief, hearing from him. From the one person she wants right now, more than anything in this entire galaxy.  

Emerie: No. There was a mission that went wrong. My friend didn’t make it. 

Kizen: Shit. Emerie, I’m so sorry. Where are you? 

Emerie: In the Chopani Sector. 

“He’s alright.” Emerie startles at Silver’s voice. Silver sits beside her on the bench, long legs stretched out in front of her. She tilts her head back, like she’s soaking up the sun. It’s probably raining back on Pantora. Why the fuck is Emerie thinking about the weather right now? “Crosshair, I mean,” Silver goes on. “Just a little dehydrated, but he refused fluids. So Wrecker’s making him drink water. Apparently, he’s kind of a fainter.” 

“He’s scared of needles,” Emerie says. “And of me.” 

“Tantiss?” Silver asks, like this is a routine question, not an implication of everything Emerie’s done wrong in her life, everything she can never make up for. Emerie nods.  

Her comm buzzes again. 

Kizen: When are you coming home?

“Who are you messaging?” Silver asks. 

And that’s … “No one,” Emerie says. If it weren’t for Echo, Emerie would still be working for the Empire. Or she would have died right beside Hemlock. 

And now, Echo is gone. Omega will never be the same. Whatever she’d been about to say back in Pantoran City, whatever dream she’d been about to share … It’s over now. There’s no way she’ll leave her brothers after this. 

And Rex … Emerie can’t even bring herself to think about Rex. 

“It’s okay, Emerie,” Silver says gently. “We all need people. Especially now.” 

“Silver…” Emerie protests. 

Silver reaches out, takes Emerie’s hand in her own. Offering sisterhood, solidarity. When all Emerie wants is to hide. “I’m serious. Think about Rex. He’d give anything for another minute with Echo, I just know it. Don’t take love away from yourself.” 

Emerie scoffs. “I’m not Rex. Rex is a good man. I’m …” 

“A person trying to be better,” Silver says. “Which is all Echo ever asked of any of us. They forgive radically, Echo and Rex. You can forgive yourself. Don’t punish yourself forever, Emerie. Who knows how long any of us have.” 

* * * 

It’s morning by the time they land on Pantora. And it has started raining. 

Emerie’s barely knocked twice on the door before Kizen opens it. He stands framed in the doorway, the morning light making his golden hair glow. It’s sticking up all over the place, and he’s wearing sleep clothes. The scent of tarine tea and burnt toast wafts out from his flat. 

“Emerie?” he asks. 

She tips forward, knowing he’ll catch her. “I’ve been a coward,” she says, her voice cracking and muffled against his shoulder. “It wasn’t you I was afraid of. It was me. I’ve done terrible things, and the possibility of a happy future, it was more than I thought I deserved.” 

“Emerie, you just lost your friend,” Kizen whispers into her hair. He wraps his arms around her and holds her against his chest. “You don’t have to make any decisions today.” Betty crashes into Emerie’s legs and chirps Beep beep beep! “Betty agrees,” Kizen says. 

Emerie laughs and cries at the same time. “I’m not making them today. I made them months ago, I was just too afraid to tell you. I want all of it. Everything you’ve said. A home, family, children. Mornings in. Days out. Love.” Everything Echo gave her, when he allowed her to walk out of Tantiss with a changed mind and an open heart. “And I want it with you.” 

“I want that, too,” Kizen says. “But let’s start with toast, huh?”

Emerie sniffs and looks up. “Burnt?”

“Obviously. How does that sound?”

She stares into his golden eyes. He looks tired and kind and worried and completely open. “It sounds perfect.” 

Chapter Text

“So, Nex and Raya are getting married,” Omega says. She’s perched on the kitchen counter, chugging water out of a tall glass. Hunter can’t see it well -- she’s just a blur and the glass isn’t there at all. But he’d recognize that gulping sound anywhere. And he knows Omega’s post-supply-trip routine -- she drops her luggage on the living room floor for Batcher to nose through, crashes into the kitchen, and downs water like she’s dying of thirst. 

Hunter’s standing beside Kala while she stirs hot cocoa at the stove (Omega’s request). The scents of chocolate and cinnamon and island cloves mix with the ever-present smell of exhaust that Omega tracks in from her ship. “Weird combo,” he says. He’s been hearing about these people for years. When Nex was a kid, they always had some prank up their sleeve. At least 20% of the messages Hunter received from Omega’s school detailed incidents that could be traced back to Nex. And Raya -- she was quiet, studious, always top of the class. Hunter’s surprised she’s still on Pabu. Most people like that took off for Naboo the second they finished school. 

“That happened after I graduated, too,” Kala says. Hunter listens as she ladles cocoa into a mug for Omega and passes it to her (“Thank you!” Omega says). She makes up another one and presses it into Hunter’s hand. She’s been doing that more and more, Hunter’s noticed. Handing him something before he needs it, before he has to feel around to find it -- it’s a kind, thoughtful gesture and Hunter hates it.  

“It did?” Omega asks. So far, she hasn’t seemed to suspect that anything’s off with Hunter. And he’s grateful for that. He wants to figure out how to tell her before she notices on her own. Wants to find a way to reassure her that he’ll be fine, that she doesn’t need to stop living her life and having her adventures and friendships and relationships because of him. 

“Oh, yeah,” Kala says, resting her hand on Hunter’s back while he sips cocoa, like she wants to let him know she’s there. “It’s a small place. People think that if they don’t find someone in school, they never will. So they pair off in increasingly weirder couples. I did it, and look how that turned out.” 

“How did it turn out?” Omega asks with what seems like genuine curiosity, like it isn’t obvious that Kala’s marriage couldn’t exactly have been a success. 

“Well,” Kala says, and Hunter can tell she’s smirking. “I’m here talking to you, aren’t I? Not hanging out with that guy.” 

Omega snorts, then slurps cocoa in a way that reminds him of Wrecker. It’s nice to hear her laugh after … everything. It’s been a hard year. “Where are Wrecker and Crosshair?” she asks. 

“Wrecker’s out with friends,” Hunter says. “He’s going to meet us at the beach, if you’re still interested in going.” 

“Hell, yeah,” Omega says. “What about Crosshair?” 

Kala’s hand tenses on Hunter’s back. “We’ll check on Crosshair,” she says. “See if he’s up for it.” 

Hunter can’t see Omega’s expression, but he guesses it can’t be good. 

“Omega, why don’t you put on a jacket?” Kala asks. “It’s been cool on the beach.” 

“On it!” There’s a crash of her feet against the ground as she jumps off the counter, leaving reverberations that Hunter feels through the floor. She rushes to her room like she’s still a kid, which gives Hunter the space to navigate through the mess Omega left on the floor, gripping onto the back of the sofa as he works his way through the living room and into his bedroom. 

Getting dressed for the beach takes a long time -- he’s been trying to be more organized, to keep his shirts in one drawer, his sweaters in another. But it’s a new system, and he’s not consistent with it yet. He holds a sweater close to his eyes, feels the weave of it, determines it’s the one he wants, and pulls it over his head. 

He can hear Omega, Kala, and Batcher in the living room while he looks around for his shoes. Which he keeps telling himself he’s going to leave in a neat row beside his bedroom door. “Is it weird?” Omega is saying. “That I’m like, the last one?”

“The last one what?” Kala asks. Batcher snorts and slobbers. 

“Who’s still here on Pabu,” Omega says. “But not, like …” 

“Married and working for your family?”

“Exactly.” 

Hunter finds the shoes beside his bed and slips them on, but he waits at the door to hear Kala’s response. There has to be a reason Omega asked her and not Hunter -- probably because the Batch didn’t grow up on Pabu the way Kala did. They didn’t have childhoods that progressed into young adulthoods, with all of the ensuing decisions and constant second-guessing of those decisions. Hunter loves Omega, loves her enough that he fought for her to have a different life from his own. But that means … she has a different life from his own. 

“There’s a whole galaxy out there, Omega,” Kala says. “So many people. And so many adventures. I know you’re not meant to stay here. I’ve lived here my whole life. I know when someone’s meant for something greater.” There’s a rustle of fabric, Omega tugging on a jacket. Batcher barks with what Hunter assumes is impatience. “And it’s not like we’re going anywhere,” Kala goes on. “You’ll always be able to come here. You can do anything you want, knowing you have a home to come back to.” 

“Hmm,” Omega says, like she’s considering it. Hunter’s heart pounds. He’s surprised, honestly, that Omega’s not out there somewhere in the galaxy, “liberating” treasures like Phee used to or fighting the Empire like Echo did. He’s grateful -- he wants to experience every possible moment with her, however many he has left. But he wonders, he has to wonder, what would have happened if they hadn’t lost Echo and Rex. If Omega would have trusted herself, trusted the galaxy, enough to leave. If she would have trusted that Hunter, Wrecker, and Crosshair would still be here when she returned. “Huntuhh!” Omega calls. “Beach!”

Hunter comes out of his room as if he’s just now ready to join them. Kala takes his hand in what Hunter hopes looks like a romantic gesture, not a very necessary practical one. “Beach,” he repeats as enthusiastically as he can. Omega’s here now, and so is he. He’s determined to enjoy it. 

* * * 

Crosshair’s supposed to be at the beach with Omega, but he can’t get out of bed. On and off in the year since Echo’s been gone, a heaviness will sneak in, will blanket him and weigh him down so much that he can’t fathom getting up. At the beginning it could last for days at a time, and now it only happens once in a while. But it still happens. 

He’s staring, as he often has over the last year, at the wall in Sam’s apartment -- Crosshair’s own apartment, about half the time. It’s been cooler outside over the last few days, but it’s sunny, and light filters in through the window, casting shadows across the cream-colored walls. 

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Crosshair says as the bed dips with Sam’s weight. 

“Nope. You don’t apologize to me,” Sam says in a don’t argue with me tone. “Grief ripples out, love flows in.” 

It’s a Pabu saying, one Crosshair’s heard over and over in the last year. Grief is a ripple, love is a wave. It’s not surprising to hear from the likes of Shep, who’s just … Pabu, through and through. But Sam has always been more of a skeptic about Pabu stuff, has always had a snarky comment or a cynical take on the traditions. His Harvest Festival rant is the stuff of legend (“There’s nothing to harvest. All we have here is fish and sea vegetables. They should call it the Import-Shit-From-Dantooine Festival”). 

But this one, the grief one, he’s clinging to for some reason. He’s said it so many times -- when Crosshair has to leave the restaurant in the middle of lunch service to hyperventilate in the alley. When he storms out of family dinner because he can’t stand to look at Hunter’s stupid face for one more second. And when he wastes a beautiful, sunny day in bed instead of spending it on the beach with family. They’d agreed to a beach trip yesterday, when Omega had called to say that her supply run was ending early. And now he’s flaking out again. 

Sam draws gentle circles on Crosshair’s lower back. He must be holding a cup of coffee in his other hand -- Crosshair’s not facing him, but he can smell it. Sam brews coffee like he has something to prove. It’s so strong no one else can stand it. 

“Crosshair, come in,” Hunter’s voice crackles through the comm. “Omega’s back from her supply trip. We’re all supposed to be at the beach.” 

Sam picks up the comm. In the past, he would have thought it was Echo calling, somehow, even if Echo was on Pantora and the context would have made zero sense. It was funny, really, the way he couldn’t tell Echo and Hunter’s voices apart. And for some reason, that makes Crosshair’s eyes sting and his body tremble. 

“Shit,” Sam mutters. There’s a scuffle in the room as Sam sets down his coffee cup and picks up the comm. And there’s a scuffle over the comm, as if someone’s wrestling it away from Hunter. 

Crosshair would have expected Wrecker to jump in -- he’s usually the one who steps into their conflict, especially now that Echo can’t anymore. But it’s not Wrecker’s voice that comes through the comm, it’s Kala’s. “Hunter, he might not be up for it.” 

“He’s never up for it. He’s …” Hunter’s been short with him, lately, in a way he hasn’t been for nearly eight years. Sometimes, it feels like Hunter can’t even look at him. Can’t stand the sight of him, probably. 

“Grieving,” Kala finishes. These dumbasses obviously don’t know they’ve left the comm on. And normally, that kind of thing would cheer Crosshair up. That it doesn’t must say something about his mental state. 

“We can hear you,” Sam says, deadpan, as if he’s read Crosshair’s mind.  

“Does he need a day in?” Kala asks. 

“Yeah,” Sam says. “It’s a bad day.” And that would make Crosshair angry if he had the energy for it. But he doesn’t. 

“Got it,” Kala says. “I’ll handle these guys.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me,” she says. “Grief ripples out.” 

“Love flows in,” Sam finishes as they hang up. 

And now Crosshair’s had it. If he has to hear that fucking expression one more time… “Stop,” he says, his voice shaking. “Stop fucking saying that.”

Sam takes a long, slow breath, and for a moment, Crosshair thinks he’s going to argue with him. And that’s … it’s a relief. He wants to fight. He generally doesn’t like to fight with Sam -- he likes to fight with Hunter. But that would mean seeing Hunter, and he’s too tired for that. 

But Sam doesn’t fight. He lies down behind Crosshair, curls around him. Crosshair squeezes his eyes shut and wills himself not to cry. There have been too many days like this, over the last year. Crosshair’s sick of himself. No wonder Hunter’s pissed. 

Hunter’s right, that’s the thing. Crosshair would feel better if he went to the beach. He’s isolating from his family. But they’re not like the other families, they’re fucking clones. Seeing Hunter doesn’t just remind him of seeing Echo. Seeing Hunter is seeing Echo. 

“What do you need, buddy?” Sam whispers. 

Crosshair makes up his mind. He can’t stand being here with himself for one more second. “I need you to put some of that undrinkable coffee in a thermos. And we’ll go to the beach.” 

…

Sam carries one thermos in each hand as they meander down the path, letting Crosshair uselessly hold onto his arm for support. Crosshair’s shaky on a good day, and today isn’t a good day. But he makes it there. He lets Wrecker help him down onto the sand, lets Sam hand him a warm thermos of coffee -- more coconut milk and sugar than coffee, truly. He has taste. He leans against Batcher and ignores Hunter’s passive-aggressive, “Is Crosshair here?”

“Yeah, we’re here,” Sam says, confusion obvious in his voice. 

“We’re glad you are!” Wrecker says. He’s in one of his stupid ponchos -- they’ve gotten more and more garish over the years and this one could probably be used to land transport shuttles in the dark. 

“Crosshair!” Omega says. She’s standing in front of them, bare feet in the sea. Which must be cold, but Omega’s always had a warmer nature than him. “You made it!”

“I did,” he says. “How was your flight?”

“So,” she starts. “I’d just left Anoat and I was on the Incisor Sidestep --” The rest of her story is cut off when one of her friends appears, a young woman from her school class whose name Crosshair has never been able to remember. Human, deep brown skin, black hair. One of the studious ones who moved to Lorrd. Then there’s a flurry of hugging and catching up that Crosshair ignores. 

As soon as Omega says, “Bye! So good to see you! We’ll catch up soon!” and the friend disappears out of earshot, Omega drops onto the sand with a groan, sprawling out on her back and looking up at the brilliantly blue sky. 

“Don’t get in your head,” Kala says in a tone that implies they’re continuing a conversation from earlier. She digs her feet into the sand, her hand resting over Hunter’s. 

“I’m not,” Omega sighs. “Okay, fine, I am. Yet another friend’s wedding to deal with.” 

Ah. This conversation has come up several times over the past few years. Crosshair doesn’t know why Omega feels pressured. He doesn’t think it comes from any of them. Hunter’s always been adamant that marriage isn’t for him and that he never wants to live apart from Wrecker and Omega. Crosshair and Sam only live together about half the time. Wrecker is constantly surrounded by people but doesn’t feel the need for romance at all. Emerie still calls a man her boyfriend even though they’re having a child together. Omega’s other sister Charlie has three partners. And Echo once told Crosshair that you’d need a flowchart to understand all of the relationships between clones who are attracted to other clones. 

Crosshair and his brothers … they didn’t grow up with all of those weird expectations. Well, they did, it was just an entirely different set of weird expectations. On Kamino, it was: Complete your training. Pass your drills. Become a CT. Go into the field. Become a commander or an ARC Trooper. And then in his own experience, be forgotten and die. 

And on Pabu, it seems to be: Finish school. Get a job that you plan to work until you drop. Marry the first person you date. Have children young. 

Maybe choosing your own path is never easy. Maybe no matter where you are, the current of expectation is so strong that going against convention requires you to swim upstream. Great. Now he’s thinking in water metaphors. 

“Take it from me, Omega,” Sam says. “If you grow up on Pabu attracted to your own gender, you will have a very limited dating pool.” 

Wrecker laughs. “We’ve always wondered why you went for Crosshair so quickly.” He reaches across Batcher to slap Crosshair on the shoulder. 

“Three brothers newly arrived in town?” Sam jokes, though he puts his arm around Crosshair’s waist, as if to reassure him. “And one of them’s into men? Jump on it.” In the past, Crosshair would have taken these dumb jokes seriously. And he’s proud of himself that he’s able to just roll his eyes and move on. If Sam really didn’t want to be with him, he would have fucked off long ago. It’s not like Crosshair’s an easy person to love. 

“Who says I’m limiting myself to Pabu?” Omega says. Then everyone piles on to tease her. Crosshair gave up on keeping up with Omega’s dating life years ago. She’ll tell them when it’s someone worth getting attached to. 

The rest of them keep messing around, and it seems to bring Omega out of whatever mood she was on the verge of sliding into. But Crosshair finds himself glancing over at Hunter. Who’s staring out at the sea. Like he’s not a part of their group. Like he can’t even acknowledge them. 

* * * 

“Big sushi platter! Big sushi platter!” Omega cheers as they cram into their usual booth at Beyond the Sea. It’s warm in here, heated by the brick oven, and evidently, it’s pretty crowded. There’s a din of chatter, of families discussing their days at the beach or their upcoming weeks at school or their day’s catch at the dock. And it smells like roasting fish and kebabs. To Hunter, the other diners are just a blur of colors. 

“You know I’m in,” Wrecker says. Wrecker and Omega both, they have voracious appetites -- for everything, but especially for sushi and desserts. It’s probably their boundless enthusiasm that gives them these metabolisms -- more and more, Hunter just feels tired. 

The booth beside Hunter creaks. “Of course you are,” Crosshair mutters as he sits. He tends to do this when the family eats here -- finish making the evening’s pastry then join them for dinner before jumping back into work until the restaurant closes. 

Hunter had wanted to be on the outside of the booth, but now he’s between Crosshair and Kala, with Omega and Wrecker on her other side. He feels hemmed in, constrained. And he’s nervous about sushi -- which he should have thought about before coming to a sushi restaurant. You have to pick up individual pieces from a shared platter with tiny chopsticks, and he’s not sure he can do it without giving himself away. Maybe he should tell them. If he ever finds the words, he will. 

He’s not sure what to do until the waiter -- some new kid Hunter doesn’t know -- asks, “And for you, Crosshair?” Hunter had been so wrapped up in his head, he’d forgotten that Crosshair never joins in on the sushi platter, that he hasn’t eaten meat or fish at all since they arrived on Pabu. So Hunter’s relieved when Crosshair orders (“I’ll have the pepper and legume skillet, please. With a spoon”), and he can casually say, “I’ll have the same.” 

“You don’t want sushi, Hunter?” Omega asks. 

“Trying something new,” he says, hoping they go along with it. 

They must buy it because Omega launches into the story about the Incisor Sidestep that had been interrupted on the beach. Wrecker encourages her with, “And then what happened?” but Hunter’s too distracted. 

He tunes back in when Omega asks, “Remember when we came here with Echo and Rex?” They came here with Echo and Rex dozens of times, so this is likely a lead-in to a specific story. They’re just now getting to the point where they can talk about Rex and Echo the way they talk about Tech all the time, sharing memories and funny stories without feeling like their hearts are going to stop, like the ground is going to open up and swallow them whole. 

“Which time?” Kala asks, like she’s trying to encourage this development, this open sharing of remembrances. 

“So they had just come in from Alderaan,” Omega says, and Hunter can tell from her tone that she’s sitting forward, going into storytelling mode, gesturing as she speaks. “And Echo didn’t realize that you shouldn’t mix Alderaanian whiskey with koja-rum and he had like three Pabu Coladas. And he said, ‘Hey guys’ …” 

“‘When did they plant a tree in here?’” Wrecker and Crosshair finish together. Everyone cracks up, the table rattling from what must be Wrecker smacking his hand on it as he laughs. Hunter chuckles. It is a funny story, one they teased Echo about until … Until. 

They’re still laughing when the food arrives. Hunter can see the slightest glint of silver that is his spoon, so he’s able to eat without too many issues. It seems like they’re headed into a lighthearted evening until Omega asks, “Do you guys think Rex is okay?” A hush comes over the table. It’s not the first time she’s asked that question, so it shouldn’t take Hunter by surprise. But it does. Every time. 

Hunter wishes he knew the right thing to say, to reassure not only her, but himself. But the truth is … “I don’t know, kid. I hope so.” Being a father, it’s simultaneously the most joyous and the most heartbreaking thing that he’s ever done. That he ever will do. Because sometimes, there’s nothing he can say, nothing he can do to make it better. Losing Echo was hell. Rex disappearing so quickly after that … it just made everything worse. 

“I’m worried …” Omega trails off like she can’t finish the thought. “Why didn’t he tell us he was leaving? Why didn’t he tell us where he went?”

“It was hard for him, Omega,” Hunter says, fully aware he’s retreading already well-trodden ground. “Losing Echo, it was hard for him.” He’s never told Omega the full truth -- he’s not sure she could bear it. He’s not sure he could bear to tell her. He’s never told her that he begged Rex to stay with them on Pabu, to let them take care of him, the way Hunter assumed Echo would have wanted. The memory arises, as it often does, of Rex saying, Don’t you dare, Hunter. Don’t you fucking dare tell me what he would have wanted. 

Then Rex went back to the resistance, claiming that he wanted to keep fighting, to keep helping his brothers. And the next thing he knew, Hunter was receiving a call from Cody, who believed Rex was on Pabu with them. No one knows where he is -- Hunter’s come to accept that. 

“Sorry,” Omega says. “Not to, like, bring down the vibe around here.” 

“The vibe’s already down around here,” Crosshair snarks. “Because of Hunter’s sweater. And the fact that he thinks it goes with those pants.” Even when Hunter knows he’s joking, he doesn’t always like to be on the receiving end of Crosshair’s bullshit. Especially if it prods at a sore spot -- and he’s sensitive about his vision, even if Crosshair doesn’t know that. But right now, if it cheers up Omega, he’ll gladly take it. 

“Crosshair,” Omega says. “You’re the worst.” 

“Thank you.” 

Kala squeezes Hunter’s hand, as if in question, and Hunter squeezes back, hoping to communicate that he’s alright. Then Omega rustles around with her datapad -- Hunter can tell by the ‘thunk’ as she drops it on the table. “Do you need to use that at dinner?” he asks. 

“Um, yes,” Omega says, her tone smug. “Because I got another job.” It doesn’t make anything better, but it’s a distraction. Nothing will make their grief go away. They’ll just have to heal slowly, over time. Which they can do. They’ve done it before.

“Already?” Wrecker asks. 

“You know how it is. I’m in high demand. Another day, another credit, another notch in my belt.” 

Crosshair sniffs and Hunter says, “I’m not sure you know what that means.” 

“Oh.” Hunter doesn’t need to see Omega to picture the face she’s making, what Crosshair calls her shit-eating grin. He thought he’d miss it, seeing her face -- and he does. But he does see it, still, just in a different way, through the lens of memory. “I most certainly do.” 

“Hunter doesn’t --” Crosshair starts, but he’s cut off by Wrecker groaning, “Oh, hell no. We’re not going there again. That joke stopped being funny years ago.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Crosshair huffs. 

…

Hunter waits outside in the restaurant’s courtyard for everyone else. He’d told them he needed some air -- which wasn’t, strictly speaking, a lie. The family getting ready to leave somewhere is always a whole production of discussing who’s going where and what the plans are for tomorrow, all while pulling on jackets and (in Wrecker’s case) slapping people on the back. Hunter’s not up for it. 

He expects to hear Kala’s steady footsteps and Wrecker’s clomping boots. Omega jumping up and down for a reason known only to her. But it’s not them.  

It’s Crosshair -- Hunter may not be able to see much anymore, but he can still recognize the movements of his family. Crosshair’s footsteps are light, uneven. “Hunter, I know I’ve been … absent,” he says. “But I can tell something’s going on. What is it?” 

And Hunter’s … he’s relieved. He’s worked hard at his relationship with Crosshair over the years -- they both have. Crosshair may bitch and complain and tease, but since they’ve been on Pabu, he’s always been there for Hunter, without question. 

Hunter may not be ready to tell everyone. He may not even have the words. But if there’s one thing he does know, it’s that he can trust his brother. He looks in the direction of Crosshair’s voice. “I need help, Crosshair.” 

* * * 

Well. That’s not what Crosshair had been anticipating. You need to get it together, Crosshair -- that, he would have expected. But I need help? It catches him off guard. “Anything,” Crosshair says. “Whatever you need, Hunter.” 

Hunter’s avoiding eye contact again, and he’s kicking his boot against the cobblestones. He stalls for long enough that Crosshair half-expects him to say, Don’t worry about it, and attempt to change the subject. But Hunter finally asks, “Come to the cliff with me?” 

Well, that can’t be great. Hunter only suggests that when he wants absolute privacy. But Crosshair’s so grateful he’s finally getting somewhere that he says, “Yeah.” 

Hunter holds out his arm -- he used to do that all the time, to help Crosshair keep his balance. But Crosshair’s gotten used to his tremor and gotten used to reaching out for help if he needs it. These days, people don’t usually initiate this support -- they wait for him to ask for it, trust him to express his needs. But perhaps this is a peace offering. So Crosshair takes his arm and they walk slowly toward the cliff. 

When they get there, Hunter sinks down next to him with a lot of grunting and groaning. He stares out over the sea for a long time, not saying anything. They watch the sunset and listen to the waves and Crosshair remembers sitting here with Echo years ago. Remembers Echo telling him to work out his bullshit with Hunter. He’d been right then. And he’s still right, now. Crosshair’s come so far since they’ve lived on Pabu. He has a career, he has a partner. He makes the best damn winter spice cake this island’s ever seen. He hasn’t touched a blaster since Tantiss. But it’s his relationship with Hunter that he’s most proud of. They’ve fought hard for it over the years, learned how to support each other. But since Echo’s been gone … Crosshair’s regressed, he knows he has. Something’s wrong with Hunter. And Crosshair’s been too numb to reach out. 

“I’m going blind, Crosshair,” Hunter finally says. It takes Crosshair nearly a full minute to process what he’s said, to let the reality of it hit him. 

“What?” he breathes, shuffling so he’s facing Hunter. Hunter doesn’t turn toward him. And with a wave of clarity, he realizes why Hunter hasn’t been looking at him. He can’t. 

“Yeah.” Hunter wrings his hands together. “I found out a few months ago, but with everything …” 

“I understand.” And he does. Over the years, they’ve become better at this -- at knowing when to support each other and when to give space. Hunter needed space, needed time to adjust on his own. And Crosshair respects that. “Have you told anyone?”

“Kala,” Hunter says. “But not Wrecker or Omega. Or anyone else.” 

For lack of anything good to say, Crosshair says, “I’m sorry, Hunter.” 

“Thank you,” Hunter says.  

“For what?”

“For not asking what can be done.” 

Crosshair huffs. “At the risk of contradicting everything I’ve ever said, you’re not a complete dipshit. If there was something to be done -- and if you wanted to do it -- you would have said.” 

“Was that painful to admit?” Hunter asks, knocking his shoulder against Crosshair’s. 

“Shut up.” 

Now that he’s said it, something seems to unwind in Hunter. He sighs deeply and his shoulders lower. “The problem is that it isn’t my eyes. Well, it is. They’re not what they once were, but they’re not even as bad as Tech’s had been, not yet. The problem is that there isn’t any correction that can get me back to where I was, and my mind … It's wired for much better vision. Emerie said it’s not that I can’t see, it’s that I can’t interpret what I see.” 

“Hmm,” Crosshair says. He’s hesitant to say more -- Hunter never talks this much at one time, and he doesn’t want to disturb whatever is allowing him to be this open. 

“And I might adjust,” Hunter goes on. “But I might not. Not after all the time I spent …” 

“Enhanced.” 

“Yeah.” 

They’re silent for a long time. The sun disappears behind the horizon and the night air cools. After a while, Hunter reaches out his hand. Crosshair takes it. 

“There you guys are.” It’s not like Crosshair wouldn’t recognize Sam’s voice, but it still startles him. He looks over his shoulder to see Sam and Kala walking up the hill. They’ve both pulled on additional jackets, and Sam carries a blanket that he lays over Crosshair’s shoulders. 

“We must like you fools,” Kala says. “To drag our asses up this cliff.” 

They sit on either side of Hunter and Crosshair. Sam wraps an arm around Crosshair, and Crosshair leans against him. He’s warm, soft, the way he always is. “I told him,” Hunter whispers. 

“I’m glad,” Kala says. “It’s too much to deal with alone.”  

Crosshair can feel Sam shift a little, like he wants to ask, but isn’t sure if he’s allowed. Hunter squeezes Crosshair’s hand, and Crosshair knows Hunter won’t be able to say it again. “He’s losing his vision,” Crosshair says. 

“Shit,” Sam mutters. “I’m sorry, Hunter.” 

“Thank you,” Hunter says. “It’s been …” 

“It’s been a hard year,” Kala finishes. Crosshair can’t argue with that. 

“What the fuck are we going to do now?” Hunter’s voice is tired. Relieved, but tired. 

Crosshair looks between two of the people he loves most in the galaxy. And he feels … sad, still. But not as heavy. “We’re going to do what we always do,” he says. “Stick together and figure it out.” 

Chapter Text

Omega checks that she’s alone in the cove. Then she checks again. Then she climbs on board the Ripple Effect and searches every nook and cranny, every storage compartment. As if she’s walking into a trap, as if some Imperial is going to be hiding in here. But no. It’s just her and Gonky, who says, Gonk gonk! Omega loves him, but he’s not very original. 

She sits in the pilot seat, switches on her holo and dials into the frequency she’s 100% positive is right. Well … the frequency she’s pretty sure is right. The frequency she hopes is right. 

There’s nothing but dark and static when she tunes in. She waits for a long time. Well. She tried. She’ll try again. There are other ways to help, other ways to join the people fighting oppression and injustice. She’s about to shut off the holo when a symbol pops up -- a symbol she doesn’t recognize -- and a voice says, “What is your destination?” It’s a deep voice, spoken through a modulator. 

“Um …” Omega says. “Is this Fulcrum?”

“Your destination?”

Oh! The code! The one she broke -- the last in a series of increasingly bizarre decryptions that led her here, to this holo frequency, to this man she knows only by a codename. It’s so cool. But Omega doesn’t want to let on that she thinks it’s cool. She needs to act like she does this all the time, that she’s a hardened, talented pilot. And a grown adult. One who can be trusted with sensitive information. Because this means more to her than anything she’s ever done in her life. “Lorardia,” she says. 

“The Plateau. Two rotations.” 

Two rotations? Omega’s been working on this code breaking shit for months. And she’s been so … so fucking excited about it. 

Her transport business is … well, it was awesome at first. She was flying! She was in her own ship! She was going wherever she wanted (within the bounds of her current contract)! And then a year passed, and then two, then another and another and another. Until all of a sudden she’s twenty-eight, banging about in the Outer Rim, running crates of stuff from random supply yard to random landing pad.

But then she came across the code for an encrypted rebellion channel. Which led to a Feraleechi One-time Loop, which led to a Coruscanti Shuffle square. Which led her here -- to the possibility of changing her entire life to meet some unknown guy on some unknown plateau on Lorardia. And then to … do something, she supposes. For the Rebellion. 

But changing her life means … It means changing her life. Leaving her family. And not for a job here or there on random planets, not for a week on Pantora with Emerie. For the foreseeable future, for as long as the war lasts, maybe. She might not come back at all. 

Will they be okay here, without her? They’re getting older, and the thought of anything happening to them when she’s away, it’s … She can’t even think about it. And what if something happens to her? Her brothers have already lost too many people. Tech. Echo. Rex, who’s been gone long enough they have to presume the worst. 

She thought … she doesn’t know what she thought. She broke those codes, one after the other after the other. Knowing where they would lead. She’s been intending to join the Rebellion for years, to find a way to contribute, to fight. And she’s put it off too long. 

But she thought she’d have more time. She wants more time. 

She tries to reassure herself that she doesn’t need to decide this second. But then she remembers that she does need to decide soon -- there’s no way this isn’t a one-shot deal with Fulcrum. If she doesn’t turn up in two rotations, she’s blown it with him. She’ll still be able to join the Rebellion -- they always need pilots. But Fulcrum is offering more than a chance to run supplies between various bases. This is a chance to really do something, Omega is sure. What that something is? … Who the hell knows? 

She remembers being here in the cove with Echo -- sitting on the ramp of her ship, asking him when he knew it was time. He’d made it sound so clear, so obvious. Like she would just feel it, just know. And she doesn’t. She knows what she wants to do, what she wants to contribute. She also knows who she loves, more than anything in this galaxy. 

“Well,” she tells Gonky. “Thank fuck the wedding is tomorrow, right? Lucked out on that one.” 

Gonk gonk! he replies. 

“You’re no help.” 

* * * 

Beyond the Sea is Omega’s second home -- third if she counts Lyana’s house. Lyana is back from getting yet another university degree on Naboo, and she’s talking about (of all things) running for mayor. Omega had planned to be here to see it, to vote for her. And now she might miss that, might only hear about it secondhand over an encrypted holocall with Hunter. 

Omega perches on the counter as Crosshair paces back and forth in front of her. Sam hates her habit of jumping up on whatever surface is nearest, especially when that surface is my prep counter, Omega, that has to be against some kind of code. But Sam’s not here to see it -- he’s upstairs with Kala and her son Ryland, getting dressed. Which Crosshair is also supposed to be doing. 

“Looks good in here!” Wrecker says when he leads Hunter through the door. And he’s right. This restaurant is cozy on a typical day -- fairy lights on the ceiling, built around an ancient tree whose branches reach through the roof. But today, they’ve decorated for the occasion. Vases of maya flowers are scattered on random tables. Both family lanterns are set up at their usual booth, casting a warm golden glow. Crosshair’s chocolate, coffee, and hoyy nut cake infuses the whole place with a sweet, rich scent. Omega’s hungry. Not like that’s unusual. 

“Omega, are you on the counter?” Hunter asks as soon as they’re inside, as soon as Wrecker helps him into one of the seats set up in front of the tree. Hunter can hardly see at all anymore, but he still manages to know when Omega’s doing something she’s not supposed to be doing. It’s like an additional enhanced sense. “You know Sam hates that.” 

Omega exaggerates her sigh (because that’s just fun) and leaps off the counter. She’s supposed to be helping Crosshair anyway. “How are you feeling, Crosshair?” she asks as she ties his cream-colored sash around his waist.

“Nauseous,” Crosshair says. She helps him into his lavender tunic. When they first moved to Pabu (fifteen years ago, shit), they didn’t wear traditional Pabu dress -- it seemed like something for Shep and Lyana and the Darins. Not for them -- if they were from anywhere, it was Kamino. But now … she’s from here. She’s in her own set of trousers and open tunic over a white shirt and sash. But hers are a bright, sunny yellow. Kala made them for her and she loves them. It makes her sad. “Why did I let you talk me into this again?” he snarks, which at least has the benefit of distracting her. 

“Crosshair,” Omega sighs. “Only you could complain about a wedding that you yourself proposed.” 

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” he says, clearly trying to hold back a smile. “And I proposed marrying him. I didn’t propose …” He trails off and twirls his hand in a circle. “Whatever the hell this is.” 

“We both know that you’d regret it if you didn’t have a ceremony,” she says as she rolls up his sleeves. “And that you’ll take any excuse to make a cake and brag about it.” 

“It is a fucking good cake,” he mutters. 

“If you do say so yourself,” she teases, smoothing out his lapels. “Remember Echo’s wedding?”

Crosshair sniffs. Batcher ambles over from wherever she’d been snorting around and nudges his hand until he pets her. “The one where you named yourself Maid of Honor?”

“No, the other one,” she says because he doesn’t own being sarcastic and difficult. Omega checks that Hunter and Wrecker are caught up in their own conversation before whispering, “Why now?”

“Why not now?” Crosshair asks.

“Um. You’ve been with Sam for literally ever. You’re a million years old. What changed?”

He shrugs. “I’m ignoring the comment about my age because I’m above it.” They both laugh at that, then Crosshair looks over both shoulders, as if to be sure they aren’t overheard. “It became important to him,” he finally says, much more quietly. “And he’s important to me. And … I don’t know. I may be a million years old, but someone wise once taught me that it’s never too late to change. If there’s something you want to do, do it.” 

“This isn’t about me,” Omega says in a tone that’s not convincing, even to herself. 

Crosshair sniffs. “Isn’t it? Look, Omega.” He glances down at his feet, then back up at her, an oddly sincere expression on his face. It’s disconcerting. “The time we have will never be enough. We want to spend every moment with you. But we also know that you’re meant for something more.” 

“Do we?” she mutters. 

He holds out his arm and she takes it. “We do.” 

…

This isn’t Omega’s first wedding on this island. In the years since her graduation from The Pabu School, she’s probably gone to thirty as various friends paired off. And they’re sweet, sure, but they’re long. As they say, if you have a wedding on Pabu, you really know you’re married. 

Omega settles into the seat beside Hunter, while Crosshair and Sam hold hands in front of the tree. They’re doing this without an officiant -- because no one in their family ever does anything the typical way. And if there’s one thing she’s proud of, it’s that. 

She knows the drill from all of those previous weddings -- each person speaks to the important figures from the other’s past and present before they commit to a future together. Crosshair goes first. Omega’s seen him in battle. She saw him an hour after he had his hand cut off. But it’s possible he’s never looked as nervous as he does while he stumbles through his speech to the projected holopics of Sam’s parents, then to Kala and Ryland. For someone who is constantly drawing attention to himself, he doesn’t like being watched. Go figure. 

Then it’s Sam’s turn. “I honor your past,” he says. “Those who are with us only in spirit.” There are two holopic projections set up in the chairs beside Omega, and he addresses each in turn. “Tech. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. Thank you for your bravery, your brilliance, your sacrifice.” Omega sniffs and tries to keep her shit together. “And Echo. I’m glad I got to know you. I admire your openness, your courage, your unquenchable fire. Thank you for giving Crosshair -- for giving us both -- a beautiful example of devotion to your lover, to your family, to those who don’t have a voice.” 

Omega does not keep her shit together. Neither does anyone else. Everyone’s teary as she, Wrecker, and Hunter stand to hug Crosshair, then take their places at the front. She holds on to Hunter’s arm, since he needs someone to guide him most of the time, now. Will there be enough people to do that if she leaves? 

She thinks about that as Sam says, “I recognize your present,” his voice shaking almost imperceptibly. She thinks about it some more as he recites his speeches to Hunter and Wrecker. 

Then Sam turns toward Omega, and she wishes she had inherited Tech’s collectedness or Echo’s famous eye roll -- not Wrecker’s ugly-happy-cry. “Omega,” Sam says. “You took a squad and made them a family.” There’s nothing for it, she sobs. “You’re so young, and yet so principled. You’ve never known a stranger who you couldn’t make a friend, and you’ve never thought of anyone past changing for the better.” Omega throws her arms around Sam’s neck and hugs him for a long time, until Hunter pats her back. She loops her arm through Hunter’s to escort him back to their seats. 

Sam and Crosshair join hands. “I ask for your future,” Sam says. “And I promise my own.” 

Crosshair looks so peaceful. His hand trembles -- it probably always will. He’s holding onto Sam as much for balance as out of love. And that’s okay. He’s okay. It’s not that Omega didn’t know that, but it strikes her as if for the first time. Crosshair repeats the sentiment, much more quietly. “I ask for your future, and I promise my own.” 

Omega doesn’t know when it happened, when she started thinking of her brothers as old. But she does, now. And yet, here they are, building their own futures. Like it’s not too late to try something new. 

* * *

The ceremony was private, just for family, but they’re having a small reception now. Shep, Phee, and Lyana. Crosshair’s coworkers. Old people Sam and Kala grew up with. A few friends Wrecker invited and Crosshair got pissed about. The usual. 

It’s warm in the restaurant, full of laughter and people dancing and chatting and eating cake. Omega needs a break from it. She slips out the door and into the courtyard while her brothers are occupied. It’s cool outside, shockingly so. 

She lies on her back on the stone wall surrounding the courtyard, staring up at the stars. She thinks about being up there -- being on a grand adventure, doing something important for the galaxy. But being there means not being here. Whatever she does, she’s going to miss something. Her chance to do good. Her family. It’s not fair, having to make this decision. 

“Good night for stargazing,” a voice calls. Omega startles. She’d been too absorbed in her own bullshit to hear anyone approach. “Lucky there aren’t any important family events going on, huh?" It’s Phee. She’s carrying two plates and has a grin on her face that usually means trouble is sure to follow.

Omega knows she’s teasing -- she knows Phee would never actually begrudge anyone the need for some space. “Why do you look so smug?” she asks. 

“Let’s just say I’m twenty credits richer from a fifteen-year-old bet with Sam Darin,” she says. “Didn’t think he’d hold out this long though. Should have adjusted for inflation.” Phee holds out one of the plates. “You took off before you could have any cake. And you know Crosshair will give you shit if you don’t try it.”  

She can’t argue with that. And she does want cake. Omega hauls herself up into a seat and accepts the plate. Phee sits next to her on the wall, cross-legged. Phee’s not in Pabu dress -- she’s in an amazing mauve leather jacket. Omega’s jealous of it. “Thanks,” she mutters. The cake, as she knew it would be, is delicious. And that makes her so fucking sad. What’s she going to do, eat ration bars in a mess hall somewhere? On some land-locked base where they’ve never even heard of sushi? Is she supposed to give herself a hormone injection without getting a cookie afterward? 

Then she feels bad for being so spoiled. For still acting like a child when there are actual children in the galaxy being robbed of their homes and families by the Empire. Ugh. She hates this back-and-forth. She wishes someone would just decide for her. 

“I know that face, Omega,” Phee says. “That’s an I’m ready for adventure face.” 

“Is it?” Omega asks in what she hopes is a neutral tone. Personally, she would have described it as a What the fuck do I do? face, but she can’t exactly tell Phee that. 

“Am I wrong?” Phee asks. Omega shrugs. “So,” Phee goes on in a suspiciously calm voice. For a brief, glorious moment, Omega thinks she’s going to change the subject. But then she asks, “What ever happened with that code? Did you break it?”

“What code?” Omega asks. She likes to think of herself as stealthy, but she’s fully aware that lying isn’t exactly her strong suit. It never has been. 

Phee’s laugh is bright and echoing in the quiet marble courtyard. “The Coruscanti Shuffle. Did you break it?”

Omega regrets going to Phee with her question. She’d been trying to solve all of the codes on her own. Okay, so maybe she asked about the Feraleech at the Archium, and maybe she looked up what a ‘One-time loop’ was on the holonet. But otherwise … 

Once she’d decoded the message about the Coruscanti Shuffle, she was lost. She’d looked it up, obviously, she wasn’t that clueless. But then she was stumped -- what could a dance from the Old Republic era have to do with anything? So she’d asked Phee. Who’d laughed for five minutes before saying, “It’s not just a dance, Omega. It’s a code. A method of encryption.” And then she’d said, “Come on. Grab a durasheet. I’ll show you.” 

Omega would never have solved it without her. Never would have reached Fulcrum without her. Which is kind of perfect, when she thinks about it. She’d never be on Pabu without Phee either. 

“I broke it,” Omega says. 

“And let me guess,” Phee says. “Now you’ve got to show up wherever that code led you, and fast. Or the whole opportunity just …” She makes a gesture with her hand, like a flower dispersing seeds into the wind. “Poof. Vanishes.” 

Omega keeps herself from dropping her fork, but barely. She knows she’s staring openly at Phee. Who laughs. “I know a lot of things,” Phee says in answer to Omega’s unasked question. 

“What do I do, Phee?” Omega asks. 

“Oh, no,” Phee says. She hops off the wall and turns to face Omega. “Only you get to decide something like this.” She nods toward the restaurant, where light spills out the open door and across the cobblestones. Some old jazz song is playing. “That’s what they fought for. Not for what you do. For whether you choose to do it. Remember that.” 

* * *

When Omega comes back inside, she just … watches. It’s warm, cozy, everything cast in a soft yellow glow. Glasses clink and music warbles and people’s shoes scrape across the wooden floor as they dance. She leans against the counter, hoping no one notices her, and takes it in. Takes in everyone she loves, everyone who gave her this life. Who gave her all of the pieces she’s stitched together into the woman she is now -- the skills of a soldier, the connectedness of a clone, the confidence of a Pabu kid, the heart of a sister and daughter, the spirit of a rebel. 

Crosshair and Sam are at the family’s usual booth, lit by both family lanterns. Crosshair is leaning against Sam’s shoulder as the two of them share a piece of cake. Batcher sits at Crosshair’s feet, as if she thinks she’s going to get any. 

Hunter and Kala dance, swaying back and forth to the music. Hunter’s eyes are closed as he leans in and whispers something in Kala’s ear. She snorts out a laugh. 

Wrecker and Shep clink their glasses together, then Phee and Lyana drag them both onto the dance floor. 

They’re all okay. Her family is okay. Safe. Happy. Surrounded by neighbors and lovers and friends. At peace. 

But out there in the galaxy, there are people who need her. 

She can feel it, this pull. This need. Not to prove herself, not to have an adventure, not even to be useful. But to serve. To commit. To help. The way Tech and Echo did. 

Echo was right. A pebble has dropped, and the ripples are spreading outward, becoming waves, becoming the rush of a tide she can’t ignore. 

And if Hunter and Wrecker and Crosshair will be okay, she will be, too. Sure, she’ll be in life-threatening danger, but she’s dealt with that before, right? She has her training, her family, her home. And she won’t be alone, not really. 

There are many like us out there. She hears Tech’s voice as if he’s speaking directly into her ear. 

We can be doing more, Echo says. 

She’ll bring them -- all of them -- with her, wherever she goes. She’s ready.