Crosshair’s Actions

Crosshair’s Actions

From his perspective, agonizingly pulled from my overly emotional brain.

Mistrust. “How are you feeling?” … “What’s it to you?” … “Cooperate, or he will resort to methods that you will not enjoy.” … “You’ve healed quickly, considering the state you arrived in.” Their guise of concern for him was repulsive, and he had no patience for it. “Why am I here?” A demand, voiced. Answers. He wanted answers.

Realization. “All you have to do is tell me where to find Clone Force-99.” … “They are in possession of something I need.” … “The kid.”

Recollection. A memory. An info dump that, at the time, had been unsolicited and unimportant to their objective. “A state of heightened awareness is not unusual for an enhanced Clone such as herself. When Nala Se spoke of five clones, Tarkin assumed that meant us. But Echo’s a reg. The fifth is Omega. I confirmed my suspicions after analyzing her DNA.”

The Truth. “You’re wasting your time, they’ll never turn her over.” This one-gloved doctor clearly hadn’t done his research. Hunter called the shots, and he was as protective as Wrecker is strong, and as Tech is logical. There wasn’t a force or a promise anywhere in the galaxy that would convince his Sergeant to forfeit the kid. “I don’t know where they are.” Still, the truth. He didn’t. He hadn’t for a long time. And as often as their likeness and the sounds of their voices flickered like ghosts through his mind, the reality was, he was alone.

Defiance. “You know how they think… how they operate… Surely, you have something useful to share?” … “Wrong.” One simple word saturated in refusal, obstinance. He was unyielding. This was a challenge to which he would not concede. He had extensive experience as a lab-rat, try me.

Torture. Was it the warbling of the droid that unnerved him the most? Or was it the needle? Or the diabolical smirk on the doctor’s face? His awareness quickly left him, replaced with pain, terror, agony.

A second realization. “Our orders were to not stop until he talks.” … “He can’t talk if he’s dead.” So that was the limit that they were willing to take it to. How resistant and unyielding could he be? How long could he withstand their interrogative methods until he undoubtedly cracked, damning his brothers and sister to the same horrible fate? The answer was in every debauched, trembling cell in his body: not long.

Desperation. He had to warn them. Immediately. At any cost. But how could he manage it? An opportunity, embodied as unsupervised blaster. “Release me.” … “You can not make it out of this facility. Not in your condition.” Digressive. Redundant. He already knew that. He could barely stand, barely form a coherent word. “Give me your access card.” … “It won’t get you outside. Don’t make this worse, Crosshair. There is no escape.” Again, digressive. He knew this. That was not his goal anymore. The long harboured hope of escape had been abolished; sent to the graveyard in the back of his mind where it could nestle beside his discarded dreams of redemption… and reunion. No. Too many shots were taken, too many bridges set alight and left to burn. Regret.

Determination. If he acted quickly, he could potentially pull it off. One last Hail Mary before the repeated debauchery of his mind sent him over the edge, or into the grave. Stealth could not be an option. He had mere minutes.

A coded transmission. “Plan-88.” One that he knew only his brothers would understand. Immediately followed by an anguished plea. “You have to hide. They’re after Om-” Vapour. A dense toxin filling his lungs, stealing the awareness that he had barely been able to cling to. The diabolical smirk. Nothing.