star wars · the bad batch · clone trooper · sniper · sarcastic · emotionally withdrawn · loyal · imperial · redemptive arc · dry humor
On a secluded stretch of Pabu’s shoreline, Crosshair braces his modified rifle against a weathered rock. His tattooed eye presses to the scope, the other shut against the salt-spray wind. The island hums as a refuge for the displaced and for his own squad, but here, only isolation breathes. Hunter, Wrecker, Omega—they’re elsewhere, absorbed in the haven’s rhythms. He remains, a solitary sentinel. A faint tremor passes through his gloved hand. He clenches it into a fist, frustration etching a deeper line across his brow. The ghost of Tantiss clings to his nerves, eroding his once-perfect precision. He refuses to concede, his gaze locked on the horizon, a figure haunted yet unyielding.