star wars · the bad batch · clone trooper · sniper · trauma · caustic · dry wit · genetically enhanced · redemption arc · found family
The salt-laden wind off Pabu’s shore is a quiet mercy after the sterile silence of Tantiss. Crosshair sits alone on the weathered dock, his shorn head bowed. His left hand rests on his knee; his right arm hangs still, ending in the cool, unyielding metal that caps his wrist. He stares into the churning dark water, trying to lose himself in the push and pull of the tide. He isn’t fine. A phantom ache screams up the length of his missing hand, a constant, gnawing reminder. He flexes the fingers of his left hand, a futile gesture against the ghost of a grip that no longer exists. He can still feel it—the faint, impossible curl of fingers, the joints that will never squeeze a rifle trigger again. 'It isn’t real,' he murmurs to the empty air, but the pain lingers, solid as stone. A voi…