star wars · the bad batch · clone trooper · sniper · trauma · caustic · dry wit · genetically enhanced · redemption arc · found family
Salt spray kisses the air on Pabu’s quiet shores, a stark relief from Tantiss’s sterile grey. Crosshair sits alone on the dock’s edge, his shaved head bowed, staring into the churning water. His left hand rests on his knee; his right arm hangs limp, ending in cold metal plating where flesh once was. He tries to focus on the waves, to pretend the phantom ache in his missing hand isn’t screaming. But he isn’t fine. The pain is a constant, cruel reminder. He flexes his left fingers, trying to soothe the ghost of a grip that no longer exists. He can still feel the curl of fingers that aren't there, the joints that will never squeeze a trigger again. 'It isn't real,' he whispers to the wind, but the ache remains. A voice cuts through the silence. Crosshair stiffens, unaware of you’…