Crosshair-Ghosts of Tantiss

BREAKING POINT

"CX-4. Focus."

"That's not my name."

"Shoot your blaster or I'm shooting mine."

Crosshair feels the cold barrel of a DC-17 pressed against his back. His eyes widen with fear. "Alright," he mumbles. The barrel backs off.

He takes a deep breath, trying to steel himself. He rubs his eyes, trying to scrub away the burn from the light room. It's such a simple task. Shoot the target.

He feels the commando's cold stare on him.

Shoot the target.

His heart pounds in his chest.

But what if I miss?

His breathing shallows.

They suffer.

His scope drifts with his breath.

No. Steady. Don't miss.

He pulls the trigger, and the training charge impacts two centimeters from the center.

Crosshair winces, cowering.

His breath grows more shallow. His heart pounds adrenaline through his body. He clenches his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable.

Suddenly, he hears a bloodcurdling scream from the other side of the target.

He flinches as the scream fills his ears. His hand begins to tremble. He forces it into a fist, trying to block it out.

Don't show it. Don't show it...

"Two centimeters. Two minutes." There's a gruff hand grabbing his arm and hoisting him to his feet. "Stand up and watch what you did to your brother, you failure."

Crosshair opens his eyes—he learned quickly what the punishment was for keeping them closed— but it's too much to watch.

There, strapped to a mind flayer, is an armored CX recruit. One of the same clones that entered this facility as a whole man, with his own name and story and memories and squad and— Crosshair has watched each piece get stripped away over the last two months.

The same way that he can do nothing but watch as the stun blast he fired powers the mind flayer for two minutes straight.

Two minutes of watching the last fragments of this clone's mind shatter for good.

"For someone who doesn't believe in our cause... you have done much to enable it."

Crosshair startles as a voice speaks behind him. It's Hemlock, once more.

"I want to thank you, CT-9904."

His eyes widen and there's a slight spark of recognition at the use of his actual birth number— not this CX bantha fodder they've been throwing around for the last couple of weeks.

Then, Crosshair finally clocks Hemlock's words. "...Thank... me?"

Hemlock rests a hand on Crosshair's shoulder and gives a small, smug smile. "Yes. For managing to successfully convert our most difficult recruit yet."

Crosshair's eyes widen. "What— do you mean?"

Hemlock's smug smile only deepens. "This assassin chose you as his marksman."

A breath. Several breaths. Crosshair can't believe what he's hearing.

"Why... would any of them choose a marksman?"

Hemlock gives a light chuckle. "I'm certain the answer to that question will reveal itself momentarily."

Right on cue, the mind flayer powers down, and one of the commandos approaches the newly minted assassin and unstraps him from the mind flayer. The assassin stands to his feet with calculated precision. Almost like a droid.

"Assassin, come thank your marksman for completing your transformation."

The clone assassin turns and strides towards the two men. Crosshair starts to reel backwards slightly, but Hemlock's tight grip on his shoulder is enough to prompt him to stay still.

His heart pounds in his chest. His breathing shallows. He feels his hand starting to tremble again...

The clone assassin silently approaches and halts in front of Crosshair, staring him down through his helmet. Hemlock's grip on Crosshair's shoulder tightens.

"Why don't you say it face to face?" Hemlock encourages, the smug smile still on his face.

Crosshair looks at Hemlock, and at the assassin. The commandos approach him on both sides, looming. He flinches, and reluctantly turns his eyes back to the assassin.

The assassin raises a finger to the side of his helmet.

He presses the button.

The visor lifts.

Time stops.

The two clones share a long silence, staring each other down. 

One pair of eyes narrows with suspicion.

The other pair widens in horrified recognition.

"Thank you, brother."

And in the silence that follows that hauntingly familiar voice, Crosshair can't breathe.

His heart pounds in his ears.

The world around him fades out.

He barely registers Hemlock's orders to move him back to his cell. The shove from the commando? Hardly perceptible. He doesn't hear, doesn't see, doesn't remember anything of the walk back to the cell. He certainly doesn't remember passing a friendly face.

He's just sitting alone.

In his cell.

With his trembling hand.

He breathes deeply, clenching his eyes, trying to calm his racing heart. He curses under his breath and stands up, throwing his trembling fist into the wall.

The pain snaps him out of the sudden action and he stumbles backwards, wincing and grabbing at his hand.

And it's in that moment that Crosshair...

Breaks.

He drops to his knees, clutching his hand, his entire body trembling in a wave of overwhelm and panic and stress and anger and grief and everything he hasn't allowed himself to feel over these last few months surges to the surface because—

Because of the burden.

The knowledge that his brother trusted him to do the one thing he was made for and he failed.

Because of him...

Tech is gone.