CROSSHAIR FERVENTLY SANDED HIS ARMOR, STRIPPING AWAY AT THE NEON PAINT THAT STAINED THE DURASTEEL. And even when he could see his own reflection in the metallic silver, he continued sanding away at it as if he could scratch that away too. Eventually his frustration surmounted past the point that working on his new armor could appease and he chucked the sanding tool somewhere into the shadows of the Marauder's cargo hold.

"You cut your hair," Omega gently noted, slowly taking a seat beside him as if she feared she might scare him off.

Crosshair sighed. "It was too long. Kept falling in front of my eyes."

"I liked it," Omega replied then shrugged. "But I understand."

"Did one of the others send you?" Crosshair asked, lifting his eyes from the ground as if making an accusation.

She shook her head as if unfazed. "I wanted to repaint my armor too."

Crosshair looked unconvinced. "I thought you liked it as is?"

"Doesn't mean I can't change it." She shrugged as if implying something else. "Just because I change the top coat of paint doesn't mean the armor itself is any different."

Crosshair frowned, thoroughly unimpressed by her less than subtle consolation tactics. However, he didn't have the energy to engage and refused to take the bait that would force him to talk about how he was taking everything. "So what are you going to paint?"

"I'm a Bad Batcher," Omega explained with a coy smile as she lifted her helmet from the ground, holding it out in front of her as if mentally picturing the image she wanted to paint, "I might as well look the part. What about you?"

"I want it to look like my old armor," Crosshair admitted. Painting his armor not only served as a means of regaining control, but it also acted as a way to make the world feel just a bit smaller and less intimidating. At least he could pretend that things were like they used to be if—as Omega said—he looked the part.

"Are you gonna change anything about the design?" Omega curiously asked while retrieving the sanding tool that Crosshair had discarded.

Crosshair shook his head. "I hadn't thought about it."

"Well maybe you should," Omega suggested with a shrug while beginning to sand her own armor. "We've all changed from the people we were months ago, so it'd make sense if your armor reflected that. You don't have to of course, but I think you should at least consider it."

Crosshair slowly nodded his head, muttering a few incoherent agreements under his breath while his eyes remained focused on the blank canvas before him. The kid had a point. He'd changed in more ways than just physical. Was it even possible to pretend to be the soldier he once was? Or was he stuck living out the rest of his days as a poor copy?

Omega happily hummed under her breath as she finished sanding her armor, then gasped as if struck by a brilliant idea. "Do you think Hunter will let me get a tattoo?"

"Absolutely not," Crosshair immediately disagreed. "By the time you're older, it'll be warped and distorted. There's a reason that clones wait until they're placed in a battalion before getting inked."

"So you're going to be waiting a long time before you get your tattoo again," Omega noted. She looked pleased with the shocked expression that slackened Crosshair's features. A trait he was quickly growing annoyed with since it implied she'd caught him in a trap of using his own words against him.

"Unfortunately..." his tone was bitter as he begrudgingly agreed. His tattoo had been hell to sit through the first time—the skin around the eyes being quite sensitive after all. He'd refuse to admit it out loud, but it was hardly a sensation he was looking forward to repeating. However, the tattoo felt like an intrical part of who he was. He felt bare without it, which sparked a hesitant idea in his mind as he glanced at his armor once more.

Omega had quieted, quickly growing distracted with the paints—sticking her tongue out as she drew some finer details onto the armor that required a still hand.

Crosshair turned his attention back to his armor, slowly lifting the brush while releasing his held breath. He cautiously dipped it into the nearby tin of paint then began the process of reclaiming his identity. He quickly lost track of the time, but the sound of a throat clearing brought him back to the present moment and forced him to take a step back to evaluate his work.

"We're getting ready to leave," Wrecker hesitantly informed the pair as if he were intruding on a private moment. "Just waiting on the two of you now."

"Alright!" Omega chirped, setting her brush down while gathering her armor. "We'll meet you at the Remora in a few minutes."

Wrecker nodded his head. He lingered for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck before adding, "You touched up the armor nicely."

Crosshair eyed him warily as if waiting for the unvoiced second half of the comment. However, it never came. There was no negative addition or muttered insults. No underhanded comments of his betrayal or theirs... simply a comment that possibly sounded genuine.

"Thanks!" Omega beamed, thrusting her chest plate into the air to show off her design with great pride. "Now I'll fit in with the rest of you!"

Wrecker's smile softened. "You always belonged with us, kid."

Crosshair diverted his gaze, quickly glancing at the ground as if trying to preoccupy himself by cleaning up the paints that littered the ground.

"You cut your hair," Wrecker noted.

Crosshair frowned, shooting his brother a hostile look as he immediately assumed the worst. "So?"

"I like it." Wrecker shrugged. His smile appeared fond while his gaze grew distant. "Looks like how you used to wear it when we were—"

"Wrecker, I swear if you finish that statement," Crosshair left his sentence as an open-ended threat.

Wrecker's smile faltered. "Why's it bother you so much?"

"I'm not a kid, that's why!" Crosshair snapped. "I don't need a constant reminder of what I look like. I see it every time I look at my kriffing reflection. I don't need to be treated like a child, I can handle myself."

"But you don't have to do it alone," Omega gently replied. "That's what being a squad is, right? Supporting each other? You belong with this squad too, Crosshair."

"Do I?" he found himself snapping those two syllables before he could help himself. He clamped his mouth shut as he noticed the way both Omega and Wrecker's expressions fell.

"Of course you do!" It surprised Crosshair that Wrecker was the first one to speak up. "You made some mistakes, and I'll admit it's not been easy to forgive you... but we're not going to abandon you."

"Didn't stop you before..." Crosshair muttered.

"We made mistakes too," Wrecker admitted. "And you don't have to forgive us right away either, but we'll figure it out. We always do."

"That's surprisingly mature of you," Crosshair scoffed.

The soft moment was immediately ruined as Wrecker rustled Crosshair's hair before trapping him in a headlock for a playful noogie. His raucous laughter echoed throughout the Marauder's cargo bay. "That should even things out then."

Crosshair hissed and struggled the free himself, scratching and clawing at Wrecker's armored arm. "Wrecker, get off!"

Still laughing, Wrecker released his grip on his brother and took a step back. "Alright, get yourselves cleaned up and meet us at the Remora."

Crosshair's brow furrowed. He'd been meticulous about keeping the paint on his armor rather than allowing it to stain his hands, so he didn't quite catch Wrecker's implication. "There's hardly a mess—"

"Sure there is," Wrecker interrupted with a sneaky grin, dipping his pointer finger in the nearest tin of paint—a vibrant orange hue—before quickly tapping both Omega and Crosshair on the nose as he ran off.

"Wrecker!" Crosshair called after his brother, but it sounded less like a threat and more like a whine. He grumbled under his breath, snatching a rag from the ground to wipe off his nose while Omega giggled. 

Omega didn't seem as bothered by the paint that stained her face, gearing up in her freshly painted armor with giddy excitement. Although the shape remained the same, the armor was not nearly as vibrant as it once was. Once entirely blue, her armor now only showed traces of that color. Now gray and black, the armor matched the rest of the Batch with orange accents sporadically painted in lines. In the right corner of her breastplate she'd painted the skull that Hunter used to have stitched into his bandana. In fact, it looked like much of her design was inspired by Hunter's with several noticeable tributes here and there. The look of pride in her eyes was unmistakable.

"Well?" She held out her arms, turning toward Crosshair with an anxious look that implied she actually cared about his opinion. "What do you think?"

After a moment to look her over, he slowly nodded his head while retrieving a toothpick from the small pack he had on hand. "It suits you."

She beamed. Placing the toothpick between his teeth, he gathered his own armor before tossing Omega the rag to wipe off her face. She cleaned off her nose, but her features twisted with smug satisfaction as she got a closer look at what he'd painted. "I see you took my advice."

"Yes..." he agreed, but it almost looked like it pained him to admit it.

Omega rolled her eyes, but her smile refused to fade. "Put it on, let's see it!"

He wasn't nearly as eager to wear the armor as she had been. In fact—if he were honest with himself—he was just as nervous to see what she thought. He'd never admit it out loud, but he cared about her opinion. A clone's armor was more than just a shell of protection, it was their personality and individuality put on display for all to see. It was how they'd become known and recognized. So if the armor was disliked, well that was a reflection of the clone within according to the order through which Crosshair viewed and made sense of the universe.

It had taken him ages to paint his armor the first time around, and much longer to actually show anyone said design when it was finished. Although not much about his armor had actually changed this time, it was those little changes that secretly mattered since they represented his own change from the soldier he'd once been.

His helmet remained unchanged. The crosshair symbol was still painted over the eye which once had the matching tattoo. However, he'd replaced the red accents in the original design with orange ones—a small way of asking to rejoin his squad as he now matched their color scheme. The other small difference was the crosshair painted on the left side of his chest plate. Painted over his heart. A statement that he wasn't just another number, that he now followed his own orders rather than those dictated by those undeserving of his loyalty.

"Well?" Crosshair hesitantly asked, filling the deafening silence between them.

Omega gasped, and then she immediately began gushing. "I love it! It's simple and subtle but it's perfect! I can't wait for the others to see. Speaking of the others, I wonder how the dominoes will choose to paint theirs whenever they get around to it. I'm sure they've got loads of ideas because I was talking with Hevy earlier and he said they never got around to painting their armor the first time, but now they've got a second chance—"

"Omega," Crosshair interrupted—not harsh, but stern enough to catch her attention. "We should go. They're waiting for us on the Remora. You can finish your rant of hypotheticals in the cargo bay, or better yet ask them about it when I'm out of earshot."

"You've got to be a bit interested," Omega protested.

Crosshair scoffed. "Not in the slightest. What I am interested in is the mission we're meant to be leaving for now."

"Alright, alright, I get it," Omega conceded, holding out her hands as if waving a white flag. She put away the last of the paints before walking down the ramp of the Marauder, casting one last glance over her shoulder at Crosshair, "But we're gonna talk about all this later. You can't keep it bundled up inside forever."

"You underestimate my will power," Crosshair countered, following her toward the Remora where the others were organizing the last of the loaded supplies.

"Or maybe you're underestimating my persistence." Omega snickered, pausing just long enough to rebut before sprinting up the ramp of the Remora to show off her armor to anyone and everyone.

Crosshair remained at the base of the ramp, twisting his toothpick between his teeth as if debating whether or not to board. The urge to run back to the safety of the Marauder was strong. To close his eyes and pretend nothing had changed from the moment they were winning on Kaller. However, he resisted that temptation, hissing the intake of a deep breath before stepping aboard the Remora. Unfortunately, Omega was correct. He couldn't avoid the truth he was denying forever; however, that didn't mean he wouldn't try anyway.

∘₊✧───────────────────────────✧₊∘

𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞| A shorter chapter to get back into the swing of things since I've regained some of the inspiration I'd lost when my schedule grew more hectic.

Thank you all so much for your kind words and kudos! I'm glad this little story has been enjoyable so far, and now that I'm back to a more normal routine I'm hoping to update more frequently again.

It's been so fun to characterize each member of the Batch and incorporate said characterization in the way they interact with Crosshair. Echo's focused on his mental and physical well-being since he's been in a similar situation himself. Omega wants to make sure he feels included and refuses to put up with his tendencies of isolating himself. Wrecker's more playful, teasing and offering the same kind of affection that he did when they were kids. And while Hunter's distant right now, his overprotective instincts will kick in soon enough.

𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐮𝐬| Have a doodle of Omega & Crosshair's updated armor designs.