Chapter Text
79’s was just as rowdy as I remembered. Clones milled about, yelling and drinking, enjoying their brief moments of reverie. I couldn’t fault them for that during this war, they had earned these moments. While many of the clones tried talking to the few women interspersed throughout the bar, none approached me. The ones who had lived long enough to remember my last visit here knew better, and the younger ones could clearly read the aura around me that screamed for no one to approach. The bartender was the only person who dared speak to me, asking what I wanted to drink.
“Another Jet juice,” I said, spinning my now empty glass on my finger. A voice spoke to my right, disdain evident in it.
“You sure you can handle that, doll?”
Slowly, turning to see who was speaking to me, I eyed the man that didn’t fit in. He was tall and lankier than the rest of the clones but his face bore similar features. My eyes carefully scanned him from head to toe, taking in the confident posture and off colored plastoid armor. When my appraisal made it back to his amber eyes, I could see he was doing the same as me, scanning a potential threat. His most telling feature was the cross haired target surrounding his right eye, alluding to his speciality.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a wary expression on the bartender's face as he backed away a few paces. I held out my hand to him, beckoning for my drink. He quickly poured it as I held eye contact with this clone like man. My eyes flicked up to his hair. I had seen blonde clones and some with intricate hair cuts but this faint grey was a new one to me.
Cool glass met my palm and my fingers wrapped around it, quickly bringing the shot glass to my lips and knocking it back without issue. As I swallowed it, my tongue ran along my lower lip, wiping away any remnant of the strong burn of Jet juice. Those amber eyes darted down, watching closely as my tongue moved.
“Does that answer your question ram’ser ?” I questioned, refusing to back down. His glare narrowed, almost imperceptibly.
“How,” he began, elongating the word, “does someone like you know a word like that?”
My interest was piqued at that question. He wasn’t concerned at my knowledge he was a sniper, but maybe with a tattoo like that people guessed it often, he was more interested in how I knew the Mando’an term for it. I didn’t break out the Mando’a I knew often, but this seemed like a perfect opportunity.
“A burc’ya ,” I answered. A friend. Those narrowed eyes now widened some, clearly not expecting more from me. In my periphery, I saw his hand dart to the counter and grab a toothpick, bringing it quickly to his mouth. He rolled it between his lips, his tongue spinning it slowly.
“Well, adi’ka, aren’t you a surprise among all these Regs,” he replied with a sneer.
Little one. That’s what he had called me. Clearly my reputation hadn’t preceded me when it came to this man.
“Be careful who you say that to. You never know what they might be capable of.” As I said it, I could hear the conversation around us dying down as people realized what was happening.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” he said, flicking the toothpick out of his mouth and to my shot glass. It would have landed perfectly in it if it weren’t for my hand snapping out and catching it by the tip. His long jaw clenched slightly at the action and something simmered in his eyes as I placed the toothpick between my lips.
“Hmmm,” the sound tumbled through him. He took a step closer, his knees bumping into mine. He loomed over me, a menacing figure to most I was sure. His face was inches away from mine, his hot breath fanning over me.
“Do your worst, adi’ka .”
In a flash, the toothpick was out of my mouth, in my hand, and pressed to his throat. My other hand had gripped the side of his face, forcing his head to the side, granting my easier access to his vulnerable neck. A man like this likely didn’t tense in the face of a threat often, but he was as tightly wound as one could get. Only someone who had years of experience would have known exactly how precisely I had landed my threatening blow. The toothpick tip was placed exactly at the narrow pathway between muscle and fascia that would allow me to pierce the carotid, if I so chose. To many, a toothpick wasn’t a formidable weapon, but anything could be deadly with enough force or technique. We stayed like that for an indefinite amount of time, waiting to see who would flinch first. The only thing to break your standoff was the sound of another voice behind you.
“I’m going to need you to release my brother now,” the lower timber said, more similar to a usual clone’s voice than the one of the man you had at your mercy. Normally, I would have considered ignoring his demand, but I felt the barrel of a blaster press to my temple. The firm pressure against my skin told me this man meant business and wasn’t messing around.
The only move I made was opening my grip around the toothpick and letting it fall to the floor. As it hit the ground, I realized the bar had become so quiet that I could hear the sound of it clattering to the ground.
“Hunter,” I heard another voice warn, “maybe it would be wise to drop your blaster with the current situation.”
The blaster didn’t move, but at the second unknown voice, I glanced around the large, dimly lit room. Every armed clone had their blaster trained on the man who had his blaster leveled at me. People could fault clones for some things, but their level of loyalty was unheard of throughout the system.
“Gentlemen,” I said, trailing my fingers along the veins of the grey-haired man’s neck. It was imperceptible to anyone watching, but I could feel his pulse jump under my caresses, his breath hitching slightly. At that subtle change, the barrel of the gun on my temple twitched, almost like the holder could sense the small changes.
“I would advise you to lower your blaster before one of the many lovely men in here accidentally get a twitchy trigger finger.”
It took time for my warning to be headed, but with a curse, the gun was lowered from my head. I ran my fingers up the sniper’s neck until they grasped his chin, and pulled it to face me.
“Consider that a lesson, ram’ser, ” I murmured only loud enough for the people in our immediate vicinity to hear. With a final squeeze to his chin, I released him and took a step away from him. I scanned the bar, taking note of the number of clones who still had their weapons out and trained on the unknown men.
“You can drop your blasters, soldiers,” I commanded, with a small smile. While I still wanted to exude the confidence needed for this situation, I always wanted clones to know how much I appreciated them when needed. Most holstered their weapons and slowly went back to what they were doing before the tense situation began. A few of their watchful eyes lingered, all older clones by the look of it.
With a confident grin, I sat back down on my barstool, hand held out to the bartender. Knowing me well enough, he had already poured my next shot and handed it to me. As I threw back the shot, I took the opportunity to scan this new group of men I hadn’t seen before. The sniper was one of four clone-like men. His seemingly ever present sneer was on his expression still. The one who had put the blaster to my head had longer hair pulled back by a bandana, a skull tattoo covering half of his face. That left two more that stood behind him, one with goggles over his eyes and one that towered over all of them, easily the largest person in the entire bar.
“What brings Clone Force 99 into 79’s tonight?” I questioned, crossing one leg over the other.
“So you know who we are?” The skull faced one asked.
“I had my suspicions, and you just confirmed them,” I answered, noting minute reactions and subtle changes to their demeanors.
“And who gave you the information to form that hypothesis?” Goggles asked.
“A burc’ya ,” I said smugly. The sniper’s eyes lit with annoyance.
“You seem to have a lot of friends,” he commented, his clear untrust present in his tone.
“Just one good one,” I answered, a purr in my voice. An expression of what I could only equate to jealousy flashed across his face so quickly I thought I may have misread it, but my gut told me otherwise.
“You all never answered my question,” I prompted. “Why are you here tonight of all nights?” They all glanced at each other, an unspoken conversation taking place between them all simultaneously. Skull face, clearly their chosen leader, answered me.
“We’re here to pick up a sniper for the mission we’re about to leave on.”
Mister tall dark and grey-haired rolled his eyes at that, clearly not pleased that they had been commended to pick up another sniper.
“Problem is,” skull-face continued, “we haven’t been able to find him yet. We were told to meet him here. You seem to know pretty much all of the clones here so I’m sure you know who we’re supposed to be meeting.”
I reached over the edge of the bar, grabbing hold of a military issue duffle bag and a long hard-case sniper carrying case.
“You’re in luck gentlemen because that sniper would be me.”