Crosshair curses, throwing the blaster down at his feet.
“Cross, it’s okay, we knew to expect nerve—”
“Kark, Tech, I know what fucking nerve damage is, alright? Fuck off.” He turns and stalks off into the woods before Tech can start in on him again.
His karking hands shake all the way from the impromptu shooting range to the little patch of trees he’s claimed as his own. They always shake now, just these minute little tremors. He sits on his rock and holds one hand in the other, willing them to be still.
“You can’t take it out on Tech,” Hunter says, standing somewhere out of sight. “You can get angry, you can get frustrated, but you can’t take it out on Tech.”
“Fuck off.”
Hunter steps out of the shadows, sitting down on a stump a few meters away. “No.”
Crosshair waits for him to continue, but he doesn’t. He just sits there, watching Crosshair’s hands.
The sun finds a space between the trees, falling across Hunter’s face and then the mossy ground between them. Crosshair’s hands ache.
“What if I can’t do it anymore?”
Hunter shrugs. “Then you can’t.”
“And then what?”
“What? Like you think I’d dump you off somewhere in the Outer Rim? You have other talents. You can do other things.”
Hunter keeps his hair tied up now, and he wears civvie pants with big pockets and loops with durasteel clips for Force-even-knows-what. From here, Crosshair can see a bag of that dried fruit Omega likes in one of the pockets.
“Like you’re doing?”
Hunter smiles, crooked. “Yeah. Exactly.”