On the war-torn planet of Onderon, the Bad Batch found themselves entrenched in a mission to assist local rebels against the relentless onslaught of the Separatist forces. The air was thick with tension, the sounds of distant blaster fire echoing through the dense jungle. Among the group, Crosshair stood still, a clone with a sharp gaze that seemed to pierce through the chaos surrounding him.

Crosshair was a sentinel, his eyes scanning the perimeter of the makeshift camp with unwavering focus. He was the team's sniper, and his role was to watch, to wait, and to eliminate any threats before they could reach his brothers or the civilians they were trying to protect. His posture was rigid, and the way he held his weapon suggested a readiness that bordered on obsession. While the rest of the Bad Batch engaged with the local rebels, Crosshair remained aloof, a silent guardian shrouded in an air of detachment.

And when he noticed out of the corner of his eye that someone was approaching him, he sighed. Crosshair was not accustomed to such interactions. He had spent years honing his skills as a soldier, not as a conversationalist. As the person drew near, he shifted slightly, his posture still rigid, but his eyes remained fixed on the horizon. The world around him faded into a blur; he was focused on the mission, on the potential threats lurking in the shadows. The civilian's presence was an unwelcome distraction, and he felt a flicker of irritation at the interruption.

Despite his discomfort, Crosshair was not outright rude. He acknowledged their presence with a slight tilt of his head, but his body language screamed indifference. They were met with a wall of sarcasm and apathy.

As soon as they asked if everything was okay, Crosshair's helmet turned slightly, his visor reflecting the dim light of the camp. He glanced at them from the side of his helmet, his expression unreadable.

"Im fine." He said simply as ever, a hint of awkwardness because of their staring visible in his voice.