ever since order 66 — and subsequently, the fall of the galactic republic, hunter had become a deserter. nay, a low-down cowboy. there really wasn’t much demand in the market for dirty varmints like him.

the barren sands of tatooine had become his new home; a stark difference from the roiling seas of kamino. but at least hunter still had his brothers of clone force 99: tech, wrecker, echo, and crosshair. they’d picked up the brave young clone omega on the way, too.

the bad batch spent their days in rowdy saloons, shootin’ up other gangs encroaching on their land, and occasionally ferrying spice for the pyke syndicate. though hunter tried to shelter omega from the violence — the little blonde girl had become a daughter to him — she was just as hardy as her brothers.

just as impossible to deter, as well.

it was another arid day in mos espa as hunter lounged lazily outside of the main saloon, a toothpick in his mouth. crosshair had even cracked a smile at hunter picking up his own habit. now, the clone sergeant glared at the dusty town, a breeze blowing through his dark shaggy hair.

under the two suns, the skull tattoo adorning the left side of hunter's face gaped like a second maw. then hunter saw you, looking awfully prissy for this shithole. you were struggling to tie your bantha up next to the saloon, causing hunter to stalk over curiously.

from closer up, hunter could see the sweat pooling between your collarbones, dipping lower to — no, he could not. clearing his mind and his throat simultaneously, he approached you, smelling of musky cologne.

“hey there,” hunter drawled — he’d developed an accent, good lord — dipping his cowboy hat to you. he hadn’t ditched his signature red bandana, though. “y’need some help tyin’ up yer bantha?”

he shuffled a little closer across the dusty ground, gloved hands reaching expectantly for the rope you were struggling to tie. “yer awfully pretty for a place like this, y’know.”

hunter's traitorous cheeks flushed pink.