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Part 3 of i just want to be an empty sea
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2022-05-09
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2025-08-18
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11/?
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Little Lion Man

Summary:

In which Rex has The Force. And now that he knows it’s there he cannot stop using it. This changes things.

Or, anyone who thinks that Skywalker and Padme’s relationship is the worst-kept secret in the GAR is wrong.

Or, Rex has accepted that he has no control. Kix wishes he would at least attempt restraint.

Notes:

hello friends and welcome to part three of my Force-sensitive Rex AU :) I am so excited to share this with you guys.

Here is where we start to return to canon, and by return to canon, I very much mean I do what I want while canon cries in the background (as is the nature of any AU)

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: weep for yourself, my man

Chapter Text

 

They were mighty, once. They sang songs of battle and blood. They swatted the poison-rats that swarmed their feet, that harvested the rivers and oceans of oil that thrummed through the veins of the planet only to burn it. They did not know the ground, did not hold it sacred. They did not pray to it, or bury their dead. They did not offer food to the Earth at mealtimes, or sing songs to her glory. No, the poison-rats were greedy, foolish. They would drain the soil dry before even beginning to think about giving back to it.  

 

They fought the poison-rats, preserving the life-blood of the planet, singing songs and feasting on the bones of their enemies. In eating the flesh and marrow they took the strength of the poison rats into themselves, as the Sacred One had taught them. But as they feasted on the bones, on the flesh, on the brains, the arrogance of their enemies seeped into them as well. They grew more concerned with feasting and singing than prayers, than battling for the praise of the Sacred One. They let the poison-rats come and do their work for a time, drawing them in so there would be enough blood to drink. 

 

It continued this way for a time. The songs were good, the poison-rats knew to fear them, and the order of the world was kept. 

 

Then there was discovered a way to kill them with the very oil they protected, and the guardians began to fall. Their bones were desecrated, flesh left to rot on the surface. No songs were sung about their bravery, about the glory of death in battle. It was slaughter—there was nothing sacred about this death, no return to the world.

 

They abandoned battle and feasts and songs and hid underground, moving through the stone and rock, swimming through the old veins. They were chased through the tunnels, growing old and weary of war. The songs they used to sing felt stale now—hymns of glory had no place here, at the end of things. They grew weak, and they grew old. Many times were filled with hunger. 

 

There are no stars under the earth. No seasons, no time, no fresh breeze. There is only survival, and that is no life to live. 

 

Now, Balaam is alone. He hides in the veins, thinking of the old songs, dreaming old dreams. 

 

He is alone and tired now. He feels the sacred ground die around him, the rocks groaning as the lakes of oil are pumped up to be burned. It is a heavy weight to bear alone. 

 

Everything is dying now. The songs are dead. He has forgotten the words. 

 

Words mean nothing when there is nothing to speak to. Nothing that would understand. Nothing, nothing, nothing but Death. The ground cries and bleeds with it—

 

“Rex?” Three taps against his forehead. Rex blinks his eyes open, squinting groggily at his surroundings. Kix is hovering over his face. 

 

“Kix?” Rex mutters. Why is the medic trying to wake him up in the middle of the night cycle? 

 

“Don’t you have a briefing with the Generals at 0700 hours?” As the words sink in, panic flares through Rex. 

 

“Kriff, what time is it—?” He’s already imagining the disappointed frown tugging at General Skywalker’s lips, the slight disdain in General Windu’s gaze—

 

“Only 0620, Captain, you still have time,” Kix assures. Rex winces. During campaign, he always wakes up at 0530 in order to make an inspection of camp and receive an update from the vode on duty before the morning brief. Sleeping in this late is unlike him. 

 

“Are you alright, sir? It took several attempts to wake you,” Kix frowns at him, worry clear in his face. “Are you eating? getting enough rest?” 

 

Rex frowns. Sleep is always… difficult, on campaigns. But recently, the issue has been these dreams he’s been having. They leave him restless, hovering somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. They’re becoming more frequent. 

 

They feel like a warning. 

 

“Sir?” Kix prompts. 

 

“Just dreams, Kix.” Rex sighs, mentally preparing himself for the battle ahead. He can’t quite shake the feeling in his gut that something is going to happen. 

 


 

So far, Malastare has not been short, easy, or any of the other things they have been promised. In fact, it is probably the worst campaign Rex has been on since Geonosis II (After all, Valtameri went well for pretty much everyone but him). They have been fighting large, open battles for the last ten-day, with few defensive landforms or strategic footholds to take advantage of. The Dugs fighting besides them are more a hindrance than a help, and yet still verbally demean them at every possible turn. The Separatists have started using the battlefield as a testing ground for new weapons. None of them are as bad as that anti-organic matter shell from Maridun, but casualties are high, and Kix is staying back at base due to the workload, and Jesse, Hardcase, and Fives all got caught a little too close to an explosion three rotations ago, and he hasn’t heard anything about their conditions since. The Republic has upped the ante and finally approved the use of a new weapon: the electro-proton bomb. Rex doesn’t know what to expect, but if the bomb does half of what the scientist says it will, then they may stand a chance. Assuming it doesn’t fry their gear and weaponry as well. 

 

As it is, they are very unlikely to survive contact with the long lines of the massive droid army marching their way. 

 

As he crouches behind one of the few rocky outcroppings that would actually provide some cover, he reaches out to Anakin’s presence in the back of his mind for strength. Chancellor Palpatine had ordered Anakin and General Windu to stay at the palace with Doge Urus and Doctor Boll, who engineered the bomb they are about to drop. The Chancellor claimed it was because he wanted the Jedi to be able to coordinate the battle from above and to report information as the battle continued, but Rex swears, even through the hologram, that he sees something glint in the Chancellor’s eyes. Palpatine looks like a nat-born admiral who is strategizing a battle without regard to the number of vode lost. It’s not a real surprise to Rex that the Chancellor is one of the nat-borns who sees clones like pawns on the battlefield—tools to manipulate and sacrifice needlessly because they can always get more.

 

In other words, the Jetti are staying behind just in case the bomb’s capability calculations are wrong and the bomb either does not work, or does not work as planned. 

 

Rex understands—he knows that from a political-military standpoint they are mostly here to keep the Separatists from gaining access to Malastare’s oil fields and help secure a treaty with the Dugs that would provide the GAR with vital fuel reserves. What is a legion of clones—two legions of clones, even, compared to successfully securing such important fuel reserves for the rest of the fleets in the Republic? Still, something itches just under his skin. A sense of unease, perhaps. 

 

Really, he is growing tired of politics. Of men who point the clones towards battles they don’t have to fight in. 

 

His squad of shinies all crouch around him, observing the battlefield before them. None of the soldiers here are really shiny anymore, not after this Sith’s third-worst hell of a campaign, but they have to survive this deployment in order to paint their armor. 

 

Span kneels down next to him as he pulls out his scopes. Rex surveys the lines upon lines of droids, his stomach sinking further into his stomach. There are thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of droids heading their way, all an empty void in The Force. 

 

“That’s a lot of clankers,” he mutters. 

 

“Sir?” Span asks. Rex hands him the scopes, letting the Private get his own look. The droids are almost in firing range, and Rex can feel the fearexhaustionanticipationfearresolve building through the ranks of Vode at his back. 

 

The first shots are red. Rex watches them move almost in slow motion, twitching his head to the side to avoid a red bolt of plasma to the face. Around him, he can hear the sound of bolts hitting their marks, brothers going down in screams and grunts. The warm lights around him dim, some extinguished entirely, and The Force is tugging at him to save. Now that the battle is upon them, he tightens his shields, not letting The Force speak to him as he normally does. Now is not the time to be distracted. 

 

But The Force is persistent, tugging at his shields, slamming against them. It’s trying to tell him something. 

 

He can feel the vode next to him as they die. First Lick, then Crank and Steady. Ren and Span are still there, fear and anxiety building as their squad is gunned down. A moment later a shot hits Ren in the head, his light snuffed so quickly it makes his breath catch. Span’s distress is palpable in The Force, but there’s nothing Rex can do. They have to hold the line as long as they can, keep the clankers in formation. The Force is screaming, and it’s taking everything he has to keep his blasters firing, to keep his focus on the battle and not the wailing of The Force in his head and the knowledge that his brothers are dying. They only have a few more seconds until the bombers are sent out. This could all be over soon.  

 

They will hold. They have to. 

 

“Tighten the line! Hold!” Rex barks. He tries loosening his shields just enough to radiate strength and resolve into The Force, keep his brothers steady as they get closer and closer to being overrun. To his satisfaction, Span calms, as do the brothers around him. 

 

The bombers fly overhead, and Rex watches as they keep tight formation above the legions of droids. 

 

“Remember, you only got one shot at this,” General Skywalker unhelpfully says into the comms. Seriously? Who wants to be reminded that this is a do-or-die moment? Rex already knows he’s going to be apologizing to the bomber on his General’s behalf. 

 

The bomb drops, and the cloud of dust and fire that shoots up into the air is truly spectacular. Any clankers in the immediate blast zone are torn to shrapnel. 

 

Then the electron field comes, sweeping towards them like a blue wall of death. Rex half expects the electron field to kill him—no one up top really cares about clone casualties, what if they were lying, what if—the field sweeps over him, making his armor buzz and his HUD go dark. After a moment the visor flickers back to life, enough that he can scan the battlefield. All the heavy electronics are fried, and comms are down. Thankfully, so are all the droids. 

 

Rex straightens, only to crumple to one knee. The Force is wailing through his head, all jagged shards of shrapnel and ice. 

 

“Captain, are you hit? Are you hurt?” Span has a hand on his shoulder, the shiny sounding almost panicked. Rex wants to comfort him, but he can’t remember how to form words at the moment. 

 

He has been asleep for a long time now, hoping to drift away peacefully into the arms of the Sacred One. Maybe there are songs there, maybe there is nothing. Either is better than this vast emptiness. 

 

The Sacred One screams, the earth trembling and torn. Balaam wakes to the feeling of it dying around him, the earth is weak here, going to collapse inward—

 

“Captain!”

 

The poison rat's work, he can smell it. They have forgotten their duty a long time ago. But Balaam is the last, and even as he forgot words and song and speech all together, he remembers how it felt to protect the Sacred One. 

 

His people were cowards, and they died as cowards. Balaam is old and weary, but not dead. He will restore the glory of his race, he will pick up the fight alone, if they come to him. 

 

He was the biggest coward, for hiding, for wanting to go quietly into the earth. Now the Sacred One is dying. 

 

Rex stumbles to his feet, panic racing through him. His heart might burst, it is pounding so fast. 

 

“Run!” He shouts into his comms (which are still offline) into the Force, where he knows Skywalker will hear him. He signals the retreat quickly, urgently, grabbing Span’s arm and sprinting back towards the palace. Force bless the vode, they do not question him. He signals the men to get out of the tanks, he grabs a wounded vod—Tryst—and starts hauling him along. 

 

As they retreat, there is a loud crack. A geyser of dirt bursts into the air. The ground shudders. What before was a sense of urgency is replaced by panic. The ground behind them is collapsing quickly, catching up despite the head start. Still, brothers are helping brothers, and Rex is so proud of them even as he feels the ground start to buckle under his own feet. 

 

They aren’t going to make it. Not at this pace. Rex pushes Tryst into Span’s arms and stops running, the ground under his feet already cracking and shifting as it is being pulled into the sinkhole. Like Skywalker taught him, he gathers his courage, his love for his brothers, the will to act, and The Force at his disposal, and pushes. 

 

His brothers are all flung forward, out of the path of danger. 

 

Rex falls, the ground under his feet finally collapsing. He thinks he hears someone call his name, but his head smacks a rock and everything goes black. 

 


 

“What do you mean, Rex is down there?” Skywalker snaps. As soon as the sinkhole had stopped growing, they had gone down to help with cleanup and to determine the damage. 

 

“Exactly that, sir,” Ponds has a tight set to his jaw, an expression that Mace knows means he is barely holding onto his professionalism. “Private Span reported that all the survivors of Captain Rex’s platoon were able to get out of the sinkhole’s range in time. Based on incoming reports, only Captain Rex and some members from Jump’s platoon were pulled in, including Captain Jump as well.”

 

Those losses are considerably lower than what Mace had feared when the ground first started sinking. He wonders if the tug in The Force had anything to do with that. 

 

“I’m going to put together a search party to look for survivors,” Skywalker declares. 

 

“Survivors are unlikely. I doubt there will be any to find,” Mace says, because it needs to be said. He does not miss the way both Ponds and Skywalker tense up. Mace Windu is not stupid—he knows that this is about that Captain of Skywalker’s more than anything. 

 

Captain Rex is a strange one. He is an excellent leader, from what he knows of him—should be a Commander, has the training and the skill for it, but the Kaminoans have made it so he can’t be promoted any higher, and with Skywalker’s Padawan there is no upward mobility in the 501st anyway. No one wants to move him from that posting—it is a miracle that anyone can work with Anakin Skywalker as well as Captain Rex does, and they aren’t likely to get that lucky twice. He is loyal to the Jedi and to his men, and has a way of inspiring those around him to return that loyalty a hundred fold. Ponds and his batch-mates love him like a younger brother, and Windu has yet to figure out how to tell Ponds no when it comes to the health and safety of said younger brother. 

 

Most strangely, however, The Force clings to him. Like a cloak. There are enough shatter points around that one clone to give him a migraine for a month. 

 

Maybe that is why he agreed to rendezvous with The Negotiator and The Resolute. Maybe that’s why he’s on Malastare now. He wonders how many times is he going to make concessions just so this clone captain can live. The Force seems to think as many as it takes. 

 

“He’s still alive!” Skywalker protests. “I can feel it, and I know you can too.” Skywalker does have a point. The Force is nagging him, tugging at his mind and demanding that he go into the sinkhole. 

 

“Alright, you may go. And take Ponds with you” Mace concedes. His Commander brightens up considerably. 

 

Mace Windu can only hope that this clone is worth the headache. 

 


 

He is awake now, and the sky is above his head for the first time in centuries. It is stale and gray, but he has seen nothing for so long it makes his eyes hurt with how brilliant it is. He rumbles, biding his time until the poison-rats come. Balaam will show them why the Zillo were feared, why their songs had the power to shape the earth. 

 

There are other creatures in here. White specks. They walk strangely, unlike anything in his memory. They are huddled and pitiable, one of them carried between two others. They smell of the poison-rats. These white specks will soon know to fear him too. 

 

Rex wakes, head pounding and body aching. He opens his eyes, the world spinning and tipping and black-spotted. Likely a concussion then. Great. The Force is still ringing through his head, making him nauseous. He makes his shields a little thicker, trying to make room to think, but keeping his senses wide open. 

 

He landed on a small ledge a fair ways down. No one else is here with him, which means that they are elsewhere in the sinkhole, or he succeeded in getting them to safety. He prays to The Force that he got them clear. 

 

Rex stumbles to his feet, ignoring the way his whole body aches. He must have hit several ledges on the way down before coming to a stop. Kix is going to have a field day—if he doesn’t strangle Rex first. Master Che is not going to be very pleased either. 

 

There is a rumble in the distance, and Rex tries to look through the dust. The rumble sounded familiar—The Force twinges in warning. His head slightly clearer, he reaches out. There are some brothers here. He pushes down his surprise, his worry. ‘Focus on what you can do, Rex,’ Cody always tells him. Well, he can go find them. 

 

His grappling line is still on his belt, though one of his DC-17s is busted. Figures. He makes his way down cautiously, looping the rope around his belt and keeping his footing stable against the wall. His HUD is coming back online slowly, so he keeps it off for now, only turning it on to check its progress every now and then. 

 

The sinkhole is deep, and he is amazed any brothers survived the fall. He wonders if they found a ledge like he did, and then decided to scout the bottom for a way up, or to make themselves easier to find. 

 

He wonders, briefly, if a search party will even come. Assuming most of the battalions got clear of the sinkhole, they might not see a recovery effort as necessary. They were trained to be loyal, but also expendable. Rex accepted long ago that someday, he might be left behind. 

 

Comms are still down, so there’s no way to communicate with the surface, making everything much more difficult. He hates not knowing. He can’t feel his General from here, the distance too great, Rex’s head too muddled for his training bond to be of any use. No, Rex has to assume that he’s responsible for getting everyone out of here. 

 

Of course, all this pessimism is not accounting for Anakin Skywalker or Ponds. He’s fairly certain his General will come for him, even if he is told not to. And Ponds has convinced General Windu to make exceptions for him before. 

 

All the same, Rex should make it easier for them. 

 

His grappling line is not quite long enough to get him all the way down. Rex sighs and cuts himself free, falling the remaining ten feet or so. 

 

The ground he lands on is rounded, and his right ankle twinges as he lands awkwardly and almost falls. The Force surges through him like an alarm, but all it does is make Rex’s head spin. His bucket is filtering out all the dust, and he would rather not take it off to throw up. 

 

He cuts The Force off. That is quite enough Jetti osik for the rotation, thank you. 

 

He scans the dusty air for specks of white or any signs of movement. 

 

[There are other creatures in here. White specks. They walk strangely, unlike anything in his memory. They are huddled and pitiable, one of them carried between two others. They smell of the poison-rats. These white specks will soon know to fear him too.] 

 

Rex shivers at the dream. Everything in him is screaming that there is something dangerous in the sinkhole with them. He needs to get his brothers out before they run into whatever it is. 

 

The ground he is on is strange. He’s never seen stone like this—almost scaly, looking like overlapping plates with sharp spikes. He hobbles along as quickly as he can, careful of his footing. 

 

There. He spots some white specks amidst the dust, waving to get their attention. There appears to be ten of them, with one supported between another two. Captain Jump, if Rex knows his vode. 

 

Green light falls over him, and Rex turns to come face to face with an enormous eye. It blinks at him, the ground rumbling as it growls. 

 

[There are other creatures in here. White specks. They walk strangely, unlike anything in his memory. They are huddled and pitiable, one of them carried between two others. They smell of the poison-rats. These white specks will soon know to fear him too.]

 

Dread floods through Rex, as he realizes that this moment is exactly what he had dreamed. That this eye he is looking at is the source of all his dreams since arriving on Malastare. This is Balaam. 

 

And it is not fond of the Dugs. 

 

The ground shifts, and Rex realizes that he is standing on the back of this creature—this massive creature, that is about to kill him and his brothers. 

 

The thing shrieks, piercing and angry, swinging its large head around on its long neck. 

 

It does not like that he is on its back. Rex barely manages to dive out of the way as it snaps at him, teeth long and jagged and very capable of impaling him. He clambers down one of its hind legs, sliding down the plated scales and ignoring the way it sends jolts of pain through his whole body. He’s almost to the foot when the creature lifts its leg and flicks it, sending Rex flying. 

 

“Captain!” One of the soldiers shouts. Rex doesn’t respond—he’s a bit busy trying to stay alive. Kriff, how does he even get himself into these messes? 

 

He’s starting to realize that Jetti powers comes with Jetti trouble.

 

Rex opens himself up to The Force as his feet hit the ground, calling on it for help, for guidance, for something. Almost immediately, he is overwhelmed by the worryconcernfear that Skywalker is pushing through their bond. Rex stumbles through a roll, inadvertently saving his own life as one of those long appendages swipes through the air where his head had been. 

 

Oh kriff, how the hell is he getting out of this one?

 

“Just run!” He scrabbles to his feet, ankle protesting as he dodges sharply to the side. His brothers are trying to scrabble back towards the wall of the sinkhole, but the ground is uneven and Jump can’t put any weight on his right leg. If his brothers are going to have any chance of getting out of this, it will be up to Rex to keep the creature’s attention.

 

From his dreams, he knows the beast is at the very least sentient, if not intelligent. It has an acute sense of smell which is bothersome, but its eyesight is adjusted to darkness. He can exploit that. He shoots at the beast’s eyes, knowing the plasma bolts will help disorient it. One of the bolts strikes the eyebrow ridge, glancing off the way it would if deflected by a lightsaber. 

 

Good to know the weapons he has on him are going to be practically useless. 

 

“Clover, Luk’ie, get back here now!” Captain Jump barks. Out of the corner of his eye, Rex sees two vode break off from the main group. He tries to gesture them back towards Jump, but both vode shake their heads and stubbornly continue to make their way over. The di’kuts are going to get themselves killed.

 

Rex dives and rolls under another sweeping leg. He can feel the beast is getting frustrated, knows that it’s about to get more serious with its attacks. 

 

Little gods, he really hopes Skywalker is on his way. 

 

“Aim for its eyes, try to keep it disoriented,” he barks to the vode. 

 

The creature shrieks with anger as blaster bolts bounce off its scales, head bowing down to snap at them with sharp teeth. Rex sees his chance and shoots the creature right in the eye. It whips its head around, roaring with pain. They all flatten and roll as it rampages, swinging and stomping its appendages around aimlessly. 

 

It stomps a little too close to the two vode, sending shards of rock at the two troopers and knocking them off their feet. Rex hears a cry of pain, knows that one of his brothers is now hurt. Through the dust, one of them appears to be dragging the other.

 

“Clover!” The beast locks its good eye on the two troopers, a foot rising to stomp the two of them like bugs. He can feel desperation clawing through him like a primal thing. The knowledge that Death is swooping for the kill, that what is coming is unavoidable. 

 

Rex pushes, sending to two vode sprawling out of the way as it brings a clawed foot down. Rex shoots it in the eye again, trying to draw the creature’s attention solely to himself. It screams and swings its head in his direction. He dodges to the side, just managing to avoid getting smashed by the creature’s club-like tail. 

 

“Get him to safety!” He orders. 

 

“But sir!”

 

“Do it now!” Rex barks. He presses his will into his voice, using a tone that he knows won’t be denied. 

 

Thankfully, the vod listens, dragging his friend back towards the main group. 

 

Rex shouts and screams and curses, firing his DC-17 at the creature's eyes and doing everything he can to keep the beast’s attention on himself. 

 

“Rex!” Suddenly, his General is beside him, lightsaber lit and thrumming with The Force. Rex almost melts with relief. Anakin jumps, arms raised over his head as he swings his lightsaber down onto the creature’s foot with a yell. 

 

The blade bounces off. Shock radiates off Skywalker. Rex has never seen something deflect a lightsaber. “Back to the gunship!” Anakin declares. Rex nods. 

 

They make a mad dash over the ground to the gunship, the beast swiping and stomping. Rex fears that even if they make the gunship, they are going to get knocked down in flight. The gunship is hovering in the air, ropes descended for vode to latch onto, ready to takeoff at full speed. 

 

Rex feels The Force wrap around him, barely having enough time to mentally brace himself before he is lifted off his feet and flung through the air. His chest collides with the floor of the gunship, and he momentarily panics as he scrabbles for the purchase necessary to pull himself in. Arms grab him and haul him into the gunship. Ponds is there, keeping a firm hand on his shoulder as he tries to regulate his breathing. A moment later, Anakin is beside him and the gunship is retreating at full speed. The doors slam shut, and everyone braces as best they can. 

 

Rex hates not knowing. He can only grab the overhead handles and pray as they swerve and dip, lives entirely in the hands of the pilot. They are tilted almost straight up at one point, and Rex foolishly allows himself to think that they are going to make it. Then the ship lurches, engines straining, metal grinding. 

 

“It’s grabbed onto us sir!” The pilot reports. It sounds like Navy, but Rex can't tell over the comm and the blood rushing in his ears. 

 

“Open the doors!” Rex shouts. 

 

“Sir you can’t be serious!” The pilot protests. 

 

“Do it pilot!” Anakin snaps. The doors open, and Rex sees the beast eye to eye. 

 

Balaam, I am Rex, he pushes into The Force. The creature’s pupils shift to focus on him. So the creature can understand speech—or thought imprints? Rex isn’t entirely sure what he is doing. Let us go, and you will live.

 

You smell of the poison-rats. They are Death-bringers. They do not love the Sacred One. You must die. The gunship strains as the beast tightens its hold, a clear snarl on its face. 

 

To kill us is to bring Death and Wrath on your head, Rex warns.

 

Balaam laughs, and it makes the very air vibrate. Little one, you think I fear Death? I am alone. I have weathered this aloneness for centuries. I have forgotten how to sing. My own name is strange to me. You, who are so small, dare to threaten me with something as meager as Death? As Wrath? Little one, you know nothing of it. 

 

“We’ll see about that,” Rex mutters. He raises his DC-17 and shoots the creature point-blank in the eye. Green blood bursts from wound, splattering on Rex's armor. The gunship lurches as Balaam roars and shrieks with pain. The pilot immediately pushes the thrusters to full, and it’s enough to break them free. 

 

“Good job Rex!” Skywalker praises. But they are not clear of the danger yet—Balaam rears up, long limbs swatting around their position. In a star-fighter, they might have stood a chance—the ships are built to be fast and maneuverable. In contrast, the LAAT/is are armored and meant to carry troops. Speed and agility are not in their favor. 

 

As it is, one of Balaam’s long arms clips the back of the gunship, knocking it into a wild spin. Ponds loses his grip on his handle, crashing into Rex and sending them both tumbling out of the open doors. 

 

Rex really, really, hates Jetti luck. 

Chapter 2: You’re not as brave as you were at the start

Summary:

In which Rex and Ponds are stuck in a pit with an angry killing machine several hundred times their size. The odds are decidedly not in their favor.

Or, Mace Windu decides that whatever is going on with Skywalker’s Captain, it is between him and The Force.

Or, Clover and Luk’ie reflect on a ghost revisited.

Notes:

Hey guys! I'm back with chapter 2! Let me tell you, I am so excited for this >:)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

Cody is pretending to do formwork when the doors to his and Kenobi’s shared work space hiss open. He resolutely continues to stare at the data pad in his hands as a cup of steaming tea is set down near his hand. He makes no move to drink it, though he does glance up at Kenobi. His General’s hair is still slightly wet from showering, and he smells like a mix of incense and shampoo. 

 

“Are you alright, Cody? Boil said you punched clean holes through several of the training droids again,” Kenobi’s voice is teasing, but Cody can hear the concern underneath. 

 

“They were dropping the bomb today. On Malastare.” Cody responds curtly. Kenobi hums in understanding and takes his normal seat, a clear invitation for Cody to continue. “Both Rex and Ponds have missed their post-battle check in, and there have been no reports on whether the bomb was even successful,” he admits. “It might just be that the electron field fried all communications planet-side, and that the treaty or cleanup is taking longer than expected, but I guess the lack of information is getting to me, sir.” 

 

“None of that, Cody. You can call me Obi-wan when we are in private,” Obi-wan chastises gently. “It’s natural that you are concerned for your brothers. I’m sure Rex and Ponds are fine, but I understand knowing and seeing for yourself are two very different matters indeed,” Obi-wan takes a sip of his tea, once again prompting Cody to speak. 

 

This is why he loves his General. He doesn’t feel like he has to hide anything from Kenobi. His thoughts and feelings are always valued, even if they aren’t about their current duties. 

 

“Well, Rex almost got his shebs killed last time, and I guess I’m worried that he isn’t as recovered as he claimed,” Cody starts. “That kid has the biggest trouble magnet and the worst luck I have ever seen before I met you Jettise. I’m worried he’s going to do something brave and stupid, probably some self-sacrificial stunt that’s gonna get him killed. Or, he might have been caught too close to the bomb’s blast radius—“

 

Obi-wan places a hand on his shoulder. “Breathe, Cody, focus on my voice. You are feeding your own fears. Have faith in your brothers, Dear One. Rex and Ponds are going to be fine. Anakin and Mace are with them,” a wave of calm and reassurance surges through him like a deep breath. Cody focuses on breathing and nods. 

 

“Thanks, Obi-wan.” Obi-wan beams and hands Cody his cup of still steaming tea. The warm porcelain feels grounding in his hands, and he breathes in the steam and focuses on the spicy, earthy scent. They sit in companionable silence, waiting for the comm link to chime and tell them that everything is going to be okay. That his brothers are safe and will be coming home. 

 


 

From this height, the fall alone will kill them. As they are tumbling out of the gunship, Rex wraps himself around Ponds and begs The Force to do something. Ponds mutters “Rex, no,” and tries to wriggle free so he can take the protective position. Rex tightens his grip and prays, opening himself up the The Force as much as he dares. Which is more than he should, but hey, he’s about to die. There’s not enough time for words, but The Force is a sharp tug in the back of his mind, a fire in his veins, and he understands. Rex pulls the air around and underneath them into a cushion and rolls. The landing is hard and ungraceful, and there’s a loud crack or two as they crumple to the ground that Rex is really hoping is plastoid and not bone, but they are both alive when they most certainly should be dead, so there has to be a win in there somewhere. 

 

The gunship must have gotten free of the sinkhole. That’s good. It means that Rex and Ponds are now stuck here with little to no chance of rescue, because no one in their right mind would come down here to attempt a rescue with this thing down here with them, but otherwise that’s good. It means no one else is getting dragged into this mess.

 

And then General Skywalker lands right next to him with a puff of air and dust and Rex very nearly screams. 

 

“Kark!” Ponds gasps. His posture is bent over and his right arm is hanging weirdly, the shoulder plate cracked and missing chunks. Probably a broken collarbone. It’s not great, but it’s better than a broken leg would be in these circumstances. 

 

“Are you both alright?” Anakin asks. It’s a bit of a dumb question, but Skywalker is clearly high on adrenaline, and to be fair he volunteered to be in this death pit with them, so his intelligence is questionable to begin with. Rex can feel Anakin prodding at him through their bond, but he does the equivalent of leaning in the doorway so Skywalker can’t walk in and really look around. This really isn’t the time for something like that, and thankfully Anakin knows it, retreating with a sheepish smile. 

 

“Still alive, General. Thanks for the catch,” Ponds’ teeth are gritted in pain. It is radiating off his ori’vod like steam radiates from bread fresh out of the oven. Rex winces. If he had caught them better, Ponds wouldn’t be hurt. And being hurt down here is the first step to getting more hurt or dead. 

 

“Just some bruises, I think,” Rex stands and winces as his right ankle screeches in protest. A quick test (gently pressing his foot against the ground and hiding another wince at the resulting stab of pain) is enough to know that his ankle won’t take his full weight. From experience, he’s guessing he tore some muscles, if not a tendon or two in his ankle. Well, guess he’s karked then. 

 

If this doesn’t kill him, Kix will. 

 

Balaam screams in rage, sniffing the air for them, large drops of bright green blood dripping down to land in the dirt around them in soft thwats and splats. From what he can tell, the Zillo Beast is entirely blind in one eye. That is in their favor, probably. 

 

“What’s the plan, General?” Rex knows better than to hope, but he would really love a plan right now. 

 

“Don’t die,” Skywalker responds, because of course he doesn’t have a plan. He never does. That’s why he jumped after Rex and Ponds, despite knowing that his lightsaber is pretty kriffing useless. 

 

Rex’s HUD buzzes with static, and he watches it flicker to life just in time for the Zillo Beast to locate them with its working eye. Adrenaline rushes through him, and suddenly his ankle doesn’t hurt so much. Good old adrenaline. He grabs Ponds’ good arm and slings it around his shoulders. 

 

Little One, The Force prods. Rex flicks his blaster to stun. The stun bolts won’t take down a creature that size, but they might cause temporary numbness. The Force hums in agreement. 

 

Poison-rat, Death bringer, Balaam growls. You may take my sight, but you cannot take my smell. You cannot hide yourself from me. There is no salvation for you here. I will crush and bleed you as I have crushed and bled thousands before you. I will feast upon your bones, I will suck your blood from the soil, and the songs shall be new again. 

 

Well, that is a gruesome threat. 

 

Balaam, you will try, Rex says with more confidence than he feels. He presses Ponds towards Anakin, because the Zillo Beast seems to be focused on him, and therefore he is the more dangerous person to be with. And while he can’t feel his ankle, he is not entirely sure he can run on it while supporting someone else. He’s still not sure he can run at all. 

 

Balaam swings a long arm at him, and Rex opens himself to The Force again, gathering the strength needed to jump over it and land safely on the other side. Balaam growls and swipes again, missing Rex entirely. 

 

Balaam has no depth perception. This can work in Rex’s favor. 

 

Little One, The Force prods again. Warning twists in his gut, and he ducks to avoid the spiked tail that would have taken his head off. 

 

Anakin jumps onto the tail, running up the scales and slashing at it with his lightsaber. It seems to be annoying Balaam, more than causing any real harm. Rex curses under his breath. Of all the reckless—where is Ponds? 

 

His ori’vod is mostly hidden behind a jagged outcropping of rock, his broken arm secured to his chest with a strip of cloth that Rex is fairly certain used to be a piece of Jetti robe. He has a blaster balanced on his knee, useless as it is, and is training it on the Zillo Beast’s head as well as he can with only one working arm. Ponds is aiming for the other eye while Skywalker serves as a distraction, he realizes. As far as plans go, it’s a plan. 

 

Until the Zillo Beast clips Skywalker in the head with one of its long appendages and sends the Jetti flying. Rex tries to cushion the fall with The Force, but the angle is awkward and he only has a faint idea of what he is doing. In short, Anakin smacks his head again and is definitely concussed if not unconscious. 

 

Karking Sith’s hells. They are dead. There is not enough room in the Nine Corellian hells for all the hell they are in. 

 

Listen, Little One. You know what to do. Rex absolutely does not know what to do. He’s a little busy panicking. 

 

“Rex!” Ponds is trying to drag Skywalker to safety (not that there really is any), but the use of one arm makes it difficult and Ponds is completely defenseless. 

 

There you are, little speck, Balaam growls. Watch, and I will show you the meaning of Death and Wrath. 

 

The Force is howling through his head. Rex sits down, crossing his legs and closing his eyes. 

 

“Rex, what are you doing?!” Ponds screams, panic thrumming through the air as distinctly as his own. Rex pushes it aside, and the world around him drops away. 

 

Through The Force, he can feel where everything is. He can feel Ponds, desperately afraid and in pain and yet still dragging Skywalker away from Balaam. Anakin is unconscious as he had feared, but he is alive and his vitals are still strong. Balaam is full of rage and fear and sorrow. 

 

Balaam feels like Rex. He almost chokes on the realization that Balaam is his own face reflected back at him. When Rex was struggling with the revelation that he had these powers he didn’t understand. When he was on Valtameri, on Teth, and Orto Plutonia, and Naboo, and Geonosis and Kamino. Balaam feels like someone marked for Death, who is raging against hopelessness, who is fighting a losing battle and knows it. 

 

Maybe they both know something of Death and Wrath. Loss has many faces. Rex cannot imagine being alone for centuries. But he knows what it is to lose everything you had, and to watch as more is taken from you, more than you thought you could lose. To feel hollow and scraped empty with grief. To see everything die, and to be left with too much guilt to carry. 

 

A hand is descending, a hammer aimed to strike at his brothers. Rex breathes into The Force and pulls, the Zillo Beast screeching as it misses Ponds and Skywalker. It tries again, and Rex pushes the limb away from them. Balaam lowers his head, prepared to snap them up in his maw, to impale them on his teeth. Rex turns Balaam’s head back to the sky. 

 

He won’t be able to do this forever. His muscles are already starting to burn with what he now recognizes as Force Exhaustion. Balaam is strong, and diverting his movements takes more effort than he can sustain. The Zillo Beast knows. Balaam tries to crush him this time, and the best Rex can do is shove the tail away so it smashes into the ground next to him. 

 

Balaam lowers his head, regarding Rex curiously, intelligently even. 

 

You are a determined speck, Balaam relents. Most cower before me with fear, but you are different. You… have been touched by the Mother of Gifts. I could not smell it before, over the scent of the poison-rats. I had thought all of her children were dead. She certainly does not linger here. 

 

So, you will let us go? Rex tries to keep the hope out of his thoughts. He does not want Balaam to know his true fear, his helplessness against a creature as large and intent on killing him as Balaam. He has a feeling the Zillo Beast already knows these things. 

 

Balaam laughs. My dear speck, I have no loyalty to a God who left me here to rot in my aloneness. Who let the poison-rats come and slaughter my sons and daughters and drain the Sacred One dry. Who banished me to a starless darkness, to a never-ending night, to times of hunger and silence, silence that steals your own name and speech and soul. I owe nothing to the child of such a God. Besides, I believe we have both vowed to kill each other. You have yet to show me anything of the Wrath and Death you promised. Little One, I will teach you to tremble as the others do, and the Mother of Gifts herself will not save you. 

 


 

Mace Windu has a headache. Something is happening in that sinkhole, and the rescue party is no longer responding to their comms. 

 

The second the screeching started, the Dugs all froze, staring at the sinkhole with some sort of disgusted horror. Now they are beginning to prepare…something. Doge Urus and the Council are making it very clear that this is an internal affair, and do not appreciate his attempts to pry. 

 

Things only become more complicated when the rescue ship returns…without Skywalker, Ponds, or Captain Rex. Not only did they fail to retrieve the clone that started this whole rescue operation, Mace is now the only high-ranked GAR officer currently not missing. And this is technically not even his mission. He’s only here because Kenobi’s ship was still undergoing repairs and both Commanders Cody and Ponds didn’t want their barely-recovered vod’ika going out into the field alone. 

 

Skywalker better climb out of that damned sinkhole and say sike right now. A shatter-point flares through his head, upgrading his headache to a migraine. 

 

“There’s some massive creature down there General,” Jump reports. The Captain has a very clearly broken leg, and his face is pale and shiny with a thin sheen of sweat. “Whatever that thing is, it can latch onto a LAAT/i.” Sure enough, the gunship used for the whole rescue op has a series of dents reminiscent of a large hand, and some scraped off paint and deep gouges to go with it. 

 

“Pilot, you know what is down there. Are you confident in your ability to maneuver down there?” 

 

The pilot shakes his head. “The LAAT/i isn’t fast enough. We only got free last time because Captain Rex shot the thing point-blank in the eye, sir, at the cost of himself, Commander Ponds, and General Skywalker.” 

 

Windu pinches the bridge of his nose. Not one, not two, but three of the four highest ranking GAR officers sent to Malastare are trapped in a sinkhole. With a creature large enough to grab a LAAT/i and fast enough that a GAR pilot, who regularly flies in and out of heavy fire and flak,  advises against trying to fly back into the hole to retrieve them. The Dugs have become suspiciously silent over the matter, which tells him that they know exactly what is down there and are about to use the unsigned treaty as leverage to get their way when it comes to dealing with it. Half of their communications are fried, and the other half is spotty and weak at best. If he goes down there, he’s going in essentially blind, with little backup or support. 

 

The Force is telling him that he needs to go into the sinkhole. Demanding, really. Mace sighs. Deeply. 

 

“R2, start up Skywalker’s starfighter. We’re going in.” The astromech beeps happily, flying off to start up the engines. 

 

“Pilot, if I use Skywalker’s starfighter to keep the creature distracted, can you locate and retrieve the survivors?” 

 

“Sir yes sir!” The pilot salutes, already climbing back in the cockpit. 

 

“I need at least two more men to go with him to help carry any injured.” 

 

“Corporal Luk’ie at your service, General,” one of the clones immediately volunteers. Three more are quick to follow. 

 

R2 flies over with the starfighter. Mace hops in, tapping a few buttons to adjust the settings. “Let’s bring them home then,” he orders. With that, Mace Windu flies into the cloud of mist and dust, already planning to blame Skywalker for all of this. 

 


 

Balaam’s teeth are even sharper and more menacing up close, Rex decides. He’s frozen in place, still sitting cross-legged on the dusty ground as the gaping maw of Balaam’s rage bears down on him. 

 

The Force is screaming through his muscles, burning as he turns all of Balaam’s weapons away from him. Jaw, tail, limbs, they all miss, kicking up dust and shards of rock. His helmet filters are clogged, and the air he can breathe tastes like iron and mud. Sweat is dripping down his face, chest heaving as he narrowly avoids being eaten once again. 

 

He’s so caught up in not dying that he startles when a blaster bolt from a starfighter hits Balaam directly in his good eye, powerful enough to rupture it and send a new cascade of vibrant green blood raining down. He watches blankly as Skywalker’s starfighter continues to swarm around Balaam, taking shots at its head. The Zillo Beast shrieks with agony and rage. A hand wraps around his bicep and drags him to his feet. A moment later one of Balaam’s feet strikes the ground where he had been sitting. Rex feels like lead has replaced his blood and fire his muscles. He can’t see or walk straight or even speak, his head spinning and vision so black-spotted its making him nauseous and blind. His connection to The Force is still wide open, and Pond’s panic is like a live wire running through his bones. It’s only the second-hand adrenaline rush that keeps him moving. 

 

“Rex, what were you thinking? Are you out of your kriffing mind! How was I supposed to tell Cody that you died on my watch playing chicken with a kriffing five-limbed lizard, huh? This is already going to be a kriffing interrogation even if we do make it out of this. The rest of the Shebse are never going to let me watch you again! Haar’chak Rex, if we get out of this alive we are going to have a discussion. I’m making an agenda, and I can already think of at least three topics of conversation.” Ponds likes agendas, Rex thinks dizzily, its why he and Windu are such a good match. 

 

His ankle folds when he puts a little too much weight on it. Ponds curses and tries to readjust his grip, but it’s difficult with only one hand and with Rex being too disoriented to be helpful. 

 

Then the sinkhole starts filling with green gas. It smells and tastes awful, his helmet filters too shot and too clogged to keep it out. He starts choking, throat burning, the gas settling thick and heavy in his lungs. He can’t breathe, and it sends sparks of panic bursting out from his stomach, which is doing its best to imitate the feeling of being stabbed. He rips off his helmet and starts gagging and wheezing, bile burning up his throat, barely aware of the fact that Ponds is still tugging on his arm. More gas fills the air, and distantly he realizes that these are bombs being dropped into the sinkhole. 

 

“Over here!” Ponds shouts around a gagging cough, “we’re over here!” 

 

More hands are pulling him up and dragging him, but Rex can’t see or hear or do much of anything anymore, and he’s fairly certain that he’s dying all over again, despite his attempts to avoid it. 

 

“We got you, sir, you are going to be okay,” a voice reassures. It’s distantly familiar, in a way that Rex thinks he has heard it before. It’s a vod, most definitely, but he can’t place which one, or where it’s from. Something is strapped over his face, and for a blessed moment, he can breathe. The next moment is like a fraying thread snapping, and he is dragged down into the depths of unconsciousness. 

 


 

“We got them, General, clearing out now,” the pilot declares. Mace allows a sharp burst of relief before focusing back on the task at hand. The creature certainly is larger than he expected, and its long, flexible limbs are whip-like and deceptively fast for a creature this size. 

 

If not for the fact that it was actively attacking his men, he would feel bad for finishing the job of blinding it. 

 

As it is, Mace Windu does not consider himself a pilot the way Plo Koon and Skywalker do, and it is only the fact that he is in a fighter built for speed and maneuverability that he continues to dodge the creature’s blind swings. He can see why the LAAT/i pilot was hesitant to go back down without support or backup. 

 

“We’re clear sir! Disengage!” The creature roars with rage, a piercing shriek that is cut off by a burst of green gas filling its mouth. Now that he is free of the creature’s range, he can see the whole sinkhole is filling with green gas. 

 

The Dugs are all looking smug when he hops out of the starfighter. He has a feeling that he knows what they are smiling about, and if that green gas is what he thinks it is, Mace will be hard pressed to rein in his temper. With the treaty yet to be ratified, he can’t risk confronting the Dugs. The gunship touches down gently, and as the doors open there is a burst of activity. “Medics! We need some medics!” Corporal Luck’ie calls. Immediately, hover-stretchers and medics are brought over, and Windu can’t see what is going on. 

 

His comm chimes, and Windu realizes that the pilot has yet to climb out of the cockpit. “Sir, permission to airlift these three and the rest of the injured to the field hospital at base camp?” The request comes from Hale, his CMO. 

 

“Permission granted, Lieutenant. I’m coming with you, update me on the way.” 

 

“Right sir!” Hale chirps. 

 

“Excuse me, I must see to my men,” Doge Urus waves a flippant foot, a casual dismissal as he goes straight back to discussing logistics with the other council members present. Windu will have to deal with them later. Preferably when he is less angry. 

 

Mace climbs onto the gunship, immediately noting the sorry shape all three men are in. Skywalker has already-bloody bandages around his head, hair wet and streaks of mud trailing down his dusty skin. There’s a breathing mask strapped over his face. His robes are torn, burns, scratches and bruises peeking out from the holes. Out of the three, he actually looks the best, which is a rare accomplishment for Skywalker. 

 

Ponds is the only one still conscious, though his eyes are glazed and unfocused in a way that makes it clear he is not truly present and aware of his surroundings. He also has a breathing mask strapped over his face, dust and dirt caked over anywhere not covered by his armor, which has already been stripped from him. The medics are keeping his hand away from his throat, which has red scratch lines and burns that trail up and over his face. The other arm is strapped to his chest with a long strip of Skywalker’s robe, keeping his shoulder somewhat immobilized. As the medics move to tend it, Mace realizes that his Commander’s collarbone is broken. “Stop moving, Commander,” Hale chastises. “I can and will sedate you.” Ponds rasps something too incoherent to make out, followed by some truly wretched coughs. If Mace was a betting man, he would put money on his Commander calling out for the Captain that started this whole mess. 

 

Which brings him to Captain Rex. Physically, he does not look much worse off than the other two. His blond hair is brown with dirt, burns also trailing over his face, which also has a breathing mask strapped over it. He’s been stripped out of his top blacks, bruises blooming across his chest and torso and wrapping around towards his back, likely from falling into the sinkhole. He has his fair share of scrapes and cuts and what looks like shards and splinters of stone, all lodged into places where the armor plates don’t cover. One of his boots have been removed, revealing a darkly bruised and quickly swelling ankle. Underneath the dust, his skin looks pale and flushed with fever. Aside from the physical, The Force feels…burnt around him. 

 

All living creatures have some connection to The Force, and even non-Force-sensitives can sometimes call upon the energy field to aid them in times of desperation. However, the Force is curled protectively around the Captain, who is still the subject of several dozen shatter points, and who appears to be suffering symptoms of Force Exhaustion. In all his years, Mace Windu never thought he would meet another person who gave him as many headaches as Skywalker. He has never seen anything like this, nor heard of something remotely similar. Even Skywalker, who is the strongest Force user in of all recorded history, does not have a reactive Force-presence like this. 

 

Mace can already tell he will need to meditate on this. Perhaps he can meditate with a few drinks, preferably alcoholic in nature. But until The Force tells him what to do about the Captain, Mace Windu decides he can keep his thoughts between himself and The Force. After all, there’s no reason to bring this headache before the Council unless he has proof. (If he conveniently forgets he ever saw anything? Well, it has been a long, trying rotation.)

 

“Sir, all three patients are demonstrating symptoms of acute fuel poisoning,” Hale reports. Behind him Ponds starts vomiting blood. “Kark, that’s not good,” the CMO mutters. 

 

Mace’s brow furrows. “How bad, Hale?” Hale hands him Ponds’ helmet. “I believe the green gas filling the sinkhole was a concentrated version of Malastarian fuel, converted into a gaseous form with the intention of increasing the fuel’s toxicity for organic lifeforms. For a creature as large as the one down in the sinkhole, it would still take long term exposure to be fatal. For small organic lifeforms, even short-term exposure is incredibly damaging. Fuel exposure on skin alone can cause irritation and burns, as you can observe on all three patients. When it is ingested or inhaled…” the implication is more than enough. “Normally, our helmet filters would be able to mitigate some of the damage by filtering out some of the toxins. But as you can see, the helmet filters were already clogged with dust and debris to the point of uselessness, and General Skywalker never had any bucket to begin with. The burn patterns on both Commander Ponds and Captain Rex suggest that they took off their helmets, increasing their skin’s exposure to the gas fumes.” 

 

Windu is relieved that he decided to accompany the medics to the base camp. Now he has time to compose himself before he confronts Doge Urus and the Dugs for dumping toxic substances into the middle of a rescue operation.  

 

They touch down at the Base Camp shortly after that, and all three patients are transported to the field hospital that has been set up. Torrent’s CMO greets them at the entrance, a severe frown on his face. 

 

“The one day I do not accompany them on the field, they do this to me,” he grouses. Hale makes some noise of agreement. Windu can already tell the two CMO’s are going to be fast friends. 

 

As much as Mace likes to be in the middle of things (he can start planing the moment he knows what is going on), the medical tent is already overcrowded and he can sense that he will only be in the way. 

 

He finds a spot outside the med tent and sits down, deciding that now is probably a good time to meditate. 

 


 

“Hey Clover, how’re ya feeling?” Luk’ie sets down a ration of water and food on the small side table, trading it for his riduur’s helmet. There’s no dent or mark on the plastoid to indicate where his partner hit his head just at the right angle to concuss himself when he dove over Luk’ie to take the brunt of the stone shrapnel coming their way. He’s lucky that Clover’s stunt hadn’t been as suicidal as it felt at the time. 

 

“I’ve been better, but I also got lucky,” Clover shrugs, in that annoying way he does when he’s brushing off what happened so he doesn’t have to talk about it. They will have to address it later then, in private, where Luk’ie can say many things. Mostly about running after him when he shouldn’t have, for running after him anyway and getting himself hurt. Luk’ie decides to be nice to his riduur for once (Clover did save his life today, probably) and his partner is too concussed to be pushed into a productive conversation (such as ‘why did you run after me, you di’kut?’) “So, do you believe me now? Do you think it’s him?” Luk’ie was hoping Clover would let that rest. There’s a little too much hope in his riduur’s eyes. Luk’ie sighs. Now is not best time for this conversation either. 

 

“Cyare, we both know ’67 is dead. We didn’t see or hear of him after we left the Med Bay. None of the other squads complained about a blond-haired-show-off being transferred into their group. You know as well as I do that muties don’t make it off Kamino.” Or, they didn’t before that Jetti showed up. ’67 was not lucky enough to grow up under Jetti supervision. Maybe he would have lived if he had. 

 

“He feels similar though, Luk, and-and the holonet propaganda—“

 

“Says he was deployed to Geonosis. We weren’t graduated yet, remember? That makes him at least a cycle older than us, if not two.”

 

“But, Squad Shebse—“

 

“Those rumors only started circulating after we graduated, Clover. There’s no proof a bunch of CC’s actually adopted a CT, especially one from our class. Even if they did, it’s unlikely that they would have taken in ’67. Captain Rex probably got close to all of them during ARC training. You know as well as I do how muties were treated. No squad wanted him no matter how good he was—he brought too much scrutiny from the long necks. And if you can’t keep a squad, you can’t keep your life. Either he was decommissioned, or they killed him on The Post, or they threw him in the ocean. Why do you keep torturing yourself like this, love?” 

“Because he’s not dead. I still dream of him, Luk.” 

 

Clover never really got over ‘67s death. After all, he pulled the shot sideways, and therefore he thinks it was his fault they all failed that sim and got ’67 reassigned. No amount of logic will convince him otherwise. He still gets night terrors over that training sim, still sheds tears over that mutant CT who only spent a week in Grit with them. Luk’ie wishes they could have done something, if only for Clover’s peace of mind—there was no stopping Staunch, but maybe if they had known who to go to, who to ask for help—it’s useless to go around torturing yourself with what-ifs, Luk’ie knows. They were cadets, what power did they have?

 

(Maybe he is responsible for ‘67s death by virtue of failing to prevent it. Maybe he was a coward for never standing up to Staunch, and ’67 was the one who paid for that cowardice.) Maybe there was no stopping the decommissioning order, or whatever happened to the poor mutant CT. Maybe they simply tossed him into the ocean—less paperwork, that way. Less of a trace that he ever existed. 

 

But, unlike Clover, Luk’ie knows, without a doubt, that CT-7567 is dead. 

 

There’s no going back to change that. And trying to turn Captain Rex into that dead cadet is only wistful thinking. Every vod knows who Captain Rex is. He graduated top of his class—the first CT to be assigned a true command position. He earned his Jaig Eyes at Geonosis, one of only three clones to earn that honor. One of the original 100 selected for ARC training. He leads one of, if not the most successful company in the entire GAR, and he works side by side with The Hero Without Fear, Commander Cody, and High General Obi-wan Kenobi. Captain Rex is the best of them—every vod looks up to him as a war hero, the kind of soldier every clone aspires to become someday. 

 

Captain Rex is many things, but a blond mutant isn’t one of them. Everyone knows his hair is bleached. That’s the only explanation. Keeping a hair job like that is probably difficult, but there are several vode who have even more intricate hairstyles—the Torrent CMO currently looking after Captain Rex is one, and Captain Keeli of Ryloth is another. He’s heard there’s even a 212th vod that dyes his hair 212th gold, for kriff’s sake! Compared to them, keeping a bleach job sounds easy. 

 

The fact that it looks the same shade as that blond CT from his nightmares is just a coincidence. 

 

Clover sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Maybe you are right,” he whispers. “But, from a distance…” he picks at the seal on the water ration. 

 

“If it makes you feel better, cyar’ika, you saved both our shebs today,” Luk’ie smiles, planting a kiss on his riduur’s forehead. He loves the way it makes Clover blush. 

 

“Hmm? When did I do that? When I tackled you?” 

 

“No, just after that. When you pushed us out of the way of that foot.”

 

Clover freezes, eyes blinking owlishly. “Luk’ie, what do you mean?” Suddenly, Luk’ie feels much less certain about what he thought happened. 

 

“You tackled us, got hit by some stone shrapnel, and I thought you either got dazed or knocked yourself out, so I was dragging you, but the creature saw us and tried to stomp us, so you pushed us out of the way, right? With your…your gift?”

 

Clover’s face is very pale. “Luk’ie, that wasn’t me. I swear it wasn’t.”

 

He feels his own face go pale. “What do you mean it wasn’t you?” Luk’ie hisses. No one else could have helped them. General Skywalker didn’t arrive with the gunship until a few minutes after that, and Captain Rex—

 

Captain Rex was telling them to leave, to let him face that thing alone. It had felt like they were slipping into a story then, like the ones that were whispered to them on Kamino. And not for a moment had the Captain seemed unequal to the task set before him. Luk’ie had felt foolish for stepping into a story he didn’t belong in, for running towards something that was so much bigger than him.

 

“I was unconscious. It couldn’t have been me. Besides, you know I’ve never done something like that before. I don’t think I could even if I tried,” Clover whispers. “My gift doesn’t work like that.” And that in itself is true. For all Luk’ie claims that Clover has a gift, his partner is blessed with shards of glass. Small, brittle reflections of what is coming. Dreams of faces, little warnings that often come too late. All too often, Clover stares at his hands and says he almost saved them. 

 

Almost is the summary and the tragedy of Clover’s gift. To see without being able to save. To only catch the flash of light before the thunder breaks. (Maybe that is why he mourns the loss of ’67 so strongly—’67 was the first). 

 

But if Clover didn’t push them out of the way, who did? 

 

And if CT-7567 is truly dead, then why does Captain Rex sound like him? 

 

Is this what being haunted feels like? For all Luk’ie knows ’67 is dead (no one who disappears on Kamino comes back), he also can’t reconcile that Captain Rex is everything and nothing like the stories. As much as he is the hero, the larger-than-life Captain, he also limps, pretends he is stronger, bigger, braver than he is and chokes on fumes. He still has burns trailing up his face and down his throat. He leaves the fight broken. And every time Luk’ie looks at him, all he sees is the ghost of the mutant CT who, by virtue of his nature, was always trying to be stronger, bigger, braver than he was, but was never given a chance at salvation. No one tried to save ’67. Maybe that is why Luk’ie saw Captain Rex alone with that creature and ran to help, even if in the end he did nothing but get his riduur hurt. 

 

But he won’t tell Clover these things. Because Clover dreams enough, and Luk’ie doesn’t believe in second chances. (They were cadets—what could they have done? Why does this memory haunt him?) 

 

Luk’ie looks at the curtain hiding all the officers. The medics are all working to flush the fuel out of their lungs and throats and stomachs. All of them are in sorry shape, but they had been brought back alive. It is nothing short of a miracle that all three managed to survive long enough for rescue. Survived falling back into the sinkhole, survived that monstrous creature that was so intent on crushing them. 

 

Luk’ie hadn’t really questioned it until now. After all, the Shebse are known for cheating death with a laugh. Even up close, Captain Rex was everything the stories made him out to be. He was composed and in control of himself in the face of certain death, to the point where Luk’ie had forgotten to feel fear, even directly underneath the creature’s feet. (He hadn’t been afraid until Clover was hurt.) It had seemed so obvious that they would still be alive, that they would walk through fire and not be burned. 

 

Luk’ie wonders if this is the power of a Jetti. After all, Skywalker jumped after them. Not one of them was killed by the fall. By the fight that most certainly came after it. 

 

If Jump and the rest of them had been down there alone, they would all be dead now. He knows that as certainly as he knows Clover’s right eye twitches when he tries to lie. 

 

“Luk?” 

 

“Yes Cloves?” 

 

“M’tired.”

 

“Alright, I’ll wake you in an hour. Gotta make sure that concussion is not getting to your head, yeah?” Clover rolls his eyes, but there is a fond smile on his face. Luk’ie gives him the largest grin he can, smug amusement leaking across every inch of his teeth, even though he feels none of it. 

 

Clover turns over and falls asleep in seconds. The moment his eyes are closed, Luk’ie lets the mask fall. His eyes return to the curtain. 

 

It is rotations like these where his name feels burned into his skin. Trickster God. Yes, Luk’ie knows how to lie. Even to his riduur. Even to himself. 

 

Maybe, he muses, this ghost will only continue to haunt him. 

 

Maybe, the only way to kill a ghost is to confront it. 

 


 

Echo has never seen Kix this angry before. The medic leaves the sectioned off area of the med tent spitting borderline-treasonous curses, shoulders tense, gestures sharp, none of that firm and collected demeanor he typically has. If Echo didn’t know better, he would think the medic was about to start spitting fire from his mouth and smoke from his ears. If he had been scary when dealing with Rex’s stubbornness after Valtameri, now Echo genuinely thinks Kix might actually kill a man, or anything that so much as breathes a little too loudly. 

 

Echo does not shrink when Kix’s murderous gaze settles on him. He’s been waiting patiently outside the curtain for an update, and he knows that none of Kix’s rage is actually directed towards him. “The Dugs are dead. If I see even one of those demagolka, I am sending them straight to the Siths’ least favorite hell,” Kix vows. Echo simply gestures for Kix to sit down next to him. For a moment, the medic looks like he might decline—Kix is tightly wound, almost bursting with tension. He could probably run until he can’t breathe and still have pent-up emotions under his skin. Echo understands. Fives has always been a pacer too. 

 

(So had Hevy)

 

Kix sits with a heavy sigh, tucking up his legs to his chest. His shoulders are still tense and shaking, and it takes Echo a moment to realize that Kix is crying. 

 

“They gassed the sinkhole,” Kix whispers. “Dumped a bunch of toxic fuel down there without warning. We still had men down there. General Windu and the rescue team was in the middle of extracting them, and the Dugs—“ 

 

Echo understands now. He feels his own rage sparking and burning in his gut. 

 

None of them had known what would happen when the bomb dropped. The uncertainty of it all—whether it would work, whether it wouldn’t, whether they were being lied to on its function and capabilities—had led to Rex taking more of a pessimistic approach in his strategy. Echo had been positioned at the back of the formation, prepared to lead a retreat and counteroffensive if the bomb failed to work and the battle became a route. 

 

Safe to say, none of the clones had liked the implications of this plan. Least of all Echo. 

 

While he understood the importance of having someone with command experience to lead a retreat and reorganize—and Echo knew he was the only one on the field that Rex trusted with such an important responsibility, despite only being a Corporal—he also knew that he was being put in a strategically safe position—farthest from the bomb’s drop zone and the droids. 

 

That also put him farthest from Rex. And with Fives, Jesse, and Hardcase all back on The Resolute, Skywalker and Ponds in the Palace with Doge Urus, General Windu, and the Chancellor, Kix back at Base, and Ahsoka on Coruscant, that meant there was no one to keep their Captain from being a di’kut and pulling some sort of reckless stunt that would get himself hurt or killed. Or stuck in a sinkhole, as it turns out. 

 

When the reports came in that a sinkhole had opened up in the middle of the battlefield, Echo knew, even before Span approached him with the news, that Rex would have found away to put himself in the thick of the mess. And to do it in a way that was self-sacrificial, reckless, and completely unsubtle all at once. Rex had given the evacuation order almost a full minute before the sinkhole opened up, which was enough of a warning for almost everyone to get away on time. Span, Tryst, and pretty much Rex’s whole platoon reported a strong gust of wind that flung them away from the edge of the sinkhole, which allowed them to narrowly avoid being dragged in themselves.

 

As a result, Echo has spent most of his time post-battle doing damage control. He’s not sure he’s particularly successful. He decides it’s going to be a problem when it’s a problem. Rex probably saved the lives of dozens, if not hundreds of brothers, and Echo can’t say that he wouldn’t do the same if he was in the same position. So as much as he wants to be angry about this mess, he can’t bring himself to feel anything but worry. 

 

Next time the Captain Rex Protection Squad meets, Echo is going to firmly suggest a buddy system. Rex is no longer allowed to be alone on the field or anywhere but the front. No more rearguard for him, ever. Effective immediately. 

 

“Rex, Ponds, and the General all have chemical burns in their throats, Echo. They were asphyxiating and vomiting blood. All because the Dugs—“ the medic chokes on his rage. Echo holds him fiercely. 

 

“You did what you could Kix,” Echo soothes. “We didn’t lose them. We got them out and they can heal now.” Kix sinks into his hold, shoulders still shaking slightly. The medic looks exhausted. He wouldn’t be surprised if Kix worked through the end of his shift again. “Let’s get you some rest, vod.” Echo helps lead Kix to his tent, the medic strangely cooperative. As he turns to leave, Kix grabs onto his arm. 

 

“Echo?”

 

“Yes?” 

 

“This morning, Rex was mentioning something about dreams. He wouldn’t talk to me about them, but if he’s awake, or if he’s restless, could you—? Just tell Hale you have my permission to be there,” Echo nods. 

 

The curtained section is quiet. Hale is monitoring from a stool, and doesn’t actually protest Echo being there. Kix must have given him a heads up. 

 

All three of them look awful. Echo sighs, and settles down next to his Captain. Rex is almost completely still, a thin sheen of sweat on his visible skin, a pained grimace on his face. Echo hums, holding Rex’s hand and carding his fingers through Rex’s fuzzy hair with his free hand. 

 

“Alright, show me these dreams, Captain,” Echo murmurs. 

 

Nothing happens. Echo sighs, and prepares for a long vigil. 

 


 

Cody jolts awake to a comm disk chirping. Obi-wan startles next to him, dropping the data pad that had been precariously in his lap. 

 

“Obi-wan speaking,” he answers. 

 

“Master Kenobi,” Mace Windu appears, looking rather tired. Is Commander Cody with you?” 

 

“He is,” Cody glances at Obi-wan, who has a pensive look on his face. Obi-wan angles the comm so that they both appear in the view screen. 

 

“I’m calling to report that Malastare is safe from the threat of Separatist invasion. The test of the electro-proton bomb was successful, and no clones were hurt by the electron field or the initial explosion.” 

 

“That is good news indeed, Master Windu, though I sense this is not the reason for your call,” Obi-wan strokes his beard, a knowing tone coloring his voice. 

 

“It is not,” Windu admits, looking incredibly weary. “Commander Ponds wanted me to report that both Captain Rex and himself are alive and recovering, though unable to speak at the moment.”

 

“Recovering? Did something happen?” Cody blurts, before he has the sense to be professional. General Windu’s face grows dark with anger, and Cody resists the urge to shrink. 

 

“While the electron field worked as expected, the bomb’s explosion opened up a large sinkhole on the field, and Captain Rex and part of Captain Jump’s platoon were unable to get clear in time.” Cody feels his heart stop. “Knight Skywalker and Commander Ponds led a rescue operation, which was met with… complications. There’s a creature in the sinkhole unlike any I have ever seen. I’m afraid it attacked the rescue party, and led to the need for a second rescue effort to recover Captain Rex, Commander Ponds, and Knight Skywalker. Before we got them free of the sinkhole, the Dugs began to bomb it with a concentrated and gaseous version of their fuel. General Skywalker, Commander Ponds, and Captain Rex all inhaled this toxic gas, and are currently receiving medical treatment for chemical burns and fuel poisoning.”

 

Cody is clenching his hands into fists so tightly he can’t feel his fingers. Beside him, Kenobi has a severe frown on his face. 

 

“While the Dugs’ actions were carried out without warning and at the expense of our men, we unfortunately still need to have the treaty signed, which means that our mission on Malastare is not yet over. Kenobi, I am formally requesting your presence during these negotiations, as Knight Skywalker is currently recovering and unable to speak. If we can, I am also hoping to negotiate the transfer of this creature to an uninhabited world in the Outer Rim, as I believe it is the last of its kind, and the Dugs have made clear their intentions to murder it.”

 

“And what does the Chancellor have to say about all of this?” Obi-wan asks. 

 

“I haven’t contacted him yet,” Windu sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Cody doesn’t blame him. “In my opinion, the Dugs showed their hand when they gassed the sinkhole, and it is not the hand of an ally that the Republic would be shaking if we were to proceed with signing the treaty. I would no longer seek an alliance on that principle alone. However, we are in need of fuel, and I believe the Chancellor will still wish to proceed with negotiations to sign the treaty despite the Dugs’ actions. I do not trust myself to respond appropriately if he does,” the Jetti admits bluntly. Cody feels a sharp spark of approval. 

 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Kenobi agrees. “We won’t be able to reach Malastare in time, but I would gladly join the negotiations on holocall. I’m at your service, Master Windu.” 

 

“Thank you, Master Kenobi. I will contact you again shortly,” the holocall ends. 

 

Cody is shaking. Rage is a pit in his stomach. How dare they? The Dugs should be glad Cody won’t be planet-side, because Cody has a roundhouse kick that can snap the head clean off a battle-droid, and he would use it on these hut’uuns—

 

“Dear One, I am so sorry. Are you going to be alright? Can I do anything to help?” Kenobi has both hand’s on Cody’s shoulders, an earnest and concerned expression on his face. Cody feels like he is breaking. He keeps almost losing Rex, and now Ponds— “Do you need a minute?” 

 

“I need something to do, something to distract,” Cody admits. “Can we spar?” 

 

“We can. Would you like to be present during negotiations?” Kenobi offers. 

 

“You trust me to keep my cool through this meeting, knowing what these demagolka did to my vod and vod’ika?” Cody feels too shocked and raw to be anything but straightforward. 

 

“Oh, I expect you will quite enjoy the show. After all, with the Chancellor’s permission, I’m about to make the Dugs a new offer they won’t be able to refuse,” Kenobi’s smile is wide, showing far too many teeth, his eyes sharp and glinting with mischief. The General is not about to take this attack on his former Padawan, on Rex and Ponds, sitting down. No, General Kenobi is called “The Negotiator” for a reason. 

 

Cody grins. 

 

“Now, how about that spar?” 

Notes:

The Dugs: we don't like the Zillo Beast, so we are just gonna start blasting. Some of your meat droids (and Skywalker) might die, but that is a sacrifice we are willing to make!

Can you tell that I don't particularly like the Dugs?

I don't know if I will actually get around to saying this in the actual story, since I'm skipping the arc after the Zillo Beast, but I think it's very important that you know that the shatter-point that shatters (and gives Mace Windu a migraine) happens because Ponds' collarbone breaks. Why? because the moment he gets injured means that he will need time to recover, and therefore he will not be taken hostage by and murdered by Aurra Sing and Boba Fett. tHaT's RiGhT! PONDS LIVES because of this!

I was debating whether or not I should keep the line "Skywalker better climb out of that damned sinkhole and say sike right now," because it seems a little ooc for Mace Windu, but then I was cackling too much writing it to leave it out, and I decided that it would fit my own characterization of Mace Windu--aka, Tired Adult Who Doesn't Know How He Always Gets Left To Deal With This Shit.

Honestly, I originally planned for the Zillo Beast Arc to only be two chapters, but oops, my hand slipped, so now its gonna be three.

Anyways, with this chapter, my Force Sensitive Rex AU officially passes 100k words! When I started writing this, I had no idea such a thing would be possible. Thank you guys for all your lovely comments and kudos! Knowing there are people as invested in this story as I am makes my day, and inspires me to keep writing! I hope you all get the chance to eat some nice soup, and have a wonderful day :)

Chapter 3: rate yourself and rake yourself

Summary:

In which CT-7567 is not dead. But to be fair, he does end up in a lot of near-death situations, including this one.

Or, Ponds fucking knew it.

Or, Balaam had almost forgotten his name. He will not forget a second time. Nor will he ever let these specks forget it.

Notes:

Turns out, I have not had the free time I thought I would, hence why I have not updated anything in awhile. As an apology, you guys get the end of the Zillo Beast Arc, and it is glorious (or at least I think it is). This chapter single-handedly more than doubles this story (whoops), and also connects so many plot points it's gonna make your head spin. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this 26-ish page, 14K word monster of a chapter, because I had entirely too much fun writing it.

Warning: this chapter gets surprisingly dark. Content Warnings include: genocide, implied cannibalism, decay and rot, serious and slightly graphic character injury, Doge Urus, Kamino, and a complete disregard for canon.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

He has never hidden in the earth this long before. He has never been so far from the Sun. His skin aches for its warmth as he crawls through the dirt and stone, through the veins of the Sacred One. 

 

There are so few of them left. His mate is gone. She had risked the surface to find food for their young, and the poison rats had slaughtered her for it, her body never recovered, never properly mourned or prayed for and returned to the Sacred One. How is she supposed to rest now? How will any of them find their way to the Eternal Paradise?

 

There is little food down here. And so few of them left. They huddle together now, mostly silent and empty. There are no songs or days to mark the passage of time, only a growing ache. A growing silence and a cavity like a gaping maw deep in his chest. It feels like he spends all his time with ghosts. Maybe he is dead and his body has simply forgotten to rot. It feels like they are all damned. Damned and doomed for slaughter. 

 

He wonders how an entire race, once so proud, once so full of song and pride, battle borne in their blood, could crumble to this. Slowly destroyed by their enemy. Rotting, wilting, silent. Afraid of the surface. Banished from the Sun. 

 

Three taps against his forehead. 

 

Clinging to his neck are his heirs, the last children of all the Zillo, stiff with hunger and cold. Their eyes do not know the surface or the sky, their skin does not know the heat of the summer Sun, nor the cool autumn breeze. 

 

What Balaam has lost, he will never get back again. There is no salvaging what they have, no returning to their former glory. He knows, he Knows, that even these children around his neck offer no hope. Even Aine, touched by the Mother of Gifts, is powerless in the face of Annihilation. Of Wrath unending. Of Death unconquerable.

 

She had been named brightness, splendor. She was their last hope. The Last Sage, now dead and rotten like the rest, had said that she would be their salvation (only once every few centuries does the Mother of Gifts greet them with her presence, with her Blessing—it had to mean something). But Aine only dreams of doom. 

 

There is nowhere safe, nowhere to eat and rest. 

 

There is no hope for them. 

 

Three taps against his forehead. 

 

Balaam watches the children wither. Nisar is small with hunger, just as Balaam is weak with it. The end, the End looms near. It whispers in his ear like a lover. 

 

He wonders if there really is an Eternal Paradis. Maybe, like them, it has rotted too. 

 

“Eat me, Father,” Nisar begs. “Take my strength, you are needed to keep my sister alive. As long as Aine lives there is hope. Maybe the dreams will turn.” Aine does not speak, but her eyes are gaping voids of hunger. 

 

What world have they come to, where the son begs to die before the Father? Where the only food they have is the flesh of kin?

 

Three taps on his forehead. 

 

Balaam wants to rage, wants to scream at the injustice of this all, but to cry out loud is a death sentence. If they are found, they will be hunted. He pleads with his son, but Nisar is steadfast. 

 

The Winter comes and Nisar offers his own life in sacred ritual.

 

The dreams do not turn. 

 

Rex opens his eyes, and the world burns.

 


 

Every karking inch of his body feels like his muscles have been shredded, like his bones are being ground to dust inside his skin. It’s a feeling Rex has come to recognize as Force Exhaustion. 

 

“Ngh” he groans. Just the small sound makes it feel like someone has dragged a flaming vibroblade down his throat and into his lungs. Even that sensation is better than his head. If he didn’t know better, he would think his skull was being smashed to sharp pieces of glass and bone and lodged into his brain. It’s almost enough to halt thoughts before they can form. 

 

Hands settle gently around his temples. After a minute, the pain in his head drains away, like a blanket snuffing out a flame. 

 

Oh. Someone is shielding him. 

 

He opens his eyes. Skywalker is leaning over him and grinning through his exhaustion, bandages wrapped tight around his skull and bacta patches on his cheeks. Kix is hovering just in sight, a weary frown on his face. 

 

It takes him a solid moment to realize that this means they are probably not dead. 

 

“Thank you General, now let’s get you back to bed so you can rest,” Skywalker doesn’t say anything, merely hobbles back to his cot. It is the most un-Skywalker thing Rex has ever seen. The General must really be feeling like osik if there’s not even a blink of resistance. Maybe the General’s head wound is worse than it looks. Maybe Rex is so high on drugs he’s hallucinating. 

 

“Ki—“ the noise that comes out of his throat is so rough that it doesn’t sound like a word at all.

 

“Try not to speak sir. You have some burns and scabbing in your throat and lungs that are going to take a few days to clear out. Would you like some ice chips?” 

 

Rex nods, absently smacking his lips. His whole mouth feels dry and tastes like dirty socks and chemicals. After a few ice chips, the dry feeling goes away, along with some of the taste. It is an unnamable relief.  

 

He opens his mouth to speak, but Kix levels him with such a stern glare that he snaps it shut. 

 

Sitrep he signs instead. Kriff, even his fingers are sore. Force Exhaustion really is the worst. 

 

The medic sighs, looking entirely unsurprised. “Permission to speak freely, sir?” Kix asks. Rex nods. 

 

“You are a karking di’kut. You are a reckless, self-sacrificing, and completely unsubtle di’kut, and you are never allowed on the field without someone I trust to bring you back in one piece. You karking overdid it again with The… the you-know-what! I’m only allowing it this time due to the fact that you were in a life-or-death situation, but if you ever pull a reckless, self-sacrificing, empty-brained stunt like that again…Master Che will be the one giving you a lecture,” after that terrifying threat, the anger drains out of Kix like a visible weight. The medic’s eyes grow misty with tears, and Rex is suddenly alarmed. 

 

Then Kix pulls him upright into a hug, and he is even more alarmed. Something is definitely wrong if Kix is crying and hugging him. 

 

“You're a di’kut, but that sinkhole could have been so much worse if you didn’t do what you did. From what Span and some of the others said, you probably saved your whole platoon, if not a good number of vode on the field along with them.” 

 

“Spa—?” Rex chokes on his words, his throat feeling like it has been stabbed and set on fire. 

 

Kix releases him from the hug and slaps him upside the head. “I told you not to speak!” The medic snaps. Once Rex looks suitably sheepish, Kix hands him a drawing pad and a stylus, arranging the cot so he can sit up properly. “Use this to write your questions down,” he orders. 

 

Span? Rex scribbles. 

 

“We tried to do some damage control, but you kind of threw your whole platoon to safety after predicting a massive sinkhole opening up well before it happened.” Kix shrugs. “We have them sworn to secrecy for now, but you will probably need to have a talk with your boys—once I clear you to speak, of course.” Rex sighs and nods, resigned to that. He doesn’t regret using The Force, not when it likely saved the lives of several brothers, but Kix isn’t exactly wrong when he says it was a bit unsubtle. Especially considering that there were no Jetti on the field. 

 

Kriff. First campaign back and he’s already blowing it. 

 

There’s still something niggling at his mind. Kix’s sitrep had been more of a lecture than anything. The last thing he remembers is suffocating, and he’s not quite sure how he got out of the sinkhole. Ponds had a hand on his arm and—

 

Ponds. 

 

Where is Ponds? Is he safe? Is he alright? Rex tries to look around, but he can’t see through the sudden spinning of his vision. Every single muscle protests at his jerky movements. Kix firmly presses him into a sitting position. 

 

“Pon—“ he coughs as his voice breaks, and his vision whites out at the pain that causes. His lungs spasm and burn, he feels like he’s choking and it just leads to more coughing. It’s like the Blue Shadow Virus all over again. He doubles over, tears streaming down his cheeks as he tries to regulate his breathing. Every attempt to draw in air triggers another cough. He is distantly aware of a hand slapping his back between his shoulder blades. By the time he manages to stop coughing, specks of red are dotting the crook of his arm. 

 

“Sith’s crusty balls Rex, stop trying to talk!” Kix snaps. He hands Rex another ice chip, glaring at him sternly. “Commander Ponds is currently under CMO Hale’s charge, seeing as he is the 187th’s usual medic. He woke up about an hour ago, so he was moved to where his boys could see him. He has a broken collarbone and some chemical burns, but he should make a full recovery.” 

 

Rex frowns and gestures towards his throat. Kix’s expression grows dark and stormy. “The Dugs—“ the medic chokes on his words, and even with his muted connection to The Force, Rex can feel Kix’s rage writhing like a living thing, burning like fire and smoke: hot and suffocating. “Dumped a gaseous, highly toxic fuel down into the middle of our rescue op, and you, Commander Ponds, and the General all ended up inhaling enough of it to get chemical burns in your lungs, along with carbon monoxide poisoning and a bunch of other nasty things. That’s why you are not allowed to speak sir, your throat and lungs are still healing.” 

 

Rex isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or cry. In his mental list of Worst Natborns He’s Ever Had The Displeasure Of Working With, he’s not sure who ranks higher, Chairman Cho or the Dugs. 

 

Chairman Cho was a belligerent and demeaning man, but at least he had been in the thick of it, at least he had paid for his actions with his life (even if it also cost the lives of his personal guard and several of Rex’s brothers). At least against the Talz, Rex had a chance to fight back, unfair and hopelessly outmatched as the whole situation was. What the Dugs had done, on the other hand… it was not done out of ignorance. Not when they had to have known that the Jedi were coordinating a rescue and recovery effort. No, Rex’s gut told him the Dugs had known exactly what they were doing when they gassed the sinkhole. They just didn’t care that there were clones down there—that a Jedi General was down there. 

 

Emotions are twisting through his chest like shrapnel. Rex had fought so hard against Balaam to survive, to keep Skywalker and Ponds alive. And it almost hadn’t mattered. They were betrayed by the very people whose planet they had been defending—the very people who his brothers had been dying and risking their lives to protect. He feels sick. 

 

Rex frowns down at his hands, clenched into white fists. If short term exposure to that gas did this to him, how much worse is it for the Zillo Beast? Is Balaam still alive? The continuing dreams imply he does. What will happen to the Zillo, now that he has been discovered? What is left for a creature that has nothing, whose source of rage is their own despair? 

 

Even if Balaam was trying to kill him and his brothers, Rex can’t bring himself to feel anything but sorrow for the Zillo Beast. They are both warriors, if nothing else. Balaam deserves honor where it can be given. If he is to die, he should die in a way befitting his spirit, not trapped and defenseless in a hole, blind and slowly suffocating, burning from the inside. He should not die being brutally murdered as the rest of his race was. Hesitantly, he writes:

 

Balaam?

 

“Is that one of the Vode, sir?” Belatedly, Rex realizes that of course Kix wouldn’t recognize the name. 

 

The Zillo Beast

 

“You mean the creature in the sinkhole?” Rex nods. “It has a name?” Kix looks at Rex intently, understanding slowly overcoming his face. “Holy kriff, did you find a way to directly communicate with it?” Rex nods again. Kix groans and scrubs his face with his hands. “Of course you did. Why am I even surprised? What did it say?”

 

Last one left. 

Name is Balaam. 

Dugs=poison rats?

Wanted to kill me (speck). Rex summarizes.

 

Kix stares at it for a long moment, breathing deeply. “Sounds about right,” the medic murmurs. “Last I heard, it was still alive. General Windu got the Dugs to stop gassing the sinkhole until the treaty negotiations are done and signed. I also heard that General Kenobi is going to be joining negotiations. Something about making them a deal they can’t refuse, though I don’t think that was meant in a way that would be beneficial for the Dugs.” Despite himself, Rex grins. If Kenobi is getting in on the negotiations, it certainly will not be in the Dugs’ favor. 

 

He’s relieved that the gassing has stopped. That the Jetti have stepped in to handle the Dugs and stop their treatment of Balaam. Hopefully this Sith’s-hell of a campaign will be over soon. 

 

Maybe then the dreams will end. 

 


 

When he sleeps, he’s a cadet again, with lanky limbs and the constant tightness of hunger in his stomach. His knee flares with throbbing fire, and he knows, even before his eyes open, that he is in the Med Bay on Kamino. It always starts with darkness, with the soft beeps of machines and the restless rustling of thin sheets. He can hear his own breath, slightly hitching with pain. 

 

This dream is not new. Or perhaps, dream is not the right word. It is a Vision—a harbinger. It is a glimpse ahead of the path he is walking. This was the first, and it clings to him now like a persistent ache. Some of the older vets talk about rain—how they can feel it coming by the stiffness in their knees. Clover knows the ways the hammer will strike by his dreams. 

 

(Luk’ie says these Visions are gifts, but how can they be—what good is knowledge of everything he cannot save?)

 

He’s never had Visions repeat before. But now Clover has been living this night like a mantra. Like a march that never ends. It torments him, leaves his spine and arms buzzing with restless anxiety, like his bones want to jump from his skin. It makes him see ghosts.

 

Everything he sees now has already happened. There is no salvation here. The actors of this scene have already played their tragic parts—the hero has already been executed. The Visions are warnings of what will come—why then, does the past haunt him? Why does it scream like a storm siren? 

 

Clover fears that he will only know the answer the moment it is too late.

 

The Vision pulls him in, anchoring all of his senses to it. 

 

He’s a cadet again, with lanky limbs and the constant tightness of hunger in his stomach. His knee flares with throbbing fire, and he knows, even before his eyes open, that he is in the Med Bay on Kamino. He’s lying in the darkness, nostrils crinkling against the sharp scent of antiseptic, listening to the soft beeps of machines and the restless rustling of thin sheets. He can hear his own breath, slightly hitching with pain. He can hear ’99 snoring softly next to him. 

 

It’s the middle of the night cycle. The Med Bay is empty, and he can’t sleep because of the agony in his knee. He hears the rustling of sheets, the creak of a cot, the quiet slap of bare feet against hard flooring. Clover’s eyes crack open to see ’67 hovering, staring down at him.  

 

’67 doesn’t say anything, just looks at him with a quiet despair. 

 

Everyone had known who ’67 was. He was the prodigy. The pariah. His blonde hair stood out like a crown of gold. He carried himself like a king. He was treated like a thief. Clover had seen the scars on ’67’s back, almost hidden under fresh lacerations. No squad wanted him—vode who can’t keep a squad are bad news. Any of the squads who had dealt with him said that he was quiet, didn’t talk much unless they were in sims—then he barked orders like he was the SL. He disappeared, sometimes for rotations, only to show back up never uttering a hint of an explanation or apology. He trained even during downtime, and when he was not training he was studying. He brought trouble like lightning brings thunder. 

 

The longnecks always had their eyes on him.

 

Only some of the members of Mesh squad seemed to actually like him. They said he probably saved their whole squad from reconditioning or decommissioning, that he was a good teacher. Patient, kind. But it is the word of one squad against dozens, and what did Mesh squad know when they had been the bottom ranking squad until just recently?

 

Neither of them say anything. After all, what is there to say when you have failed your teammate? 

 

Clover hadn’t wanted him. No one could replace Boxer—his twin, his Brother among brothers. It was an insult, to take his brother and put a scrawny blonde mutant in his place. He had vowed to himself that ’67 would regret being transferred to Grit, that he would regret ruining the good thing they’d had. After all, that first sparring session was enough proof to confirm his suspicions—’67 didn’t belong there. He fought different, he had no qualms about embarrassing their SL on his first day. He was what the rumors said he was. A thief masquerading as a king. 

 

But the next day, it became clear that throwing ’73 the way he did cost him. He walked, stiff and sluggish, pain flashing through his eyes and across his face when he didn’t think anyone was looking. Clover ignored it. After all, why should he care if the mutie upstart hurt himself showing off? Why should he care if the fool tries to hide it and gets himself reassigned again? 

 

After all, ’67 was the reason Grit was falling apart. ’67 was trying to replace Boxer. 

 

'67 was the problem. 

 

Then the Visions came to him for the first time. Clover dreamed of the Med Bay, of pain, ’67 looking at him with the face of one who knows he is marked for death, full of despair and resignation and quiet rage. The very next day Clover pulled ’67 aside, warned him to get his shoulder checked out and not to fall behind. ’67 shook his head, something unrecognizable in his gaze. He did not get his shoulder checked out. Clover washed his hands of it. 

 

Back then, he hadn’t understood why ’67 didn’t just go to the Med Bay. It took his death for Clover to understand. The other Vode didn’t like ’67 because he drew the Kaminoan’s eyes—those eyes constantly bore down on ’67 like a lead weight. In their eyes, injury was weakness. ’67 could not afford weakness. 

 

Then the training sim happened, and too late Clover realized that his perception of ’67 was very, very wrong.

 

The pain in his knee was familiar. He knew then, what the dream meant. ’67 was going to die. 

 

And it was his fault. 

 

Clover had never given ’67 a chance. No one had given ’67 a chance. And ’67 had just accepted it, without complaint, without anger. In the Med Bay, he pleaded with ’73 to let ’67 stay, to save his life. But ’73 would not be swayed. And Clover understood that ’73 had wanted the cadet gone the moment ’67 threw him outside of the training circle. 

 

He had been warned, and Clover had done nothing. 

 

That night, the dream lived. It played out like Clover had known it would. His knee hurt, keeping him awake and thinking about all the ways he had failed. He heard the rustling of sheets, the quiet slap of bare feet, and then ’67 appeared, his eyes full of despair. They seemed to glow, almost, in the darkness of the Med Bay. 

 

Gentle hands touched his knee. Clover hissed, expecting more pain. Instead, the sharp burning soothed. Against his will, he drifted off to sleep. 

 

In the morning, ’67 was gone. 

 

When he didn’t appear again, everyone agreed: ’67 had been decommissioned. Only Clover, Luk’ie, and some of Mesh Squad mourned. 

 

In a strange, horrible twist of fate, ’67s death had changed Clover’s life for the better. It gave him the courage to claim his name. It brought him closer to Luk’ie, the two of them becoming something more than squad-mates. They transferred out of Grit Squad, instead joining the three members of Mesh Squad to form Blond Squad. They graduated high in the rankings and with honors, getting recommended to High General Windu’s battalion. Jump, their SL from Blond Squad, got promoted to Captain and kept them all close. 

 

 When the sinkhole opened (as Clover had known it would) he had thought they were doomed. After all, he had known what was in there. He had known they were going to die to it. Just as they do not repeat, the Visions do not change. Until today. Against all hope, Captain Rex saved all of their lives.

 

The Dreams had turned. 

 

It has to mean something. And maybe Luk’ie is right—maybe Clover so desperately wants the Captain to be ’67 that he is willing to see things that aren’t there. Maybe he is willing to take a ghost and turn it into a war hero, into their own personal savior, like it would absolve Clover of his guilt. Like it would mean he hadn’t failed ’67 all those cycles ago. 

 

But until the sinkhole, the Visions were never wrong. There has to be a reason ‘67s's face keeps coming back to haunt him, why Captain Rex had felt so familiar when he snapped orders. 

 

Why lately he has been dreaming of three deaths: One by fire, one by water, one by fever. 

 

He can’t help but feel that Captain Rex is the center of all of this. That the Visions won’t end until he confronts the Captain and lays his ghosts to rest. 

 


 

Ponds karking knew it. 

 

He was karking right, and if he had hair, it would be turning very, very grey right now. 

 

Rex is a Jetti. Sith’s balls, their little Rex’ika is a kriffing Jetti. The brat CT his squad adopted all those cycles ago is a kriffing Jetti with kriffing Jetti powers. 

 

He karking knew he had seen those blue eyes before. Fox and Wolffe might have been the ones to see Rex and Kote get flung into the ocean, but Ponds had been the one to find them soaking wet in an empty hallway, collapsed on top of each other, but alive against all hope. There had been blood everywhere—on the floor, on Rex’s hands and cheeks, on Kote’s face—but underneath all of the blood, Kote had a new scar trailing around his left eye instead of an open wound. 

 

Rex, face alarmingly gray, had opened his eyes when Ponds shook him, and they had been as blue as the ocean he was supposed to be dead in. Rex had passed out again not even a moment later, but Ponds knew what he had seen in that sliver of a second. 

 

Wolffe and Fox had still been crying wrecks when Ponds raced back to the barracks. Bly instead had been quiet, retreating completely inward. He’s sure now that they had all thought him mad with denial, with grief. Ponds would have thought the same. After all, no vod should have been able to climb their way out of the ocean. 

 

Ponds had never seen the Kaminoans look so afraid as they did when the Shebse dragged their teammates into the Med Bay. Even now, the memory brings a malicious smile to his face. 

 

As strange as the whole event was, Ponds never spoke a word to his brothers about what he had seen. Rex and Kote didn’t seem to remember anything themselves, and the others were just relieved that their ori’vod and vod’ika weren’t dead. If Fox and Wolffe had any suspicions of their own, they never said anything. 

 

For a long time, Ponds told himself that his silence was protecting Rex. If his vod’ika was a mess about his hair being different, he couldn’t imagine Rex’s reaction to knowing what Ponds had seen. After all, what clone can heal others with a touch? If the Kaminoans had found out about it, Rex’s life would have been forfeit no matter how good he was with a blaster. Even then, Ponds hadn’t understood the full implications of what he had seen until he was assigned to General Windu and saw The Force in action. The first time General Windu used The Force, Ponds had known exactly what it was Rex had done. He thanked the available gods every rotation that his young CC-cadet self had kept his mouth shut. 

 

Deep down, he had hoped that Rex’s miraculous stunt had been a one-time thing. General Windu always said that everyone had a little bit of The Force inside them, that anyone could call on The Force if they were desperate enough. 

 

Then he heard about Valtameri, and that hope had gone out the window. Rex’ika’s eyes were blue again, impossible to ignore. Rex’s medics had said they were blue from precise head trauma and stress, but Ponds knew otherwise. There was no way this was a coincidence. 

 

And now, with what he had seen in the sinkhole, the truth is undeniable: Rex is a karking Jetti. 

 

All things considered, it is miraculous that they got out of there alive. That the worst Ponds has to show for that karking nightmare is a broken collarbone and some chemical burns. 

 

Ponds wishes he could go to Windu about this. His General listens to him, and always has good advice (and good alcohol, not the absolute bantha-piss some of his men try to ferment). He has no idea how his General would react. They were created for the Jetti, and wasn’t it the Jetti who didn’t want the clones to be Force-sensitive? General Windu is not often a man moved by anger, but Ponds can’t bear to be on the receiving end of it. But even worse than his General’s anger, he fears what would happen to Rex’ika if the Jetti found out. Would they send him back to Kamino? Would they take him away, hidden where Ponds will never see him again? Jetti aren’t supposed to have attachments—would the Jetti force Rex to become one of them, to surrender his brothers? 

 

Once again, Ponds takes a vow of silence. He is not going to be the one to tell the Jetti. Even if it means lying to his General, even if it means his own death. Rex’ika and the Shebse will always be his first priority. After all, they are the closest thing to family Ponds has ever had. 

 

Rex’ika, on the other hand, is never going to hear the end of this. Ponds is already planning the lecture in his head. 

 


 

Rex needs to find Ponds, needs to see with his own eyes that his ori’vod is okay. He bites his lip to stifle the groan that wants to escape his mouth—Force Exhaustions sucks. His ankle being so badly sprained doesn’t help things either. 

 

Once Kix is finally dragged off to sleep by some other medic, Rex makes his move. Quietly, he limps out from behind the curtains. The med tent is massive, rows and rows of cots stretching out into the darkness. This late into the night cycle most Vode are sleeping, with some nightshift junior medics on call if something happens. They will be making rounds on the hour to do concussion checks and distribute painkillers, so Rex still has some time. Any Vode with critical injuries have already been evac’d up to the cruisers, where senior medics like Coric can treat their injuries in relative safety. Kix and Hale in turn are dirt-side to assist the junior medics in case of emergency. 

 

There are benefits to being Captain, Rex decides. Like getting to know how the medics work so he can avoid them. 

 

On his way to searching out his ori’vod, however, he comes across a vod who feels vaguely familiar. Rex takes a moment to lean over, trying to get a better view. He still can’t place the vod, but something in the back of his mind is itching, waiting to be acknowledged. The clone has slightly-longer than regulation hair on top, letting curls take shape while keeping the sides shaved. A four-leafed clover is tattooed on his right cheek and bandages wrap around his forehead. 

 

The deja-vu is killing him. He should know this brother. Rex searches his memories. By the Force-signature, he knows this is one of the vode who had been down in the sinkhole before Skywalker showed up. One of the boys in Jump’s platoon that had run to help him.

 

Clover. When he had gotten hurt, the other vod had screamed his name. Rex had pushed them both to safety. Now that he isn’t in a life-or-death situation, now that he has time to think, Rex knows exactly who this vod is. CT-4932. Clover. Grit Squad. And the other had been Luk’ie. 

 

The shock makes him feel like he is unravelling. 

 

He had never thought he would see any of his old squad-mates again. He had never even thought to look and see where they ended up (he only knows that ’73 goes by Staunch because the vod had tried to transfer into the 501st and Rex rejected it without second thought). They had been part of ‘67s life. He had let them go when he joined Squad Shebse and claimed his name. 

 

Why is his past haunting him now?

 

Then Clover’s eyes open, and they are left staring at each other in silence. The moment stretches out like an eternity, and Rex distantly notes the familiarity of it. The last time he had seen Clover it had been nighttime in a Med Bay, just like this. 

 

“’67?” Clover whispers, his voice so quiet Rex can hardly hear it. The Force ebbs up between them, Clover’s mind brushing against his own. Rex reels back, biting back a hiss at how sore he is. 

 

Clover continues to stare at the ceiling, and Rex wonders if his old squad-mate is truly awake. If he is aware of what he just did. 

 

“‘M sorry,” Clover breathes. “Don’t hate me, m’ sorry.” 

 

“Clover,” Rex’s throat burns at the abuse of speaking. He knows Kix is going to kill him for this. “I don’t hate you,” Rex promises, unsure if his words are audible. He has zero good memories of the week he spent in Grit, but he doesn’t have it in him to hate Clover. Not really. 

 

“I killed you,” Clover whispers. The way his eyes are slightly glazed, Rex doesn’t think Clover really sees him. “I killed you,” Clover repeats. Rex doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t know that he could speak again even if he wanted to. 

 

So instead, he does the cowardly thing and retreats. 

 

When he finally finds Ponds, he simply crawls onto the cot with his ori’vod, curling into his side. Ponds, still asleep, wraps his good arm around him in a protective hug. There, in the darkness where no one can see him, Rex lets himself be ‘67. Tears stream down his face, memories all washing through him like waves. ’67 mourns for a long time. 

 


 

When he hears from one of the Junior medics that Rex was found out of his cot last night, on the clear other side of the Med tent and without so much as a cane, Kix is pissed. He marches straight through the curtained section, lecture already building on his lips. He had thought, wistfully perhaps, that Rex had finally learned to let himself rest and recover. If Valtameri had taught anyone anything, it should have been to listen to the karking medics the first time. 

 

Rex certainly looks like he didn’t sleep last night. 

 

“What the kriff were you thinking, traipsing across the med tent last night with your ankle like that?” Kix seethes. The Captain doesn’t even glance at him. Instead of the smart retort he expected, Rex says nothing, just looks at his hands curled loosely in his lap. Immediately, Kix’s medic senses are on full alert. Rex always has something snarky to say. Always. Unless he is trying to puke up his guts or otherwise in the middle of actively dying. Something is wrong if Rex is not fighting him on this. 

 

Rex’s strangely reticent behavior snaps Kix right out of lecture mode and into medic mode. 

 

“Are you feeling ill? Is your throat bothering you more than usual? Do you have knots in your muscles?” He presses his hand against Rex’s forehead. Rex lets him. The Captain is slightly feverish, which Kix chalks up to the newest bout of Force Exhaustion, but it's not nearly as bad as it was when they flew Rex to Coruscant, so Kix isn’t worried yet. 

 

The burns also look better, though the ones on the inside of his throat are probably still tender and sore. Maybe the pain is enough to finally deter him from giving a verbal response. That is a horrible thought. 

 

Kix shoves a datapad into his Captain’s hands, prompting him to give some sort of response. Rex looks at him blankly, his eyes staring right through the medic, heavy with exhaustion. 

 

Alarms are screaming in Kix’s head. Not even the news that Rex had been poisoned by their supposed allies had made him act withdrawn like this. 

 

“Is it Balaam? Did something happen? Can you feel him right now?” Rex’s eyes finally lock onto Kix. He shakes his head no, and immediately goes back to being zoned out. 

 

“Do you need pain relief?” No response. 

 

Kix sucks in a breath through his teeth. Whatever is going on, it seems to be mental. Kix is not equipped to deal with this. Normally, he would get Cody, but the Marshall Commander is likely busy handling the 212th while Obi-wan is locked in negotiations with Windu and the Dugs. 

 

Rex had been found curled up with Ponds this morning. Maybe the Commander has an idea of how to help. Kix hates dragging patients into messes while they are supposed to be recovering, but this seems important. 

 

“Rex, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong,” he tries.

 

When there’s no answer, he reaches his hand towards his wrist comm. 

 

“It’s my squad-mates,” Rex finally murmurs. His voice sounds pretty shredded still, but Kix decides that getting an answer is more important than stopping his Captain from abusing his throat. 

 

“Did something happen? Well, I know Ponds is hurt, but are Bly and Wolffe okay?” Kix tries to remember which of the Shebse are currently deployed. 

 

The Captain shakes his head. “Not them,” he rasps. Kix feels something cold in his stomach. 

 

Rex does not talk about about Kamino. Kix knows better than to ask. 

 

“Your squad-mates?” Kix finally asks. 

 

“Two of them,” Rex still refuses to make eye contact. “From before—“ his voice breaks, crumpling on the word. “Before the Shebse found me.” 

 

“Who am I fighting?” Kix starts to roll up his sleeves. While he knows painfully little about Rex’s past, the scars on his back speak for themselves, and Kix’ll deck anyone who makes his Captain shrink in on himself just from their presence. 

 

Rex shakes his head again. “They think I’m dead. By all accounts, I should be,” That cold feeling in Kix’s stomach grows, branching up through his whole chest. He grips the Captain’s shoulders. 

 

“Rex, you know that’s not true,” Kix says softly. Rex still won’t meet his eyes. Karking hell. Kix isn’t good at emotions. This is suddenly very foreign territory.

 

“Were you ever on the Post, Kix?” Rex glances up at Kix, something fragile in his eyes. 

 

“Once. One rotation, ten lashes.” It was not a pleasant memory. 

 

Rex stares at his hands again, mindlessly tapping his fingers together. “I lost count of how many times I ended up on that karking thing. I only know the worst one was three rotations, 30 lashes, electric whip, in place of decommissioning.” Kix can feel nothing but horror. 

 

“Were they trying to kill you?” Kix hisses. Kix has never heard of a vod getting over ten lashes, especially if they are on the Post for over a rotation. Rex only gives him a blank look in response. Something like realization clicks in his head, and dread fills his stomach. “Holy kark, you’re the vod who was rumored to have died on the Post.” 

 

Rex nods, and Kix wants to throw up. “I almost did. If I didn’t have The Force, I never would have made it off of Kamino,” Rex admits softly. 

 

Kix sits down next to Rex, burying his ori’vod into a tight hug. They don’t say anything for a long time. Kix almost thinks Rex managed to fall asleep when the Captain starts to pull away. 

 

“Your squad-mates. Do you… want them to know you are alive?” Kix offers. 

 

“I don’t know if I can face them,” he admits. His blue eyes finally meet Kix’s and stay there. “They—“ Rex’s face crumples with grief. “I only spent a week with them. I don’t have any good memories of that time.” 

 

“I’m going to fight them,” Kix declares. “Give me their names and numbers.” 

 

“Kix, no—“ Rex coughs, his voice finally giving up. 

 

Kix punches in Hale’s comm code. 

 

“Hale. What?,” the CMO answers. 

 

“Hale, this is Kix. I need to request a favor. Would you mind giving me—hey!” 

 

Abruptly, Rex stands, stumbling across the small room and out the curtains serving as doors. 

 

“Kix, you still there?” Hale’s voice crackles. 

 

“Kriff me, just a sec,” without further explanation Kix hangs up and goes after his wayward Captain. 

 


 

When Luk’ie next manages to sneak into the Med tent, Clover is awake, a pensive look on his face. 

 

“I think Captain Rex visited me last night,” Clover says, like one would offhandedly mention catching up with a vod over first-meal. Luk’ie blinks. 

 

“Did he say anything?” Clover grimaces. 

 

“I had a pretty bad migraine, so I wasn’t all there. I think I called him ’67,” Clover admits. He scrubs his hands over his face. Luk’ie winces in sympathy. “If he said anything in response, I didn’t hear it. But, you were right. It’s not him.” 

 

“I’m sorry,” Luk’ie cards his fingers through his riduur’s fluffy hair. He can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment himself. The dark circles under his cyare’s eyes are a good sign that he hadn’t gotten much sleep last night. Clover’s eyes flutter as he leans into the touch. 

 

“Don’t be. I was foolish. I made myself see what I wanted to see,” despite his words, Clover does not meet his eyes. Maybe it had been foolish, but Luk’ie had found himself following the same train of thought, trying to make a dead cadet live again. Despite all logic, despite all rational knowledge that ’67 was long gone, Luk’ie wanted to believe he was alive. 

 

“Did you know the Captain’s eyes are blue?” Clover murmurs, about to drift off to sleep. “That’s why it can’t be him,” Luk’ie leans down to kiss his forehead. Luk’ie is pretty sure the Captain’s eyes are brown, but he indulges his riduur just this once. 

 

“Captain Rex, get back here!” The Torrent CMO shouts. Luk’ie looks up to see Captain Rex hobbling towards the main entrance, the harried medic chasing after him. They glance at each other uncertainly. When it becomes clear that something interesting is going on Luk’ie helps Clover sit up. All the other vode are watching everything unfold with undisguised curiosity. 

 

The Captain stops at the entrance of the tent. 

 

“Rex, what the kriff—“ the medic must see something out there, because he freezes. “Holy kark!” 

 

A bunch of vode get up, hobbling and limping towards the entrance to see for themselves. Luk’ie grabs Clover, keeping a steadying hand on his arm. 

 

Right at the entrance of the Med tent the ground is starting to slant noticeably downwards. 

 


 

A sinkhole is forming right outside the Med tent. 

 

“Get back!” Kix orders. Soon all the medics and anyone able-bodied enough are rushing to get bed-bound patients to the back of the tent. A few minutes later there is a loud rumbling outside as the ground starts to cave in at their doorstep. For one terrifying moment, Kix thinks it’s not going to stop—that they are all about to be dragged in. Thankfully, the sinkhole ends just past the entrance to the tent, only swallowing the first few rows. Dust is thick and heavy, and Kix worries about his Captain’s lungs. Speaking of which—

 

Kix grabs Rex before his di’kut of a Captain can get any closer to the edge. Rex sinks to his knees, clutching his head. Sweat breaks out on the Captain’s forehead and he groans. Kix kneels next to him, placing a hand to his burning forehead. 

 

A cloaked figure flickers on a hologram. The smug face of Doge Urus flickers in the the light. 

 

“It is a pleasure continuing business with you, Count. I am certain our fuel reserves will help ensure a Separatist Victory." 

 

“As you say, Doge Urus,” Dooku dismisses cooly. “I only worry you will not keep your end of the bargain. If I am to waste so much of my time and resources staging an invasion of Malastare to hide this ruse, I want a dead Jedi out of this.”

 

“I have just received word that Skywalker and Windu are on their way,” Doge Urus assures. 

 

“Not Kenobi?” Dooku strokes his beard and hums. “Very well. Take out Windu, but leave Skywalker for me.” 

 

“Clover!” Kix blinks his vision back to normal. There’s a vod with bandages around his head also on his knees, throwing up the contents of his stomach. A bunch of medics move to swarm the poor vod. Beside him, Rex is breathing heavily, sweat dripping down his face. Rex forces his way back onto his feet, only swaying slightly. 

 

“Rex, what are you doing?” Kix hisses, already sensing that it is going to be something stupid. 

 

“We need to warn the Jetti.” Kix tries not to jump at the sudden intrusion of Rex’s voice in his head. 

 

"Should you be doing this right now?" Rex gives him a pointed look. 

 

“And how are “we” going to explain where we got our intel?” Kix thinks back. “You need credible evidence. The Republic is not going to stop negotiations for fuel when we need it to keep the GAR running.” 

 

Rex shrugs him off, trying to limp away again, but there’s nowhere to go and his ankle still obviously bothers him. “Tape me up, splint it, do whatever you need to so I can walk on this damn thing. I’m going to the Palace to look for evidence. There’s got to be financial records or something.”

 

“Rex, I am not clearing you for active duty with your ankle like that. You are going to sit your shebs down and let someone else handle this.” 

 

“You and I are the only people who know about this,” Rex reminds him impatiently. “It has to be us. Maybe Skywalker.” Kix does not want to involve Skywalker in on this. The General has a massive concussion right now, and his eyes are still incredibly sensitive to light. In fact, Skywalker is over in the corner throwing up his guts. Rex and Kix watch and wince in sympathy. 

 

“What about Echo?” Kix suggests instead. “He’s an ARC, and he knows about your relationship with The Force.” 

 

Rex nods, finally accepting some common sense. “I’m still going, with or without your help,” the Captain helpfully informs him. Or maybe not. Kix scowls. 

 

“Fine. But you are wearing tape and a splint, and you are going to take a cane with you for good measure. I’m coming with you to ensure nothing too reckless happens. And if I tell you we’re done, we’re done.” 

 

“Okay,” Rex agrees. 

 

The sound of gunships fill the air. One hovers right at the entrance to the tent. Echo and Span hop inside, scanning the tent as more clones make their way in. 

 

“You are all being evacuated to the Palace,” Echo informs the masses. “From there, we are going to start sending vode back to the cruisers.” 

 

As medics start to direct the stream of vode onto the gunships, Kix grabs Echo’s shoulder, pulling the young ARC aside. “Echo, we have a problem.”

 


 

The Palace is massive. Sneaking away from the loading bay is incredibly easy, given the number of Vode crowded off to the sides as transports shuffled in and out of the hangar. Rex hopes the Jetti won’t be too mad that they snuck off. It will take hours for all the Vode to get transported back to the Venators, so they should have some time. 

 

The Force won’t leave him alone. It keeps prodding at his shields, trying to show him something. Rex is still feeling his last bout of Force Exhaustion. He does not need to be any more sore than he already is, thank you very much. 

 

The deeper they get into the Palace, the more Rex starts to think this was a bad idea. He’s exhausted, physically and mentally and emotionally, his ankle karking hurts, and he’s getting what is either a migraine or an awful tension headache. Really, he just wants to lay down in a dark room for a month. 

 

But something big is going on, enough that The Force is prodding him to act. Even if it wasn’t, Rex couldn’t let himself stand aside and do nothing knowing that Dooku is somehow involved with the Dugs. The Dugs, who are supposed to be full members of the Republic. Who they were just protecting from the threat of invasion. 

 

Look, Little One. Look The Force prods, sending a sharp spike of pain through his head. 

 

Rex stops in front of the door, making the signs for Scout ahead. The door in question is large and ornate, but so is every other door they have come across. His HUD picks up writing on the door in ancient Malastarian but it can’t translate, which is disappointing. Based off the schematics Echo managed to pull, they are somewhere near the direct center of the Palace. Even though the whole building is like one massive city, there is no one this deep in. The dust on the floor suggests that this place has been undisturbed for quite some time. It’s like they are in an abandoned palace inside the Palace. 

 

The door is locked. Of course it is. Echo kneels down with his lock picks and gets to work. The door is old enough that the locks aren’t mechanized or connected to a computer, which makes the job harder. Once the lock picks snap and Echo starts to curse, Rex puts a hand over the lock and concentrates. A moment later the grinding and snapping of metal can be heard as the locks disengage. 

 

“That’s incredibly useful,” Echo murmurs appreciatively. He should have tried to do that sooner. The doors were so old the metal locks had rusted together. Rex shrugs and signs a quick apology. 

 

He wonders why The Force lead them here when it is clear this room won’t have the records they are looking for. They need something a little more recent than some artifacts from five millennia ago, or whenever this place was last visited. Unfortunately, Rex has a headache to prove that The Force is very persistent that they come here first. 

 

The dust is thick in the air, and it makes Rex’s throat burn and squeeze, his eyes watering. Echo turns on his helmet lights, Kix and Rex following suit a moment later. 

 

The room is very ornately decorated, with colorful red and purple tapestries and thick rugs. Artifacts and sculptured artworks are kept on pedestals, protected by grimy translucent boxes and sectioned off by velvet ribbons. 

 

In the center of the room is a massive, rotting corpse of a Zillo Beast, held together by a metal stand and several thin strings that suspend it from the ceiling. Chunks of decaying flesh hang off of white bone, a pile of scales scattered across the floor. Mold spreads out in a circle from the corpse’s feet, looking almost like a wave rippling across the carpet. Rex gags, the stench almost unbearable. His abused throat pulls and burns at the motion, along with his stomach. 

 

“I think this was preserved at some point, but the chemicals must be degrading,” Echo speculates, seemingly able to ignore the smell. Rex envies him. 

 

He’s been in swamps that smelled better than this. Kark, Jar Jar Binks smells better than this. 

 

“Captain,” Kix has already pushed his way much deeper into the room, long desensitized to awful sights and smells. “I think this used to be a museum.” It would make sense. The art, the artifacts, the massive corpse in the center, placed there like some sick trophy. Though why the Dugs apparently forgot its existence is beyond him. 

 

Why did The Force bring them here?

 

Here, Little One. Here. The Force unhelpfully prods again. Deciding that he’ll know it when he sees it, Rex starts to look at the different “exhibits.” Most of them are clearly artworks, many of them crafted by metal workers or made with precious gems and expensive paints on wooden-frame canvases. It makes sense for a people with a history of mining, of luxury and wealth. Many of the paintings and tapestries are also rotting, now that he can see everything up close. Finally, near the back of the massive room, The Force starts prodding incessantly, making his headache flare. A box, much larger than the others, sits behind a ribbon. Behind it, a massive, decrepit tapestry of a Zillo Beast stares down at him. He leans closer to try and see through the clear material, grimy from age. The glare from his helmet lights does not help. 

 

After a few moments of trying and failing to see into the box, Rex sighs, takes a cleaning cloth from his belt, and starts scrubbing until he has a decent window. 

 

Inside the glass are at least a dozen objects stacked on top of each other. They all have the same distinctly round shape, slightly larger than a bolo-ball and tapered at one end. They are all the same dusty, white-speckled brown, the color reminiscent of Balaam's scales. 

 

Rex suddenly understands exactly what it is he is looking at. 

 

Look, Little One. Look closer. The Force encourages. 

 

Carefully, Rex extends his senses the way Anakin taught him. He can feel Kix and Echo still wandering around the museum behind him, their presence in The Force radiating curiosity and apprehension. In front of him he can feel little sparks of life curling around like nebulae. 

 

Rex sinks to his knees. 

 


 

The Sacred One is wailing as she falls apart. Balaam can feel the tremors in the earth, smell the large plumes of dust and dirt tossed into the air. The roar of gunships buzzing, machines draining Her dry like a ritual bloodletting that never ends. In Balaam’s childhood, the Sacred One would sing with the Zillo. They learned the songs from Her. Now she whimpers and groans, sick and on the verge of collapse. Balaam hates himself for letting the suffering extend this deep. 

 

Death and Wrath, the Speck had threatened. As if Balaam hadn’t lived with both like old friends. Death and Wrath and Self Loathing. Speck was such a small creature, about as big as his own teeth. And yet, it had a warrior's bearing. Balaam would even say it had proven itself a worthy opponent (not an equal—the Speck had only done half the work of blinding him, had retreated when given the chance—but it had lasted longer than it had any right to and therefore was worthy of Balaam’s respect all the same.) It showed him dreams of a life made for death. It showed him aloneness while surrounded by others with its face. A life without songs, without feasts, without children or mates. A life with nothing but loss. A purpose that was not chosen for itself. The Speck has lived a short, miserable life. Balaam almost pities it. 

 

The Mother of Gifts clings to it, coddles the Speck like it hadn’t Aine. The Mother of Gifts had not spared his daughter, had not saved her from a cruel end. She had died afraid, blood draining over his scales and into the dirt, her last desperate moments spent hiding under the feet of her murderers like it would save her. 

 

And now, with nothing left for him but death, Balaam waited for it. Blinded, exiled, and without purpose, he stayed in the sinkhole, waiting for the poison-rats to come for him as well. He would kill as many of them as he could, would go down fighting like a warrior should. 

 

Balaam, The Mother of Gifts sends me to you as a messenger, the Speck declares. Balaam sniffs the air, but the wind carries no scent of poison-rat or speck. There is no one there. Coward. This is the day the dreams turn.

 

In his mind’s eye, Balaam sees fifteen eggs, all bursting with life, all singing the song of Victory. 

 

Balaam is not the last. He is not the end of his race. All these centuries in exile, and there had been scions of the Zillo in the hands of the poison-rats. 

 

The poison-rats should have killed him when they had the chance.

 

Balaam has lived a life of shame. He has hidden in the dirt like a coward. He has at times forgotten the smell of the wind, the warmth of the sun, the feel of speech on his tongue. Balaam had almost forgotten thought, had almost given himself over to the starless night. 

 

He will not forget again. He will not be driven to exile in the dirt. The poison-rats have what is his, and they will regret ever daring to take something so precious. 

 

Now, he can feel The Mother of Gifts surging through his veins—Aine’s final gift to him. His bones are young again, his sight restored with his purpose. Balaam will live up to his name, he will destroy the poison-rats who desecrated his people, who stole the heirs of the Zillo. 

 

Soon, all the poison rats will know and fear his name.

 


 

In all fairness, General Skywalker approaches them first. 

 

After getting evac'd to the Palace, the General stumbles over to them, gives them a look up and down, and then asks for their names. His voice is incredibly rough, and Clover has to hold back a wince in sympathy for the man. 

 

“Lieutenant Clover, sir,” Clover salutes. 

 

“Corporal Luk’ie, sir.”

 

The General gets a strange look on his face. “I’ve heard your names before. Have we met?” Clover glances at Luk’ie, who looks just as confused. 

 

“Not officially, sir, but you rescued us down in the sinkhole, and Corporal Luk’ie was part of the second rescue team.” Clover answers. 

 

“That can’t be right. I’m sure I’ve met you both somewhere else before,” Skywalker frowns, and for a moment Clover is afraid he offended the man. From what Clover has heard of General Skywalker, he is unpredictable. A good General, certainly, but also as reckless and impulsive as he is brave and powerful. According to Luk’ie, he had leapt out of the gunship after the Captain and Commander without second thought. He had told the pilot to keep flying and then jumped. Either he was incredibly brave, or he was incredibly stupid, and Clover didn’t know how to go about this conversation with a Jetti whose moves he can’t predict. 

 

“Maybe you know Rex?” Skywalker has an intense look of concentration on his face. Clover almost laughs. Every vod certainly knows of Captain Rex. But Clover hadn’t really met him until they were under the feet of the Zillo Beast. And all Clover did then was get himself concussed. They haven’t had a single conversation (and yet, something about him is achingly familiar). 

 

“Unfortunately not, sir,” Clover finally manages. 

 

He is almost ashamed that he ever thought Captain Rex could be ’67. Clover can feel something brush against his mind, and he instinctively pulls back. Skywalker’s eyes turn fully towards him. Clover feels stripped naked. It is an incredibly unsettling feeling. 

 

“Captain Rex saved our lives down there, General,” Luk’ie saves Clover from needing to respond. “If you know where he is, we would like to thank him.” 

 

Luk’ie has admired Captain Rex since he earned his Jaig Eyes at Geonosis, gathering all the stories he can, telling them to any Vode who will listen. Now that the Captain has saved their lives, stars practically sparkle in his riduur’s eyes at the mere mention of Captain Rex. Clover can’t even imagine the impact a conversation would have, much less some sort of friendship or camaraderie.

 

Skywalker blinks, closes his eyes for a moment, frowns. “I don’t actually know where he is at the moment, but I’ll let him know you are looking for him when I see him,” the General promises. “Are you sure we have never met before? Your names are familiar.” 

 

Clover wants to nope out of this conversation. He has no idea why General Skywalker thinks they have met before this campaign. He may be fairly new to the 187th, but Clover has learned that staying away from Jedi is the best way to hide his gift. They always seem to stare right through him, like suddenly he’s something interesting. 

 

“Clover, Luk’ie. Luk’ie, Clover,” the General mutters. He starts to massage his temples, like that will help him think. Suddenly he straightens, and wow, General Skywalker is really tall. He looks triumphant. “Kamino! What squad were you in?” 

 

“Blond Squad sir,” Luk’ie has taken over answering questions to keep Skywalker’s focus from Clover. He has never been more appreciative of his riduur. The General’s triumphant look fades. 

 

“Kriff, I could have thought you were the clones who—“ Skywalker winces and starts attacking his temples with his fingers again. Then he looks Clover dead in the eyes and says “are you aware you have The Force?”

 

Clover freezes, eyes wide. Luk’ie grips his hand tightly. Skywalker immediately picks up on their panic and his own eyes widen. “Kriff, I didn’t mean to say that out loud—we need to talk.” Skywalker grabs both of their hands, marching them outside of the hangar bay. 

 

Clover is dead. He is doomed. Just thinking he had strange dreams was bad enough—but The Force? The thing only Jetti are supposed to have? (He ignores the part of him that says it makes sense. The part of him that trembles with acknowledgment at the Jetti’s words)

 

“You are not in trouble,” the General says the moment they are out of earshot. “I’m guessing Master Windu doesn’t know?” Clover numbly nods. “Let’s keep it that way,” Skywalker orders. Clover can’t believe his ears. He isn’t being sent to Kamino? He isn’t being called defective or strange? Luk’ie’s hold on his hand is so tight the bones of his fingers are starting to grind together. 

 

“General Skywalker, I saw something. Something important. I didn’t know who to go to, because I would have sounded crazy but—“ Clover is only half aware of the words running out of his mouth. Only Luk’ie knows about his visions, and even then Clover doesn’t tell him everything. He’s never told anyone about what he’s seen in full detail, never tried to get anyone else to act on them. He’s only ever tried to do what he can from the sidelines. 

 

Maybe this is why the Visions have never changed. Because Clover has never been brave like this.

 

“I think the Dugs are working with the Separatists,” Clover whispers. It sounds ridiculous, because the Dugs just fought with them to hold off a massive invasion force, in what was probably the worst campaign Clover has experienced so far. They just fought together, and now they are signing a treaty to fuel the Republic’s armies, so how insane, how treasonous does Clover sound for so much as suggesting that the Dugs are not loyal members of the Republic? 

 

“Tell me what you saw Lieutenant,” Skywalker commands. Clover describes the vision in detail—Dooku and Doge Urus’ faces, the conversation they had, the plot to take out the Jetti. Skywalker listens. He does not interrupt, or call Clover crazy, but instead looks like he believes him. By the time he finishes, Clover feels like he has a weight off his chest. 

 

“Okay, I believe you,” Skywalker says the moment Clover is done. “I know the way to the Doge’s office. If there are going to be records of any financial transactions, they are likely to be there.”

 

Skywalker turns on his heel and starts striding down the hallway. Without second thought, Clover follows after him, Luk’ie on his heels. 

 


 

Windu wants nothing more than an alcoholic cup of caf and a long vacation far away from Malastare and even farther away from Skywalker and his Captain. 

 

Shatterpoints have been going off like fireworks, and Mace doesn’t think he has had a Force-related migraine this bad since the Wars started. Whatever those two are doing, they can’t be doing it from the Med tent where they are supposed to be. 

 

When the latest meeting finally takes a recess, he confidently strides out of the room to find a nice corner to cry in. He has several messages left on his wrist comm from Hale, and going through them only makes the desire to cry worse. Finding a window, he stares out at the Great Plain of Malastare. Several large sinkholes now dot the landscape, and he watches with morbid fascination as another opens up, spewing a geyser of dust and rock into the air as it collapses. 

 

Another shatterpoint breaks, and Windu curses as he leans his head against a cool durasteel beam as he literally watches everything fall apart outside. An enraged screech can be heard echoing in the distance. If Windu doesn’t look, maybe all of this will go away. 

 

He is never doing Ponds a favor ever again. It’s Kenobi’s job to babysit Skywalker, and now it’s going to be Commander Cody’s job to babysit Skywalker’s Captain. Even now, with his skull threatening to split itself in half, Windu knows damn well he is lying to himself. 

 

He needs to talk to Kenobi. There is no way negotiations for a treaty are going to continue when there is a massive ecological disaster happening right outside the Palace. Not that they have even gotten to the matter of the treaty yet. Even with Obi-wan’s help, the conversation has just gone around in circles on what to do about the Zillo Beast. The Dugs want it dead, and refuse to even look at the treaty until Windu agrees to help them kill it. The Dugs won’t even accept the GAR offering to relocate the poor creature. They say its very existence is proof that the warning left by their ancestors cannot be ignored. That if the Zillo Beast lives, their entire civilization will be destroyed. 

 

However, Windu refuses to let an innocent creature die. It lived peacefully under the earth for centuries. 

 

With no compromise on the fate of the Zillo Beast, and now the sinkholes opening up, the treaty being signed is looking more and more impossible. He’s sure the Chancellor is going to try and find a way to pin this whole mess on him as well for not just agreeing to kill the Zillo in the first place. Not to mention the whole problem where Mace is starting to think that the Dugs have been lying about the size of their fuel reserves. 

 

Really, Mace is already mentally filing and granting his own shore leave for the moment he leaves Malastare. 

 

Obi-wan finally answers, holding a cup of steaming tea while his Commander stands behind his shoulder. 

 

“Master Kenobi, we have several problems that need to be discussed. How far are you from Malastare?”

 

“At least a full rotation at top speed, Master Windu,” Kenobi says apologetically. Mace knows he doesn’t keep the grimace off his face. 

 

“In the last few hours, dozens of sinkholes have opened up across the planet’s surface, including in the middle of our base camp.” Windu watches as Kenobi’s Commander grows rigid, Obi-wan giving the man a concerned glance. “Fortunately, no one was injured and we were able to evacuate everyone in time, but it brings some disturbing questions. I’ve ordered that all troopers be evacuated back to the Palace, and from there we can start loading them onto the Venators, but it is going to be slow with our techs still working to repair our gunships. 

 

“Quite frankly, I don’t trust the Dugs. The Force is telling me something big is going on here, and I’ve felt shatterpoints snapping like bones—“

 

“General Windu!” Ponds rounds the corner, eyes wide with panic. “Rex is missing!” His poor Commander’s voice sounds like it was shoved through a meat grinder and deep fried. Unfortunately, Mace has to focus on the content of that sentence. 

 

Kenobi’s Commander goes very still. Windu curses and squeezes his head with his fingertips, trying to alleviate the next-level migraine that sentence has caused. 

 

“Of all the—“ Windu mutters. “That Captain is going to be the death of me.” 

 

“Ponds, what do you mean Rex is missing?” Cody demands. Ponds blanches as he realizes that he interrupted a meeting, and that Cody is there. 

 

“Cody, funny story—“

 

“Ponds, tell me you didn’t just lose our vod’ika!” 

 

“Sir!” Hale rounds the corner, wearing a scowl and breathing like he’s run a marathon.  “Skywalker and two members of Jump’s squad are missing! Also, I don’t know where Kix is,” the CMO reports. 

 

“For the love of—has everybody lost their damn minds?” Windu growls. Kenobi looks incredibly sympathetic from his side of the holocall, but not surprised. Windu vows here and now that he is never working with Skywalker again. Nothing can ever convince him that working with Skywalker is worth it. If this level of chaotic bullshit is what Kenobi deals with on a regular basis, Windu is going to buy that man a drink. Or several. 

 

“Ponds, go form a squad and round up everyone missing. I want them found in the next hour and loaded onto the next gunship out of here where they will stop causing trouble. Take Hale with you.” The two clones salute and disappear back down the hallway.

 

Windu is about to say something when the door bursts open again. 

 

“General Windu!” Another clone, another problem. Mace can already sense it. 

 

“What!” Windu snaps.

 

“The Zillo Beast has left the sinkhole and is making its way towards the Palace. The Dugs are requesting that you deal with it,” Hawkeye reports. 

 

“Master Kenobi, I need you here yesterday, and I don’t care how you do it.”

 


 

Death. Wrath. Balaam continues to approach the palace, swatting at the tanks that swarm like flies. These stinging gnats will know their place. The Speck will give him what was stolen, or it will die with the poison-rats. 

 

Death. Wrath. Balaam will become both of those things, and the Palace walls will not save the poison-rats scurrying inside their anthill. 

 


 

They find the documents rather quickly. Between Skywalker and Luk’ie’s technological know-how, the financial records are hacked and scanned for transactions between the Dugs and notable Separatists. The numbers are staggering. The Dugs have all but fueled the Separatist war-machine for months now, with a healthy amount of money ending up straight in the Doge’s pockets. 

 

They gather all the proof they need, and then Skywalker sets the room on fire. 

 

“We need to find Master Windu!” Skywalker declares, his arms full of data-pads and sheets of flimsy. “We are getting out of here now!” 

 

They run into Ponds, Hale, Trapper, and Hawkeye on their way back to the hangar.

 

“General Skywalker! I’m so glad—why isn’t Rex with you?!” Commander Ponds looks three seconds away from a panic attack. 

 

“Where’s Rex?” 

 

“I don’t know! We have orders to evacuate and he won’t answer his comm!” 

 

The Palace shudders, the whole room bathed in green as the Zillo Beast peers into the room through a window, eyes locking onto them. 

 

“I could have sworn we blinded that thing,” Skywalker curses. 

 

The Zillo Beast rears its head back, teeth bared in a snarl. 

 

“Speck,” the creature unmistakably growls. 

 

Luk’ie had forgotten to feel fear the first time he faced the Zillo. Captain Rex had been there, and he had been focused on doing everything he could to help, to give his brothers enough time to get away from the thing. Now, fear rushes through him like a paralytic. It’s Clover’s hand that snatches his wrist, pulling him away as the Zillo Beast smashes through the glass, shards glittering as they are launched into the air. 

 

He hears more than feels the blood spatter as Trapper is caught in the beast’s maw, armor crunching and splintering with little resistance, his scream cut off. Hawkeye makes a choked crying sound, but there’s no time to mourn. 

 

Luk’ie runs like he has never run before, every nerve vibrating and aware of himself in a way that feels detached from reality. He’s vaguely aware of Skywalker cursing, of Clover’s grip still on his wrist but now behind him, of Hawkeye’s heavy, horrified breathing. The floor creaks and trembles with the weight of the Zillo Beast, and Clover—

 

Live

 

Clover lets go of his wrist and something shoves him hard in the back. The shock trembles through him like a shot, like that old training bolt burned into his spine that meant ’67 had to die. He is back on Kamino, back in the sinkhole, except this time there is no Captain Rex to draw the monster’s teeth, and it is not Kaminoans or rock debris his riduur is saving him from. 

 

As he is thrown forwards, Luk’ie feels the spray of blood as it patters across his shell like rain drops. Clover screams, and how the hell is Luk’ie supposed to live when his other half is dead?

 


 

The dreams do not change. Clover knew this. 

 

He was a fool for ever thinking that this time would be different. 

 

The Zillo Beast is here to kill them, here to rectify the fact that Clover didn’t die in the sinkhole like he was supposed to. 

 

It is not a conscious choice anymore to keep Luk’ie in front of him, to make sure his riduur has the better chance of getting to safety. 

 

The Zillo Beast lunges for them, maw gaping wide, and Clover pushes, shoving his riduur forward with the command that he Live. Clover could not save ’67, but he will save Luk’ie. The feeling of power that rushes through him is like being struck by lightning, so brilliant it hurts. Then teeth close around his hand, and Clover feels nothing but relief even as bone and flesh are stripped away. 

 

Clover had been terrified down in the sinkhole, when Luk’ie had started running towards the monster, and Clover had no choice but to run after him knowing they would both die. He had felt fear like a live wire, raw and almost paralyzing as it surged through him. 

 

A strange calm has taken over him now, and Clover clings to it, shoving the Zillo Beast’s head into a wall. Hale’s hand wraps around his upper arm, dragging him forward like the loss of a hand doesn’t automatically mean he is a dead man. Clover almost wants to laugh. He wants to challenge the creature like Captain Rex did, wants to get drunk on this fire running through him, bright and heady and brimming with something unbearable. 

 

Skywalker stops, his gaze determined as he stands between the Zillo Beast and them. “Find Captain Rex and bring him here,” the General orders. Thunder accompanies his words, and Clover obeys without thought. 

 


 

Rex is used to a blaster being pointed at his head. Probably more than he should be. 

 

Echo and Kix are frozen on either side of him, the Zillo Beast eggs clutched in their arms. He should have known that untouched does not always mean unmonitored. Anything from the doors to the cases themselves could have subtle anti-theft technology, and Rex had foolishly charged ahead because the room looked ancient and abandoned. And now there is a blaster pressing into the plastoid of his helmet, and the Dugs’ special electric staffs pointed at his brothers. They are typically used to tame their mounts, and the use of them in this situation feels like the insult it is probably meant to be. 

 

The eggs are taken out of Kix and Echo’s hands, and there’s nothing Rex can do about it. He feels an almost desperate anger as the Dugs so carelessly handle their only chance at restitution with Balaam. Not that he can say anything. He can’t tell them the eggs are alive, that he knows exactly what they are and why. He is technically the thief he is accused of being, even if this was all some Force-guided attempt to do the right thing in the eyes of the Universe. 

 

They are dragged out into the hallway, stripped of their top armor, and marched like prisoners through the levels. The Dugs sneer and laugh, occasionally prodding him with one of the staffs. The Force screams with rage every time the electric shock surges through him, the sharp tip carving through his back. He can feel the righteous furry blazing from Kix, the desire to step in and be a medic. Rex levels him a look and begs him not to act. To let Rex take it. He’s the one that dragged them both down here, and he’s not sure the Dugs wouldn’t kill them on the spot if they do anything even slightly out of line. 

 

Echo is silent, eyes downcast, even as he is furious in The Force. For all the world, he is obedient. Rex knows he is instead waiting for the moment to act. 

 

Then his ankle gives out, and the Dugs swarm, jeering and cursing and demanding he get up. Electricity crackles over his skin, and a yelp breaks out before Rex can bite it into his lip. One of them jams their staff directly into his chest, and it sets off a round of coughing that makes his head split open, throat burning as the taste of iron fills his mouth. He curls into a ball, trying to reach Anakin through their bond. To tell them where they are. He can feel Anakin’s concern, his veins singing with adrenaline. 

 

Balaam is here.  

 

Another staff slices across his back, and then the punishment stops. Rex spasms and trembles, trying to get his bearings. Kix is there, cursing as his hands ghost over the different cuts and bruises. Distantly he realizes Echo is guarding off the Dugs single-handedly, having grabbed Rex’s cane in one hand and an electric staff in the other. The hands leave, and Kix stands beside Echo, a physical wall between him and the Dugs. Stun rings flash over them a moment later, and they crumple to the ground. Rex glares at Doge Urus from his own position on the floor. 

 

“Clones.” Doge Urus spits, eyes glinting and callous as he glares at them. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice thieves in my own home?” He picks one of the eggs from a guard, weighing it back and forth between his feet. 

 

“Do you know what it is you are stealing? I cannot imagine that you do. After all, clones like you were bred to mindlessly serve better masters.” 

 

“You’re a traitor,” Rex rasps out. Specks of red sparkle on the floor.

 

The Doge’s eyes settle on him, and there is something rotten in that gaze. Rex’s skin crawls, but he refuses to be the first one to break eye contact. 

 

“Business is business. If money doesn’t pick sides, why should I?” Doge Urus hands the egg back, moving instead to inspect Echo. He turns the ARC’s face back and forth. 

 

“It is…unfortunate that you know too much for me to simply let you go," The Doge sneers. " While it is regrettable that clones sometimes go missing, it is certainly not unusual. I’ve heard healthy clones are in quite high demand these days. Maybe the Zygerrians will take you off my hands? Or perhaps the Hutts? There is always high demand for healthy, strong men. They make for good manual laborers, among other things,” Doge Urus muses. “Or perhaps a Captain such as yourself has information it would like to share?” 

 

Rex snarls. A staff slams into his back. 

 

The whole palace rumbles. Doge Urus looks up as something sprints into the hallway. It’s another clone, and Rex has just enough time to recognize Clover before the vod plows straight into the Doge of the Dugs, drawing a blaster with one hand, the other just a bloody stub that ends at the wrist. Clover is pale and sweaty with blood loss, but his gaze and hands are steady, The Force apparently giving him strength beyond his means.

 

A moment later, he is accompanied by Ponds, Hale, and another vod, all of whom draw blasters on the Dugs assembled. Hale goes straight for Kix and Echo, while Ponds kneels down next to him. 

 

“What the kriff kind of mess have you stumbled into this time vod’ika?” Ponds murmurs as he helps Rex to his feet. He leans against his ori’vod as the world struggles to right itself. 

 

“Jus’ the usual,” Rex slurs, and maybe his heart feels a little funny in his chest. 

 

The whole Palace seems to tremble, and Rex knows that Anakin is leading Balaam here. Doge Urus finally seems to realize he has lost. His eyes darken and a snarl bares his teeth. Clover sways on his feet, and Hale leaps to catch him. In that moment Doge Urus raises his blaster directly at Rex’s chest and fires.  

 

Instead of dying, like Rex expected, another vod lands at his feet, clutching his shoulder and growling at the leader of the Dugs. “Don’t you dare touch ’67 again,” Luk’ie snarls. 

 

And then Skywalker is here, and Balaam is towering over all of them, the walls and ceilings raining down. Balaam locks eyes with him, and Rex thinks this will be the moment he is devoured. Instead, those hateful eyes scour the Dugs in the room. Absolute terror roils off Doge Urus, and Rex knows Balaam can feel it too. 

 

The Doge tries to run, but is snapped up in Balaam’s jaw with a sickening crunch. The Zillo Beast’s eyes alight on the cowering group of Dugs still holding the Zillo eggs. 

 

Speck, Balaam rumbles. It is time for you and yours to leave. 

 

Anakin calls the retreat a moment later, slinging Rex’s arm over his shoulder while still holding a stack of data pads, calling for the others to do the same. Clover, Kix, and Echo are all dragged out of the room. Rex does not look back. 

 


 

The hangar bay is in chaos. Mace called the Venators out of orbit the moment the Zillo breached the Palace, requesting every damn ship that could be flown to get planet-side. Any injured vod on the Venators capable of flying is called to pilot, and every transport-class ship is filled as full as possible before it takes off. 

 

Skywalker, Ponds and the Captain are all not here, and Mace has to assume the worst. 

 

As the last transports are leaving, Skywalker comes in dragging his Captain, who for some Force-damned reason is missing his top armor and looks like he lost a fight. Several clones stream in after him, half of them carrying the other half. Two more of Skywalker’s men are missing their top armor, one of which Mace recognizes to be Skywalker’s CMO. More concerning, one of his own men seems to be missing his hand. 

 

The Palace groans, shuddering as the ground underneath it starts to cave. The final transport has just enough room for all of them to fit. They clear the hangar bay just as the Palace begins its descent into the earth. 

 

As they fly towards the Venators, Mace swears he hears someone singing as the Palace is swallowed whole. 

 


 

When Clover wakes up, Captain Rex and Luk’ie are beside him, holding a quiet conversation. 

 

“We thought you were dead. We thought the longnecks—“ Luk’ie’s voice breaks. Clover realizes that the Captain’s gaze is on him. 

 

“Clover, how do you feel?” And isn’t that strange? To be asked how he’s feeling by the Captain Rex, who by all means looks like he should be laying down on a Med Bay cot himself right now. 

 

“Like osik,” Clover says, before he can stop his own mouth. An embarrassed blush heats up his cheeks. “Sir.” He adds. 

 

Captain Rex laughs, and it is a rough sound. “I don’t believe I ever properly introduced myself,” the Captain rasps. It’s such a ridiculous gesture, because everyone knows who Captain Rex is. “I’m Rex, but you might know me as ’67.” 

 

Tears stream down Clover’s cheeks, hot and fast. This can’t be true. Maybe this is all a dream. He can never really tell his Visions apart from reality anyway. 

 

“’67 is dead. I killed him,” Clover whispers. Captain Rex’s blue eyes hold something incredibly gentle. ‘67s eyes were brown, always guarded. Always afraid. 

 

They can't be the same person. 

 

Luk’ie shakes his head. “It’s him, Cloves. I don’t know how, but it is. He doesn’t blame us for anything,” Luk’ie has tears streaming down his own face, and it looks like he has been crying for awhile. 

 

“But, his eyes—“ 

 

“I was caught in an explosion about two months ago,” the Captain explains. “I got blasted off a Separatist ocean rig and almost drowned. Between the head trauma and the stress, I guess it turned my eyes blue,” Captain Rex shrugs, clearly not wanting to discuss it. But Clover has The Force, and it likes to show him things. 

 

Death by fire

 

Death by water

 

Death by fever. 

 

All those dreams were always about Captain Rex, and now Clover knows why. 

 

Captain Rex is '67. The Force was trying to tell him that ’67 was alive. 

 

The Visions can change. 

 

A fresh stream of tears spill down his face, and Clover is too overwhelmed to wipe them away. All this time, all this guilt, and ’67 was never dead. Clover hadn’t failed him, hadn’t killed him after all. 

 

“Clover, glad to see you are awake!” General Skywalker’s appearance right in front of his face startles him less than it should. “I wanted to talk to you about getting a prosthetic for your hand before you and Luk’ie begin ARC training, and while we’re at it maybe Rex should show you some mental shielding techniques to help you control The Force.” 

 

Clover’s vision goes fuzzy, and then he blacks out. 

 


 

General Kenobi arrives at Malastare only to find out that there is no longer a need for negotiations. There is no treaty, no Palace, and apparently no fuel either. 

 

“Master Windu, what did I miss?”

 

Mace Windu’s eye twitches. “I assure you Master Kenobi, you don’t want to know.”

 

Notes:

Kix: angy, wants Rex to listen to the medics
Rex: doesn't have a smartass comment, lets Kix do what he wants
Kix: panik

Anakin Skywalker: aka professional least-subtle person you will ever meet, unfortunately for Clover.

Fun fact: if you watch The Zillo Beast as many times as I have (a lot, to figure out how to go about this arc, and also maybe perhaps to watch Rex almost get dragged into the sinkhole) you will notice that Rex does not have his Kama (the battle-skirt thing around his legs) at the 14:12 time stamp. It is Wrong and I Do Not Like It. However, my new in-canon explanation is that Rex had some bruise or other injury on his hip and snuck away from the medics to attend that meeting.

Fun fact #2: just like Balaam, his two children have names with meaning. Aine (the Irish spelling of Anya) means brightness, splendor. Nisar means to strew, to sacrifice.

The back and forth between Clover, Luk'ie, and Rex was really too fun to write, because I am evil and thought it would be fun to convince Clover and Luk'ie that they were wrong, and also to have Rex agonize over his cadet years in Kamino. I hoped I tricked you with the Rex-Kix scene followed by the Clover-Luk'ie scene. You thought you were going to get the reveal early, didn't you >:)

I know in canon, the Zillo Beast really is the last of his kind, and the Dugs technically are loyal members of the Republic. But, consider: I really didn't want Balaam to have to die or go to Coruscant, and there was this line in the original episode about the Zillo returning and heralding the destruction of the Dugs' whole civilization, so I decided the fulfilled prophecy route would be a bit more fun. That way I could also make Doge Urus more of a bastard than he already is and justify him getting eaten.

The way this chapter panned out, it ended up connecting itself to chapter 3 of both Broken Crown and I Gave You All, which have flashbacks that address Rex's cadet life on Kamino. I didn't really plan that out, but I still think it is pretty neat.

As always, your comments and kudos give me life, and I'm so happy you are all still reading and invested in this story :)

Chapter 4: take all the courage you have left

Summary:

In which Rex is an idiot, the medics are upset, Hardcase just wants some croissants, Ponds wants custody, and Cody has been betrayed by his own General.

Or, threats were made. Rex is on the receiving end of all of them.

Or, the 501st and 212th are together again, and they have some downtime. This can only mean one thing: shenanigans.

Notes:

I'm back! and not dead, though some of you were probably starting to question. I've just been really busy lately and I haven't had the time to write as much as I like to. I also struggled with getting a few scenes how I wanted and ended up rewriting some/changing POV, or what have you. To make it up, I have another long chapter coming your way, so I hope the wait was worth it :)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

He has been on shift for 20 hours, Coric notes dully. During that timespan, the only breaks he’s allowed himself are occasional sips of extra-strong caff and a moment to rub out his hands. Nerve damage is the kriffing worst, even when it is mostly healed. 

 

Now that the most critical patients have been treated, he’s scrolling through the list of vode that have been admitted to the Medbay for treatment, noticing that a particular name is suspiciously missing. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the owner of said particular name. It doesn’t surprise him that the Captain’s here, but what does surprise him is that Rex is sitting vigil with Skywalker and… someone else, next to a vod from the 187th. Lieutenant Clover, the unlucky vod who got his hand eaten by the Zillo Beast. A quick glance at the ‘pad in his hands lets him know that Rex was not admitted as a patient, but instead is listed as a visitor. Which is odd, not because Rex doesn’t help with vode post-battle when he can, but because Rex looks like he should be on a cot himself. Bruises are covering a good portion of his face, and his cheek and jaw are obviously swollen on his left side. One of the junior medics should have been over to see to that already, but there is no icepack in sight or telltale shine of bacta cream to make Coric believe Rex has indeed received treatment. A niggling feeling in the back of his mind thinks that he’s missing something else. 

 

He’s certain at least one of the junior medics would have already approached him—it is a very obvious set of bruising, and the swelling could indicate something cracked in his cheekbone or jaw. Rex must have brushed them off or promised to find a medic later. The junior medics are all shiny enough to fall for that bantha-osik. Coric can only think of three reasons why Rex would delay medical treatment:

 

  1. The injury looks worse than it feels (unlikely, Rex is never that lucky) 
  2. The Captain believes it isn’t that serious and can wait until the medics are less busy (Rex is almost always wrong about that one) 
  3. Rex is hiding something. 

 

Either way, he doesn’t get paid enough for this osik. 

 

Of course, the one time Kix manages to follow Rex during one of his escapades he also manages to get himself stunned. So while Kix is sleeping it off in his own quarters (he will rest if he knows what’s good for him, but Coric has Fives sitting with him and Echo just in case he doesn’t) Coric gets to be the one to deal with his Captain’s stupidity. He’s trying to think of what he knows happened, based on the different reports he has gotten from vode in the MedBay. He’s sure one of the 187th vode (Hawkeye?) mentioned something about finding Captain Rex, Kix, and Echo surrounded by a group of Dugs, right before the Zillo Beast caught up to them again. 

 

Coric approaches Rex calmly, even though he is slightly vibrating with what is either rage or sleep deprivation. Rex isn’t paying him any attention—he’s too busy glaring at Skywalker, who has his hands up in surrender and a mix of sheepishness and guilt on his face. Now that he thinks about it, Skywalker should also be laying down. Based on Kix’s report, if Skywalker had been any less of a Jetti, he would have split his head in two and they would be looking for a new General. Really, he should be completely incapacitated by his concussion, but damn The Force for giving the three most reckless people he knows the ability to ignore the injury and weakness that comes from their recklessness and stupidity. Just because Force-sensitives seem invincible sometimes doesn’t mean they are, and Coric has already made this mistake with Rex once. 

 

“Captain, with me. We are getting you checked out,” Rex flinches, as if he didn’t notice Coric’s approach. It sends a shrill whistle through Coric’s head. Rex is notoriously impossible to sneak up on. 

 

“It’s not necessary Coric, only minor injury this time,” Rex replies, voice gratingly hoarse, his breaths a little too loud. The Captain may be able to fool most people, but like creatures evolving to get an edge over each other, Coric has learned how to read Rex even as Rex has learned how to make himself unreadable. 

 

“Rex, maybe you should—“ Skywalker actually looks concerned as his eyes scan the Captain. 

 

“I’m fine, sir,” Rex interrupts, voice scratching like nails through transparisteel. Coric raises an unimpressed eyebrow. In the thirty seconds since he has approached, the Captain has managed to pale into an almost sickly shade, his face becoming even more pinched, eyes slightly glassy and squinting against the light of the MedBay. Coric guesses he has a pretty impressive migraine, if Rex is getting this expressive. The Captain’s hands twitch in his laps, and his exhale is shaky. “I’m fine,” he repeats. 

 

The Captain’s bantha-osik truly knows no bounds. “Like haran you are,” Coric spits. “You were dropped in a sinkhole and poisoned two rotations ago, and then you went prancing about on a badly sprained ankle while doing who-knows-what. Now you clearly look like you got in a fight and lost, you aren’t hiding that migraine half as well as you think you are, and for some reason you are wearing a fresh chest plate and hoping I wouldn’t notice that either.” The fresh, unpainted chest plate shines damningly. If Rex is hiding injuries under that thing, Coric is going to strangle him. 

 

The other vod gets a concerned look on his face. “’67, you really don’t look well. I would feel better if you went with the medic, and I’m sure Clover would too,” Coric doesn’t miss the strange use of Rex’s CT numbers. And how mystery vod knows to phase the request like a favor to soothe his own worry, rather than something for Rex’s own sake. Appealing to the Captain’s need to look out for everyone other than himself is something that took the 501st medics forever to figure out. If Rex didn’t look like Dooku’s corpse warmed up, Coric would be starting an interrogation on just who this vod thinks he is and where he knows Rex from. 

 

Rex sighs, bracing his hands on his knees. “Fine,” he relents. 

 

“Glad you could see it my way, sir. Now, let me get you a hover chair.” 

 

“I can walk,” Rex protests, because of course he does. And then, to prove just how capable he is of walking, the Captain stands up from his chair, only to pale further and sway dangerously to one side. Skywalker steadies him at the shoulders, a frown pulling at his face. The other vod gets up from his own chair to brace Rex’s other side. 

 

“Something feels wrong,” the Jetti reports. Coric wants to shake the General. It doesn’t take the kriffin’ Force to realize something is wrong with Rex when you can just look at him with your eyes. 

 

“‘M fine. Jus’ stood up…too fast,” Rex sways again, breathing hard. Sweat is breaking out against his temples. 

 

“Rex, for once in your life, sit down before you fall down,” Coric chastises. “I’m getting the hover chair.” Curse him for not thinking to check on Rex sooner. 

 

The Captain collapses more than sits in the hover chair, face becoming flushed and sweaty. As Coric scans the MedBay for an open cot, he can hear Rex’s breaths start to become faster and shallower, almost gasping. This feels like the Force Burnout episode all over again, and Coric is going to smack Rex upside the head after this. And put him on a mush diet for a month. Maybe that will finally teach him to look after himself. 

 

Or, Coric can automatically assign Rex “top priority” medical status after every single skirmish so that Kix or Coric can look him over and make sure he isn’t hiding more stupidity under his bucket. 

 

“Rex, you need to calm down,” Skywalker whispers. Coric realizes that the whole room is starting to vibrate, and that medics and patients alike are starting to look around to find the source of it. 

 

“Chest hur’s.” Rex gasps. And oh boy, that’s not good, because Rex never actually admits to being in pain when he can deny it instead. With Skywalker’s help, he lifts Rex onto a cot and starts stripping his armor. Underneath the chest and back plate, welts, bruises, lacerations, and electrical burns are all peeking out from large holes torn into the black under-suit. He hears Skywalker and the other vod suck in breaths through their teeth. 

 

“I thought you said you already got this taken care of,” other vod hisses. 

 

Coric really is going to strangle him.  

 

“Di’kut! Why in the Sith’s secret hell didn’t you get this checked out sooner?” He smacks Rex upside the head. Did his Captain learn anything from Valtameri and the shit-show that followed it? 

 

“S-orry,” Rex stutters out between his gasps for air. A moment later, he goes limp. Skywalker curses and places hands against the Captain’s head. 

 

Coric takes medical scissors to the blacks, but pieces of fabric are melted into his Captain’s skin in some places and stuck with dry blood in others. 

 

He’s already grabbing a junior medic’s attention and listing off a bunch of medical tools he is going to need and giving the other vod instructions to go find senior medic. “Get Kix if you have to.” Other vod rushes off with a nod. 

 

“Captain, if this doesn’t kill you, I am going to do it myself.” 

 


 

When Rex wakes, Kix is draped over the side of his cot, fingers wrapped firmly around his wrist. There is an IV port uncomfortably taped to his inner elbow, a bag of fluid attached, and several other machines beeping in the background. His chest feels heavy, like a vod in full kit is sitting on him. Just breathing makes his ribs ache.  

 

He tries to move his other arm so he can lever himself up into a sitting position, but all he gets is the stiff, tingly sensation of a limb long numb from poor circulation. Coric is asleep on his other side, head resting on his upper arm. 

 

Like he has been summoned by Rex’s return to consciousness, CMO Hale appears within his field of vision, a severe frown carved into his face. “Captain Rex, you are lucky you are not my patient, or I would write you up for the level of osik you just pulled. I expected better from Ponds’ batch-mate, adopted or not.”

 

“Wha—?” His throat is unbearably dry, and he breaks off into coughs that make everything hurt more. His sore muscles and splitting headache are a good sign that his Force Exhaustion is, in fact, back and out to get him. Undeterred by pain, he tries again. “Wha’ happ—“ a second round of coughing leaves him lightheaded and dizzy. 

 

His coughing must have woken his medics, because Kix and Coric are helping him sit up. There’s a hand on his back rubbing comforting circles. Black spots are dancing across his vision, and Rex is so lightheaded and dizzy he might pass out again. The hands retreat for just a moment, and an electric shock flares through his chest, making his heart stutter before returning to normal. He drags in as much air as he can, feeling like his ribs might burst. 

 

“You, sir, are a grade-Aurek di’kut,” Coric unhelpfully informs him, removing his hand from Rex’s back to smack him upside the head. Rex opens his mouth to protest, and Kix shoves an ice chip against his lips. He would find it more insulting if the melted water didn’t feel so good against his dry and scratchy throat. 

 

“What happened?” He repeats after three more ice chips, proud that he is finally able to articulate his words. Something big must be happening if three senior medics are huddled around his cot to berate him. “Who drugged me?” 

 

“No one drugged you, Sir, ” Coric says slowly, a scowl on his face. The use of formal address makes Rex anxious. He must have really pissed off Coric if the medic is trying to be professional. “You collapsed.” 

 

Surprise flickers through Rex. He can’t think of any reason behind it, unless his Force Exhaustion is worse than he thought.

 

“Somehow, you failed to mention to Coric, or any other medic for that matter, that you had been repeatedly stabbed with high-level shock-staffs while recovering from being poisoned and you-know-what else,” Kix says, a hint of anger flavoring his voice. “And instead of getting checked out you walked around the Med Bay, on a sprained ankle no less, and ignored the fact that you were unwell. By doing so, you let a heart arrhythmia go unchecked until you collapsed from cardiac arrest. You almost karking died from your own stupidity.”

 

Oh. 

 

In all honesty, he had been planning to see Coric, but with Kix still unconscious and several vode teetering on critical condition (including Clover), Rex hadn’t wanted to bother him for some minor injuries. Those vode needed to be Coric’s priority, and he didn’t feel comfortable letting any of the other medics look at his back to treat it. So he had decided to help calm vode down and offer support and comfort where he could while he waited. And then he had stumbled upon his old squad-mates again, and Luk’ie had called him ‘67, fragile hope and unbearable grief in his eyes. Clover woke up briefly, just long enough for Skywalker to karking straight up tell him that Rex had The Force without so much as a warning and where Luk’ie could hear and Rex had forgotten about everything else. 

 

Before he can say anything, Cody’s head pops up from the floor, his ori’vod taking two long strides to get within slapping distance of Rex’s head. “I warned you that if you pulled something along this level of osik again I would transfer you back to the 212th where I can keep an eye on you. I hope you like yellow paint, vod.” 

 

Ponds pops up next, his arm in a sling and a pout on his face. “Wait, why do you always get to keep him?” 

 

Cody looks like a natborn parent talking to a disobedient natborn child. “Ponds, we’ve already had this conversation. You were there when I originally made the threat and you had no issues with it then.”

 

“I wasn’t paying attention then. But you got to keep Rex last time, so it’s my turn now. Besides, he needs to have a sensible Jetti to keep him out of trouble.” Rex decides that he is not going to be part of this conversation. He’s certain his input will only make it worse. 

 

Cody scowls. “General Windu doesn’t even want him! Don’t try to deny it, I was there when you made the suggestion—it should have been impossible for a man with his skin tone, but he literally paled and turned green. Besides, you were supposed to keep an eye on him during Malastare and look how that turned out.” 

 

Ponds looks scandalized. “Excuse you, everything that happened was during the last three rotations. I was doing just fine until a sinkhole with an ancient bloodthirsty lizard in it opened up in the middle of our kriffing battlefield. There is no way that was my fault and I doubt you could have done any better in that situation. Besides, General Windu would be a great role model for Rex’ika, unlike General Obi-wan “likes to flirt with the enemy and pass out from Force Exhaustion or injury every other campaign” Kenobi.”

 

“I don’t want him,” Hale says tiredly. 

 

“Yes you do. Rex’ika is great and we love him,” Ponds corrects. 

 

“You can’t look after him properly!” Cody argues. “You practically let him waltz out of the MedBay and into trouble while already injured!” 

 

“I was in the MedBay myself! I’m sorry I didn’t keep a better eye on him while I was recovering from being poisoned and undergoing surgery to fix my broken collarbone. But I still don’t end up in the MedBay as often as someone I know who likes to punch droids with his bare hands and works for a General who turns every campaign into a life or death situation!” 

 

Rex is tempted to point out that every single campaign they go on is a life or death situation. The 501st and 212th are literally the front lines. 

 

“You were sent to fend off a Separatist invasion force on Malastare and ended up triggering the end of the Dugs’ whole civilization! Even Kenobi doesn’t know how you all managed that, and he regularly gets exposed to Skywalker’s bantha-osik-insane affinity for making a karking mess out of everything he touches.” 

 

“Back off, he’s ours!” Hardcase pokes his own head up, striding over to the Commanders with no fear, most likely because Jesse is right there with him. “Captain Rex promised to make croissants after this campaign, and you are not getting between me and fresh baked croissants.” Good to know that Rex’s position in this Legion will be secured not for his skills with a blaster, calm head in battle, or ability to wrangle Skywalker’s plans down from definitely suicidal to only potentially suicidal, but instead for his ability to bake something without setting half of the kitchen on fire. 

 

“Yeah, if he goes anywhere with you, I’ll be promoted to Captain, and I refuse to do that much flimsiwork!” Jesse adds. Rex doesn’t know what is worse: Hardcase squaring up solely over the promise of fresh croissants or the fact that Jesse mostly sees him as a meat-shield against more work.

 

“Your medics wouldn’t last a rotation,” Coric declares. “Captain Rex has exactly zero self-preservation instincts, as he just demonstrated.” Despite what the medics seem to think, Rex does actually want to keep his life, thank you very much. And sure, maybe he has been a bit reckless with his health lately, between Valtameri and the end of the Malastare campaign, but it’s not his fault that he has been shot, blown up, dragged into a sinkhole, attacked by Balaam, or poisoned over the course of the last two months. It’s also not his fault that the Dugs had been dealing with the Separatists under the table and trying to kill them all. Or that The Force insist he intervene and do something. Besides, Kix had been with him the whole time for that one, so it was technically a medic-sanctioned excursion.

 

“The Captain is vital for the 501st’s continued success,” Echo interjects. “He is the official clone liaison between the 501st and General Skywalker, and can be attributed to approximately 96.81 percent of Torrent Company’s success rate.” Finally, someone who respects what he has been doing here. “Also, I need him to make the handprint on my armor. The Dugs took the original one, and I’m upset about it.” Rex really had let himself have too much faith in Echo. Of course his vod’ika has some ulterior motive. 

 

“We all have the same hands, Echo sir,” Span points out. Just how many vode are gathered around his cot? 

 

“It’s just not the same,” Echo argues, like that is supposed to explain everything. Everyone else in Torrent nods along like it makes sense. 

 

“The Captain is the only one who remembers to requisition raw meat for the Commander,” Kix puts in drily. “As reckless and utterly incompetent as he is with his own health, he is vital for the continued health and wellbeing of our command staff and the 501st as a whole.” Rex is used to Kix’s brand of subtly throwing in insults alongside praise. 

 

“I’m with Hardcase. I want croissants,” Fives adds. “Also, we had him first.” 

 

“Actually, Rex was my ARC-Captain in the 212th before Skywalker got promoted,” Cody says smugly. “Think of it as stealing back what was previously stolen, if you like.” 

 

“No, you’ve already had your turn. It’s my turn to have Rex’ika in my Company,” Ponds argues. "He would look so much better in dark purple than in yellow and you know it."

 

“Gold. Ponds, Hale and Windu don’t want him. In fact, I think you are the only high ranking official in the 187th who does.” 

 

“Cody, while I do enjoy Captain Rex’s company, his place is here in the 501st. As much as I love my Padawan, he is a handful. Captain Rex does an admirable job of wrangling Anakin into seeing sense for me, and I would like him to stay there,” High General Obi-wan Kenobi says from the floor, where he has General Skywalker sleeping with his head on his lap. Wait, does this mean General Kenobi just sees him as some sort of professional Skywalker wrangler? Rex tries to sit up straighter so he can see just how many people are crowded around his bed—but Kix shoves a firm hand against his chest until he settles back into a partially reclined position. 

 

“But,” Cody sputters. “You were so devastated when General Skywalker put in an official request to take him as the official Captain of Torrent.” 

 

General Kenobi looks distinctly awkward, avoiding eye contact and scratching the back of his neck. “Cody, dear one, I was simply trying to comfort you. I knew you didn’t always agree with Anakin’s tactics, and that you worried my Padawan was too reckless with your brother’s life. While I initially held those same worries, the Council believed that Anakin was ready for Knighthood, and I needed someone I could trust to look out for him when I couldn’t. In truth, I fully supported Captain Rex’s transfer into the 501st. Suggested it in the first place and filed the flimsiwork myself, even.” Cody’s mouth opens and closes silently at the news of this betrayal. 

 

“You suggested it?” Cody’s voice gets dangerously high and squeaky. Obi-wan somehow manages to avoid eye contact even harder. 

 

“I know you loved working side by side with your brother, but Anakin and Rex were already partnered together more often than not, and I knew that the 212th and 501st would be paired up for many missions, as the Council seems to think that Anakin listens to me.” Obi-wan sighs and mutters something under his breath. 

 

“What was that, sir?” Cody has a firm edge to his voice, like the sharp edge of a vibroblade. 

 

“The Force told me to,” Obi-wan sighs. “It was so insistent it gave me a headache. However, since then the Council has unanimously decided that Captain Rex is permanently assigned to Anakin Skywalker, and will be going wherever Anakin does for the foreseeable future. In short, he stays here in the 501st, and no one is allowed to transfer him.” Rex can feel the Truth in those statements.

 

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Cody squawks. Ponds is laughing so hard Rex is afraid he might choke. He’s also not sure if Ponds has realized that this means they both lost the custody  battle. 

 

He doesn’t know how to feel about the fact that he was apparently destined to work with Skywalker. He also wishes someone had told him what to expect. For a long while, he had believed his position as a Captain-turned-unofficial-Commander would be temporary until a more qualified CC could come along and take his job so he could go back to being an ARC-Captain based in either the 501st or the 212th. Instead, he’s still practically the Commander of the whole 501st on top of being the Captain for Torrent. His role in the GAR (and the flimsiwork that comes from it) is certainly not standard. 

 

While Ahsoka is officially the Commander, she is also 14, has coursework from the Temple and training in addition to her regular duties, and is stressed enough about learning how to be an effective leader without Rex burdening her with the flimsiwork side of being an officer. He’s willing to wait until Ahsoka is a bit older. Speaking of which, if the Council feels that Skywalker needs continued guidance and supervision via Obi-wan and Rex himself, why the kriff would they Knight him and give him a Padawan? You know, a literal child to train and guide and keep alive? 

 

Rex suddenly feels exhausted. And betrayed. The Force is humming in amusement, and clearly feels no sympathy for him. You are more than up to the task, Little One. I chose you for this. The Force’s words, while somewhat comforting, also send a spike of pain through his head, and he’s sure Kix sees his wince. 

 

“All right, time to let him rest.” Kix starts shooing the others out of the Med Bay. Cody, Ponds, Hardcase, Jesse, Echo, Fives, Span, Obi-wan, Anakin, Clover, and Luk’ie all climb to their feet, waving and offering well wishes. 

 

“Clover, before I forget, I finished the prototype for your prosthetic last night!” He hears Anakin say. Then the doors slide shut, and Rex is left to the non-existent mercy of the medics. 

 


 

Kix was foolish to believe that Rex had learned even a shred of self preservation. If Rex didn’t learn it after Naboo, Salucami, or Valtameri, he certainly wasn’t going to figure it out by himself. 

 

Time to call in the big guns. 

 

The moment everyone leaves the MedBay, Kix rounds on his Captain. Rex gets a resigned look on his face, one that doesn’t have nearly enough fear of the Maker in it. “I believe I warned you that the next time you pulled some reckless, self-sacrificing, empty-brained stunt, I would call Master Che so she could give you a lecture. And unlike Commander Cody, I am fully able to carry out my threats.” 

 

“Kix, no,” Rex begs. 

 

“Kix yes,” the medic types in the comm frequency while looking Rex dead in the eyes. A moment later the Twi’lek healer appears on the holocall with a stern look on her face. Rex shrinks like a shiny getting lectured on post-battle blaster care by Hardcase. 

 

Once they had stabilized the Captain, Kix had called Master Che to in the hopes that she would be able to talk some sense into him. After all, Rex listened to her far more than he ever listened to Kix. Fortunately, the Twi’lek healer had agreed. 

 

“Captain, care to explain yourself?” Master Che sounds so disappointed. Kix is glad that her disappointment is not aimed towards him. That would be brutal. 

 

“I uhm, fell. In a sinkhole. I got a minor concussion. And sprained my ankle pretty bad. I fought a lizard-like creature that had been living under the surface of the planet for centuries. And got poisoned when the Dugs tried to fuel bomb it,” Rex murmurs. That is severely understating what happened. Kix nudges him in the shoulder, giving him a warning look. He's already given a summary of events to Master Che in advance, but what Rex doesn't know won't hurt him unless he lies. “And then instead of resting, I uncovered a plot by the Dugs to hide the fact that they were consorting with the Separatists to sell fuel under the table by staging the whole invasion and planning to murder the Jedi, so I went to stop it and ended up bringing about the end of the Dugs’ whole civilization because I found some eggs? And I got shocked a few times in there, I think. Bad enough to cause heart problems.” The fact that Rex says this casually, like he’s describing the plot of an overly dramatic holo-film and not the events of his life over the last three rotations is concerning.

 

As is the fact that he’s leaving stuff out. “And Force Exhaustion,” Kix adds. “Don’t forget the dreams you were having either.” Rex shoots him a look of betrayal. 

 

Master Che blinks. “You really are worse than Skywalker,” she states bluntly. “I need a moment to find a drink strong enough for this conversation.” The Twi’lek disappears for a moment, only to return with what looks like an entire bottle of Corellian whisky. “Now Captain, I want to hear what your thought process was during this whole adventure.” 

 

Rex swallows. “Don’t be mad,” he pleads. It’s a little too kriffing late for that, Kix thinks. 

 

“When we arrived on Malastare, I started having dreams.” When they arrived?? Kix had only started noticing them at the end. Oh boy is he going to have words with his Captain. “At first, it was the same dream over and over again. It was about a Zillo Beast hiding in the earth. His name is Balaam, and he had witnessed the massacre of his people. They were driven underground, and a lot of their culture was lost. By the end, Balaam had forgotten speech, as there was no one to speak to.” Kix can hardly comprehend the vast loneliness of that life, of being the last of an entire culture, an entire species and way of life. Losing any brothers is hard. Losing a company? A battalion? Rex and Coric and Wolffe were never the same. To lose every one of his brothers? It sounds too horrible to bear. The frown on Rex’s face says the same. 

 

“I didn’t understand what the dreams were trying to tell me. Not until the sinkhole. The Force was screaming at me, but I didn’t know why. By the time I understood, I was already dragged in, and just trying to get as many people out alive as I could. Even if it meant using The…my gift.” Kix is reminded once again just how much of a self-sacrificing di’kut the Captain can be. 

 

Master Che hums. “It is…noble, to sacrifice your life for others. To be selfless, even in the face of death. It is perhaps the Jedi’s worst virtue.” Rex’s eyes snap up towards the holo-projection, confusion clearly on his face. 

 

The healer’s face softens, sorrow and sympathy replacing the sternness from before. “To value the life of others is virtuous indeed, but destructive when it comes at the cost of oneself. Captain, you cannot continue to give others what you do not have. Just as you cannot pour a drink from an empty cup, you cannot provide peace of mind at the cost of your sanity, or grant freedom when you are yourself enslaved, nor can you guarantee the life of others with your death. You cannot understand the value of life if you do not believe your own to have value.” Rex flinches, and Kix admires Master Che’s ability to cut right into the heart of the matter. 

 

“While there are times where there is little choice but to weigh your life against the challenge at hand, sitting injured in a Med Bay full of medics and putting off treatment until you collapse is not one of them,” Master Che snaps. Rex flinches, and the Healer’s face immediately softens again. 

 

“You are not as expendable as you believe, Captain. You never have been. I only hope someday you will come to see your life as valuable and worthy of care, as I and many others do.” The hologram flickers, and the Twi’lek disappears. 

 

Rex has a strange expression on his face, equal parts contemplating, lost, and hopeful, like he doesn’t quite believe what Master Che said, but wants to. The desire to wrap his Captain in his arms and hide him away is becoming overwhelming, especially because Rex looks like a kicked loth-pup. Kix is trying to be mad at him, dammit. 

 

Kark. He’s going soft. 

 

“Get some rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

 


 

Captain Rex looks young when he sleeps. Younger than he should. Jump tries not to think about it, instead focusing on cleaning his blaster for the third time. Kark if he isn’t still finding dust from that Sithspit lodged in the gears. 

 

He sighs and rubs his knee, trying to ignore the way his whole leg aches and itches. He’s lucky it was a clean break, and that it will only take a few ten-days to heal. Still, he wants nothing more than to stick a multi-tensil underneath the bacta-cast and scratch furiously. As a compromise, he props his leg up on the medical cot beside him. He figures the Captain won’t mind, being asleep and all. 

 

Captain Rex winces, a soft grunt escaping his mouth. Jump freezes, waiting for a sign that the Captain is awake. A moment later his face smooths out again. Jump feels the strangest desire to run a hand through Rex’s hair, to offer comfort while the man sleeps. Instead, he finds another patch of dust to scrape out of the inner workings of his blaster. 

 

Jump wishes he could stop thinking. He usually cleans his blasters to clear his head, but now he’s trying to hide how his hands are shaking. Once again, he wonders why he is sitting here, why he offered to sit vigil while the medics carried out their rounds or got some rest. 

 

“Not like I can go anywhere,” he had joked. But now he's stuck here, and the thoughts are too much. 

 

He can’t stop thinking about how Captain Rex looks young when he sleeps. How when the stress lines fall away, years do as well. Rex could almost be the same age as the rest of Blond Squad. It makes something in him weep. 

 

Jump had thought Luk’ie and Clover were running towards their deaths when they had gone to help Captain Rex fight the beast in the sinkhole. With his broken leg, he had been helpless to stop them, and the anxious fear still curls through him now at the mere memory of it. He could have lost both of them down there. He had been willing to sacrifice Captain Rex if it meant he could get Clover and Luk’ie back safely. He tries to tell himself that Captain Rex had made his choice, that he had been willing to die for them. (He ignores the way guilt tears holes in his stomach, because Rex was willing to sacrifice himself and Jump would have let him die alone. But when Rex and Commander Ponds had fallen, Skywalker had jumped without a second thought. Luk’ie had gone back into hell for them.)

 

Now, both Luk’ie and Clover seem to think that Captain Rex is ‘67. Jump wants them to be wrong. 

 

There’s a little patch of dust in one of the springs, and he can’t quite maneuver the cleaning cloth through well enough to get it out. But no matter how much he focuses on the dirt, he can’t get his mind off the incessant itching of his leg and the thoughts that won’t leave him. 

 

Jump thinks it would be better if ‘67 was dead. 

 

He dreams of saving ’67. Of finding a way to change the tides of time. And now, faced with the possibility that ’67 is alive, Jump prays that he is dead. It has to be some sick joke from the uncaring Universe. 

 

’67 has been a ghost in the back of Jump’s mind for cycles. He is an anchor of regret and resolve. His death is the epicenter of Jump’s life, informing every step he takes. Not a rotation goes by where Jump doesn’t think of him and mourn. If he is alive, if ‘67 is Captain Rex, it means that Jump failed him. Over and over again, Jump failed him. 

 

Faced with the chance to save Captain Rex, Jump would have let him die. It feels like failing ’67 all over again. 

 

“Captain?” Captain Rex murmurs. Jump’s eyes snap up to meet violently blue ones. 

 

Except for his eyes, Captain Rex looks just how he imagines ’67 would if he had lived. It makes something in him tremble. Grief is a gaping wound, and Jump’s hands are shaking too much to stop the bleeding.

 

The eyes are different, but Jump knows, without a doubt, that this is ‘67. The knowledge sticks in his throat and makes it hard to swallow. 

 

“Captain Rex,” Jump murmurs, voice aching and strained. His fists are clenched around the cleaning cloth and the spring in his hand. “I never thanked you for what you did for my men, and for me.” Then, and now. He wonders if Rex recognizes him, if he can hear the words underneath: Thank you for saving me from the maw of the Kaminoans. 

 

When Jump had gone to ‘67 for the first time, he had been desperate. His accuracy scores had been abysmal, and he knew the longneck’s eyes were on him. He owes everything to ‘67, to Captain Rex. He named himself after his leap of faith, after his decision to ask ‘67 for help. 

 

So, once again he jumps. “‘67,” Captain Rex’s eyes go wide and there in those violently blue eyes is a storm. The mask of Captain Rex slips, and there is something familiar and broken underneath. 

 

“I was,” ‘67 says at last. 

 

Tears stream down Jump’s face as a lifetime of regret bursts in his chest. He can’t breathe through the hitching of his ribs, through the sobs crawling up his throat. 

 

“You were dead,” Jump sobs, stupidly, because he can’t think of anything else to say. “You disappeared one day and… I could never pay you back for everything you did. You saved my life and I couldn’t—” A wave of calm washes through him, like a fresh ocean breeze. 

 

’67’s hand is on his wrist, steady and calming. “There is no debt between us. You saved your own life.”

 

“But, down in the sinkhole—I would have let you die!” Jump snaps. The Captain’s eyes almost seem to glow, seeing into some deep part of himself that Jump doesn’t even know. It reminds him eerily of the Jettise. 

 

“Captain Jump, your leg was broken,” ’67 reminds him gently. The words reach that throbbing piece of himself that still sees CT-6789 instead of Jump. “There was nothing any of us could have done against a creature that large, that angry. I doubt a Jettise could have taken it down. I could do little more than keep its attention and hope to dodge in time. But, had you been able to walk, you would have run over to help anyway. That’s why you claimed the name Jump, is it not?” The way ’67 is talking is strange. He sounds ancient, almost, and the words settle around Jump’s shoulders like a blanket, heavy but comforting. ’67 is talking like he should have been able to do more against the Zillo Beast. Like he knows more than he should. 

 

“You know how I got my name?” Jump asks, surprised. ’67 blinks, blue eyes no longer glowing. He winces. 

 

“Luk’ie told me. You took a leap of faith, and it saved your life,” ‘67 says simply. “You are willing to jump as many times as it takes to save others. It is a more than fitting name for you.” With ’67’s gentle assurances, the mire of grief locked within Jump’s chest begins to drain, washed clean with gentle lapping waves. 

 

“I’ve missed you,” Jump murmurs. “You always did know how to give the best advice.” 

 

’67 laughs, and the sound is a little rough, but also genuine. “I just like picking apart scenarios from different angles until I find the best one.” 

 

“That’s because you are a nerd, ’67,” Jump reminds him, and for a moment it feels like the almost-friendship they once had. But then ’67 tenses, and shadows flicker across his face. 

 

“Please, call me Rex," ’67 Rex says. Jump feels a little twinge of shame. Of course Rex wouldn’t want to be called by his number. He should have known better, should have switched his mental tags sooner—

 

“I can hear you overthinking from here,” Rex chastises. “I see that hasn’t changed either. You would overthink breathing if given half the chance,” Jump knows a truce when he sees one. 

 

“We both know you think more in a minute than I could in a rotation. Not that any of your hard work pays off. I see being some big-shot Captain didn’t change your reckless—”

 

“Captain!” Jump looks up to see the rest of his squad heading over, grins on their faces. Clover is a little pale, but he holds up his newly-attached prosthetic hand proudly. Jump is eternally, unnamably grateful that the Jettise believed Clover was worthy of being saved. Seeing his brother return without a hand had been the second worst moment of this campaign, right after the events of the sinkhole. Losing limbs was a death sentence just as much as a blaster bolt point-blank to the head. The GAR didn’t care enough about fitting prosthetics and training amputees to re-enter combat when they could just buy a fully fit unit to replace it. 

 

“Captain Rex, you’re awake!” Luk’ie exclaims. “And I see you already met our Captain.” 

 

“67?” Stars asks, hope in his eyes. Argo shuffles behind him, clearly nervous about the answer. 

 

“I am,” Rex confirms. Stars and Argo sink to their knees. Jump probably would have done the same if he hadn’t already been sitting down.  

 

“You might want to grab some chairs,” Jump advises his squad. With an open grin, he turns his gaze to Rex. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

 


 

“The 187th is being called to rendezvous with a Republic frigate for resupply. After that we’ve been granted a week’s shore leave on Coruscant,” Windu informs Ponds the second he enters the General’s guest quarters. 

 

“Oh.” Ponds murmurs. Really, he knew that the war was still going on, and the 187th rarely had  long between missions. But, this has been the longest stretch of time he’s gotten to spend with Rex’ika since the War started, and his vod’ika has spent most of it injured, so they haven’t really done anything but bake and tell stories. And play Sabacc, but Ponds doesn’t really want to talk about that. 

 

He hasn’t had the chance to talk to Rex about everything either. His idiot vod’ika had the gall to go and almost die on him twice before he had the chance. 

 

“I’m leaving Luk’ie and Clover with Skywalker since he’s heading to Kamino to pick up fresh troops, so officially I will need you to stay and watch over them as well. Unofficially, Clover is adjusting to his prosthetic, Luk’ie is taking the chance to get some training from Captain Rex’s own ARC troopers and you are recovering,” Windu’s eyes are gleaming with mischief. It is an expression Ponds doesn’t get to see from his General often, but he treasures it when he does. Windu needs to stop taking everything so seriously sometimes. 

 

“Consider this a well-earned vacation. However, under no circumstances are Clover and Luk’ie allowed to adopt Skywalker’s brand of ‘Jetti Bantha-osik’, as you call it. The 501st can keep their crazy, and their Captain, to themselves.” Ponds laughs, and Mace tries to hide the twitching of his lips before giving up and letting a smile grace his own face. The migraines must be gone then. 

 

“I know you like Rex’ika, sir, no matter how you try to hide it.” 

 

“Captain Rex is an admirable soldier,” Windu agrees easily enough. “And his ability to wrangle Skywalker is unparalleled. However, his tendency to find himself Skywalker-level messes leaves a lot to be desired. I don’t think I’ve ever had a migraine as bad as the one your vod’ika gave me.” 

 

Ponds tries to hide a wince behind his smile. “That’s why I don’t let myself grow out any hair General—it can’t turn gray when I see the osik my brothers get into.” 

 

“You didn’t seem to have any qualms about joining them this time,” Windu gives an obvious glance at his sling. 

 

“Well, someone has to get them out of it,” Ponds defends. 

 

“Just try to stay out of trouble this time, Commander,” Windu pulls out two glasses and pours Ponds some of The Good Stuff from a flask he keeps in his robe. “Otherwise my hair might turn gray as well and I’ll be stuck with this hairstyle for the rest of my life.”

 

“But, you keep your head bald sir?” 

 

“Exactly.” 

 

Ponds grins and takes a glass, raising it towards his General’s and clinking them together softly. The alcohol burns pleasantly down his throat and sits warmly in his stomach. “Don’t worry about me sir, you are the one who takes all the trouble with you.”

 


 

There are a bunch of strangers sitting around his Captain. Kix doesn’t like it.

 

While he can’t quite read the Captain’s expression from here, it is obviously not happiness. Those fools better not be disturbing Rex while he is recovering. He swears, if they are bringing up Geonosis or Teth and hoping for a story— 

 

And while Rex can take care of himself (when he decides to), Kix decides it won’t hurt to insert himself in the situation just in case. 

 

 When he gets closer, he realizes Rex is crying. 

 

Anger swirls through Kix deep and fast. He takes three large strides. Rex looks up and his eyes go wide, the tear tracks on his cheeks shining brightly from the overhead lights of the MedBay. There is something fragile and broken in his Captain’s face, and Kix immediately knows the mask has slipped. That Rex is suffering too much to be strong right now. 

 

Kix is going to kill them. 

 

“Who are you and what do you want with my Captain?” Kix snarls. 

 

“Kix no,” Rex rasps out. His voice is still incredibly hoarse. “It’s fine—”

 

“We’re his old squad-mates,” the one with the broken leg declares. Big mistake. 

 

Kix takes one more step and decks the closest vod in the face. 

 

“Kix!” Rex exclaims. “Stand down!” 

 

“Kix! The kriff is wrong with you?” Coric’s arms are wrapped around his. Kix growls and tries to break the other medic’s hold. 

 

“They are Rex’s squad-mates!” Kix grounds out. Coric freezes, drops Kix back onto his feet, and throws a punch at the nearest vod.

 

“Kriffing hells! Stand down!” Rex barks, Command Voice fully activated. Kix is in attention before he blinks. 

 

“Luk’ie, Argo, I apologize for my men. It won’t happen again.” Rex turns an icy glare on both the medics. It has been awhile since Kix last received The Look, but he distinctly doesn’t like it. 

 

“Apologize.” 

 

Kix fiddles with his hands. His fist still stings a bit where he punched the other vod, so he can only imagine how the other clone is feeling. However, he refuses to feel sorry for anyone who made his Captain cry. They deserve it on principle.

 

“Now.” 

 

“I’m sorry for punching you.” He’s not, actually. But Rex’s reaction is starting to make him think he’s missing something. “Captain Rex doesn’t talk about Kamino often,” try ever, really, “and …uh.” 

 

“What Kix means to say, is that his Mother Nuna senses kicked in, and he got ahead of himself,” Coric explains, like he didn’t also deck a vod in the face. 

 

“Apology accepted. We uh, probably deserved it anyway. I’m Corporal Luk’ie, by the way,” the vod Kix punched is still rubbing his cheek. It will probably bruise. “Captain Rex was only in mine and Clover’s squad for a week and we…I didn’t make it easy for him. I regret that it took his death for us to see it.” 

 

Coric looks ready to throw another punch at the vod, but a quick glare from Rex stills him. 

 

“Captain Rex saved my life when we were cadets,” the vod with a broken leg interjects. “And I never got the chance to properly thank him.”

 

“We mourned you, you know.” A vod with stars freckling his face turns to address the Captain. “When we thought you were dead. We never stopped. I’ll never forget the way you helped us, even when we had been cruel to you.”

 

Are these vode trying to get punched?

 

“We should have stood up to Tyran sooner than we did,” the vod Coric punched adds. Argo, if Kix understands it right. 

 

“You were five. We were all five. How could you have known better? What else could you have done?” Rex protests. Luk’ie makes a slightly choked noise. 

 

Kix is trying to do some math real quick. None of these vode look old enough to have been deployed during Geonosis. Kix was 9 when the War started, but he was deployed early, as part of the attempt to fill the ranks after Geonosis I. These vode look even younger than him. Rex is the same age as these vode. Kix doesn’t like the implications of that. 

 

Kriff, he had hoped that those rumors were wrong. 

 

“How old are you?” The group of vode look to Rex, who shakes his head. 

 

“Answer the question, Captain, and we may reconsider putting you on a mush diet for the next month,” Coric grounds out. His hands are in tight fists, and Kix can distantly feel his own fingernails digging into the meat of his palm. 

 

“They don’t know?” Broken-leg vod asks Rex. The Captain tightly shakes his head, and stubbornly refuses to budge on answering that question. And because Rex refuses, the group of vode also stay annoyingly tight-lipped. Kix never thought his Captain’s ability to inspire loyalty could be so annoying. 

 

Fine. Kix doesn’t need them anyway. He should have thought about this sooner. 

 

He types a code into his comm. “Hale, this is Kix.” Rex’s eyes go spectacularly wide. The other vode all look at each other in panic as well. 

 

“Last chance, Rex,” Coric warns him. 

 

“Finally cashing in that favor?” Hale sounds a little amused. Kix looks up and sees him grinning from across the Med Bay. 

 

“Yes actually. I need to ask about some vode in the 187th. I believe their names are Clover and Luk’ie?” 

 

“Yes, I know them. It’s not every day a vod gets his hand bit off and lives,” seeing the absolute horror on the vode’s faces is possibly more satisfying than punching them, though that had been fun too. 

 

“Do you know how old they are?” 

 

Rex looks ready to bolt. Thankfully Coric sees the expression on the Captain’s face as well, because he moves into position to restrain in the case of an escape attempt. 

 

“Let me pull up the file for Blond Squad, give me just a sec.” Blond Squad is a curious name. Rex’s face turns red in embarrassment, and the members of Blond Squad are not making eye contact. 

 

“They are 9 and a half by natborn standards,” Hale reports. All the satisfaction and amusement drains out of Kix in a moment. The War has been going on for about a year now, which means that during Geonosis the Captain would have been… Rex starts making some choked noises as Coric starts shaking him. 

 

“Are you kriffing kidding me? You aren’t deployment age?! Maker above why the kark didn’t you say anything! You are grounded forever. I can’t believe you have been a kriffing teenager this entire time!” 

 

That…explains so much actually. 

 

“You—you can’t ground me! I outrank you!” Rex protests, like that’s the problem here. And not the fact that he was sent to the front lines at 17. Maker above, Kix feels sick. 

 

“You’re grounded,” Kix seconds. “Medics outrank everyone.” 

 

“This is why I didn’t want to tell you,” he huffs. 

 

“Captain Rex, I am so sorry, we didn’t mean to—“ Clover starts. 

 

“No no, I should have known it was going to get out eventually.” Rex sighs. “There goes my freedom.” 

 

“You still get to eat mush, by the way,” Coric informs him. Rex sighs even harder and sinks further into the cushions piled behind his back. 

 


 

“Why do Coric and Kix look like they want to punch something?” Anakin asks him. The General is fiddling with a device in his hands, and Rex is strangely impressed that it hasn’t caught on fire yet. 

 

“They found out that I’m 9 and a half. 19, by vode standards.” 

 

“Oh, I was 19 when the War started,” Rex is starting to see what the problem is. 

 

“I, uh, I was a bit younger when the War started,” Rex murmurs. He can see Anakin stiffen as he starts to do the math in his head. 

 

He is startled when the General abruptly stands, takes two rigid steps, and promptly punches the wall.

 


 

“Sit your shebs down.” Ponds is careful to lock the door behind him. He doesn’t want any vod overhearing what he is about to say. 

 

Rex sits nervously on the edge of the bed. Ponds pulls out the desk chair and pointedly pushes it towards his vod’ika. With a sigh, Rex sets his taped and braced ankle on top of the chair. If it were anyone else, Ponds would say the medics were being overcautious. 

 

“You’re a di’kut.” Ponds begins grandly. “The King of di’kuts, if you will. In all my life, I have never met a bigger di’kut to ever di’kut.”

 

Rex raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. 

 

“When were you going to tell us you have The Force?” 

 

Rex starts choking. Ponds gives him a few minutes to figure out the difference between breathing and swallowing. 

 

“You know?” His vod’ika says weakly. 

 

“I had my suspicions before, but I don’t think any vod with half a sliver of common sense would SIT CRISS-CROSS APPLESAUCE WHILE A GIANT KRIFFING LIZARD IS TRYING TO KARKING EAT THEIR FACE OFF.” 

 

Rex’ika winces and glances at the door. “You haven’t told anyone, have you?” 

 

“Who do you take me for? Unlike Bly and Wolffe, I know how to keep things from my Jetti,” Ponds huffs. His vod’ika has the audacity to look like he doesn’t believe him. 

 

“Besides, you think I want Kote breathing down my neck? No thank you. He’s already pissed that you got injured under my watch, I don’t need to tell him that I’ve been keeping the knowledge of your super-secret-space-wizard-powers from him.” 

 

“How long have you known?” 

 

“Weren’t you listening Rex’ika? You started playing chicken with a karking giant lizard. I’m also pretty sure General Skywalker didn’t catch himself while unconscious.”

 

“I also caught you,” Rex sulks, confirming what Ponds had also suspected. “But you said you had suspicions before.” Kark, Ponds hates it when Rex is perceptive like that. 

 

“Well, it’s not every day two cadets survive being thrown into the ocean. Or end up with a scar only hours after getting their skull bashed in—yes, Fox and Wolffe told me everything we thought you had both died, asshole. And I could figure it out myself when I found the two of you covered in blood and Kote had a new scar.” 

 

“Why didn’t you say anything!” 

 

“What was I supposed to say after something like that? ‘Hey Rex’ika, I’m glad you’re okay considering you and Kote most definitely should be dead three lifetimes over right now, I wonder how you managed that—oh hey, by the way, did you know your eyes can turn blue?’”

 

Rex sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

 

“We are laughably past that, Menace’ika. You are very easy to worry about.” 

 

“You won’t tell the others, will you?” 

 

“See, and this is why I worry about you. You try too hard to keep everything to yourself.”

 

“I’m serious. The others can’t know. I don’t want to make them choose between me and their Jetti.”

 

“Because you think you’ll lose?” Rex doesn’t say anything, but he does tuck his good leg to his chest and rest his chin on his knee. “Rex’ika, that is the most di’kutla thing I’ve ever heard.” 

 

Rex doesn’t seem to understand, so Ponds takes it upon himself to explain something that Rex’ika should already know. “The Jetti are great, sure, but if it comes down to you or them, there is no choice. You are my brother. And I’m sure the other Shebse feel the same way. Even Wolffe and Bly, and they can’t manage a sentence without putting their Jettise’s name in there somewhere. Kark, Fox doesn’t even have a Jetti to choose, and he’s certainly not going to sell you out to the Chancellor. Besides, us keeping one secret from the Jetti won’t hurt them. Your life is far more valuable. You shouldn’t have to bear this alone.”

 

“Too many people already know. Skywalker, Tano. My medics. My command staff. Probably half of Torrent at this point. Clover and Luk’ie too, because Anakin can’t keep his mouth shut. The more people who know, the more danger I’m in of it reaching the ears of the Kaminiise,” Rex sighs and looks at the floor. “That’s why you weren’t supposed to know.”

 

“Well, you kriffed that up from day one,” Ponds moves to sit next to his stubborn vod’ika, pulling him close and wishing his collarbone wasn’t broken so he could run a hand through his vod’ika’s hair at the same time. He misses cadet Rex sometimes. Cadet Rex had been a bastard gremlin of chaos and teeth, but he had also been much lighter and super cute when he slept. Rex sinks into his side bonelessly, tears streaming down his face. Ponds doesn’t know that he’s seen Rex cry since they were cadets. It makes something warm curl in his chest, knowing that Rex trusts him with his emotions. “I can’t force you, but you should consider talking to them. Let us help you, Rex’ika.” 

 

“I…I can’t. Not yet.” Ponds hates how stubborn his vod’ika can be sometimes. Even if stubbornness and spite are probably the only reason he’s still alive. Rex really does like to make things harder than they have to be. 

 

“At least let me help then. We can even have a codeword so that no one knows what we are talking about.” 

 

Ponds can see the gears turning in Rex’s head.

 

“Old wound.” Rex says finally. “That’s our codeword.” Then he winces. “Ow. If you don’t want that to be your codeword, then stop being so karking painful.” Ponds jumps at the sudden intrusion of Rex’s thoughts in his head. 

 

“Sorry.” Rex murmurs. 

 

How Rex has managed to keep this a secret for so long is beyond him. His vod’ika is so unsubtle it hurts. 

 

“I just learned I had The Force a karking month ago,” Rex grumbles. “I haven’t had much of a chance to learn how to control it yet.”

 

“Are you reading my thoughts?!” Ponds demands. “That’s not very polite of you, Rex’ika.”

 

“I don’t need to read your thoughts when it’s all over your karking face.” 

 

Ponds laughs and shakes his head. Some things never change. Like Rex’ika being a grumpy little Nexu. 

 

“All right, now that we’ve gotten your Force-sensitivity out of the way, it’s time to talk about your self-preservation instincts. More specifically: they suck.”

 


 

“Rex, gather the boys and grab your blasters. We’re going to war,” Skywalker declares. 

 

Rex rolls his eyes. “What did General Kenobi say this time?” 

 

“He implied that the 501st is not as well-trained as the 212th, and that if we pit our battalions against each other, the 501st wouldn’t stand a chance.”

 

“Was this before or after you boasted about the 501st having the lowest casualty rate out of all the front line battalions in the GAR?”

 

“After, but we can’t let such an insult to our honor stand! Also, Echo figured out a way to incorporate lightsabers into your splaser tag training-exercise-thing, and I’m dying to try it. And shove victory in Obi-wan’s face as well.”

 

“Splaser tag?” 

 

Anakin shrugs, “that’s what Hardcase was calling it.”

 

Rex sits back in his chair and considers. The 501st just got off a hard campaign, while the 212th is fresh from Coruscant. That certainly plays in the 212th’s favor. However, training exercises like this are good for morale, and who knows when they will have another chance to unwind like this? He’ll be able to play properly this time too, considering he’s not half-dead from Force-Exhaustion and recovering from a coma and severe injury this time around. Besides, Rex really, really wants to see the look on Cody’s face when Rex is the one to get him out. 

 

Okay, I’m in.”

 


 

They set up the game like this: Jetti are worth 10 points, Commanders (Cody and Rex) are worth 7, Officers (Hardcase, Jesse, Waxer, and Crys) are worth 3, and regular infantry are each worth 1. The game ends when one team looses their Jetti and Commander, though the winning team is ultimately determined by points. Luk’ie and Clover are filling the role of the rogue this time around, worth 7 points each. 

 

Rex almost didn't get cleared for the game. Kix and Coric gave him a full examination to make sure his heart palpitations were gone, his ankle could support his weight, and his back was healing. After that, he sat through a stern lecture on what would happen if he was returned to the Med Bay for treatment anywhere in the near future. 

 

Ponds was less fortunate, and is definitely Not Sulking in the MedBay and certainly not Very Bitter that the medics didn’t clear him for this game because he “has a broken collarbone” and “no we’re not going to tape it to your chest just so you can go out there and do something stupid like re-injure it.” Unfortunately for Ponds, the medics are much more careful about observing unsanctioned players to make sure they stay put this time around. 

 

Rex has already laid out his plan to the men, assigning roles and squads and outlining different contingencies. It all hinges on being the first team into the vents, and as such he has highlighted several key entrance points. 

 

Now, he just needs to give them a little extra incentive. “If we win, I will bake chocolate croissants,” he promises. The cheer from his boys is deafening, and probably 50% Hardcase, who has been begging him to make chocolate croissants since Rex offhandedly mentioned the recipe. 

 

Rex pulls Anakin aside before they start. 

 

“Sir, how do you feel about wearing clone armor?” 

 


 

They are in the kriffing vents. Of course they are. Cody should have known his vod’ika would play dirty like this. He can already imagine Rex cackling behind a grate as he takes potshots at unsuspecting vode. It’s going to be a kriffing nightmare to weed him out, too. 

 

His wedge and net tactic is useless when there are no small squads to find and overwhelm. They are going to have to regroup and reconvene. 

 

“Boil, Waxer, I have a mission for you! Scout ahead and see if you can figure out where the kark they are hiding Skywalker! It’s been almost an hour and we have no visual on him.” That in itself is incredibly concerning, because Anakin Skywalker is never subtle. 

 

“Sir yes sir!” His ARCs salute and take off. 

 

“Sunshine to Teacup,” 

 

“This is Teacup,” Obi-wan’s voice crackles over the comm. 

 

“Original strategy is a bust. Our enemy has buried themselves in the vents.”

 

“Copy that Sunshine. May I suggest positioning small squads at all major entrance points to negate the vent’s advantage? In the event that fails, we can put together an infiltration team to smoke them out.”

 

Cody hums and considers. “We can try posting up at vent grates first. It eliminates the element of surprise and forces them to leave the vents under fire. Though I’m also starting to be concerned about the lack of visual on Skywalker.” 

 

Obi-wan hums, and Cody can picture him stroking his beard. “That is concerning indeed. Let me see if I can find him in The Force.” 

 

Cody scans the hallway as he waits for Obi-wan to finish with whatever Jetti-osik he is currently doing. He’s half-expecting Rex to charge around the corner, blasters drawn. It is too early in the game to get caught, and Cody is hovering in the back of 212th territory, so there is still a whole battalion between Cody and Rex. 

 

And yet, if anyone could sneak past a whole battalion to find a small target deep in enemy territory, it would be Rex. First time in live combat, and Rex had challenged even worse odds to do exactly that on Geonosis, when everything else was in chaos. 

 

He scans the hallway again. Just to make sure. 

 

“Sunshine, this is Teacup. I have some good news and some bad news. I suppose you want the good news first?” 

 

“Always, Teacup.”

 

“The good news is that my former Padawan has finally learned how to be subtle. The bad news is that this is going to make things much harder than we thought.” 

 


 

“Boil and Waxer are dead ahead sir,” Fives reports. 

 

“Go get ‘em boys,” Rex can sense the feral grins the twins have under their helmets. “Try to herd them to the bottleneck if you can so we can test it. If not, scrap ‘em. Make me proud.”

 

“Sir yes sir!” 

 


 

“Do you get the sudden feeling we are walking into a trap?” 

 

“Waxer, shut your mouth.”

 


 

Cody is falling for his plan hook, line, and sinker. Now that the 212th is focused on what’s in the vents, Rex can pull his men out, creating several larger squads to surround the smaller squads Cody has kindly set up for him. No 212th vod is going to be able to enter a hallway without glancing at the vents suspiciously, and it will cost them. 

 

Jesse and his boys played their part perfectly. 

 

Fives and Echo are engaging Boil and Waxer now, and were hopefully smart enough to make it look like an unexpected run-in rather than a deliberate engagement. While he doesn’t need to test out the bottleneck, it’s always nice to have a pair of volunteers. 

 

He’s not sure where Cody and Obi-wan are yet, but that doesn’t surprise him. When your “death” means that your team is halfway to defeat, it makes tactical sense to hide out until the end. 

 

Which is why they won’t expect Rex and Anakin to be hiding out in the open. 

 

He clutches the “lightsaber” in his hands, wrapping the cloak he borrowed a little tighter. This idea had come to him last minute, but he’s glad he ran with it. It must be driving Cody crazy that Skywalker hasn’t been spotted over an hour into this engagement. Especially since they all know that Skywalker can’t fit into the vents and has the subtlety of a krayt dragon. 

 

He’s also certain that Cody and Obi-wan have split up, just as he and Anakin have. 

 

Keeping one eye on the hallway, he checks in. “Status update.”

 

“Bottleneck worked perfectly Captain!” Echo reports with a happy chirp. He can hear Boil and Waxer cursing loudly in the background. 

 

“Good man. Any word on Jesse and his scouts?”

 

“Small squads of 212th are moving to guard vent grates. Jesse and his boys are moving out to rejoin our main force at the bottleneck. Skywalker is still here, waiting for the signal that Kenobi or Cody have been found. No sign of the rogues either.” 

 

“Wait, Skywalker’s here?!” Boil screeches, loud enough for it to be picked up. Rex allows a sharp grin to pull at his lips. Skywalker cackles in the background. 

 

“Karking unbelievable. This is absolute bantha-osik, is what it is,” Waxer groans. 

 

“We’ve been tricked, we’ve been backstabbed and we’ve been, quite possibly, bamboozled,” Boil recites solemnly. 

 

“Is that allowed?”

 

“There’s no rule specifically against it,” Echo answers, and Rex can hear the smug grin on his face. 

 

“I hate it here,” Boil whines. 

 


 

Quite frankly, the 501st is vaguely terrifying and surprisingly ruthless in their efficiency. They had fought side by side with the 187th the whole Malastare campaign, and even this is a whole new level of intensity Clover hasn’t seen before. And he saw Captain Rex fight a Zillo Beast. The 501st really is a special kind of insane. 

 

Clover’s original plan had been to sneak through the vents. However, the vents had been crawling with Rex’s men, making it impossible to use the vents and difficult to travel any hallway without getting shot at. However, Cody’s counterstrategy seems to be guarding the vent covers, which means that they can’t get anywhere without attacking one of the other teams.

 

Being the rogue sucks. 

 

“I hate this,” Luk’ie mutters. Clover hums in agreement. 

 

“Okay, so, here’s my idea,” Clover scans the hallways for vent grates and, finding one, switches to the shorthand signs Blond Squad uses to communicate. No need to alert the enemy to the plan after all. 

 

Luk’ie considers for all of a second. “Sounds risky and sort of half-baked, but incredibly satisfying to pull off. I’m in.” 

 


 

“Going into hour two, the 501st have the advantage, but not to worry, the 212th—what is this? I just got a notification that General Obi-wan is out for the count, taken down by no other than…Clover and Luk’ie?! Those are my boys! They grow up so fast—one day they are accessories in the ending of an entire civilization, and the next they are taking down Jetti Generals. 

 

“You heard that right folks—the 212th is officially without their Jetti, so now the burden falls solely on Marshall Commander Cody to lead his troops to victory.” 

 

Ponds has taken it upon himself to sportscast the game from the ship’s intercom system. Cody would appreciate it more if that wasn’t how he found out that Obi-wan let himself be taken down. 

 

This… complicates things. 

 


 

Obi-wan still isn’t quite sure what happened. 

 

He had sensed a clear Force-presence approaching his location. It hadn’t felt like Anakin, but it was brighter than a clone’s Force-presence and there was no one else it reasonably could be. Assuming it was Anakin, he had gotten ready to have a “‘saber” duel—only to get blasted by two clones when he rounded the corner. 

 

But now the Force-presence is gone when he looks at the two clones, there is no sign Anakin was ever there and—

 

Maybe Obi-wan needs to lie down. He must be at the stage of sleep deprivation where he’s starting to hallucinate. 

 

There’s fingers of doubt tracing up his spine. He knows what he felt. Anakin isn’t here. 

 

He feels a bit like a fool. 

 

The Kaminoans said the clones were engineered to be Force-null, but he’s felt similar flickers in The Force before. Brief, hardly noticeable unless one is looking for it, but Obi-wan meditates a lot. He finds a lot that he was never looking for. 

 

Whenever Captain Rex and Skywalker are in the same room, The Force starts singing. Since Valtameri, the singing has only gotten louder. The Force seems to curl around the Captain, almost like—

 

Obi-wan decides that’s enough thinking for the day. If he follows his thoughts too far, he’s going to come to a conclusion he doesn’t like, one that shakes his understanding of the clones and might mean a Council meeting. 

 

And Force knows Obi-wan despises Council meetings. 

 

Best not to risk it, then. 

 


 

Of course, the moment Obi-wan goes down, Anakin finally appears. Cody curses his luck, but he can’t miss the chance to even out the score. If the 212th is going to have any chance, the 501st needs to lose their Jetti too. 

 

Operation: Phalanx is a go. 

 

He gathers his men and goes to intercept Anakin. 

 


 

According to Jesse, a large group of 212th is heading towards Rex’s position. He imagines Cody is in the center of it. 

 

Rex understands a final charge when he sees one. Now, it’s time to see if this whole strategy will pay off. He retreats closer to where his men are hiding, ready to ambush. 

 

He knows that Cody is usually too sensible to charge into what should obviously be a trap, but he’s hoping the loss of Kenobi combined with the frustration of being shot at from the vents for an hour or two will goad him to being a little more reckless. 

 

212th have been coming at him steadily for a few minutes now. Cody must be trying to wear him down by sending out squads to engage from a distance. Unlike real lightsabers, the duraplastic “‘saber" in his hand can’t reflect bolts, only block them by “absorbing” the hit. It is a surprising disadvantage, to engage long-range fighters with a short-range weapon. 

 

Rex hugs the corner of the hallway, extending the ‘saber to strike the chest of the vod running down the opposite hall. The 212th vod curses. Rex shakes his head. The poor kid is obviously a shiny, but even he should know not to blindly run past intersecting corridors. His squad-mates let out surprised shouts, moving to surround and engage. Rex ducks around a shot—hearing a vest deactivate and another vod curse—and grins. He spins to tag the blaster of another vod, keeping himself small and constantly in motion. Kicking the legs out from under the last shiny, he gently touches his “lightsaber” to the kid’s chest. 

 

“Better luck next time, kids.” 

 

“Captain Rex??” He allows a full grin to tug at his teeth as he continues on his way. 

 

“Holy kark it is!”

 

“I think I’m in love!” One of the shinies murmurs reverently.

 

“Shut up Romeo.”

 


 

As soon as Skywalker appeared, he appeared with a vengeance. Cody has lost several of his vanguard and scouting squads. He knows the 501st is good at their jobs—his vod’ika is more-than well suited to the role of leadership, after all—but this is strangely ruthless, even for them. 

 

It bothers him, even going into the final charge, that Rex has yet to be spotted. 

 

As he turns the corner, he sees a cloaked figure standing to face him in the hallway. A “lightsaber” is in his hands, though Cody knows it is definitely not Skywalker. 

 

At that moment, 501st boys pop up from everywhere to start blasting. Somewhere in there Skywalker whoops, but Cody can’t see him in the mess of white and blue. The men around him are trying to fight off the ambush they have found themselves in, but for every 501st trooper they seem to take out, another files into his place. 

 

In all his experience as a Commander, Cody does not think he has been finessed so thoroughly. 

 

Suddenly, the blasts stop. The cloaked figure removes his hood, revealing his vod’ika grinning an absolutely osik-eating grin. “Marshall Commander, I challenge you to a duel,” Rex levels the “lightsaber” at Cody’s chest. 

 

“I don’t have a “lightsaber.” Cody reminds him. The rogues come forward from the sidelines, vests deactivated, to offer what was Obi-wan’s “lightsaber.” Cody takes it, knowing full well that despite the fact that Obi-wan regularly loses his lightsaber, Cody has never taken advantage of it to see what wielding one is like. Though the temptation has burned in him, he knows a Jetti’s lightsaber is sacred, and he doesn’t want to betray Obi-wan’s faith in him. 

 

So, he has no clue if the weight or balance of the “lightsaber” in his hand is accurate, but it’s not going to help him because Cody is kriffed to hell either way. He’d actually prefer to use his blaster against Rex’ika’s saber. Or even just his fists. The cheering from both sides is deafening, loud enough that he can’t hear Ponds’ snarky remarks over the loudspeaker aside from some loud squawks.

 

Rex charges forward, grin still on his face. Cody doesn’t have time to think, losing himself in the rhythm of strikes and counterstrikes, treating the 'saber like a training staff. At some point he flips out of the way of Rex’s swing, and the crowd somehow gets even louder. 

 

“Croissants!” Hardcase screams. “Croissants! Croissants! Croissants!” The 501st starts chanting. 

 

Before Cody can figure out what that means, Rex is already picking up the intensity, swings coming hard and fast. Cody kicks out a foot to hook around Rex’s ankle and trip him up. Instead he ends up kicking the ankle directly. He feels regret the moment his foot hits the brace and tape. Cody is a horrible ori’vod. Rex yelps, crashing to a knee as his hands go for his ankle. 

 

“Kark, Rex, I’m so sorry, I forgot you hurt your ankle, are you ok—?” 

 

Cody’s vest flashes red, and he remembers too late that they were still in the middle of the duel. Rex raises his “lightsaber” triumphantly. 

 

“Croissants!” Hardcase cheers. “Croissants!” The 501st chants after him. Rex is grinning like the little shit he is.

 

“The 501st wins!” Ponds declares over the loudspeaker. “What a spectacular finish folks, not even I could have seen it coming down to a Commander vs Commander duel—“

 

“Wait, when did Skywalker get tagged out?” Cody is scanning the crowd for Skywalker, who he still can’t see. 

 

“Why do you think I challenged you to a duel?” Rex points towards a shiny clone, who takes off their hemet to reveal Skywalker. “You managed to shoot him during the ambush. I thought you knew.”

 

“You, you thought—you taught General Skywalker how to use a blaster?! Since when?”

 

“Since the start of the war,” Rex supplies with a shrug. Cody is horrified. He’d seen Skywalker try to use a blaster once, and it was a nightmare. He can’t imagine voluntarily being near enough Anakin Skywalker holding a blaster to train him on how to properly use said blaster. 

 

“You thought I wouldn’t teach my Jettise—who always manage to lose their lightsabers—how to use a blaster? The weapons Vode always have readily available on the battlefield?” Rex raises an eyebrow at Cody, who suddenly feels a bit sheepish.  

 

He also realizes that Rex is still crouched on the floor, holding his ankle. He sucks in a breath through his teeth. 

 

“Do you need to go see Kix?” He asks knowingly. 

 

“I’m good right here, thanks.” 

 

“Rex’ika.”

 

“I need to go make croissants,” despite what he says, Rex doesn’t move to get up. 

 

“We got him, Commander,” Lieutenant Jesse appears at his side, and a large group of Torrent carefully pulls Rex onto his feet. Then Hardcase and Fives kneel down and Rex is picked up and set on their shoulders. 

 

“Put me down!” Rex hisses, only to be ignored. Cody just watches as the 501st celebrates victory with their Captain all the way to the Med Bay.

 

Kix and Coric, however, are much less enthused. 

Notes:

Apologies in advance for the long end notes, but I had a lot of thoughts writing this chapter, and now you get to hear them. Starting with dumb memes.

“I can either treat the 501st or I can treat Rex, but I cannot possibly do both” Coric, probably

Kix: I can't imagine the loneliness that must come with being part of a vibrant culture of elite warriors and having to watch the slow extermination of your kind until you were the only one left. What an absolutely horrific fate.
Me: *writes that knowing full well what Kix's fate is in canon.* ironic.

Master Che: have you ever considered that the people you surround yourself with and would die for love you back and would be sad if you died for no good reason?
Rex: *surprised pikachu face*

The 501st fighting a campaign on Malastare: eh, it’s okay I guess
The 501st playing splaser tag: Cowabunga it is

I swear at this point Rex is slowly turning the Jedi into functional alcoholics.

Can I go a single chapter without having Rex be in pain? no, of course not. Don't be ridiculous.

Part of the reason this chapter took so long is because I was trying to figure out how to articulate Jump's mindset. Grief is a complex emotion, especially when paired with regret. Rex saved Mesh Squad when he started training them. Jump couldn't save Rex's life because he didn't confront his SL when he had the chance. He made the guilt and grief of his "failure" an integral part of his identity. Trying to confront that grief meant tearing away a huge section of his identity, how he saw himself, and made moot the reasoning behind a lot of his most important decisions, like naming himself and forming Blond Squad. So yeah. I spent a long time trying to figure out how to articulate that kind of grief using a character you probably don't remember and may not even show up again. You are welcome.

I've always planned for Rex to be younger than he should be. In my head he's a year or so younger than the Shebse, and Cody canonically missed Geonosis I (for training or because he was too young who knows). But, Rex was canonically at Geonosis, so *shrugs* In my head, at this point Coric is 11, the Shebse are 10.5, Kix, Jesse, and Hardcase are 10, Rex is 9.5, and the Twins are 9.

As for the 212th and 501st battle: I think both are incredible battalions, and clearly reflect the leadership styles of their respective Jetti. However, I think Kenobi and Cody are more familiar with large-scale, open battle tactics (like Point Rain) and Rex and Skywalker are more familiar with small squad stealth ops or guerrilla warfare (Cargo of Doom, Downfall of a Droid, etc.) It's Big Picture strategy vs. detail-specific strategy.

Also. When I first writing this story, it had been years since I watched the Clone Wars, so I kinda forgot what the order of certain events were. This is all to say that even though I looked through episode lists and summaries and such, I still managed to convince myself that the Invasion of Kamino happened sometime in season 1-2 rather than in season 3. For the purposes of this AU, we are going to say that Grievous was just like "fuck it" after Rishi was destroyed and decided to attack Kamino anyway, so Echo and Fives become ARCs even faster. So, instead of going to Kamino, we are skipping all the way to Mortis.

Anyways, if you got this far, thank you for reading. Your comments, kudos, or even silent hits give me life :)

Chapter 5: and waste it on fixing all the problems that you made

Summary:

In which Rex is once again convinced that the universe is out to get him.

Or, in light of Master Che's most recent lecture, Rex is trying to value his own life. It goes about as well as anyone can expect— by which I mean it doesn’t go well.

Or, Yoda’s Disaster Lineage (and Rex) get dragged into a few millennia’s-worth of family drama resolving itself all at once.

Notes:

This chapter took me SO LONG to write, on top of me being incredibly busy, and I'm sorry I made you all wait two months for it. But, as per our normal trade deal: I make you wait long time for chapter, you get massive chapter when I finally update :)

So, without further ado: Mortis part 1 >:)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

Father holds an ancient stone in his hands, running the pads of his fingers over the runes carved into the polished surface. Daughter hovers nervously, her eyes glancing around for Son. He dislikes doing anything in secret from his children, but he fears that Son will use the stone for his own devices, should he know of it. It is…dangerous, for them to involve themselves in the Galaxy, in the world outside their sanctuary. But the winds of The Force have been whispering, singing with hope, and Father needs to be sure, needs Daughter to call them so he can see that hope for himself. He has almost forgotten what it feels like, to be anything but pulled apart between his two children. Always, he must keep the balance where he can. So Father hides the stone from Son, and hides the Truth of his purpose from Daughter. 

 

“Father, are you certain this is the only way?” He knows it takes great strength for her to ask. It is not her way to challenge him. Just as it is not her way to hide things from Son. 

 

“It is time, Daughter. Now that the Guide has awoken, I wish to see the Chosen One for myself. You must discern their names so that I may call them here. ” 

 

Daughter nods her head in obedience, but Father can see the tightness of her eyes and lips. She sits on the ground, resting her hands palms-up on her knees, burrowing through the threads of the Living Force. Father lets the scales tilt in her favor, lets go of the careful balance to let her reach far and deep into the Universe. He knows Son will feel the tug of Daughter’s powers, the weakening of his own, and come to investigate. The time to use the stone will be short, if he wishes to keep it secret. 

 

Daughter breathes deeply, light burning around her, and four names fall from her mouth. The Stone grows heavy, runes flashing gold and black before going still. Daughter lets go of her powers, sinking to her knees, tears streaming down her face. Father takes the Stone and smashes it against the floor, shards exploding and scattering.

 

Son sweeps into the room, gaze dark and shoulders stiff. The shadows stir, restless. A storm rumbles. The desire to explain wells in him, but Father pushes it back down. Just as Daughter’s nature makes it easier to ask too much of her, Son’s nature makes it simpler to hide things. Son understands, his red eyes burning with anger. Perhaps he has pushed both of his children too far this time. 

 

Son bends to pick up a large shard of the stone, running a slim finger along the sharp edge. Father watches blood well up, something uneasy building in his gut. Son curls his hand around the shard, letting it cut deep into his palm. Father watches it drip to the floor. 

 

He wonders if the message reached them in time. If it will be worth the suffering he has put his children through. 

 


 

Mace Windu’s left eyelid is twitching. He wishes, however briefly, that Boba Fett had actually managed to kill him. Unfortunately he is here instead, trying to wrap his head about the apparent migraine-inducing cruelty of the Universe. 

 

“You’re telling me that a message was received from the Crelythiumn system, far beyond the Outer Rim, using a Jedi distress code at least two millennia out of date, asking specifically for your disaster lineage and clone Captain Rex, for some reason, by name, and you are going to send all of them without question or additional backup?” It is days like these where he regrets his decision to grant the position of Master of the Order to Yoda. He should have stayed in the temple to make sure the old frog didn’t finally lose his mind to The Force and forget to tell anyone. 

 

“Send a heavily armed cruiser to meet them at the coordinates, we will,” Yoda assures, as if one heavily armed cruiser is going to do anything against the Separatist trap or absolute Force-bullshit this “mysterious” message will obviously turn out to be. It literally has Skywalker’s name written all over it, so there is no way this won’t end in disaster. 

 

“The Will of The Force, this is,” Yoda adds with a smug humph. Windu isn’t convinced. It is no secret that with Grandmaster Yoda, the phrase “Will of The Force” can just as easily be exchanged with “I do what I want.” Yoda’s bullshit combined with Skywalker’s paints a picture that makes Mace nauseous just thinking about. Someone is going to die. 

 

“Are we seriously considering sending the clone?” Master Krell questions, voice dripping with disdain. He is ignored. 

 

“Considering how little we know of the origins of this message, wouldn’t it be wisest to send another Jedi Master to investigate in their place?” Shaak Ti offers. Mace Windu wants to hug her. 

 

The smug bastard frog grins. “Will of The Force, this is,” Yoda repeats smugly. “See for yourself, you will.” 

 

Reluctantly, Mace allows himself to sink into a lightly meditative state. He pushes his question into The Force, and receives a startlingly clear and insistent reply, along with a headache. 

 

Mace sighs deeply, sinking into his chair and trying to soothe the aching pain in his temples. He is going to find Ponds after this so he can bitch about Yoda and his disaster lineage. And Captain Rex, who is supposed to keep Skywalker (and Tano and Kenobi, by extension) out of trouble, not get adopted into the disastrous trouble-making bastard energy the lineage was named after.

 

Force, Mace Windu hates when Master Yoda is right. 

 


 

Obi-wan looks at the mission parameters on his datapad uncomprehendingly. 

 

To Obi-wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, Ahsoka Tano, and CT-7567Rex. Please come to these coordinates. Come alone. Chosen Ones, you are the last Hope. 

 

The message is simple enough to understand, but the wording of it makes him uneasy. Based on his former Padawan’s expression, Anakin feels the same. “Go to these coordinates, the four of you will,” Master Yoda directs. “Send The Resolute to meet you there, we will. Included in the mission brief, everything we know is.” 

 

“We will leave first thing tomorrow morning, Master,” Obi-wan hears himself say. The hologram cuts off, and Obi-wan is left to stare at the message. 

 

To Obi-wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, Ahsoka Tano, and CT-7567Rex. Please come to these coordinates. Come alone. Chosen Ones, you are the last Hope.

 

“I must admit this is a rather strange assignment,” Obi-wan strokes his beard. “I would say it is a trap, but I’m not getting any signs of ill-intent from The Force.” In fact, The Force seems to buzz with anticipation, nudging him to listen. It is rare that the Will of The Force comes through so clearly. 

 

Anakin swallows nervously and clenches his fists. Obi-wan glances at him. 

 

“I’m surprised the Council is sending us on this mission. The specificity of the message is strange, especially considering they used a long-obsolete distress code to send it. Though I suppose that since there is no timestamp on the message it could have been sent recently. The coordinates it gives are far beyond the Outer Rim, all the way in the Crelythiumn system.” He scans the message again, hoping to find some hint of its purpose. 

 

To Obi-wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, Ahsoka Tano, and CT-7567Rex. Please come to these coordinates. Come alone. Chosen Ones, you are the last Hope.

 

“I don’t like this,” Anakin murmurs, and he looks slightly pale. Obi-wan brushes slightly against their Force Bond, feeling apprehension and fear before Anakin shuts down his side of the connection. “I don’t want Rex coming with us. He keeps— I don’t feel good about this. I’m not sure I want Ahsoka coming either.” Obi-wan can’t help but agree. He doesn’t like entering such a strange situation blindly, but he would feel better about it if he didn’t have to look out for Ahsoka and Rex as well. While they are both more than capable on the field, Ahsoka is still young and impulsive, Rex doesn’t have The Force to protect him the same way the Jedi do, and there are too many unknowns regarding this mission. 

 

“I agree with you, but we can’t—” Anakin clenches his fists, and Obi-wan can feel a nauseating storm of emotions pressing against their Force Bond. He seals his end shut before he is completely overwhelmed. “Anakin, calm down!” Thankfully, his Padawan manages to regain his control, and The Force quiets down to an anxious hum. Still, Obi-wan feels growing concern over Anakin’s frantic behavior. His former Padawan has grown increasingly protective over the Captain, and Obi-wan no longer knows how to address it. Anakin is genuinely afraid for Rex’s life. The fear, Obi-wan muses, is not unfounded either. While no one is truly safe from death in battle, the Captain has had several unnervingly close calls lately. Something in The Force has changed since Valtameri, and Rex seems to have found a way to be in the unfortunate center of it. 

 

Obi-wan can understand Anakin’s reluctance to take Rex on this mission, where the only intel they have is vague message and a set of coordinates. And yet, he cannot ignore the stirrings in The Force, nor can he allow Anakin to keep shielding Rex to the point where it hinders their efforts to fight in this war. While still an excellent strategist in the air, Rex’s leadership skills on the field have been dearly missed, and it does the Captain a disservice to delay his return to full command of Torrent. To keep him from where he is needed most. 

 

“Ahsoka and Rex will be just fine. You and I are a team. Whatever happens, we will protect them together,” Obi-wan promises. He reaches out tentatively through their bond, pushing comfort and determination until his former Padawan accepts it. Anakin takes a deep breath, and some of the fear dissipates. 

 

“Yeah,” Anakin offers him a watery smile, something fierce gleaming in his eyes. “We’ll protect them together.” 

 


 

Sweat drips into his eyes, chest hitching slightly as he forces his breathing to even out. It takes longer than he would like. The punching bag sways in front of him, blurring slightly at the edges until Rex blinks again. He’s not sure how long he’s been here, but sleep won’t come to him, and he’s too pent-up to do form-work in his quarters. He lets the bag still, flexing his hands, trying to breathe through his emotions. 

 

All the Jettise seem unusually tense about the mission tomorrow. General Skywalker has been pacing the halls, wearing the scowl he reserves for times he Wants It To Be Known He Disagrees With The Council’s Orders. Rex knows it has to do with the fact that he is being sent to accompany the Jettise. Anakin has been… protective lately. Since Cody fractured his ankle, he has been kept to light duty, only joining escort missions or helping Admiral Yularen direct forces from the bridge, even after he completely healed. But now, Anakin can’t do anything to keep him from action, and the General is pissed and sulking about it. Clearly, Anakin does not trust him to take care of himself. 

 

And whose fault is that? Rex thinks to himself. The General has been on the field, Ahsoka has been going on her own missions, and Rex has been sequestered aboard The Resolute. There hasn’t exactly been anyone around to train Rex on how to use The Force recently. There’s only so much he can teach himself, only so many times Kix can find him curled up on the floor of his quarters with a migraine or muscle aches before he gets overprotective and starts demanding that he only train when there is a Jetti around to make sure he doesn’t overdo it. 

 

Rex growls and swings at the bag again. Loses himself in the burn of his muscles and the aching of his fists. He’s being petty and selfish, and he knows it, but it doesn’t make the emotions magically go away. The war always comes first. It’s selfish of him to want Anakin to put aside some time to train him when there are campaigns to plan, campaigns to win, and Rex’s normal responsibilities to cover for because he has been on Med Leave more often than not over the last three months. He can’t even blame Skywalker for refusing to take him on the field. 

 

As of right now, Rex is a liability. Malastare proved that.

 

He takes a deep breath, watching the tremors in his hands. His next punch carries right through the bag, burying his right arm past-elbow deep, his fist protruding out the other side. 

 

Jeez Rexter, what did the poor bag ever do to you?” Ahsoka quips. Kriff, when did she get here?

 

“Commander!” Rex tries to pull his arm out of the bag, but all he does is drag more sand to the floor. 

 

“Do you need some help?” She quirks an eyebrow, or the Togrutan equivalent of one. Rex shakes his head. After an awkward minute of struggling, he’s finally able to free himself. He turns to face Ahsoka, ignoring the growing pile of sand on the floor and the embarrassed flush across his face. 

 

“What can I do for you Commander?” He’s careful to keep his tone even and professional. 

 

“For starters, you can call me Ahsoka, Rex. We’re well past the point of formality, don’t you think?” Rex lets the silence speak for him. Her shoulders slump in defeat. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came here to go over my lightsaber forms. Since you’re here, would you like to be my sparring partner?” 

 

“I’m afraid I don’t know any of the forms, Commander,” Rex admits. Anakin had offered to show him once, but Rex had insisted that Anakin show him how to use The Force to move objects instead, and then the chance never came up again. Not that Rex can ever see himself using a lightsaber anyway. Ahsoka looks surprised, opens her mouth like she wants to ask a question, frowns, and says nothing. Instead, she smiles, a distinctly predatory smirk that shows too many teeth. 

 

“That’s okay! I can teach you,” The Commander’s voice is so sweet even Hardcase wouldn’t be able to stomach it. Rex can already see where this is going. 

 

“That’s not necessary Commander,” he responds stiffly. “I wouldn’t want to impose on your practice by making you work basics—“

 

“Nonsense, I teach younglings in the Creche all the time,” Ahsoka is clearly enjoying his discomfort, because she practically skips over to the shelf where the training staffs are kept. 

 

“Commander, I don’t—”

 

“That’s why I’m showing you, Rexter. It’s good practice, and it could save your life someday.” She shoves two training staffs in his hand. This is definitely payback for the hours of being drilled on how to use a blaster. Though the Jettise had complained profusely, Rex refused to let either of them stop their weekly lessons until they could hold and aim a blaster properly in their sleep. He had been stunned multiple times for his efforts, but his Jettise eventually gained basic competency, and the training has already paid off. In short, blaster training was practical. It increased the chances his Jettise would make it off the field. 

 

Lightsaber training, on the other hand, is not practical. If he ever comes across a lightsaber on the battlefield, it’s because one of his di’kutla Jettise dropped theirs. He’s never going to be a Jetti, and he’s fairly certain its illegal to own or wield one outside of the Order. Even if it wasn’t, he can already imagine the attention it would draw if word got out that a clone was using a lightsaber, much less using one like he had been trained.

 

“Rexter, you’re acting like I’m going to give you my actual lightsabers and make you practice with them. We’re just going over the forms with training staffs.” Ahsoka takes the time to manually adjust his grip, moving his hand higher up the hilt and spreading his fingers wider. “This is a perfect way to fine-tune your connection to The Force.” 

 

“Fine-tune?” He makes a practice swing with the ‘saber, getting a feel for the weight. 

 

Ahsoka winces. “You’re getting better at calling on The Force, but… you still don’t have fine control over how much you’re channeling,” she says gently, trying not to offend. “It’s like trying to use your whole arm for a task that only requires your fingers. Or firing your pistols at full power to make a hole in a sheet of flimsi. Not only is it overkill, but you get tired faster. So unless you want to keep getting Force Exhaustion every time you try to do anything more complicated than a Suggestion or thought projection, you need to figure out how to control how much of The Force you are channeling. And the best way to do that is to practice. Now, copy me. This is the starting stance,” Ahsoka slides into a loose stance, holding her ‘sabers in defense, and Rex moves to follow. “Second. Raise your arm a little higher. Yeah just like that! And uh, keep your feet shoulder length apart, maybe bend your knees a bit more. Perfect.” They go through the stances together, Ahsoka occasionally offering gentle corrections. As they work, the tension slowly drains out of Rex’s shoulders. He’s not surprised to learn that Ahsoka is a good teacher. 

 

“Okay, now connect them together, like this,” Ahsoka moves through the stances, speeding up as she goes until it is all one fluid motion. Rex’s own attempts feels rather clumsy in comparison. 

 

“You’re a natural, Rexter,” Ahsoka praises. He can’t tell if she’s joking or not. “Ready to spar?” 

 

“What?” She can’t be serious. He just got through the whole thing without tripping over his own feet. 

 

“Stances are good and all of that, but sparring will make it feel natural. And we can figure out how to adjust it for you.” 

 

“Commander, I don’t think—“ Ahsoka lunges forward, aiming for his chest. Rex brings up his own ‘sabers to block, trying to find the leverage to push her ‘sabers away from him. 

 

“Use the forms, Rexter,” Ahsoka reminds him. He shifts his feet, sliding into the third stance. It becomes something like a dance after that. The Commander stays on the offensive, attacking from different angles, while Rex tries to fend her off using the different stances. He’s sure he’s going to have some fun bruises in a few hours—the Commander does not pull her strikes. He doesn’t have to think about the forms as much, easily shifting his weight, making adjustments as he goes. The air is buzzing around him, swelling with energy. He feels like he could keep this up forever without growing tired—

 

And then Ahsoka extends her hands, and Rex finds himself flat on his back while the little Togruta grins down at him, ‘sabers pointed at his throat. Rex takes a moment to breathe. Now that he’s not moving, his body feels like he just went through several rounds of sparring with Cody. 

 

Ahsoka extends a hand to help him up. “See Rexter, I knew you would be a natural.” 

 

“A natural at getting my shebs kicked?” He shuffles towards where he stashed his water bottle. The cool water feels good after an intense workout. 

 

“A natural at channeling The Force when you are sparring,” Ahsoka corrects, her eyebrow marking quirked. Rex chokes on his water. The Togruta looks concerned. He can feel his face growing red again. 

 

“Rexter, were you… were you not aware that you were channeling The Force?” 

 

“Isn’t The Force supposed to hurt?” Ahsoka’s face crumples into an odd mix of disgust and horror, like she bit into a particularly rotten piece of fruit. Rex immediately wishes he had kept his mouth shut. 

 

“Rex,” she breathes, looking like she might either cry or murder a man. “The Force is not meant to be painful.” She drops to the mats, sitting with her legs crossed. “I guess that means Skyguy has been shortchanging us both then?” 

 

“What do you mean?” 

 

“Has Skyguy trained you at all recently?” This feels like a dangerous question. Rex decides all he can do is answer honestly. 

 

“Not since before Malastare. I helped Clover figure out mental shielding, and we did some basic meditation, but there wasn’t much time for anything else, and the General’s been busy on the field since then, and I’ve been up here planning missions and catching up on all the formwork that never got filed—“ 

 

“That’s no excuse,” Ahsoka huffs. “Has he taught you anything besides meditation and a basic Force push? Given you some exercises to practice on your own time? He certainly hasn’t asked me to help train you.” Rex shakes his head. He shouldn’t have said anything. Now Ahsoka’s mad at him, and mad at Skywalker, and they are heading out for a potentially dangerous mission in a few hours and—

 

Ahsoka sighs loudly. The anger drains out of her. “I’m sorry, I just—you deserve to know how to use The Force safely. It’s a part of you, and you shouldn’t have to avoid using it because no one bothered to show you how.” Rex barely smothers his wince. Instead, he takes a long sip from his water bottle. 

 

“Commander,” Rex hesitates. Ahsoka’s not wrong, but she’s not fully right either. It’s not that he can’t use The Force due to lack of ability, but rather that he can’t use The Force without drawing unwanted eyes. As it is, he’s incredibly lucky that General Windu never found out, considering how blatantly unsubtle he was at times. But the more he uses The Force, the more he relies on it, the more he puts himself and his brothers at risk. The reason he wants to be trained is so he can control it. So that he doesn’t use it. 

 

“With all due respect, sir, I’ve been untrained most of my life and managed just fine. If it comes down to it, I’ll find a way to manage now.” 

 

“But you shouldn’t have to!” Ahsoka exclaims. “It’s your gift! You shouldn’t have to hide it or be afraid of using it!” Rex flinches, and her expression softens. “I’m sorry, I just—I’m tired of watching you get hurt.” 

 

Rex pulls her into a hug. Ahsoka’s arms wrap around his back, almost too tight around his ribs, his chin perfectly nestled in the dip between her montrals. “I’m still here, vod’ika. I have you Jettise looking out for me. Whatever we end up facing, we’ll get through it together. And then you can teach me all the Jetti osik you want.” 

 


 

Son watches the sky, the stars turning endlessly above his head. They look so lonely, isolated to little pinpricks. He wants to tear through them with his fingernails, squelch them through his fingers. Wants to know what they taste like, if they would burn against his tongue. 

 

Father has been lying to him again. Daughter has been hiding. 

 

Son is left to watch the stars alone. 

 

He holds the shard of stone in his palm, lets the sharp edge bite again. The blood boils up, hot against his cool skin. There must always be contradictions, he muses. 

 

Father loves his children, but he does not want what is best for them. 

 

These visitors, they will come to be tested, or so Father says. Son has seen glimpses, when the stone was still hot and buried in his skin. These visitors, they are to come and replace Father, if they are worthy. But if Father is not worthy of being Father, how can Son be worthy of being Son? How can Daughter be Daughter? It has always been the three of them, in this lonely corner of the Universe. What does Father think will happen if this Chosen One comes to take his place? Does he think the Chosen One will have any love for them? Does he think that because the Chosen One is capable of balance that he will know what balance is? 

 

Father knows nothing. After all these centuries, he remains a fool. 

 

He thinks balance is stagnant. He thinks that if he holds both his children in place with a leash that they will achieve peace. 

 

Son thinks he might forgive him; it is Father’s place to be nothing. Unchanging, unswayed by emotion. Blank and rational. 

 

The Visitors will be here soon. Father will pull them down. Another contradiction: after demanding isolation of his children, Father will break his own vow. He will interfere with the affairs of the Universe. He will offer it to his children as a test. 

 

Son watches the blood drip over his fingers, turning the shard in the weak starlight. It is cold now, but the blood itches as it dries. He watches for a few more moments before willing the wound to stitch itself shut. 

 

Father thinks he can replace himself with some Chosen One, and that Son will accept it. Son will not be ruled by some outsider. He will prove that this Chosen One is unworthy, he will bring them to ruin before Father can wash his hands of Son and Daughter. He does not get to abandon them, these monsters he has made. Son will be sure of it. He will drag them all into the nothingness together if he has to. 

 


 

 Long ship rides are boring. Especially when the ship is this small, and the occupants are all too tense. Obi-wan briefly wonders why they had to take their own transport ship, instead of just catching a ride on The Resolute. 

 

By the time they reach the Crelythiumn system, all small talk has been well spent. 

 

The coordinates are empty. 

 

Obi-wan checks again. 

 

“Well this was a karking waste of time,” Anakin grouches. Despite his annoyed tone, Obi-wan can feel relief pouring through their bond. Anakin opens the comms, hailing The Resolute. “Jesse, Jesse do you read me? We’re at the rendezvous point awaiting for your arrival. Where are you?”

 

Jesse’s holographic face takes on a distinctly confused look. “Uh, General, we are at the rendezvous point? But there’s no sign of you on our scanners.”

 

“What?” Rex hisses. “Jesse, are you sure?”

 

“Affirmative Captain. We are at the coordinates.”

 

“Oh come on, that’s impossible,” Anakin growls. He turns to Obi-wan. “Something’s wrong. We’re at the exact same coordinates where the distress signal originated, but there’s nothing here. Jesse’s at the exact same coordinates, and he’s not here.” The shuttle vibrates with tension. 

 

“Well, this is certainly taking a strange turn,” Obi-wan muses. He anchors himself in The Force, trying to stay calm. Cody threatened to take his tea stash for a week if he got himself into any more “Jetti osik that lands him (or Rex) in the Med Bay” this month. He really can’t afford for them to be dragged into something here. 

 

“I don’t like this,” Rex murmurs. 

 

Jesse’s form flickers wildly, the audio distorting. “Unable to find you. Where are you, sirs?”

 

“Something’s blocking the signal,” Ahsoka says. She’s fiddling with something in the back, trying to boost the signal reception. 

 

That’s when the whole shuttle abruptly loses power. “Not good,” Obi-wan murmurs. He’s already mourning the loss of his tea. 

 

“Everything’s dead, even life support,” Ahsoka informs them. Rex moves to hover over her shoulder, frowning at the different systems. He presses a button experimentally, but nothing happens. 

 

Just as quickly, the shuttle powers back up. 

 

“See, nothing to be concerned about after all,” Obi-wan says with relief. He’s going to have a nice cup of that Corellian Spiced tea when he gets back to The Negotiator. 

 

“Sirs?” Rex is pointing at something outside the shuttle. 

 

“What is that?” Ahsoka asks. Obi-wan turns and sees a large diamond shaped object that was most certainly not there a few seconds ago. Well, kriff. Panic surges through The Force, in Ahsoka, Anakin and—Rex? The whole shuttle jolts, making Ahsoka and Rex stumble. The shuttle’s systems blink on and off rapidly, moving towards the giant…ship? Whatever it is, the structure is absolutely massive, and too dark to get a good sense of it. 

 

“It’s pulling us towards it!” Ahsoka has a tight grasp on the seats, vibrating with barely-restrained fear. 

 

The structure opens, light oozing out like saliva drips from a gaping maw. Obi-wan can’t help but feel they are about to be swallowed. 

 

“Strap in!” Rex barks. He tugs Ahsoka’s shoulder, leading her to a seat and making sure she is secure before strapping himself in. 

 

The light grows nauseatingly bright. It seems to poke and prod at him, to burst out from the inside. Closing his eyes does nothing, the light prying underneath his eyelids. He tries to anchor himself in The Force again, but it slips away from him, slewing through his fingers. It burns. The Force has never burned like this before. 

 

“Generals!” If Rex says something else, Obi-wan cannot hear him. 

 


 

“Rexter. Come on, it’s time to wake up,” a finger is poking into his forehead. When did he fall asleep? “Rex. Rexter. Ori'vod. Come on, don’t make me sic Kix on you.” Rex suddenly finds the strength to open his eyes. He immediately regrets it. 

 

He’s… not in the MedBay. 

 

Kix isn’t even here. He’s been tricked. Ahsoka’s smug face blurs into focus in front of him, both Generals hovering in a swirl of colors over her shoulders. 

 

Sitting up, his head swims with pressure, and Rex has to squeeze his eyes shut to ward off nausea. His mental shields are a mess, splintered and shifting like broken glass, but the headache is only an intense achey throbbing, instead of the skull-splitting, thought-stealing sharp pain it should be. Skywalker must be shielding him, then. Rex tries to remember what got him into this situation in the first place. 

 

There was a giant structure that appeared out of nowhere. And then they were pulled in and the light bore down like a physical weight, pressing against his head like nails trying to hammer inside his brain, like hands squeezing his skull and twisting, trying to coax its way in. The light washed everything into nothingness, until he couldn’t see his own hands. 

 

And then in the light, there had been a face. An old man, peering in through the transparisteel. He met the being’s eyes and his mental shields began to buckle under the pressure. He must have blacked out shortly after that. 

 

“Sit-rep?” Rex begins the painful process of pulling his shields back together. His thoughts are sluggish and heavy, and his eyes won’t focus for more than a few seconds. He’s grateful that he has his Jettise looking out for him. 

 

“We appear to have crash-landed,” Skywalker shrugs. Rex shouldn’t be surprised, but the shuttle seems too intact to have crashed. He wonders if he hit his head, if that is contributing to the pain. 

 

“At least, none of us remember landing the shuttle. Unless that was you, Rex?” Obi-wan is looking at him hopefully. 

 

“No sir, not that I remember.” His head throbs, and his hands twitch. 

 

“Strange,” Obi-wan strokes his beard. 

 

“Do you know where we are, sir?” Rex can’t fight the temptation to try and massage out some of the tension. His temples are sore to the touch, and he jolts and withdraws his hands with a hiss. His skull throbs at the sharp movement and Rex has to bite his tongue to stop a groan from leaving his mouth. 

 

“Rexter, you’re bleeding,” Ahsoka points to his face. He absently swipes a hand under his nose, feeling the pull and smear of partially-dried blood. Obi-wan produces one of the cloth hanker-chiefs he seems to always have on hand. Thankfully, there isn’t a lot of blood and its mostly stopped. Once he’s done Ahsoka hands him his helmet, which he puts on gratefully. 

 

“To answer your question, Captain, we appear to have arrived on some organic mass,” Obi-wan answers. “Larger than an asteroid, with a breathable atmosphere. Though if we are even in our own galaxy at this point, the navigation system does not seem to know.”

 

“All the ships systems are functional. They just don’t work. So we’re stuck here awhile.” Rex doesn’t even want to begin to figure that mess out. 

 

“We’ve been waiting for you to wake up so we could go explore,” Ahsoka adds. She pulls him to his feet. The world slides sideways as his vision simultaneously whites out, making him lose his balance. Hands wrap around his arms, holding him steady. 

 

“Are you quite alright Captain? Did you hit your head?” His vision clears quickly, if not over-distinctly. Everything is too sharp, giving a distinct edge of un-realness. 

 

“I’m fine General. Just a bad headache.” He doesn’t want to start out this mission already a liability. He just needs to keep up until the pain becomes more manageable. Hopefully there isn’t anything too dangerous on this… wherever they ended up. 

 

Obi-wan strokes his beard, looking contemplative in a way that clearly says he saw right through Rex’s bantha-osik, but is too nice to call him out on it. “The Force is unusually… strong here. Perhaps it is affecting you somehow? Would you like me to mentally shield you? It would act as an insulating layer against The Force.” 

 

Rex is grateful he is wearing his helmet, otherwise his panicked expression would have definitely given something away. Unfortunately, Anakin and Ahsoka do not have helmets or much better control of their facial expressions. He’s lucky that Kenobi’s focus is on him. “Thank you for the offer, General Kenobi, but that won’t be necessary.” 

 

“Are you sure, Rex?” Obi-wan presses gently, but the concern and slight disproval is clear in his voice. 

 

“I already have him shielded,” Anakin adds, voice a little too tight. 

 

“If you’re sure,” Obi-wan sends a suspicious glance around the shuttle. “Anakin, let me know if you need to trade off.” 

 

“Will do, Master,” Anakin gives a sloppy salute. 

 

“Come on, I want to explore!” Ahsoka bounces on her feet, tugging Rex down the ramp. He somehow manages to keep his feet, even if his head is swimming by the time they stop. He can’t fault her excitement—wherever they are, it is unlike any place Rex has ever seen before. The plants are incredibly green, bursting with an almost visible energy, seeming to grow in front of his eyes. The air is crisp and fresh, almost sweet even through his helmet filters. Stars twinkle brightly in the sky, despite it being the height of day. 

 

Islands of rock are floating in the air, as naturally as clouds. For a moment, his amazement allows him to forget his headache. Rex makes sure to take holos of everything in sight, otherwise there’s no way the vode will believe him. Bly is going to be so jealous. He sets his helmet to record. 

 

“What?….What? Uh, did you guys hear that?” Anakin is turning in circles, like he’s looking for something. 

 

“Hear what, sir?” 

 

A woman is there, and Rex has absolutely no clue how she approached without them noticing. Her presence is like a miniature sun, somehow enough to dwarf even Skywalker’s presence. 

 

“Who are you?” Skywalker asks. Rex’s hands trail towards the holsters at his hips, ready to draw his blasters if this…person turns out to be a threat. 

 

"I am Daughter,” the woman says, like that explains everything. “Are you the One?” The what? He can’t actually tell who she is addressing. Her voice slips in and out of his head. 

 

“The One what?” Anakin’s voice has an edge of defensiveness to it. Rex is just glad he isn’t the only one hopelessly lost here. 

 

“I will take you to him,” Daughter decides. Rex doesn’t like anything about that. Not until they know what in Haran is happening. Obi-wan and Ahsoka don’t either. 

 

“Him who?” Ahsoka asks. Her eyes are narrowed at the being in suspicion. Rex is so proud of her, finally relying on some common sense. 

 

“Uh, are you the one who brought us here?” Obi-wan is hovering close to both him and Ahsoka. Though his voice is light, his shoulders and eyes are slightly too tense. 

 

Rex shakes his head. “Your face doesn’t match the one I saw before.” Though he didn’t get a good look at it, he’s certain in a way he can’t explain. Daughter feels different. 

 

“You saw Him?” Daughter sounds surprised. It is the most emotion she has displayed yet.

 

Anakin rounds on him. “You know who brought us here? Why wouldn’t you say something sooner!” He sounds angry, and Rex realizes too late that the others must not have seen the face in the light. 

 

His headache is growing again, sharp and prickling, like the shards of his mental shields are going to break into pieces again. “I wasn’t… I didn’t…”

 

“Skyguy, Rexter was pretty disoriented when he woke up. He was probably focusing on getting his…bearings.” 

 

Daughter cants her head to the side, staring intently into his eyes. Then her hands are on his head, fingers pressing into his temples, and he can’t move. He didn’t even see her take a step forward, how did she—? 

 

Anakin’s shields are stripped away like wet flimsi, and Rex can feel their absence intimately. The pain crescendos, his own mental shields violently welded back together so fast it makes his head spin. He can’t feel his own body anymore, completely numb to anything but the touch of her fingers against his head. Then the hands are gone, and his knees are too weak to support him. 

 

The…grass? underneath his hands is incredibly thick and spongey, and he thinks he could lie down to nap in it right now. He blinks slowly, watching as small white flowers bloom between his fingers. Now that the headache is gone, he can feel how intensely alive everything is. 

 

“What did you do to him?” Anakin demands. He grabs Daughter’s shoulder, but the strange being doesn’t acknowledge him. Daughter is walking away. 

 

“I repaired what was broken. Let me take you to Him. He is the only one who can help you and there is little time.” A cool breeze traces through the air, cutting straight through Rex’s armor. He can’t help but believe there is Truth to her words. 

 

Rex climbs to his feet, looking between the Jettise. They all have a pensive look on their face. Daughter has not paused in her steps, walking with the confidence of one who knows they will follow eventually. After all, she is the only one who has any knowledge of the terrain or whatever the kark is going on. 

 

With a sigh, they all fall in line. After all what choice do they have? 

 


 

The longer they are here, the stranger everything gets. The plants are starting to wilt and change color now. The Light seems to be seeping out of the air, and the light fullness he had felt in The Force is… not waning, but shifting. Melting into something darker, perhaps. 

 

He does not like it here. He does not like that the others are here. If he could have his way, he would have come to these coordinates alone. 

 

As they follow Daughter, whoever she is, Anakin feels that they somehow know less than when they first arrived. The woman is not forthcoming with answers, and the ones she does give are cryptic and vague. 

 

He glances back. Ahsoka is absently reaching out a hand to touch one of the plants branching into the path, pointing out anything especially interesting to Rex. The Captain still has his helmet on, and has been pretty withdrawn, but he occasionally humors Ahsoka with a nod of his head. His bond is securely shut in The Force. 

 

Anakin feels a twinge of guilt. He hadn’t meant to snap at his Captain, but in his surprise that Rex had seen something important and not told them, he had completely forgotten that Rex was probably reeling from the mess his mental shields had been in. 

 

And it had been a mess. Rex’s shields had been locked in a partial-state, a mix between the flexible mental shields the Jetti learned and the durasteel-solid shielding they were taught on Kamino. And they were shattered, like someone had taken a hammer and driven force into them from the outside until they broke. 

 

Anakin doesn’t even want to imagine what could have done that, especially since his Captain has become a natural at shielding in the few months since Master Che taught him. If he was resorting to his solid shields, even subconsciously, he must have been against something that was actively trying to burrow into his mind. Anakin doesn’t like the implications. 

 

“Out of curiosity, who are you taking us to?” 

 

Daughter’s eyes flick over him as she glances over. In just that glance, there is a brush of light against his mind. It is almost impossible to notice—would slip right past his shields if he wasn’t keeping them consciously sensitive. He doesn’t like how easy it would be for her to reach right in and—

 

“Father, of course.”

 

“Of course,” Ahsoka snarks behind them. 

 

“And, who are you, exactly, if you don’t mind my asking?” Obi-wan is careful to keep his voice light and curious, but Anakin can feel the guarded suspicion his Master is harboring. He’s sure that Daughter can feel it too, but she doesn’t say anything.

 

“We are the Beginning, the Middle, and the End.” Well that answers all his questions, guess they can go home now, mystery solved, Anakin thinks sarcastically. Only Obi-wan’s subtle look of Anakin I Know You Are About To Do Something I Disapprove Of keeps the thoughts silent. 

 

“Which one are you?” Rex asks. He’s been so quiet for most of the walk, his entry into the conversation makes Anakin jump. 

 

“I am the One who reached for you,” Daughter answers.

 

Rex tilts his head, expression carefully hidden under the darkened visor. He keeps himself perfectly, carefully blank in The Force. “Why did you call me by my name and my number?” 

 

“I called for you as you name yourselves. In your mind, you are CT-7567 just as much as you are Rex.” The Captain stops walking, shoulders rigid, like Daughter had blurted this deep secret. Anakin still remembers the beginning of the War, when Rex was stiff, terrified of him, and refused to go by anything but his number or rank—most of the clones did, at first. It doesn’t take him too long to understand. When Anakin was a slave, he at least was allowed a name. It was the concept of freedom he had struggled to understand—still struggles with, even after all these years. Rex has only had his name for a year—or only felt safe enough to say his name for a year. 

 

“Rex?” Ahsoka whispers, and Anakin realizes Ahsoka didn’t know. Ahsoka didn’t understand. 

 

Rex finds a way to become even less readable in The Force. He starts walking again, without a word. 

 

They cannot get off this kriffing asteroid-planet-whatever-the-kark-it-is fast enough. 

 


 

The pity coming off the Jettise is nauseating. Rex wants to tell them to stop, but he’s already karked up enough times today, and he does not need to add snapping at a superior officer to his list. 

 

The Force is loud here, but subdued as well. He can’t hear her voice, even when he’s looking for it. Everything here is disquieting and strange. He wants off this planet, if it’s even a planet. The plants are growing old, turning dark orange and red and brown. There are no animals here, no signs of life besides themselves and Daughter. Why aren’t there other animals, or bugs? Ahsoka keeps prodding at his shields, trying to get him to open up. He keeps them firmly locked down. He doesn’t need her questions or her pity and attempts at comfort. 

 

Kriff, he should have kept his mouth shut. How shameful is it that he sometimes identifies with a number more than a name? The Jettise have always had names, can’t possibly understand the longing for one. But how embarrassing is it, that after all his desperation and desire to find a name, he still thinks of himself as a number? 

 

Rex is so lost in these thoughts that he almost doesn’t feel the flicker of Dark above them, like a shadow flitting over their heads. There is a shift in the rocks above, and suddenly the ground is unstable. 

 

“Look out!” Anakin goes to push Daughter out of the way, at the same time throwing a hand back to shove Rex with The Force. It wraps around his chest and throws him back, well out of the way of the rocks. Unfortunately, it also sends him into General Kenobi and over the edge of the narrow path they were walking. General Kenobi is thankfully able to grab onto the ledge with one hand. 

 

Rex is not so lucky. 

 

As he continues his descent into certain death once again, he can’t help but think that some great Diviner of Fate must really love to watch him fall. 

 


 

Obi-wan’s continued attachment to the ledge is a very precarious mix of The Force and the grip strength of his finger tips. Thankfully, Ahsoka is there to wrap her hands around one of his wrists, giving him the security and leverage to pull himself up. A brief glance around the area tells him that Ahsoka is the only other person here. Rex must be on the other side with Anakin and Daughter. 

 

“Rex, Anakin, come in. Are you all right?” 

 

“Obi-wan, are Rex and Ahsoka with you?” Obi-wan feels a familiar sinking of dread in his gut. 

 

“I have Ahsoka. I was hoping you had Rex,” Obi-wan’s voice wavers. Now that the dust has cleared, he can see the damage done to the mountainside. Massive boulders have demolished and blocked the trail, cutting them off completely. If Rex had been caught in that and none of them noticed…Ahsoka’s hands go to her mouth in horror. Obi-wan fights back the urge to throw up. 

 

“Obi-wan, where is Rex?” The whole mountainside shudders. The sky darkens, completely black and starless for a moment. “Obi-wan, is he—” Anakin’s voice cracks. Obi-wan sinks to his knees. Ahsoka sinks next to him, shoulders shaking as tears stream down her face. 

 

He had promised Anakin, promised Cody, that he would protect Rex. And at the first sign of danger, he lost sight of the Captain just long enough to break that promise. Oh Force, what is he going to tell Cody? How do you apologize for getting someone’s closest brother killed? 

 

“Generals, Commander, could one of you possibly give me a lift? I’m a bit… stuck,” the Captain’s voice sounds a bit strained, but that is a far sight better than dead. 

 

“REX!” Ahsoka shrieks into the comms.

 

“Takes a bit more than a fall off a cliff to get rid of me, Commander.” Obi-wan immediately peers over the edge. There, at the edge of light, he can just make out the dust-white form of Rex, clinging to the cliffside. 

 

“I’ve got visuals Captain,” Obi-wan confirms. “Brace yourself and Ahsoka and I will have you right up.”

 

“Appreciated, sir.” Together, Ahsoka and Obi-wan haul Rex back up with The Force. The Captain immediately crumples to his knees, still shaky from the adrenaline rush and near-death experience. 

 

“Rexter!” Ahsoka all-but-tackles him on the ground, wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug. The Captain hisses, and Ahsoka pulls back sheepishly. 

 

In addition to the healthy coating of dust, Rex’s armor has several large scratches and scuff-marks running down the front of his armor. It is then that Obi-wan notices the way the Captain’s hands are cradled protectively in his lap. 

 

Ahsoka gently takes one of his hands, hissing through her teeth at the sight. Rex’s hands are completely shredded, flaps of skin and the cloth of his gloves hanging off in ribbons together. Blood is freely welling up from several large gashes and smaller cuts, which are filled with dirt and small chunks of rock. Obi-wan holds back the urge to throw up at the sight. No wonder Rex had needed some help getting up. He can’t imagine holding onto the cliff face with his hands like that, much less climbing.

 

“Rexter, your hands,” Ahsoka mourns. 

 

“It’s alright, Commander,” Rex replies softly. His voice is still tight, but Obi-wan admires his ability to remain so composed. They will need to keep an extra careful eye on Rex now. There’s no way he can possibly use his hands like that, which makes him fairly defenseless. 

 

“What’s going on? Do you have him? Is he alright?” Anakin’s voice is increasingly sharp. 

 

“We have him,” Obi-wan assures. “His hands are a mess, and he’s going to need medical treatment. We should take him back to the ship.”

 

“I’m fine,” Rex grits out. Ahsoka smacks him upside the helmet. 

 

“Daughter has decided to run off. Something about her brother. You guys take Rex back to the ship. Try to send another distress message.” 

 

“And what will you be doing?” 

 

“Following her, of course. We need to figure out how to get off this rock.” Obi-wan was afraid of this. 

 

“And if this is a trap?” Appeal to reason, appeal to reason, Obi-wan prays. They need to stick together, dang it.

 

“Then I’m not going to wait around to find out,” Anakin responds. The comm clicks off. Obi-wan sighs. 

 

“So reckless and impatient,” he laments. 

 

“He’ll be fine,” Ahsoka assures him. 

 

“We don’t have much of a choice but to hope,” Obi-wan agrees. Above them, the sky starts to darken, thunder rumbling in the distance. 

 

“Storm’s coming,” Ahsoka observes. Obi-wan feels a sliver of disquiet run up his spine. The regular day-cycle is odd enough, he doesn’t want to know what the storms here are like. 

 

“Come on Rex, let’s get your hands looked after.” The two of them haul the Captain up by his arms, bracing him on either side. Rex doesn’t protest, which strikes him as odd. 

 

“Do you want your helmet off?” Ahsoka offers. Rex nods his head. The seal releases with a hiss, and the Captain lets out a sigh of relief. Cody has told him that the helmets can get claustrophobic at times, and Obi-wan feels a twinge of guilt for not thinking to ask Rex about it sooner. The Captain’s face is still pale, breaths a little too fast and hitching. 

 

“Apologies for before, General,” Rex grunts. 

 

“Whatever for, Captain?” 

 

“For nearly taking you off the cliff with me,” Obi-wan thinks back to the moments before he ended up on the edge of the cliff. Something hard had collided with his back, knocking him to the side, but he had thought it was a rock. Though, he supposes a rock and an armored clone Captain feel pretty similar. 

 

“No need to apologize Captain. We should have noticed where you went sooner. Though I’m glad you managed to catch yourself, I wish we could have spared you your hands.” 

 

Rex winces. “Nothing to be done for it now, sir,” the Captain seems eager to leave it at that. Obi-wan lets him, and the conversation descends into silence. The sky darkens and thunders ominously, the storm catching up to them quickly. They still have a ways to the ship, Rex too shaky and in pain to go much faster. 

 

“Look, the plants are dying,” Ahsoka points out. Obi-wan watches as one of the plants wilts and crumples into dust. He can’t help but wonder what this strange place will do to them. Force, he hopes Anakin caught up to Daughter, or at least has the sense to go find shelter. 

 

“We should hurry then,” Obi-wan readjusts his grip on Rex, slinging an arm around his shoulder. Ahsoka hurries to take his other side, and together they take some of the burden from Rex. The Captain lets his head hang low, focusing all his energy on each step. 

 

By the time they reach the clearing, the sky is starless and dark, and the rain is coming down in sheets. A flash of lighting streaks across the sky, and Obi-wan stops in his tracks. Rex hisses as his hands are jolted by the sudden stop. He raises his head to look at the clearing and curses. 

 

“Kark,” Ahsoka mumbles. Obi-wan nods in agreement. 

 

The ship is gone. 

 


 

The ship is gone. Ohh Kriff, the ship is gone. The ship they need to get off this rock. The ship that has all the medical supplies they need to clean and patch up Rex’s hands. That ship. 

 

“Well, what do we do now?” 

 

“Now’s not the time to panic—“

 

“Did you lose something?” There’s a tall… man, with a pale face and beady red eyes. Ahsoka doesn’t hesitate to ignite her lightsaber, placing herself between the weird man and Rex. 

 

“Captain, don’t” she hears Obi-wan whisper. A moment later, Rex is hissing through his teeth. She knows without looking that the di’kut just tried to use his hands. 

 

“You didn’t do as you were asked,” he warns, an undercurrent of icy anger in his voice. It sets off her danger instincts, and it takes all her self-control to hold position. She glances at Obi-wan, hoping he knows how to handle this. 

 

“And what was that?” Master Kenobi keeps his voice light, but in The Force she can feel his anticipation. 

 

“My Sister said to wait,” the sense of danger grows, and she knows that Obi-wan has his hand on his lightsaber by now. They don’t want to antagonize this being, whoever he is, but they don’t want to be defenseless if he attacks either. They are not in a good position to defend themselves, especially with Rex unable to use his hands. 

 

Did she now? We were unfortunately separated. We’d like our ship back, if you don’t mind. Our companion here needs some of the supplies we have on board.” She doesn’t know what they are going to do if they can’t get those supplies back. They don’t know what plants are safe here (if there are still any left) and they don’t have clean water or bandages or bacta. Ahsoka is entirely untrained in Force Healing, and she knows Kenobi doesn’t specialize in it either. Rex is kriffed without those supplies—who knows what got into his hands, with all the dirt and rocks? 

 

“Not. Yet.” Ahsoka flinches, feeling the overwhelming violence in his voice. His hands, twitching, turn to claws before returning to long, pale fingers. She can feel the way he is barely holding himself back, but wishes all sorts of death upon them. 

 

She ignites her second lightsaber. Master Kenobi has a hand on the hilt of his. Rex shifts to take more of his own weight. 

 

“You caused the rockslide,” Rex accuses, voice hard and certain. “You wanted us separated.” Even if that’s true, now is not the time to be making creepy man angry! Ahsoka can’t believe that Rex—usually the only tactful one between the three of them—would disappoint her at such a crucial moment. 

 

The man narrows his eyes, and his malice is enough to make Obi-wan draw his lightsaber. “Get behind me Captain,” he barks. 

 

Then the man extends his hands, and her lightsabers go dormant. Shock travels through her like ice, rooting her to the ground. The man walks right past her, and she can no longer see what is happening. 

 

“I should unstitch your sinews for that,” the man threatens, and the rain stops suddenly, creating an absence that feels unnatural. “It will not do for one such as yourself to speak of such things it does not understand.” Rex lets out a soft grunt, and Ahsoka can only imagine what the man is doing to him. 

 

“Where is Anakin?” Obi-wan asks, and Ahsoka can hear the fear clearly in his voice. 

 

“The Chosen One?” The man chuckles, and a primal sort of dread trills up Ahsoka’s spine. What has he done? What has he done what has he—? “He is safe. For now. Much safer than you all will be.” The ice in her limbs dissolves, and Ahsoka spins. Rex is on his knees, cradling his hands protectively against his chest, and Obi-wan is hovering over him with a concerned hand on his back. But where is—

 

“I came to deliver a message,” the man appears out of nowhere, seeming to melt in and out of the shadows. “The storms here are quite… lethal,” the man’s eyes gleam, pointed teeth bared as he smiles at them, like he finds the whole situation amusing. “I suggest you find shelter.” With that, the man turns into a giant beast, flying into the night. All at once the storm surges back, sheets of rain soaking them in seconds. The wind cuts through to her bones. Lightning arcs through the clouds, striking the ground nearby. 

 

“Ahsoka, help me with Rex. We need to find shelter, and fast,” Obi-wan calls over the storm. Together, they half-guide half carry the Captain towards a nearby cave. 

 


 

The lightning chases his heels the whole way to the monastery, and yet Anakin can’t find it in himself to be afraid. The lightning strikes feel more like a subtle warning, like they are bending around him on purpose. 

 

He wonders how the others are doing. Rex’s voice had sounded tight over the comms—it must have been really bad if his Captain was allowing any sign of pain in his voice. He thinks, briefly, of the slaves who stole, how their hands were crushed into something unrecognizable. The bones always healed wrong, and the slave would have crooked hands the rest of their life. He thinks it is better that he never saw Rex’s hands, and he thinks he is cowardly for thinking so. 

 

He takes a moment to reach out through The Force, traveling the length of his bonds. Normally, the distance would be too great, but the strong Force presence of this place makes it possible. Obi-wan nudges relief back at him, along with Safe? 

 

Safe. Rex? Anakin nudges back. Lightning strikes a tree nearby, sending a shower of splinters in his direction. None of them hit, and Anakin continues his path towards the monastery. 

 

Safe. With Ahsoka. Ship gone. No supplies. Shelter in Cave. How can the ship be gone? Anakin sighs. There isn’t anything they can do about it now, he reasons. Maybe someone in the monastery can help. Hopefully they have a space-worthy ship and some medical supplies. Or maybe they are the ones who stole their ship in the first place, in which case Anakin can steal it right back. 

 

Despite how long he has been walking, Anakin does not feel tired. He wonders if this place has anything to do with it. Despite the strangeness of the day, this planet or whatever is really quite beautiful. If it weren’t for the locals, he would be enjoying this a lot more. He feels… powerful. More than he should. And yet, there is a lingering sense of disquiet, like something is just off. 

 

Eventually, the distance grows too great, and he reluctantly lets his bond with Obi-wan fade to the back of his mind. 

 

The monastery is large, lavish, and empty. It all seems so pridefully opulent, all these high ceilings and carved pillars and endless stairs. It makes Anakin’s gut twist. 

 

Finally, he finds a long hall, and at the end is a throne framed by two statues. The throne looks like a large scale, like something he would see in a market. There is an old man sitting there, and Anakin wonders if this is who Rex saw. 

 

He sits down, like he’s a Padawan before a Master. He hates any signs of deference, of submission, but he can’t afford to make an enemy out of someone when they don’t know what they are up against. 

 

The man opens his eyes, and they are violently turquoise. Anakin is startled to find that they remind him of Rex. 

 

“What is it that you want from me?” And why did you have to drag my friends here to get it? He doesn’t ask. The man seems to see the question anyway. 

 

“To learn the Truth about who you really are, one that maybe you have known all along.” The man stands, towering over Anakin. “One you must believe in order to fulfill your destiny.” He doesn’t understand what the man is getting at. Why do all the locals speak in cryptic half-answers? 

 

“Enough with the riddles, old man. Tell me what’s going on here.” Obi-wan and Rex would probably be face-palming at his lack of tact, but he’s tired of these strange people and this strange place. 

 

“It is late, and you have nowhere else to go. You will be my guest tonight,” the man starts to walk off, and Anakin follows him reluctantly. Something tells him that none of his questions are going to be answered. 

 


 

Rex holds out his arms as General Kenobi tears sections of his robe into bandages, carefully wrapping the palms of his hands. He hisses softly, trying to put his mind somewhere else. Ahsoka is building up the fire again, using The Force to pull as much moisture as she can out of the wood before adding it to the flames. 

 

“Almost done, Rex,” Kenobi soothes. Rex nods, but doesn’t trust himself to say anything.

 

Ahsoka had done her best to clean the wounds, using The Force to pick out the dirt and shards of rock, but without water, bacta, stitches, or real bandages, there isn’t much they can do but clean it as much as they can, wrap it with what cloth they have, and hope that the bleeding will stop on its own and an infection won’t develop. Either way, his hands are kriffing useless now, and it is not a situation Rex wants to think about. 

 

When that man appeared, Rex had been defenseless. He couldn’t draw his blasters, couldn’t move his feet, couldn’t stop the stranger from taking his hands and curling them into fists, driving his own fingernails into the torn flesh of his palms—

 

His hands throb and pulse with pain, sharp and blinding. Rex chokes down a gasp, his inhale coming too sharp. “That should do it.” The General checks his own work, making sure the edges of the cloth are properly tied up. “Try to get some sleep, Rex, I’ll take first watch,” Kenobi’s voice is gentle, but Rex can still hear the concern and pity underneath. It makes his stomach twist. Day one into this mission, and he’s already managed to make himself dead weight. A liability. Again. How many times are the Jettise going to have to cover his shebs before this is over? 

 

“With all due respect, General, I don’t think I can. Would you mind if I took the first watch instead?” He needs something to do, something that makes him useful. Kenobi looks like he wants to protest, but Rex pushes his resolve into The Force, hoping it is subtle enough that the General won’t question it. 

 

“All right then. Wake me up if anything happens?” 

 

“Of course General.” Kenobi curls up on the floor, and is asleep in minutes. After poking at the fire a bit more, Ahsoka makes her way over, settling down next to him. 

 

“You should get some sleep Commander. It’s been a long day.” 

 

Ahsoka huffs. “I think you’ve had a longer day than the rest of us, Rexter.” She leans her head against his shoulder, which shouldn’t be comfortable, considering he’s still wearing his armor.

 

“Do you think Master Skywalker is disappointed with me?” The question takes him off guard, as does her use of formal address. Ahsoka almost always refers to the General as “Skyguy,” the way he almost always calls her Commander. 

 

“What is making you think that he is, vod’ika?” 

 

“He wouldn’t let me go to Malastare. Instead, I had to stay in the Temple and catch up on coursework.” Anakin actually had nothing to do with that. Jocasta Nu had been firm that Ahsoka would not be going on campaigns or missions until she took her academic classes seriously. Rex had felt a bit bad, considering he was partly the reason Ahsoka was so far behind. All the same, he’s secretly grateful that she did not go to Malastare with them, seeing the disaster that turned out to be. Still, Rex knows well the fear of being left behind, of knowing that your brothers are in battle and might march on without you.

 

“He’s also sent me on a few solo missions recently. Mostly diplomatic missions, which are supposed to be easy.” Ahsoka conveniently leaves out the fact that every single one has gone straight to haran. Rex looked at those mission reports and almost had a heart attack, even before reading the one from Mandalore. He had been as impressed as he had been worried. After all, Ahsoka took a bunch of young, mostly untrained cadets, uncovered a massive conspiracy, stopped a coup, and removed a major government official from power, all while unarmed. Ahsoka has truly come into her own as a member of the disaster lineage. 

 

“He keeps lecturing me about being reckless, and he wouldn’t take me when him and Master Kenobi went to track down Dooku because he thought it would be too dangerous. He didn’t want me to come on this mission either, and at the first chance to go off on his own, he dumps the both of us on Master Kenobi instead of trying to meet back up. It’s just. I’m supposed to be learning from him, but how can I do that when I’m never at his side? Is it because he trusts me to handle myself, or because he doesn’t trust me at all?” 

 

Rex winces. He can’t help but feel like he failed her for not noticing her loneliness and creeping self-doubt sooner. 

 

“Commander,” Ahsoka tenses, and Rex takes a deep breath. “You saved Pantora from being pressured into joining the Separatists. You saved Mandalore from corruption and conspiracy on the inside, and you saved Senator Amidala from multiple assassination attempts. You are coming into your own as a Jetti, and proving yourself to be quite the warrior. I can’t speak for the General, but I’m proud of you, vod’ika.” Ahsoka finally looks up, eyes shining. 

 

“I’m sorry no one has taken the time to recognize everything you have done recently, myself included, and if General Skywalker is disappointed instead of seeing how amazing you are, he’s a hypocrite and a di’kut,” Rex growls firmly. Ahsoka’s arms wrap around his middle, careful of his hands and wrists. 

 

“Thanks Rexter. I think—I think I needed to hear that,” Ahsoka sniffs, straightening up to scrub away tears threatening to form in her eyes. 

 

“Is this why you were awake the other night?” The Togruta nods. Rex sighs. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner, vod’ika,” he’s been so caught up in everything going on in his life, he hasn’t really taken the time to consider that other people in the 501st have their own burdens. Rex has really let his ori’vod duties slip. 

 

Ahsoka pokes his forehead. “Stop that. I can feel the guilt from here. You’ve already reached your allowance for the month.” 

 

Rex snorts. “I don’t think it works like that, Commander.” 

 

“It does now.” Ahsoka curls up into his side again. “Now, are you going to get some sleep, or do I have to use a Sleep Suggestion on you?” 

 

“I believe General Kenobi already gave me the first watch. If anyone should sleep, it’s you, vod’ika.”

 

“Obi-wan is a softy.” The General in question twitches on the floor, like he’s dreaming. Ahsoka places a hand on his forehead, concentrating for a moment, and Kenobi settles back down with a sigh. She stares at him intently, and Rex can feel exhaustion start to tug on his bones. 

 

“You’re… cheating,” he yawns. 

 

“You need your rest,” Ahsoka snarks. “We have a big day tomorrow. Finding Skyguy, dragging him out of whatever mess he will have inevitably found himself in. Can’t do it alone.” She tugs him over onto his side, pillowing his head on her lap. Now that he’s laying down, Rex can barely keep his eyes open. Ahsoka’s nails start gently scratching through his hair, and Rex gives in. 

 


 

“What are you doing?” Rex peers around the cave, but no one seems to be there. 

 

“Did you forget?” The voice sounds like Vode, but he can’t tell who it is. 

 

“What do you mean? Where are you?” The fire is flickering, almost burned to embers. It makes the shadows cast throughout the room dance. He can’t make out anything in the darkness, and it sets his hair on end. 

 

A vod kneels down in front of him, so sudden that Rex startles. The armor is intimately familiar, from the scuffs and stripes to the Kama and pauldron, and the Jaig Eyes on the helmet. The vod removes his helmet, and Rex comes face to face with himself, only…not. Other Rex still has  golden-brown eyes, his blond hair shaved down to practically nothing. 

 

“Did you forget?” Other Rex hisses, voice tight. He takes a threatening step forward, and Rex shrinks back. “You are going to bring us all to ruin.” 

 

“W-what?” 

 

“This “gift” of yours. You are playing with a power you don’t understand. Every time you use it you threaten the lives and safety of all our brothers.” Other Rex trembles, his eyes filling with anger. “You know how this ends.”

 

Rex can feel fingers ghosting through his hair, tracing his ribs, trailing down the knobs of his spine. He knows full well what the Kaminoans would do to him. But Ahsoka’s words come to him again, and he hesitates. “I know it’s dangerous. But, it’s a part of me. And if I can use it to save just one brother—“

 

“Stop lying to yourself! You and I both know that for every brother you save on the field, another will die in the labs because of what you are doing! If this secret gets found out, the Kaminoans won’t stop at you. They will find out about Clover, and they will take him too. They will take Cody, Fox, Wolffe, Bly and Ponds. They will take Jesse, Hardcase, Coric, Fives, Echo, and Kix. They will cut them open just because they can, because they want to know if there are any more like you, if you will be stupid enough to reach out to them for help, to warn them. As long as you continue to use The Force, they will never be safe. You will never be safe. Why drag others to their deaths over a useless dream? You and I both know that you were never made to be a Jettise. Why are you trying to be more than what you were made for?” 

 

Other Rex drags his fingers through Rex’s hair, tugging at the roots the way the Ko Sai always used to. The blood freezes in him, and Rex can’t speak, can barely breathe through his terror. 

 

“You and I both know The Force can’t save you from what you are,” Other Rex whispers in his ear. “Defective. Mutant. Aberration. A liability. Useless,” he spits out the last word. “Look at your hands. How are you supposed to fight like this? How are you supposed to be useful? The Jettise don’t need you, don’t want you either. Why else would they keep you on the sidelines unless you are a burden to them?” 

 

“You’re wrong,” Rex grits out. 

 

His doppelgänger laughs, eyes glinting with mirth. “Am I? You think I don’t see right through you? CT-7567, I am you. You can’t hide from me—I am only saying what you tell yourself. You and I both know the truth,” Other Rex kneels down, so close Rex can feel his breath hot against his cheek. 

 

“You are always afraid,” CT-7567 strips him of his chest plate. “You are afraid of losing everything you have gained. Your men. Your Jettise. Your brothers. Your purpose. Your powers. Your name,” with each example, another piece of armor is stripped from him, until Rex is in nothing but his blacks. “You are afraid you never deserved it in the first place.” CT-7567 tears through the under-suit, leaving him bare. 

 

“The Force is for Jettise, and you are wrong to have these powers. To use them.  After all, you are just a simple clone,” Other Rex points a blaster against his chest, directly over his heart. “You were made to die.”

 


 

“Are you happy, child?”

 

Ahsoka looks around the cave, realizing with concern that Rex and Obi-wan are no longer there.   She’s on her feet without thought, lightsaber in her hand. She had been running her hands through Rex’s hair a moment ago, so where could he have gone without her noticing? 

 

“Your Master, does he treat you well?”

 

There, in the light of the fire, is an older Togruta. Ahsoka draws her lightsaber. She’s not taking any chances. Everyone on this planet seems to be strangely interested in Skyguy, and she’s sick of it. 

 

“What concern of it is yours?” 

 

Through the fire, the other Togruta stands proudly. “I am your future potential.” Ahsoka draws her shōto. The Togruta holds up her hands placatingly. “There is a wildness to you, young one.” The words are nothing new. She’s always been reckless, always thrown herself at the problem headfirst. “Seeds of the Dark Side, planted by your Master. Do you feel it?” 

 

That is something she hasn’t heard before. “No! He is—”

 

“Doubt. Anger. Jealousy. Fear. All these things stir inside you. Your Master’s hand is careless, it does not guide your head above such dark waters.”

 

“Anakin Skywalker is a great Jedi!” Ahsoka protests. 

 

“But is he a good teacher? Does he offer praise? Does he ask what you want? What you need?” The question makes the fire die in Ahsoka’s stomach. What can she say? Anakin has taught her a lot, but these days it feels like she has to beg for attention, for his time, when she shouldn’t have to ask. 

 

He never asked her about Rex. He simply took on another pupil, like it wouldn’t disrupt her training and change the dynamic between Master and Padawan. But it has. It’s hard not to feel bitter at it, even if this is no one’s fault. Rex didn’t ask for this, and neither did Anakin. She meant what she said, that night on the training deck—Rex deserves to feel safe in The Force, to know how to use it properly and without fear for who he is. But there’s still that little voice that whispers:

 

she’s being replaced. 

 

She’s not good enough, was never good enough, to study under the most powerful Jedi the Order has ever seen. And Rex—

 

Rex is a natural. The Force flows around him so effortlessly. It comes to his call, speaks to him. He’s the kind of pupil that Anakin deserves. 

 

And Skyguy hasn’t been training him either. 

 

“Be warned, young one,” the Togruta steps into the flames, and they roar and crackle brightly. “If Anakin Skywalker does not change, nothing will be safe. Beware the Dark Side in him, or else ruin and rot will take hold.” 

 

Ahsoka blinks, and Rex is under her hands again, Obi-wan curled up on the floor. The fire is burned low, and everything is silent.

 


 

“Obi-wan, have you done as I asked? Have you trained the boy?”

 

Obi-wan draws his lightsaber, heart in his throat. Master Qui-Gon is there before him, flickering like a hologram. 

 

“Master?” His voice wavers, but Obi-wan does not lower the lightsaber. How is he to know if this is real? Or a trick? Perhaps this is merely a reflection of his longing, a ghost conjured by grief. “What are you doing here?” 

 

“I am here because you are here,” Qui-Gon says simply. Oh really? Then why has Obi-wan never found him before, despite all his searching?

 

“I don’t understand, what is this place?” He has never felt anything like this before, The Force so full and so tumultuous, shifting like tides. The whole planet seems on the cusp of being torn apart. 

 

“Unlike any other, a conduit through which the entire Force of the Universe flows.” That sounds… unnatural. 

 

“Are we in danger?” Is this meant to be a warning? 

 

“You are always in danger, dear Obi-wan. Your willful ignorance blinds you.” The soft rebuke stings, even as it leaves him confused. 

 

“Master, I don’t—“ 

 

“Obi-wan, the wall behind you is full of cracks. The longer you look away, the deeper the cracks grow. Continuing to keep your back turned will not save you when the wall eventually crumbles and takes the ceiling down with it.” 

 

“Is this about Anakin or Rex?” 

 

Qui-Gon smiles, eyes glinting with satisfaction. “See, you are not so blind after all. Merely indecisive.”

 

“I’ve trained him as best as I could, Master, but Anakin is still…willful at times. Reckless, impulsive, driven with emotions—“

 

“And have you trained him to use them? To feel those emotions? How can Anakin heal and put to rest what he has been taught to put aside and let fester?” Obi-wan’s mouth opens and closes, tongue uncharacteristically stuck in his throat. 

 

Qui-Gon’s expression softens. “Perhaps it was wrong of me, to give you such a burden. You were still so young yourself. But the choice was taken from us, and you have done admirably under such poor circumstance. I am proud of the man you have become, Obi-wan.” 

 

Tears are burning down his cheeks. He reaches towards Qui-Gon, but his hand falls through, the man’s form flickering. There is nothing there. Qui-Gon is still dead, and Obi-wan is still lost. 

 

“It is not too late to save him, but you cannot do it alone. Three creatures here are vying for Skywalker’s power, believing he is the Chosen One, as I do. Three of you are here with him, can be as lights upon the darkened path.” 

 

“And Captain Rex?” 

 

Qui-Gon smiles, almost sadly. “Terrible trials lay ahead, and the future is not yet certain. You must protect the Captain from all who wish him harm. He is the one who will free the—“

 

Obi-wan sits up with a gasp, searching around the cave wildly. “No, no, no!” He mutters. Qui-Gon had been so close. And what had his Master been trying to say? Captain Rex would free what? He swiped at the ground in frustration, letting himself a moment of weakness before sending his emotions into The Force. 

 

Slightly calmer, he glanced around the cave. Ahsoka was still awake, her head resting tucked on her knees, but her eyes seemed distant. Captain Rex is still asleep at her side, face pulled into a grimace. 

 

Obi-wan makes his way over, taking a moment to check the bandages. Already, several spots are bleeding through. Obi-wan sighs, beginning the process of tearing more strips from his robe. 

 

“I had a Vision,” Ahsoka doesn’t turn her head to face him, looking blankly into the fire as she absently trails a hand through the Captain’s hair. “I think Skyguy might be in trouble.” Obi-wan winces, remembering Qui-Gon’s warning. 

 

“The storm is calming, and should be over soon. Hopefully we won’t be too late.” 

 


 

Daughter kneels before Father, head bowed in obedience. 

 

“You tried to warn them,” Father says, his expression stern. He isn’t angry—he has too much control of himself for such frivolous things as emotions—but there is something disproving in his tone that makes her wilt. 

 

It is not her way to challenge Him. To go against His will. That is why he trusts her. Why he loves her. 

 

“I thought it best, Father,” she tries to explain. These Visitors never should have come. Father never should have brought them, never should have asked her to find them. They shouldn’t be left to die simply because all knowledge has been kept from them. The path ahead is dark, and Daughter will give them what light she can if it will save them from stumbling. 

 

She can feel their Sanctuary rotting from the inside. She wonders if Father knows, if he has noticed the abscess growing beneath the surface, ready to swallow them. She loves Father, but he does not change, does not adjust. Their Sanctuary is rotting, and Father is dying with it because he cannot change. And Daughter can only love him, she cannot turn his mind. And Son can only hate him, and try to force Father to move anyway. But they are both chained to Father, can only stray so far from his will. They can only watch as the abscess grows, as this place continues to rot and Father refuses to change and starts to fester with it. A rock, no matter how unmoving, is eventually stripped away by the current. That is the way of things. Father is an anchor, and he will drag Son and Daughter down with him. Daughter has known this for a long time, and has long since stopped fighting. Soon, nothing will save them. Not even these Visitors. She is the only one who knows this. 

 

But it is not Daughter’s nature to challenge Father. She does not voice these thoughts. 

 

Father says nothing. He stares into a space Daughter cannot see. She feels his hold tightening, afraid to let his Children slip farther from his will. In his desire to keep balance, Father fails to see them for what they are. He wants them to be as himself—a nebulous middle ground. Daughter and Son can never be what Father demands of them. 

 

“We will continue with the Test. In the morning, you both shall bring the others here.” 

 

Daughter bows, allows her position to hide the grimace on her face. It is not her nature to kill, but her obedience comes above all else. She can tear herself apart and still be Good as long as she listens and does as she is asked. She can still have Father’s love, even if it means the Universe will fall to pieces. 

 


 

“Wake up my son, I must tell you a secret.” A hand drags down his cheek, familiar and comforting. Anakin has not felt that touch in a long time. Not since his mother—

 

“Who’s there?” Anakin peers around the room. Though his eyes see nothing, it does not remove the feeling of being watched. “Who's there, I said!” 

 

“It is me, Ani, your mother,” Above him is a woman, face worn but gentle and arms wide. Anakin feels nothing but horror. 

 

He forces himself away, even as he desires to be wrapped in those arms again. “What kind of black arts is this?” He demands. “You’re dead.” 

 

“Nothing ever really dies, my son,” the mockery says, as his own mother said to him many times before. “I have a secret to tell you.” 

 

“Then tell me.” He’s had enough of games, of ghosts. Whoever has stolen his mother’s face will regret it. 

 

“Your shame and guilt will never leave you. It will haunt your footsteps until you die.” Anakin recoils, drawing his lightsaber. His “mother” laughs. “My son, you will always be a slave.” 

 

“Do not taunt me with my mother’s face.” Anakin growls. “I will make you regret it.”

 

“Will you?” The cruel smile on the woman’s face is entirely alien. Shmi had always been gentle, kind. It hurts to see his mother’s face so twisted. “You’ve already killed me once. Do you have the strength to do it again?” 

 

“Enough!” He can’t stop the desperate edge from tainting his voice. 

 

“The blood of the innocent is on your hands, Anakin Skywalker!” His mother’s face is twisted with contempt, with hate. “Is the result worth the stain? Are you satisfied with your vengeance?” 

 

“Shut up!” He brings his hands to his ears, squeezing his eyes shut. Gentle hands wrap around his wrists, a mockery of comfort. 

 

“You can’t hide from the Truth forever,” the words wind nebulously in his head. “No matter how powerful you become, you will never save the ones you love. If you were a proper Jedi, you would learn to let them go.”

 

“I can’t. I won’t.” He’s tried, but the pain and fear still stick. There’s so much he could lose. Obi-wan, Ahsoka, Rex, Padme. Letting them go first feels like failing them. They have given him everything, so how can he just let them go? Pretend they don’t mean anything? 

 

His “mother” scoffs. “Your… Apprentice, was it? How are you supposed to protect him when he’s marked for Death? You’ve seen it, haven’t you? You’ve known for a long time. But that’s just one more secret, isn’t it?” Anakin shudders, the fear quickly overcome with rage. 

 

“Leave Rex alone! I’ll kill you!” He yells, swinging his lightsaber through the ghost in front of him. As the lightsaber makes contact, his mother’s face disappears, replaced by his blond Captain. Rex’s eyes go wide, the lightsaber burning through his stomach. Cold horror washes through him, and Anakin can’t move, can’t breathe. 

 

“S-sir?” Anakin disengages the blade, throwing his lightsaber across the room. Rex collapses to his knees, wheezing harshly. Anakin moves to catch him and the Captain flinches from his touch. 

 

“Rex, I never—I—I didn’t—“ He takes one of Rex’s hands, curled tightly into fists. The Captain’s breaths are ragged gasps, but he still reaches his other hand up to brush away one of the tears streaming down Anakin’s face. It’s a kindness he doesn’t deserve. 

 

“S-sir? I… I don’t think—“ 

 

“Save your strength,” Anakin barks. Rex huffs, a laugh turning into pained coughs as he chokes up blood. He’s pressing hands to a wound that is already cauterized. It’s a hopeless gesture. Hands wrap around his wrists, trying to tug his away from the wound, trying to give up and let it be. But something in Anakin’s mind clicks. 

 

Obi-wan had said Rex’s hands were a mess, that they needed medical attention. 

 

He jerks his hands off the “Rex” below him. Now that he’s looking closely, there is no wound, merely a hole in the armor. “Who are you?” He demands. Suddenly, there is a large black creature in the room with him, sharp teeth curled in a grin. 

 

“Your fate!” The creature crows. Lightning flares bright through the dark, and then Anakin is alone. 

 


 

“Cannot sleep?” The old man is aggravatingly calm for someone who has a lightsaber pointed mere inches from his face. “To strike an unarmed man is hardly the Jedi way.” 

 

Anakin honestly couldn’t give two karks about the Jedi way right now. Whatever that creature in his room was, it wore his mothers face and made him think he killed Rex. And there is only one person Anakin has seen in this Monastery so far. 

 

“You’re a Sith Lord!” He accuses. 

 

“You have a very simple view of the Universe,” The man has yet to so much as open his eyes, and it makes rage spark in Anakin’s stomach that this man is so… unthreatened. “I am neither Sith nor Jedi. I am much more. And so are you.” The words send something writhing through his spine.

 

“I see through your spells and visions, old man. Tell me what is going on here!” Anakin lowers his blade, the tip pointing at the man’s chest. Either this man tells him what is going on, or there will be one less threat to his family. 

 

Instead, the old man calmly reaches up, wrapping his fingers around the blade of the lightsaber. The blade sparks, stretching and bending with the movement of the man’s hand. This should be impossible. Anakin has never seen someone do anything remotely similar before. “Some call us Force wielders.” The blade is pushed back into the hilt, and Anakin stares at it uncomprehendingly. His main weapon, his main form of defense, is useless against these creatures. It’s like the Zillo Beast all over again, but worse. 

 

“The Jedi have never spoken of this.” 

 

The old man seems unsurprised. “Few still know of our existence,” he says simply. 

 

“In that room, my mother came to me. But it was not her, it was something else. It tried to take the form of my Captain,” he wants that thing dead. 

 

“Ah. My son, I suspect. We can take many forms. The shapes we embody are merely a reflection of the life force around us.” The man pauses, teal eyes boring down upon him, like they see underneath the skin. “You carry great sadness in your heart. Sadness, and fear." The man looks away, gesturing around the monastery. "My children and I can manipulate The Force like no other. Therefore it was necessary to withdraw from the temporal world, and live here as Anchorites.” 

 

“As a sanctuary?”

 

“And a prison,” the old man agrees. His eyes soften, and ages seem to pile upon his shoulders, making him seem much older than he already is. “You cannot imagine what pain it is to have such love for your children, and realize that they could tear the very fabric of our universe.”

 

But Anakin does understand. He is always told that his attachments will mean ruin. But Anakin loves deeply, and to let go of that love is to tear a whole so big he might as well be dead. He cannot let go without losing himself as well. 

 

The old man continues. “It is only here that I can control them—a family in balance, the light and the dark. Day with night. Destruction replaced by creation.” The explanation both makes sense and it doesn’t. Something is niggling at his mind, something about what the man said, or how he said it. Control. He can’t imagine his children are too pleased. 

 

“Then why reveal yourselves to us?” It doesn’t make any sense. If these beings are so dangerous, if they sealed themselves off from the world for a reason, why would they involve themselves now? What do they want Anakin and his friends for?

 

“There are some who would like to exploit our power. The Sith are but one,” Anakin can’t imagine anyone who would be strong enough to challenge them, who would be persuasive enough to sway beings who can command The Force so easily they can touch a lightsaber blade with bare hands and manipulate the crystal directly to shape it. “Too much light or dark would be the undoing of life as you understand it. When news reached me that the Chosen One had been found, that his Guide had awakened, I needed to see for myself.” 

 

This Chosen One thing again. Anakin shakes his head. “The Chosen One is a myth.” 

 

“Is it?” The old man raises an eyebrow, looking almost amused. “I should very much like to know. Why don’t we find out together?” The old man seems to grow taller, almost bearing over him. “Pass one test, and I shall know the Truth. Then you and your friends may leave.” There is something in his eyes, in the expectant tone of his voice, that makes Anakin hesitate, makes him believe this man is not being fully honest. He is tired of tests. He is tired of proving himself. 

 

But, he is also tired of this place. If this is the quickest way to get himself and everyone else off this planet… 

 

“Fine, I’ll take your test.” 

 


 

The Captain jolts awake as Obi-wan is unwinding the bandages to redress his hands, breathing quick and ragged. He swings a fist at Obi-wan, which he catches at the wrist. The Captain lets out a shout, one part pain and one part surprise. A rock pelts Obi-wan’s back, right where he is bruised from his collision with the Captain yesterday. 

 

“Captain, Rex, it’s alright. You are safe,” Obi-wan soothes. Ahsoka abandons her careful check of the extinguished fire pit to crouch on Rex’s other side. The Captain’s eyes open wide, glowing violently blue as he lets out a desperate whine. Another rock pelts into his back, and Obi-wan distantly realizes the whole cave is trembling. “Captain!” Well, there goes his plausible deniability. 

 

Rex finally seems to come to his senses, though his eyes are still flitting around the cave, looking for danger. A vision must have come to him too, then. “General? We’re… what is going on?” 

 

“The storm has ended and the dawn is coming, so we we are going to re-dress your hands and move out,” Obi-wan explains calmly. Rex pauses, tensing his fingers almost absently. His jaw clenches a bit tighter, exhale a little too forced to be anything but tightly controlled. After a few more controlled breaths, Rex holds out his hands. Obi-wan unwinds the cloth carefully, wincing in sympathy at every little sign of discomfort Rex makes. The Captain is doing his best to remain stoic, but the cloth is stuck into the raw flesh, and they don’t have any water to loosen it first. 

 

Then the bandages come away, the the grisly sight is laid bare. 

 

Rex’s hands are bleeding again, oozing pus where the skin has been torn open or stripped away. The skin surrounding the open gashes is an irritated red, swollen, and shiny. Ahsoka chokes on a curse, hands over her mouth and nose. Rex clenches his jaw tighter, expression carefully blank. 

 

Infection has already set in. And there’s nothing they can do about it. 

 


 

The planet transitions to day quickly, the trees bursting back into full bloom despite their completely skeletal appearance moments before. 

 

“The longer we are on this planet, the stranger everything gets,” Rex murmurs.

 

“It appears the planet is renewing itself,” Kenobi agrees. “How are your hands, Captain?” 

 

Painful. They burn and ache and throb all at once, and make it that much harder to focus on keeping one foot in front of the other. But Rex can keep pace under his own power, and he refuses to slow them down when Skywalker needs them. 

 

“Manageable, General. I’ll be fine.” 

 

Two shadows flit over their heads. The three of them turn to see two massive creatures flying right towards them, claws extended. Ahsoka pushes Rex out of the way with The Force, the darker creature snatching her by the arms. 

 

“Commander!” He scrambles back to his feet, ignoring the hot thrumming of his hands. Both creatures have a Jetti in their claws, ready to take off with them. 

 

“Run, Rex. That’s an order!” Ahsoka snaps. The dark creature shuffles his wings, leaping into the sky with her. The light one follows with Kenobi.

 

Without thinking, Rex extends his hands. 

 

Both creatures jerk mid-flight, straining against the hold he has on them. His hands are bleeding, The Force burning as his will competes against both these strange creatures. But Rex is no stranger to pain, and he continues to pull, dragging the creatures back towards the ground. 

 

The Force is strong here. He opens his shields slightly, enough to let her in more. His bones are singing, The Force surging through him like an Ocean. Kenobi’s foot brushes the ground, Ahsoka shouting as she renews her struggles against the creature holding her hostage. 

 

Then something dark slithers against his mind, cold and damp. It presses up against his shields, trying to find a way in. He feels the presence start to squeeze, constricting. He tightens his shields against the onslaught, and the Creatures gain more ground. 

 

Rex now has two choices. 

 

He can abandon his shields, make sure the Jettise make it back to the ground. Or he can secure his shields, at the risk of the creatures getting away. 

 

Either way, he’ll lose. It’s taking all he has to keep the creatures in place, and he can’t fight them much longer. But if they take his Jettise, can he find them? Can he save them? There’s no time, no time and he has to chose. His shields are cracking. The pressure is numbing. Rex can’t feel his hands anymore. He can’t hear, can barely see through the tears suddenly streaming down his face. 

 

“Let go! Rex!” Ahsoka is screaming at him. 

 

“Captain!” Kenobi calls. 

 

There is a third. Behind him, a shadow grows, swallowing his own. A hand wraps around his throat, around his forehead. The Chosen One must be tested. Even you cannot interfere. The edges of his vision darken. The Ocean turns against him, waves crashing over his head. Rex is pulled down sharply, to a place where he cannot fight. 

Notes:

Considering how Anakin-centric the Mortis arc is, I still found a way to make it very Rex-centric by beating him up continuously and also making everyone worried about him, and I think that's very sexy of me.

I think it's really funny that in the original episode, the distress code doesn't specify that they want Skywalker. The Council just happens to send the three of them to investigate. Like, what were the Mortis gods going to do if they sent Plo Koon or something instead? Send him back and try again?

At this point, Rex is 100% part of the disaster lineage. Which means he will never get a break in his life ever again. Unfortunately for Windu, Rex's days of Skywalker-wrangling are about to be replaced with days of Skywalker-enabling and Skywalker-level-problem-finding.

Obi-wan at the start of this chapter: Rex doesn't have The Force to protect himself the same way us Jedi do
Obi-wan at the end of this chapter: I don't think I could have been more wrong if I tried.

Anakin: don't worry Rex! I'll save you *manages to push both Rex and Obi-wan over the edge of a cliff*

Is it really the start of a new arc if Rex doesn't fall off something at some point? (and get injured in the process)

Fun fact: I slid off some rocks a few weeks ago and managed to tear off a good chunk of skin on the base of my palm/wrist. It was fairly painful and annoying to work around for a week, but served as very good inspiration for Rex shredding the absolute shit out of his hands, so I guess it balanced itself out.

Anyways, I hope this chapter was worth the wait! I hope to have the next chapter out much faster, but life is hectic and I make no promises

Thank you for taking the time to read :) your comments and kudos make my day <3 enjoy some hot coffee/tea and maybe some nice soup now that it's starting to actually feel like fall

Chapter 6: In your own head

Summary:

In which Anakin has to make a choice, the thing he is horrifically bad at.

Or, Ahsoka, Obi-wan, and Rex spend some time as collateral in a test that very well could determine the fate of the universe. So, no pressure. Okay, maybe some pressure. Anakin has never been good at being told what to do.

Or, Son schemes. Daughter dreams. Father frays at the seams. Not necessarily in that order.

Notes:

Hey, I'm back! and it just took me almost two months this time.

Also, when I was originally planning out how to break up the arcs, I was planning Mortis to be 2 chapters. But like the Zillo Beast arc, which I also originally thought would be 2 chapters, that did not happen. So, my bad.

On the other hand, this series has officially reached 299 pages and over 150K words! I never thought I would be here guys. Can you believe that it has almost been a year since I started writing this AU? I certainly can't.

Warning: Some descriptions get a bit graphic, but I don't think it's too much worse than anything in the Zillo Beast arc.

without further ado, Mortis part II--enjoy :)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Jesse isn’t panicking. He’s a veteran member of the 501st. He sees more bantha-osik in a week than some vode see in a lifetime. He’s come out of more life-or-death situations than he can count, he’s watched his Jettise and Rex topple civilizations and overthrow governments and survive even the most implausible of situations with nothing but a glorified glow-stick and some bantha-osik luck. 

 

So Jesse is not panicking. He’s Above That. 

 

Besides, he’s only lost contact with their shuttle for three seconds. Albeit, their shuttle was never on the scanner, and now they have lost connection over the comms, so if anything were happening, Jesse wouldn’t be able to do anything. That’s being pessimistic. Spotty comm connections happen, especially this close to wild space. Nothing is happening. He’s just being paranoid. There’s no need to panic. Not yet. 

 

But, theoretically, if Jesse were to panic, it would be because he just lost the three senior-most officers of the 501st, along with the High General of the 7th Systems Sky Corps, and senior-most officer of the 212th. Jesse does not want to explain to Cody that he lost all their COs, including both Rex and Kenobi. 

 

More horrifying, however, is that Jesse is currently the senior-most officer onboard The Resolute. And he just lost contact with the three people acting as a buffer between him and actual responsibility. Which means that if contact doesn’t re-establish itself soon, Jesse’s going to have to be the one to do something about it. 

 

Okay, Jesse might be panicking. Just a little. 

 

“Don’t just sit there, get them back now!”

 


 

Father is dying. It crept upon him like the first winter frost—a gradual chill filling the air until the realization settled upon him like ice crystals upon grass, clouds of breath suspended in the air like smoke. 

 

Everything he’s built will come to ruin. Father will die, and his children will be left with nothing. They will go into the universe and destroy it. All his sacrifices, all this time spent in isolation, and he will have saved nothing. 

 

The Sanctuary is being torn apart. His children’s power continues to grow, while Father’s only fades. He keeps the Balance as carelessly as a fraying rope—for now it holds, but the tension only grows. This tenuous relationship will not last.

 

He had been hoping the Chosen One could take his place, could keep his children in balance. But this Anakin Skywalker is everything Father is not—impulsive, passionate, quick to violence, driven by great love and great fear. Where Father is stone, steady and unfeeling against the elements, Anakin Skywalker is a burning Sun—always bursting with energy, reactive and passionate, quick to succor or scorch on a whim. And yet—and yet. The Force whispers that he is the Chosen One, that he will bring Balance to the Universe. Father does not understand how that can be when the Chosen One is himself unbalanced. Father keeps himself in the grey middle ground, neither good nor bad. Skywalker swings wildly across both sides of the scales, like a bird flying with a broken wing. He may be airborne at the moment, but it is inevitable that Skywalker will eventually Fall, that he can only keep himself above the ground for so long. He has threatened to kill out of anger twice, his emotions swinging impulsively between pride and shame. How can he bring order to anything when his own mind and heart are in constant chaos?

 

Despite his own reservations, Father can sense something in Skywalker, hovering under the surface. An overwhelming desire to bring Peace, to free the slaves, to burn out the darkest corners of the universe. Perhaps this test can draw out the Chosen One’s true potential.

 

He looks at the child collapsed at his feet. 

 

Very few beings have the will or the strength to match his own for any amount of time, and yet they locked eyes when he pulled them into the Sanctuary, when the others had already succumbed to his Command. That one carried the weight of an ocean in his eyes, all the raw power of a primal being. With nothing but determination he kept his mind guarded and his will his own, until Father used his considerable power to splinter his shields and render him unconscious, like a Warhammer splitting stone. 

 

And now, the Guide has challenged both of his children. He held them still with his desperate determination, with his own defiant will. 

 

It has been a long time since someone has had the strength to challenge Father’s own will, to interfere with Father’s plans. 

 

Something long-slumbering in Father begins to waken. He had almost forgotten what it is to feel emotions. Now, something hot boils in his stomach, spreading out through his limbs. Desire, something he hasn’t felt in so long, urges him to hurt. Distantly, Father notes that this is what anger feels like. He shouldn’t be able to feel like this. He killed that part of himself long ago. And yet—and yet. At every step, this child at his feet defies his will, threatens to disrupt his carefully laid plans. Another thing that should not be possible. Father has been the master of the Sanctuary, of Mortis and his children for millennium. Only the Chosen One should be able to exert control over his children. 

 

But the child at his feet held them still. He reached into the roaring river of the Force Current that lies under Mortis, and he channeled it without tearing himself apart. Yet another thing that only the Chosen One should be able to do. 

 

Doubt itches at the back of his mind. Father went against his own nature to bring these visitors here, hastened the decay of himself and of Mortis—how could he bear it if he sacrificed  everything for nothing? If he has risked the destruction of himself and of this Sanctuary with no chance of salvation for his children? 

 

The other two are still screaming, struggling to free themselves from his children as Father steps on one of the bandaged hands, making sure The Guide is too trapped in his own mind to interfere further. A new spot of red blooms from the white cloth, but the face of the child below him stays completely lax, unaware of pain. 

 

Good. Perhaps Father can salvage something of this after all. Once the Chosen One sees who he is, what he is capable of, perhaps they can be saved. 

 


 

Rex tumbles head over heels through the ocean, water pressing against his mouth and nose. The feeling of panic is as familiar as the feeling of drowning—how is Rex here again? He hasn’t been here since—since… did he ever really leave? 

 

His memories feel distant, fake somehow, as if the last three months were simply a dream. As if he never woke up. “It happens to everyone,” something whispers, familiar against his skin. “You dreamt that you lived. But the ocean is empty. There is no one here to save you.” 

 

His lungs are starting to burn, and Rex feels almost foolish for keeping his mouth shut. "No one is here to save you.” The Ocean presses against his lips, tracing through his hair like long, cold fingers. Tremors shiver down his spine. 

 

“CT-7567. This unit is clearly defective. Why has it not been culled?” The bored voice of Nala Se is tinged with something cold, unconcerned. At the prospect of his death she is entirely apathetic, as if she were throwing away an empty blaster cartridge and not a living being. 

 

“The batch for this cycle had many faulty units, and culling all of them would put us behind schedule. As far as test scores have shown, CT-7567’s defects are merely phenotypical, and have no bearing on ability. I assure you, Madam, that we are looking into further defects,” Ko Sai murmurs. “CT-7567 is proving to be a fine subject for all my tests, so it has its uses.” Cool fingers wrap under his chin, tilting his head upward. CT-7567 lets his mind and face go blank, does not react as those fingers trail upwards to tug roughly at his hair. 

 

Rex forces the memory away before it can get any further. He has kept it locked away for a long time, buried where it can’t hurt him, and he’s not about to let it surface now. If he survived Kamino, Rex can survive this. 

 

He’s been too complacent, letting others help him, waiting for someone to save him. Rex can save himself. It’s time to prove it. He parts his lips slowly, letting a precious air bubble slip out. It lifts towards the surface, and Rex swims after it. His chest hurts, limbs heavy with oxygen deprivation, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to keep moving. He can almost see the surface now, rays of light piercing through. He forces himself upwards, straining his tired limbs. 

 

Something catches around his ankle, pulling him down just as his hand breaks the surface. Rex tries to kick himself free, but the thing wrapped around his ankle grows tighter, something sharp hooking into his calf muscles. Fire races through the puncture marks, his whole leg immobilized up to the hip. Involuntarily Rex gasps, another bubble of precious air racing towards the surface where he cannot follow it. Feebly he kicks again, but distantly he realizes he’s sinking, faster than he was ever swimming upwards. Even if he were to free himself, Rex is not sure he has the strength to reach the surface. Not with one leg and less air than before. No! He’s not giving up. Rex is going to save himself this time. And the first step to making the surface is to set himself free. He looks down, trying to figure out what has his ankle trapped. 

 

Rex’s anchor is a human hand. Out of the darkness peers Hevy, eyes wide and dead, the bottom half of his face missing. Another hand wraps around his other ankle, Midas glaring at him with a blaster hole in his forehead. Hands continue to rise from the deep:  Lick, Ponds, Crank, Trapper, Cody, Seconds, Kix, O’Niner, 99, Alpha-17, Jesse, Jump, Colt, Coric, Leo, Steady, Bait, Luk’ie, Switch, Clover, Slick, Echo, Span, Ringo, Oz, Fives. There’s several vode he does not recognize, one with a V tattooed over his face and one with a single teardrop on his cheek, long hair coiled into a bun. 

 

Fives has a blaster wound through his chest, glowing like a condemning eye, but Rex can’t remember him dying. Why can’t he remember how Fives died? And why does Echo have a prosthetic arm? 

 

There is no one here to save you. 

 

You were made to die. 

 

The light from the surface shrinks into nothingness, and Rex is swallowed by the depths of the Ocean once again. 

 


 

Obi-wan’s head is spinning, and he can’t tell if the air is thinner up here or if he’s in shock. 

 

Rex just used The Force. Fuck. Has he always been able to do that?

 

Obi-wan had always passed off the strange Force-aura around the Captain as a side effect of being around Anakin too much—weird things always happened in The Force when Anakin was involved, and Obi-wan stopped trying to question or understand it a long time ago. Given enough time, he could have come to blame Rex’s glowing eyes and the rocks hitting his back as the general strangeness of pre-dawn light and the incomprehensible weirdness of this planet. 

 

It’s a lot harder to explain away the fact that Rex just extended his hands and was able to hold these massive, Force-powerful creatures in place with The Force, something Rex shouldn’t be able to do. 

 

Obi-wan feels like the ceiling Qui-Gon mentioned is falling on his head right about now. 

 

Rex has The Force. Does Anakin know? 

 

Obi-wan remembers the strange conversation he had with Anakin a few months ago, when Rex was still recovering from Valtameri, right before the fever relapsed and the Captain was rushed to the Temple. How do you approach a difficult conversation with a friend? How do you tell them something that they need to know, but are not ready to hear? How can I be a good teacher and a good friend? Anakin had asked. Now, in hindsight, it seems foolishly clear that Anakin had been talking about Rex. 

 

Obi-wan is a blind fool, just like Qui-Gon said he was. The signs are lighting up like beacons, illuminating a path to an answer that was there all along. The Force-aura. The incredibly precise aim. The unusual ability to keep up with Anakin. So many surviving the Blue Shadow Virus after lethal amounts of exposure and Ahsoka was down. Being blown off a drilling rig and into an Ocean and surviving. The singing in The Force, the way it curls around the Captain almost protectively, the way the singing has only grown louder since Valtameri. The fact that so many vode on Malastare reported being shoved away from the edge of the first sinkhole by a strong gust of wind, despite no Jedi being on the field. Anakin’s general nervousness when Rex comes up as a topic of conversation. The Force shielding. Both Anakin and Ahsoka have been mentally shielding Rex at times, as if trying to hide him under their Force presence. 

 

There’s no way Anakin and Ahsoka don’t know. Only Obi-wan has been blind, or pretended to be. Rex was Force-sensitive long before they ever arrived at this place. 

 

Obi-wan wants to laugh in the face of his own foolishness. He never let himself think that Rex was anything more than Force-attuned, at times able to draw upon it for strength or to give himself superior instincts and reflexes. But this—

 

Rex is more than powerful enough to be a Jedi. Obi-wan imagines that Rex isn’t the only clone either. Thinking back to that game of splaser tag, one of the clones who took him out had to be Force-sensitive. The one with the prosthetic hand, if he had to guess. 

 

Just how many cracks were growing in the walls? How close was Obi-wan to letting the ceiling fall without realizing it? 

 

Daughter shifts her grip on him to something more relaxed, now that Obi-wan has mostly stopped fighting. They are nearing a monastery of sorts, the solemn stone structure looking almost out of place considering how organic everything else here is. 

 

Attached to the monastery is a courtyard, or perhaps an arena. And in the center is Anakin. 

 

Obi-wan’s stomach fills with dread. 

 


 

A needle slides delicately into his neck. Ko Sai traces a finger over the injection point, digging in slightly. “You should thank me, CT-7567. I’ve made you useful. You would have been decommissioned like the defective unit you are without me. You understand, don’t you, CT-7567?” 

 

CT-7567 tries to ignore the heat spreading from the injection point, like fire gnawing on his veins, in his joints, wedging into his bones. He bites into his cheek, tasting blood. 

 

“Say something,” Ko Sai grabs his hair, leaning in close. There is something monstrous in those eyes, in these games she makes him play. 

 

“Th-tha-ank y-ou, m-aa’am,” CT-7567 trips over the words as his lungs seize in his chest. His limbs have begun to spasm now, wrists and ankles sharp with pain each time he involuntarily tugs against the restraints. Blood trickles down the back of his throat. Every nerve is on fire now, and CT-7567 is helpless as he bucks against the pain crawling through him. 

 

Ko Sai tuts. “What are you thankful for, CT-7567?”

 

“F-for making me use- useful. F-for using m-me f-for your ex-periments to ma-ake us b-better soldiers.” Ko Sai stares, looking for any ounce of insincerity in his words. 

 

The fire surges and CT-7567 screams, tugging against the restraints, his wrists and ankles feeling like the skin is being flayed off. “A-antidote. Plea- please,” he chokes out. His teeth taste like copper, eyes rolling and chest heaving. He thinks his bones must be disintegrating under his skin, that’s the only way he could be in this much pain. 

 

Ko Sai tuts again. “You know the rules, CT-7567. There’s only three. Recite them for me.” 

 

“N-ngh- ah n-no b-begg-ngh,” CT-7567 thrashes, back arching off the metal table. “Ah-or o-or” his eyes roll, the edges black and staticky. Ko Sai slaps his cheek, but CT-7567 can’t respond, can’t do anything but clench his jaw so tight his teeth might crack, every muscle feeling like it might snap. 

 

“Very well. Let’s review them shall we?” CT-7567 shakes his head, opens his mouth to continue, but only a sob slips out. Ko Sai’s eyes narrow with displeasure. 

 

“Rule number one,” she grabs his hair roughly, forcing him to look up at her. “No begging, crying or squirming.” She smacks his head against the metal, effectively stunning him into silence. 

 

“Rule number two: you will answer every question I ask you, and obey every command.” Ko Sai leaves his vision, her long fingers dragging across his throat and along his face, mockingly gentle. 

 

“Rule number three: You are mine to do with as I please.” Something bites into his arm, drawing the fire inside him to a point just above his elbow. Every nerve is melting, his thoughts an incoherent jumble of panic and pain. 

 

“Now, I am going to take some skin samples, and you are going to be quiet and obedient like a good little test subject.” 

 


 

Anakin wakes up in a courtyard. There’s a distinct dreamlike quality to this place, like everything is to the left of reality. The Force is strong here, enough to make his head spin, drunk and heady. His skin stings and buzzes, blood thrumming with warmth.

 

Anakin knows instinctively that this is a very dangerous place for him to be. It sets him on edge, a restless unease clawing up his spine. The old man appears before him, eyes glinting with solemn knowledge, as if he already knows the outcome of this test. “It is time to face your guilt and know the Truth.” 

 

Before Anakin can begin to understand what that means, two creatures descend into the courtyard, Obi-wan and Ahsoka clutched firmly in their grasps. He recognizes the one holding Ahsoka as the strange bat-creature that visited him last night. Son then. “Whatever he wants, don’t do it Master!” Ahsoka yells. Anakin turns to see Obi-wan fighting the hold of the lighter creature, who must be Daughter. His former Master looks up to meet Anakin’s eyes, and there is sorrow and guilt and anger in Obi-wan’s face as he struggles. The veneer of calm and collected his former Master normally tries to keep is gone. Rex isn’t here. Was he left behind when these creatures took his friends, or is his Captain—

 

No. He needs to focus on what’s going on right here. Ahsoka and Obi-wan need him right now. Hopefully Rex can take care of himself until Anakin can free the others and find him. 

 

“Let them go.” 

 

“Only you can do that.” Anakin snarls. If the old man wants some sort assurance that Anakin will take his test, this isn’t necessary. 

 

“I’ve already agreed to take your test. Now let them go.” 

 

The old man laughs, but there is nothing warm in it. Only a cold, almost cruel humor. “This is your test.” Anakin’s blood goes cold with fury. What is the old man trying to prove? “I have ordered my children to kill your friends. The question is, of course…” The old man disappears from his line of sight. Anakin spins, eyes searching wildly for him. “Which one will you choose to save? Your Master? Your Student? Or, will you sacrifice both of them to save your Guide?” 

 

There, up on the balcony, is the old man. And in his grasp is Rex. The Captain is completely limp, head lolling and face frighteningly pale. There are rough bandages wrapped around his hands and even now Anakin can see red spotting through. The old man has a hand wrapped around against Rex’s throat, fingernails digging in hard enough to draw blood. 

 

“What did you do to him?” 

 

“Rex!” Ahsoka yells. She grunts as the Son tightens his grip on her arm, which turns into a cry of pain. 

 

“You must now release the guilt and free yourself by choosing,” the old man announces. 

 

“NO!” How can Anakin choose? How could he look one in the eye knowing he couldn’t save the other two? Save two knowing he couldn’t save one? 

 

“Anakin, their powers are too strong for us! Save Rex and Ahsoka!” Obi-wan yells. 

 

The Force buzzes through the courtyard, swelling and crescendoing. Anakin reaches for Obi-wan, for Ahsoka and Rex through The Force but they are all cut off from him, Force-bonds aching. Anakin is alone, can’t reach out to them for comfort or strength. 

 

He snarls up at the old man. Said old man merely raises an eyebrow and roughly shakes Rex. The Captain’s body falls forward to his knees until he is only held upright by his bloody hands and throat. “If you do not choose, I will choose for you. Starting with this one.” 

 

“Anakin, no matter what happens, you have to save Rex. Anakin, save Rex!” Obi-wan is screaming at the top of his lungs.

 

The Force is howling through his bones like a tempest, the ground writhing under his feet. He thinks he could pluck the very stars from the sky, and they would burn cold. Celestial fire is nothing to one who belongs among them. After all, Anakin is not called Skywalker for nothing. 

 

“Make the choice,” Father warns. Trails of blood are trickling down Rex’s neck. The sky is crumbling, the stone beneath his feet groaning as it begins to crack. Obi-wan and Ahsoka are dying, slowly swallowed by the Force beings holding them hostage.

 

Anakin cannot choose. He won’t. 

 

I am here, Child. The Force is beneath his feet, a raging river. Anakin has never allowed himself to fall into it completely, to lose himself to its pull. But now he drops his shields, opens himself fully to the current running through this place, and he grabs it in both hands. He will save them, all of them, or he will die trying. 

 

There’s no point in being the Chosen One if he can’t. 

 


 

They are dead. Oh Force, how did it come to this? 

 

Three bodies are strewn across the floor of the courtyard, cold and unmoving. Blood leaks carelessly onto the stones. It had only taken seconds, there was no time to do anything but watch. It’s almost laughable how futile resistance was. 

 

Three bodies are strewn across the floor of the courtyard, and Ahsoka is next. Son’s talons are around her arm, around her throat. The air is unbearably cold, making her chest burn. She hardly has the strength to breathe, little bursts of smoke wheezing from her mouth. 

 

Anakin, Obi-wan, Rex. They are all dead. Father just ripped open Rex’s throat with his bare hands, like one would bite into an Almakian apple. Rex’s eyes finally opened, only to be filled with a panicked horror as his chest heaved around the gaping hole in his neck, as blood streamed down over his white armor, completely hiding the blue paint. 

 

Obi-wan dropped next, the thread of his life-force snapped as easily as one plucks apart a spider’s web. There was no pain, no blood. Only a sudden, violent emptiness where Obi-wan should be. 

 

Anakin wailed, louder and angrier than the wind, sounding like a wounded animal. The whole planet seemed to tremble with it, the stars shaking so hard they might fall out of the sky. Everything grew dark, frost creeping up her arms. Her Master charged towards Son, eyes burning and blazing, the air around him vibrating with power. 

 

And then a white blade sprouted out of Anakin’s chest. Time itself seemed to freeze. Ahsoka’s blood must have stilled in her veins, how else could she no longer hear her own heartbeat? Anakin’s eyes went wide with surprise, with sudden knowledge of the death blow. Slowly, their eyes met. 

 

“I’m sorry” Anakin mouthed. Stupidly, Ahsoka could only think that Anakin never apologizes. Father pulled the lightsaber out of her Master’s body. And then it was over. 

 

In less than a minute, Ahsoka lost the three people she cares most about. 

 

This was supposed to be a quick and easy mission. Fly near the edges of wild space, check out the weird distress signal, go home. They were supposed to go home. And Ahsoka was supposed to talk it out with Skyguy, hopefully get him to train her like he used to. Maybe she could even bribe him into teaching her about mechanics in exchange, or go out in The Twilight to practice piloting and give Rex a heart attack. 

 

And Rex. She was supposed to get over her petty jealousy at Rex and his strength in The Force and teach him the forms of Djem So and Jar’Kai, teasing him every step along the way. They were supposed to train together, plan battles, pull pranks on the men and frame Fives and Hardcase while they were at it. She was supposed to drag him to the Mess with her, or trick him into going to the MedBay so Kix could lecture him about his sleeping habits. He was supposed to gripe about her lack of armor while teaching her hand-to-hand, show her all the techniques he picked up for fighting a bigger opponent. He was supposed to teach her battle strategy and how to lead men so he wouldn’t have to bear so much of the burden alone. 

 

She was supposed to “meditate" with Obi-wan, listening to all the wild stories of her Grandmaster and Master’s Padawan days as they sipped tea together and played card games and gossiped about different Jedi. 

 

And now, Ahsoka is alone. They aren’t ever going home. 

 

It’s like the Blue Shadow Virus all over again. Ahsoka had been so sure she was going to die back then, locked deep in the earth with a handful of her men and Senator Amidala, feeling her lungs slowly fill with blood, feeling everyone around her dying. She had been so afraid, but trying to be strong for the men, trying to give them hope. It made her uneasy, how resigned all the clones had been, how quickly they had accepted their own deaths. Even when she had felt herself succumbing to the virus, when she was dizzy and short of breath and unable to see straight, Ahsoka had clung to the belief that Anakin was coming to save them. 

 

It wasn’t until she and Padme had sent that message, until she collapsed into Rex’s arms choking up blood, that she considered the possibility she would never wake up again. That this bunker really was going to be the tomb the clones had solemnly claimed it was. 

 

But then there was light and warmth, even in the midst of the suffocating darkness. Only later did Ahsoka learn it had been Rex, that he had saved her life despite being sick and on the verge of dying himself, despite believing that no help was coming and they were being left to die. He had sustained everyone through The Force long enough for Anakin to find a cure. Months later, she learned that Rex hadn’t even known what he’d done for her, for his men, down in that bunker. 

 

Rex had asked her if The Force was supposed to hurt. Did it hurt him then, when he continuously fed The Force into her body, healing her even as she was being torn apart from the inside? 

 

And now Rex is— now all three of them are—

 

She chokes on her grief, chest hitching with the force of her sobs. They are dead, and Ahsoka is alone, unable to save herself. Is it worth it to even try? What is the point if she is the only one left? Rex was able to hold Son and Daughter still, almost brought Ahsoka and Obi-wan back to the ground safely. And Anakin, he had nearly torn the planet apart. 

 

Ahsoka doesn’t have Obi-wan’s peerless wit, or Anakin’s indomitable passion, or Rex’s raw strength of will. If three of the most powerful people she knows couldn’t face these beings and win, what hope is there for Ahsoka?

 

Her limbs are numb now, hands black with cold. Frost is beginning to freeze her eyes shut, to seal her lips together and stick her tongue to her teeth. 

 

Give up now, child. There is no hope for you. A voice slithers against her mind, tracing cool fingers along her mental shields. She shudders, cold and stiff. 

 

It would be so easy, to let her eyes slide closed, to give into the weariness and despair. It wouldn’t be so different from the Blue Shadow Virus. She fought until she couldn’t, and there’s no shame in resting now, in quietly surrendering. 

 

Except. 

 

Anakin hadn’t given up, even when Rex and Obi-wan were already lost. He didn’t give up when they were locked underground and doomed to die. He and Obi-wan risked their own lives to find a cure, to save them even when time and the possibility of success was against them. 

 

And Obi-wan. He tried so hard to even be accepted by the Jedi Order, to find a Master. To be a good Master. Much of Obi-wan’s life has been a barren road, and yet he still walks with his head high and a gentle smile. 

 

Rex never stopped fighting, even against desperate odds. On Kamino, on Teth, on Naboo, after Valtameri, wherever they are now. She remembers the memories of a young child biting scars into his arm as a whip ate through his back, cutting to the bone. She remembers hearing that the Captain fought against Ventress and lived, remembers the feeling of warmth that sustained her through the darkest moments of her life. Rex risked everything trying to save them from Son and Daughter, revealing himself to Obi-wan, channeling a devastating amount of The Force through his already ruined hands, leaving himself vulnerable to Father. If Ahsoka gives up now, Rex’s sacrifice is wasted.

 

She owes her ori’vod the courage to try again. To fight until she can’t. 

 

No. 

 

The frost digs deep into her skin. It chokes up her lungs, slows her heart to something dull and sluggish. 

 

You are weak. You are useless. You are nothing. 

 

“You are coming into your own as a Jetti, and proving yourself to be quite the warrior. I’m sorry no one has taken the time to recognize what you have done recently,” Ahsoka holds the words close, as if they can keep her warm, if only for a moment. 

 

Wait. 

 

Slowly, Ahsoka realizes that the frost is retreating. There, in the distance, is a spark of fire, the heat radiating like a boiling sun. It feels like Anakin, she thinks dizzily. Against all better judgement, Ahsoka allows herself to hope. 

 

And the spark turns into a blinding flame, melting away every trace of frost. Impossibly, Anakin Skywalker is here. He’s coming for her, hand reaching out like fire licks towards the sky. 

 

Ahsoka reaches back, and is washed in warm light. 

 


 

Obi-wan has been hiking barefoot through this ocean of sand for miles now. Ruined buildings stick out like crooked teeth, but they offer no shade, no relief from the relentless sun and chasing wind as Obi-wan continues along the broken jaw. 

 

This place reminds him a little too uncomfortably of Tatooine. Obi-wan never wants to go back to that barren dustball devised in some Sith’s-least-favorite-hell. As much as he teases Anakin, he shares the same intense dislike of sand, and there are ghosts buried there that he doesn’t want to dig back up again. 

 

The sun hasn’t moved in all the time he’s been walking. It remains directly above, relentlessly burning away shade, heating the sand under his feet. The breeze is cruelly warm, whipping sand into his eyes, scraping under his eyelids and between his teeth, burrowing under his clothes and rubbing his skin raw. His mouth is dry, tongue thick as it sticks to the roof of his mouth.

 

Obi-wan thinks he might kill for water. Or for shade. Anywhere he can rest. The bottoms of his feet must be terribly burned by now. He’s too afraid to stop and look. 

 

His memories of anything leading up to this trek through the desert are suspiciously absent. How long has he been walking? What is he looking for?

 

You are aimless, a voice unhelpfully observes. Come, I will show you the road you are traveling. Pray it is not the path you stay on. 

 

The sand slides away under his feet and Obi-wan stumbles, tripping over something previously hidden. The sand is scorching, burning the palms of his hands. When he turns, he sees that there is a white strip sticking up from the sand. Gingerly, he sweeps off the burning sand, ignoring the way heat already seeps through the cloth covering his knees. 

 

He’d recognize a piece of clone armor anywhere. A white vambrace, 212th yellow-gold, sun bleached and sand-scraped. He cradles it in his lap, covering his face with his hands as another gust of wind drives burning sand into his eyes. Sweat drips down his face, intermingled with tears. 

 

Cody’s helmet is before him, bleeding sand. 

 

All around him, armor is strewn like a battlefield, like a graveyard. The buildings around him groan, sand spilling from broken windows only to be licked up by the wind. These buildings are familiar as they are uncovered. 

 

This was Coruscant. He’s standing amongst the bones of the Jedi Temple. 

 

The wind is picking up now, sand scraping across his skin. His eyes are stinging and he can’t tell if sand is cutting his eyes or if he can’t cry anymore. 

 

What happened to the Jedi? to the Clones? Who turned the capital of the Republic into a wasteland? Did they lose the war? 

 

The heat is making his head pound, and Obi-wan desperately wishes for water. For shade. For relief. But the windstorm is relentless, forcing sand into his mouth and nose, into his eyes and ears. Obi-wan reaches for Cody’s helmet, but it’s no longer there. 

 

He huddles close to the ground, sheltering his head with his arms, cupping his hands over his mouth and nose, breathing in slowly through his teeth. Sand grits over his tongue, turning to mud in his mouth. 

 

He is being buried alive. 

 

You look without seeing, the Voice chides. You have seen thousands of little warnings of what is to come, but you shield your eyes and look away. Even when you doubt, you do not question. You have seen the Order crumbling from the inside, and you do nothing.

 

The Jedi Order is much older and much wiser than Obi-wan. Any of his disagreements with the Jedi Code, with the Council are merely a personal failing. They have to be. Otherwise the Order he has pledged his life and service to and the Code Obi-wan has modeled his life by is wrong, and the problem isn’t just Obi-wan failing to be a better Jedi. 

 

It means that the Jedi were wrong to enter the War, and how then can Obi-wan justify all this suffering? How can he justify the use of a slave clone army? How can he look Cody and his brothers in the eye and apologize for every sin committed against them in the name of following the Will of the Force? 

 

“How can Anakin heal and put to rest what he has been taught to put aside and let fester?” 

 

Obi-wan knows he is not the Master Anakin needed. He’s never truly been detached from his own emotions, no matter how hard he tries. And when he first accepted Anakin as his Padawan, Obi-wan had been an ocean of twisting grief and anger. And when he looks at him, Obi-wan sees the results of his own inadequacy reflected back at him. After all, Anakin shares that deeply buried rage, that grief that is unnamable and bottomless. Something inside him is deeply broken, like twisted metal, and Obi-wan stares at the wreck with no clue on how to begin. 

 

And he thought that maybe Anakin would figure out something that Obi-wan never could. How to move on, how to lay one’s grief to rest. 

 

But instead they are both bleeding in silence, too afraid to show each other their own wounds, to ask for help stitching them shut. Still Obi-wan thinks he needs to shield Anakin from the mess that is his own problems. Is it no wonder then, that Anakin thinks he also needs to keep his hurts to himself? 

 

Truth is, despite his own advice, Obi-wan has never known how to ask for help. How to give name to all the emotions curling through his ribs, getting stuck in his throat.

 

Obi-wan presses his dry tongue against the roof of his mouth, sand gritting between his teeth, his mouth tasting like stale mud. He can’t tell if the world is still falling apart above his head, or if he has been buried too deep to hear it anymore. His eyes are burning, something dripping down his cheeks. He wonders if it is blood or tears. Locked in this prison of silence and sand, Obi-wan feels trapped, held in place by his own suffering, by his fear that any attempt to get free will only put him in a worse position. 

 

But indecision is what got him here. Despite his doubts, Obi-wan did nothing, even in the face of his own conscience. If he stays here and waits for someone else to move first, he will be a corpse preserved in the sand. 

 

Slowly, Obi-wan tries to sit up, to free himself from the sand packed around him. It grits against his raw skin, threatens to find a way into his mouth and nose and eyes. The space between his arms fills with sand, taking away the safety net of air. The going is slow, tedious, but he pushes down the panic, tries to occupy his mind with something else. Obi-wan doesn’t think he has ever been this dirty in his life. 

 

A breeze ruffles through his hair. Obi-wan slowly scrapes his hands over his face, trying to brush the sand away, wincing at how wet it is on his cheeks. When he opens his eyes, everything is indistinct shapes. There is blood on his fingers.

 

He’s been blinded. Obi-wan laughs. He laughs until he is sobbing, spitting mud out of his dry mouth, choking on his swollen tongue. There are no tears left in him to clean his eyes, no way to clean the grit away without digging into something already raw and hurting. 

 

Isn’t this quite the summary of his predicament?

 

Thunder breaks, the sand and heat washing away in the downpour. Obi-wan tilts his face towards the sky, confused. The rain cuts tracks through the sand and dust stuck to his skin, washing away the grit. With startling clarity, Obi-wan realizes his vision is returning, the blindness only temporary. He looks around, counting all the spires of the broken Temple, of the buildings he can recognize. 

 

He will find a way to stop this. 

 

“Come on Master, lets go home.” Inexplicably Anakin is there, hand outstretched. He’s glowing, eyes almost too bright to look at. Obi-wan shakes his head and takes his hand. He can always trust Anakin to figure out how to do the impossible. Anakin leans over to whisper in his ear. 

 

“You are lucky I like you more than I hate sand, Master. Otherwise you’d have to save yourself instead of waiting for my well-timed rescue.” 

 

He can trust Anakin will brag about this, too. 

 


 

 

It happens to everyone. You dreamed you lived. But the Ocean is empty. 

 

CT-7567 sinks. His arms drift out lazily from his sides, but he doesn’t have the strength to swim anymore. He wonders if he had ever been saved on Valtameri, or if his body is long lost to the deep tides, a corpse buried with a wreck of twisted debris.

 

You dreamed you were saved. 

 

CT-7567 has been sinking for a long time now, the surface far out of reach. And yet, he keeps his lips sealed, holding the last bit of stale air in his imploding lungs. He really must be defective now, still trying to fight when no one is coming to save him, for trying to survive when he’s outlived his usefulness. For believing he is worthy of being saved. Defective. Mutant. Aberration. A liability. Useless. 

 

CT-7567 is just a corpse waiting to die. He should know this lesson by now.

 

You should thank me, CT-7567. I’ve made you useful. You would have been decommissioned like the defective unit you are without me. You understand, don’t you, CT-7567?” 

 

He wants to laugh and cry at the same time, but all that he manages is the hitching of his chest, his lungs bucking for air. “Rex” was more useless with The Force than he ever was without it. No one is coming to save him, and CT-7567 can’t save himself when it matters. The Force is damningly absent, empty and cold in his head. Did it abandon him too, in his time of need? And now he’s drowning again, and—

 

And CT-7567 fought The Force for so long, thinking it was the Ocean coming to claim him. 

 

He’s always fighting the wrong battles. 

 

Maybe this is just the wrong angle. Even if he tried to make the surface now, CT-7567 would never make it. But if he’s right, he might not have to. After all, what better way to keep someone distracted than to present them with an impossible task? To make their will buckle under the weight of their own despair? 

 

CT-7567 may not be able to save himself, but he’s never stopped trying. Kamino should have killed him, but he kept himself alive until the Shebse adopted him. On Valtameri, Skywalker might have been the one to finally fish him out of the Ocean, but Rex is the one who fought his way to the surface despite his injuries, despite lungs full of water and the certainty of death weighing him down. And on Malastare, Rex fought Balaam to save his brothers, and he fought the Dugs to save Balaam and his eggs. What does it matter, that Rex needed a hand to pull him up at the end? Rex is the one who stopped his own descent down the cliff, the one who put himself in a position to be saved. If he had given up, he would be dead several times over. 

 

With these thoughts in mind, Rex swims downwards.

 

Almost immediately, his hands begin to hurt. Rex grins and bears it, continuing to swim downwards. He can feel ghostly hands around his wrists now, his knees aching and a sharp pain along his neck. The Force is there, hovering just out of reach. He recognizes now the shields around his mind are not his own. Rex grits his teeth, snarling and vicious as he takes his own shields and pits them around the block in his mind. 

 

A needle slides delicately into his neck. Ko Sai traces a finger over the injection point, digging in slightly. “You should thank me, CT-7567. I’ve made you useful. You would have been decommissioned like the defective unit you are without me. You understand, don’t you, CT-7567?” 

 

CT-7567 tries to ignore the heat spreading from the injection point, like fire gnawing on his veins, in his joints, wedging into his bones. He bites into his cheek, tasting blood. 

 

“I have never seen you give up before, and you’re not going to start now. You’re too stubborn for that,” Kix radiates determination, steadfast and calm even as Rex is falling apart. 

 

“h’rts,” He’s burning, like he’s back in Ko Sai’s lab. Everything is loud and unbearable but Kix is here. Even when he pushed Kix away, the medic is here, solid and steady, an anchor in a storm. 

 

“That’s hardly ever stopped you before.” Rex is good at holding out until the last moment. He just needs to bear it for a little longer. 

 

“Rule number one: no begging, crying or squirming.”

 

Rex gives one last push, and The Force streams through the cracks, filling the empty space like a breath of fresh air. He can feel Anakin nearby, reaches out to him through their Force bond. Anakin is there, reaching back, and they brush fingers in The Force—

 

Enough.

 

The ghostly grip around his wrists tighten, almost crushing, and his hands flare with unbearable pain, as if salt is being pressed into open wounds. Against his will, his mouth is forced open by a scream. Something wraps around his middle, yanking him upwards, back towards the surface. Anakin disappears, and Rex is alone, water flooding into his lungs. 

 

“Rule number two: you will answer every question I ask you, and obey every command.”

 

No! The Ocean trembles, a tendril of fire reaching out to wrap around him, and 

 

Rex is being pulled apart. 

 

He can feel Skywalker now, his presence bearing all the heat of a celestial star. He’s trying to burn away the other thing wrapped around him, something cold and unyielding like stone, like a moon that creates tides. Something used to being obeyed, even when it's a smaller object serving a greater master. 

 

“Rule number three: You are mine to do with as I please.”

 

He’s mine. The Ocean is boiling around him. Rex can’t breathe, can only stay suspended between these two celestial bodies. 

 

He’s going to die. Rex isn’t made to withstand this kind of pressure. 

 

Rex is Mine, and you will not keep him from me, Anakin declares, and Rex can feel the promise in his bones, in every sinew of his muscles. 

 

The stone crumbles, and Rex is wrapped tightly in Anakin’s gentle fire, cradled like something precious as he is once again pulled from the Ocean’s depths. 

 


 

The sky is tumbling. Day and Night are his to command, his to bend and shape and change. The Sanctuary is like a bone in his hands, easily snapped into jagged pieces. Father’s eyes are wide with surprise. Anakin wants to hurt him, wants to tear him apart, one bone broken for every scrape on Rex’s hands, for every finger against his throat. There will be a price for every drop of blood. For every lash of the whip. 

 

Anakin has never been more afraid of himself. His heart is beating like a bird trapped in a cage, and his head is so loud, like all the sound in the universe has been stuffed inside his skull. He could do wonderful, terrible things with the power at his fingertips. He could tear the Sanctuary down to nothing and build it again. He could pluck the stars from the sky and pull them to the Earth, unravel these beings before him from existence. He could play God. 

 

Kneel. The stars tremble with the weight of his command. The Force wielders waver, releasing their hold on his friends. On his family. Rex’s head smacks against the stone, loud even amidst the cacophony of sound. Despite being freed, they have not been saved. Anakin sinks deeper into The Force, until he can’t find his own edges, until he doesn’t know where Anakin Skywalker ends and The Force begins. 

 

On Your Knees! The howling wind settles, the sky frozen in precarious twilight. Anakin digs through the sifting threads of The Force, finding where his family has been buried. Gently, carefully, he pulls them free, guides them home. Father clings to Rex, but his will cannot overcome Anakin’s own. He burns with fury, digs his will into The Force, yanking Rex away from Father. 

 

The Force Wielders kneel at his feet, heads bowed in submission. 

 

He could kill them. It would be fitting punishment, for threatening to take what was His. For bringing them here. 

 

“Anakin!” 

 

The anger is almost consuming, burning under his skin. He should kill them. He should darken the stars, take the ground from their feet. He should snap every single bone in Father’s hands. Tear the teeth out of Son’s mouth and the eyes out of Daughter’s head. He should repay every hurt against his family with vengeance a hundredfold. 

 

“Anakin!” 

 

A crack trembles through the center of the courtyard, the sound cutting through the air like thunder. Father’s eyes are wide and afraid. It feels Good. His children are trembling. He wonders if they have ever known fear like this before. 

 

(My dear boy, they just don’t understand how special you are. )

 

Anakin is burning. He is justice, vengeance. He is spiraling in anger. He is scorched Earth. He is desolate sun. He is something other than himself, and he doesn’t know how to go back. 

 

There is a hand on his shoulder. Calm rushes through him like a riptide, like the first sip of cool water after days of raging thirst. The fire is slowly swept away under the weight of a swelling tide. Gently, softly, Anakin is brought back into his own skin. 

 

Rex’s hand is on his shoulder. The Captain’s eyes are violently blue, heavy with the weight of mercy. Anakin knows without words that if he kills these three beings, unarmed and cowering before him, it will be unforgivable. It will be one more step into a dark fog Anakin won’t ever escape from. But Rex is there to pull him back, hands on his shoulders as he makes himself into a physical barrier. As he protects Anakin from acting on his worst impulses, trusting that Anakin will not hurt him in his anger. “The battle’s over. It’s time to come home.” Rex’s tone is soft, genuine, like it is when he’s talking down brothers whose minds don’t know how to leave the fight behind. Anakin’s skin is still buzzing, a thousand tiny ants marching across his skin. The universe is still rattling around his skull, loud, and is the battle really over? What if they slip away again the moment he lets go? How can he be sure Rex is really in front of him, when it wasn’t Rex before? (In his anger, in that dark room, he had almost— .) 

 

“Come back to us, Anakin.” Another set of hands wrap around his face, fingers pressing gently into his temples, thumbs brushing his cheeks and wiping away tears, grounding him. Everything feels too heavy. He wants to—he wants— “Just rest, let us carry you.” Anakin is so tired. But—

 

“Master, please.” Arms wrap around his back, and he can feel Ahsoka trembling against his chest, sniffling as she tries to control her sobs. 

 

Slowly, he loosens his grip on The Force, his fingers aching and stiff, for a moment forgetting how to let go. His skin is wrapped too tightly over his bones. Has he always been this small? 

 

“Safe?” He croaks out. His eyes are too blurry and black-spotted to see properly. 

 

“We’re all here, Skyguy,” Ahsoka assures him. His skin is still burning, head pounding. Anakin wonders if this is what Force Exhaustion feels like. If so, he’s never going to make fun of Obi-wan for it ever again. 

 

Three sets of arms are wrapped tightly around him, and Anakin finally allows himself to relax into their supporting grip. He saved them. He brought them home. 

 


 

They aren’t dead. Ahsoka’s not alone. 

 

She can hear Anakin’s heart, pounding firmly beneath her montrals. She can hear his breath filling his lungs, feel it ghosting across the top of her head. Even though her Master must be exhausted, he’s still holding her tight, like she might slip away if he lets go. She feels his love and relief, coursing through her like hot caf on a cold day. 

 

She wonders how she could have ever doubted his love, his determination to save them, even for a second. 

 

Someone shifts behind her. Ahsoka doesn’t need to look to know it’s Rex. His Force-presence is still bright, still pulsing and surging around him like a beacon, though it is quieter now, worn down. The Captain shuffles back and to the side, feet scuffing like he can’t quite lift them off the ground enough. Anakin reaches out, grabs at Rex to pull him back in. The Captain flinches back, hissing through his teeth when Anakin grabs his hand instead of his wrist.

 

Karking osik! His hands! 

 

Ahsoka turns, catches red in the corner of her eye. 

 

Father tore his throat open with his bare hands. There was so much blood, Rex choking, making horrible wet gasps as he suffocated and drowned at the same time—

 

Her hands are over his throat, frantically trying to stop the bleeding. She’s making all sorts of noises that can’t be recognized as words. She just got them back, Ahsoka can’t lose Rex again. She won’t. There’s got to be a way to stop the bleeding, she just needs to—

 

Hands wrap around her wrists, rough and stiff, trying to push her hands away. Other hands tug at her shoulders, trying to pull her off, like it’s already a lost cause. She presses harder, ignoring the painful choking whines Rex is making. She’s pretty sure it is prayers tumbling out of her mouth now, or otherwise curses and promises and pleading combined into one long rambling nothing. “Comman— Ahsok—“ Ahsoka blinks, calms down enough to think rationally. There’s blood, yes, but not the absolute gushing river there should be. Carefully, suspiciously, she raises her hands. There are several puncture marks, but while they look painful they aren’t serious, certainly nothing as life-threatening as his windpipe being ripped open. Rex’s hands are around her wrists.

 

The absolute di’kut!

 

Still, she pulls him into a sitting position, wraps her arms around his neck, and sobs into his shoulder so hard she almost throws up. She doesn’t even know where these tears are coming from, if it’s relief or grief or the remnants of fear. She’s feeling too much to feel anything. “I saw you die,” She murmurs into his skin, “I thought I was alone.” Rex is slumped into her hold, and Ahsoka knows the Captain must be exhausted if he’s allowing her to take any of his weight. She can feel the tremors running through his skin, his breaths quick and shallow, heart drumming, the way there is a line of tension through his body. 

 

“I’m here, vod’ika,” he assures her, shifting so his chin is resting on her shoulder. And in that moment Ahsoka wants Rex to make a promise he can’t keep. She wants him to promise he won’t leave, that he won’t keep disregarding his own safety, that he’ll always come home. But she knows Rex. Ahsoka knows her ori’vod does not know how to put himself first, that he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the sacrifice play if it would save even one brother. She knows they are at War, and there is no guarantee any of them will see the end of it. She wants him to promise anyway, even though it’s selfish. 

 

Obi-wan kneels down next to them, gently “Captain, may I look at your hands?”

 

Rex flinches away, eyes wide and chest heaving, looking like a trapped animal. Something strangled escapes Rex’s throat when Obi-wan wraps his arms under the Captain’s and tugs him into a reclined position in his lap. 

 

Obi-wan is quick to take yet another chunk of cloth from his robe and offer it to her. Carefully, Ahsoka wipes at the streams of partially-dried blood painting her ori’vod’s neck. Rex flinches away, but Obi-wan firmly holds him in place. 

 

“Let us take care of you, Rex,” the General admonishes.  

 

Rex winces when Ahsoka grabs his wrists, cursing at the large patches of red and yellow bleeding through the bandages. “L-language!” He grits out. The reprimand falls short when Ahsoka has heard Skyguy use much more colorful language fixing up The Twilight. Or spent time with drunk Obi-wan Kenobi. 

 

“Maybe if you started taking better care of yourself I wouldn’t have to resort to bad language,” Ahsoka retorts. She starts unwinding the bandages, trying her best to ignore all the tiny noises of pain Rex can’t quite stifle, the little flinches he makes when the cloth is stuck deep into the half-crusted and infected wounds.

 

Anakin kneels down next to her, gently taking Rex’s other hand to see the damage for himself. The air trembles, Anakin’s mechanic hand clenching into such a tight fist Ahsoka can hear the gears grinding. 

 

For a moment, Ahsoka thinks Anakin is going to slip back into The Force, that he’s going to tear something apart—the earth, the sky, the air itself. That he will murder Father Son and Daughter, and Rex won’t be able to stop him. Her Master’s anger had been a terrifying spectacle to witness, and Ahsoka doesn’t ever want to see that deep, desperate rage on Anakin’s face again. If her Master slips Ahsoka doesn’t think they will be able to pull him back again. 

 

But then Anakin breathes, long and deep, murmurs something under his breath, and calms. Ahsoka’s stomach warms, pride bursting in her chest. “Rex needs my support, he does not need my anger. My anger won’t help him. Rex needs my support, not my anger. My anger won’t help him.” He’s repeating the words she told him so long ago. 

 

“Now you see who you are!” Father appears over them, casting a shadow. 

 

Anakin snarls, placing himself firmly between them and the beings that brought them here. Ahsoka quickly moves with Obi-wan to shield Rex and make sure he stays the kark down for once.

 

“I’ve taken your test. Now fulfill your promise and let us go.” What kind of karked up test was this supposed to be?? 

 

Father laughs and laughs, eyes wide and mad, grabbing Anakin by the shoulders and shaking him, tears streaming down his face. “You cannot leave after what you’ve done.”

 


 

Son’s blood is thrumming, skin vibrating, and he doesn’t know if it is fear or excitement. 

 

This… Anakin Skywalker, is more powerful than Son anticipated, than he ever could have dreamed. In all the millennia they have lived, Son has never seen someone overcome Father’s will. He has never seen Father this weak. He had never even allowed himself to imagine it was possible. 

 

A mortal with the power to challenge the Divine. 

 

But now, a spinning realm of possibilities opens before him, shifting and reflecting like a kaleidoscope. He reaches for it, mouth watering, ready to take and take and take. He scrapes his hands against the sky, willing it to crack open, to feel a star burst under his fingertips like a berry, the juices trickling sweet down his chin. 

 

The Chosen One is on the edge of Falling. There is a darkness buried deep into his ribs, close to his heart. Son had only brushed against it before, but if he could find a way to harness it, to make that power his—

 

The stars would only be the beginning. 

 

His fists clench into the dirt at his knees, claws easily tearing into the soft earth. He can almost taste freedom, just out of his grasp. Still, he must consider that Skywalker is not the only one who touched the Conduit and lived. There is another who can stand between Son and all his plans. 

 

So long as the Guide is here, there is someone capable of holding the Chosen One back. Skywalker had been teetering on the edge, and he had been saved with a hand on his shoulder. With eyes that held an ocean in their depths, capable of quenching the hottest of fires. 

 

Son narrows his eyes at the pitiful human child. The soldier flinches at every kind touch, like it expects pain instead. Father must have dug deep into its mind, pulled at something long untouched. It had not flinched before, when it saw straight through Son’s shadows, when Son curled his hands to impale the ruined flesh with his own fingers. It was… enlightening. Something this weak should not be able to defy Father. It should not be able to bring Son and Daughter nearly to their knees. But Mother dotes on this one, sings gently to it and hovers like a cloak. He has never seen Mother do this for any of her children. 

 

But it is tired. It is injured. It has been burned by mother’s love. 

 

There is a darkness here too, one that Son can pull forward, can twist, can use to consume one’s will. He just needs to plant the seeds, like he did in Father. Son smiles, teeth prickling at his lip. This is only the beginning of a wonderful end. 

 


 

“You cannot leave after what you’ve done.” Father laughs, can’t seem to stop laughing. He thinks something must be breaking inside him, leaking like water out of a cracked vessel.  

 

“That was not our deal!” Skywalker protests. That drunken thing swirls in Father again, right there in the pit of his stomach. The Chosen One must stay here. He can’t just leave now that he knows the Truth, now that the Sanctuary is on the verge of utter ruin. Father has kept the balance for so long, he has been stretched thin. Now, the chance to be freed from this burden is in his grasp, and Skywalker plans to leave? 

 

Finally, he masters himself again, the laughter dying suddenly, the tears drying strangely on his cheeks. “Come with me, and I will explain in private,” Father gestures to a corner of the courtyard, where his children and the other visitors will not hear. Skywalker glances at the others, indecision clear on his face. After a moment, he nods. 

 

“Don’t trust him, Master,” Fulcrum calls, distrust clear on her face. Father knows they will be watching carefully, ready to come to Skywalker’s aid.

 

“You think?” Father carefully does not react. He needs Skywalker to listen to him. He needs Skywalker to stay. Instead, he dismisses his children to the other side of the courtyard. 

 

“Anakin Skywalker, you are the Chosen One. Only you can take my place and keep my children in balance here in the Sanctuary of Mortis.” The Sanctuary rumbles at the words, the wind teasing through his hair. 

 

“I can’t stay here!” Skywalker turns around, taking steps back before he has even considered the offer, considers his destiny unfolding at his feet. 

 

“Your selfishness will doom us all if you leave!” The Chosen One freezes, rigid. He turns, slowly, eyes burning with anger. 

 

“You brought us here against our will, hurt and threatened to kill my family, and now you want me to stay here and fix your mess? Why should I?” He glances over at the others, crowded around the Guide. Despite being supported into a sitting position on the ground, the Guide’s eyes are alert, staring intently at Father. Challenging him from his position on the ground. His insolence makes anger stir in him once again, hot and fierce. 

 

“You are currently the only thing holding the Sanctuary together. Should you leave, my children will be free to tear the fabric of the Universe apart. I am dying, and it is your destiny to replace me! This is something you cannot run from, Anakin Skywalker. There is nowhere in the universe you can hide from your guilt should you leave!” 

 

“You are lying,” The Chosen One accuses. “Your Son hates you and your Daughter fears you. This is your mess to clean up, not mine.” He turns back to walk away. 

 

Desperation claws up his throat. Father lunges for Skywalker, to make him see reason, to make him stay. 

 

The Force holds him in place. Teacher and Fulcrum have each extended a hand, still holding the Guide down, keeping him protected. Skywalker turns, raises a disapproving eyebrow, and continues towards his friends. 

 

Father sinks to his knees and screams. 

 

Underneath them, the ground shudders, the rot spreading faster, the Sanctuary starting to collapse inward. It is only a matter of time. 

 


 

Daughter thought she knew what it meant to be Good. 

 

She thought she only had to be obedient, and Father would show her the way. He raised them, made them who they are. Surely he knows what is best for them? But now Father is strange, no longer something she knows, something she can predict. He asked her to kill, to lie, to do nothing to help. He screams and cries and spits with rage, but the Chosen One does not turn back. 

 

Daughter disobeyed him. She did not try to kill Teacher. She listened to her own conscience, and showed him the future they were headed towards. And it felt Good, it felt right to warn, even if it meant disobeying Father. Even if it means dooming Mortis to ruin, Daughter does not regret warning Teacher. 

 

She hopes it will be enough, that together the four of them will save what lies beyond. 

 

Daughter dreams sometimes. She dreams she is a bird, flying on the wind. She dreams of stars dying and being reborn. She dreams of what the world outside the Sanctuary is like. What worlds, what people there are. She dreams they are good, that they are kind. She dreams that they learn to love one another, her and all these strange creatures. That they dance under the stars and moons, that she learns a thousand languages so she might speak to each in their own tongue. That there are arms and legs sprawled over hers, that there are a hundred touches that mean comfort. 

 

She does not need to eat or drink, but Daughter still allows herself to imagine what spicy food must taste like, making her mouth and lips burn, like holding fire on her tongue. She imagines her face twisting at the sourness of a citrus fruit, the juice filling her mouth. Daughter imagines the burn of alcohol, the sweet coolness of water,  and the soft sinking of teeth into a croissant, slightly bittersweet chocolate melting in her mouth as she chews. She imagines the ache of muscles as she repairs ships, the satisfaction of brushing flour off her hands, laughter that makes her cheeks and stomach hurt, and the comfort of reading poetry curled up with a cup of tea. Daughter dreams of doing any of the thousand things she has found skimming the surfaces of the Visitors’ minds. The thoughts they are not even aware of thinking, that drift through the air as easily as wind, as lyrical as birdsong.

 

Daughter has never let herself want anything before. It seems selfish, foolish. Daughter knows why they must stay here in the Sanctuary, why she is dangerous. But Daughter never knew what she was missing before, and it was easier to stay then. But now the hunger is stuck in her throat, making her lips tremble, the tears burn at her eyes. 

 

She will never experience the joy of a hard workout, the burn of muscles and aching of bruises combined with deep satisfaction. She will never know games, or painting nails, or learning to braid hair and singing songs or telling stories around a fire. It is too late. 

 

Daughter already knows how this ends, knows she has to die. Daughter and Son cannot be allowed to leave, and the Chosen One will not stay.

 

But now that the time is close, Daughter longs for what she cannot have, for what she did not know she was missing. Selfishly, she lets herself dream that things can be different, that she does not have to die, that Mortis does not have to fall to ruin. 

 

Selfishly, Daughter dreams that she can be saved too. 

 


 

Fingers are tracing up and down his wounded hands, and it takes every ounce of self control for Rex to stay still. He doesn’t want to make Ko-Sai angry, not after she’s explained the rules. He doesn’t want the muzzle, doesn’t want to be left on the cold table overnight as he practices “being a good specimen.” 

 

“Rex, if you’re back with us we’re going to try and brush the dirt out as well as we can so we can re-wrap your hands, okay? Let me know if you need a break to gather yourself, and please don’t hold your pain in on my account, this will be an unpleasant experience. You are safe, we are safe, I’ve got the watch. Just let us take care of you this time.” The voice speaking to him sounds wrong. It’s too kind. It vibrates against his back, tremors in the air and in that space inside him that feels too much like a raw wound.

 

Trails of fire are surging through his muscles like electric shocks, his hands throbbing in sharp agony. He doesn’t know what is real anymore, doesn’t know what reality the pain connects to. Is this after Valtameri? Is it Kamino? Is he going to wake up in Kix’s MedBay, in Master Che’s office, or on Ko Sai’s table? 

 

Or, something whispers, are these the dreams of a dead man?

 

Fingers probe gently into the open wounds, and Rex jolts, a pained whine breaking through the barricade of his teeth. 

 

It is not Ko-Sai who has their arms around him, pressing his back against their chest. It’s not Kix who runs fingers through his hair, awkward and hesitant as they murmur soothing encouragements into his ears. 

 

It’s General Kenobi. 

 

The realization hits like kickback from a blaster, his awareness snapping into place the same way one jolts awake suddenly from deep sleep. All at once Rex realizes they are in a courtyard. He can’t remember how they got here. 

 

His body is slumped into General Kenobi’s lap. He’s holding Rex down as Ahsoka pries the newest layer of dirt and cloth fibers from his hands, trying to offer comfort in any way he can. Their touch is much more gentle than Ko-Sai’s ever cared to be. Even Kix will press forward regardless of pain when the situation calls for it. Rex does understand, usually appreciates Kix’s straightforward approach, but right now he thinks the wrong touch will send his mind onto the cool table, watching himself be cut open and prodded and made into a Thing. 

 

Something in the Force snaps, like an old fraying thread. It’s quiet, almost unnoticeable except that it makes Rex’s vision spot black like static, new trails of fire tracing down his arms. 

 

He trains his eyes on Father. He’s talking to Skywalker, and Rex feels a sinking unease. 

 

“Relax, Rex, we’ve got our eye on them,” Ahsoka murmurs. Rex opens his mouth to protest, but can’t bring himself to say anything. He tenses when Skywalker turns to join them, watches something dark flicker in Father’s eyes. 

 

Before he can warn, before he can act, Father lunges, hands extended for Anakin. 

 

He is held still, The Force surging around Obi-wan and Ahsoka. Rex can only skim the surface of what is happening in The Force, can only arch against Obi-wan’s chest as another trill of pain sparks up and down his spine. The next moment, The Force releases, sinks back into the earth under the courtyard. Rex sags into Obi-wan’s hold, breathing ragged and strained. Anakin joins them, whispering something that Rex doesn't have the strength to hear. He lets their words drift above him, like water over stone. fingers press into his hands, and Rex is careful not to flinch. Somehow, that makes the whispering worse. 

 

"There's not much we can do unless we can do unless we get medical supplies. Even then, we'll need a medic to look him over."

 

"Well I'm not about to ask those three for help," Anakin hisses. "They're the ones who dragged us into this mess in the first place."

 

"Well, if we could just get our ship back, there's medical supplies there."

 

"I doubt they are going to just let us leave. Father thinks I am meant to stay here andThe hands on his shoulders squeeze, and Rex can feel some sort of tension building in the air. 

 

"What do you want?" Rex can feel the promise of violence radiating off the words. There are tremors running through the air, making his hair stand on edge. 

 

“I know where your ship is,” Daughter tells them quietly. “I will take you to it, but we must hurry.”

 


 

 

Captain Rex is not doing good. 

 

Obi-wan fights the urge to worry his lip. Even now, he can feel the heat radiating where Rex’s head is pressed into his shoulder. The Captain is pale and shaking, slipping in and out of awareness. 

 

Anakin and Obi-wan carefully sling his arms over their shoulders. The Captain doesn’t protest, and Obi-wan can’t tell if he’s even aware enough to know that they are on their feet and moving. 

 

Cody is going to kill him. Obi-wan promised he would look out for Rex, and he hasn’t been able to keep that promise even once. 

 

Daughter pauses, stares at them intently, searching. She takes a step forward, hesitantly reaching towards the Captain. Anakin growls in warning. 

 

“I only wish to help. I can take away some of his suffering if you let me,” Daughter offers. Anakin narrows his eyes, but nods. She places a hand against his cheek, motherly, and Rex gasps, a sound of relief rather than pain. His eyes open, aware and completely free of pain. Daughter presses her forehead to his, whispering softly. 

 

 “I am sorry for what Father has done to you, Rex. For what all of us have done. We never should have brought you here.” 

 

“Thank you,” Rex murmurs hoarsely.

 

She pulls away, remorse on her face. “I’m sorry I cannot do more.”

 

“It is enough,” Rex assures her. Ahsoka moves to link her elbow with Rex’s now that the Captain is taking his own weight. 

 

They walk through the hallways of the monastery, and Obi-wan wonders at the high vaulted ceilings, the intricate masonry, the stained glass windows. It feels like a Jedi temple, but more magnificent and yet more empty. He wonders who made this place. 

 

Several hallways and stairs later, they come to a large ornate door. There, sitting innocently on a balcony, is their ship. 

 

“It was here the whole time?” Anakin asks incredulously. 

 

“We don’t have much time. You should leave now, while you still can.” The whole monastery rumbles and groans. 

 

“What will happen to you?” Ahsoka asks. 

 

“I will die, along with Mortis,” there is no remorse in the words, no sadness, just the quiet resignation of someone who has come to terms with death.

 

“You knew this would happen?” Obi-wan feels a sharp mix of horror and surprise. 

 

“There are many branches in The Force, and I have guarded the Paths for many lifetimes. Do not mourn, this is the way it has to be.”

 

“Come with us,” Anakin offers suddenly. “You don’t have to die.”

 

Daughter takes a step back, deep sadness flickering briefly across her face. “You cannot stay, and I cannot leave. My place is with my Father and my Brother. You should go. Quickly.” Daughter turns and hurries away, before anything more can be said. Anakin’s face crumples with guilt, but he doesn’t follow after her. 

 

The ship is exactly how they left it. Ahsoka wastes no time pulling out the Medkit onboard, forcing Rex to sit down and have his hands looked at properly. Obi-wan slides into the pilot’s seat. 

 

“You okay Rex?” Anakin asks. 

 

“I’ll be fine sir,” comes the Captain’s even reply. 

 

“Give me your hands,” Ahsoka demands. 

 

“Can I get a co-pilot up here?” 

 

“I’ve got Rex, you go help Obi-wan,” Anakin orders. A moment later, Ahsoka sinks into the co-pilots seat with a huff. 

 

The ship hums as it powers up, systems in full working order. Within minutes they are flying away. The sky, clear upon takeoff, now has several dark clouds forming right around them. Obi-wan frowns, turns on the shuttle’s spotlights. Takes a deep breath. Everything is over now. They are going home. 

 

“Rex, I wanted to thank you.” Obi-wan should let this conversation be private. Instead he keeps the cockpit door open and tilts his ear towards the room to hear better. He’d feel guiltier if Ahsoka wasn’t doing the exact same thing. 

 

“What for, sir?” The confusion in the Captain’s voice is almost as endearing as it is frustrating. Ahsoka face-palms next to him, coming to the same conclusion. 

 

“Some day he’s going to realize that we care for him,” Ahsoka huffs under her breath. Obi-wan hums in agreement. 

 

“… saved me from myself back there. I would have killed them if you didn’t stop me.” 

 

Obi-wan can’t quite see it, but he can imagine Rex shaking his head. “It was nothing, sir. Just—“ he yelps, and Obi-wan glances back to see that Anakin is wrapping his hands, in real bandages this time. Ahsoka snickers quietly in the co-pilots seat. 

 

“Sorry Rex, it sounded like you were about to say you were just doing your duty back there, or something else ridiculous. Also, stop calling me sir. We’re all equals here.” 

 

The ship hits some turbulence, jolting to the side. Obi-wan curses and quickly rights the shuttle. Lightning strikes between the clouds, barely missing the left wing. The suddenness of the storm leaves Obi-wan feeling uneasy. 

 

The shuttle shudders again, several instruments dinging with disproval. 

 

“Looks like Obi-wan needs my help flying again. You should get some rest, Rex. You’ve more than earned it.” He doesn’t quite hear the Captain’s reply, muffled by Anakin’s footsteps. 

 

“What seems to be the problem up here?” 

 

“Just some turbulence. A storm decided to form as we were leaving. Another alarm blares as the shuttle dips. Ahsoka curses and increases power to the stabilizers. 

 

“Just our luck,” she groans in frustration. There’s a shout in the back, coupled with something getting knocked over. 

 

Anakin curses, “I must of left the medkit on the berth.” He straightens up to head back. 

 

“While you’re back there, can you check the hatch door? The computer is saying it’s loose.” Obi-wan frowns at the beeping light. 

 

“Going somewhere so soon? The fun is only beginning,” A cold dread trembles up Obi-wan’s spine. He leaps from the pilot’s seat, only to see a flash of red eyes as the cockpit door slides shut. He slams the button to open it, but the doors don’t budge. Ahsoka looks at him, her eyes wide and afraid. 

 

“REX!” 

 

The door pounds open, and Anakin shoves Obi-wan out of the way, setting himself in the pilot’s seat. 

 

“Anakin, what just happened?” Obi-wan stumbles into the wall as Anakin yanks on the yoke, turning the shuttle around quickly. Anger and sadness and guilt are pouring off his former Padawan in a nauseous mixture, his face twisted in fear. 

 

“The Son has Rex.” 

Notes:

Jesse: Im not panicking, why would I be panicking?
also Jesse: *remembers the kind of shit his CO's constantly get into* Okay, maybe it's time to start panicking.

okay, so I've been re-watching the Mortis arc as I'm writing and the Test just... doesn't seem that challenging? Like, Anakin just throws some birds around, makes day and night change rapidly, all that. Don't get me wrong, it's pretty, and I remember liking it a lot when I was younger, but I feel like more could have been done with it. Ahsoka and Obi-wan are just kinda... there too.

We've had one character development, yes, but what about second character development? Ahsoka, Obi-wan, Rex, and Anakin got their insecurities poked at last chapter, but I also wanted them to face those fears and wrestle with them while everything is still raw and intense. Hence, the visions part two. This part actually probably took me the longest to write, because I wrote Rex, Ahsoka, and Obi-wan's scenes, looked at them, and then rewrote or heavily revised all three of them because they weren't quite right.

The most unrealistic thing about the entire Mortis Arc is that Father went through all the trouble of revealing themselves and sending the message, bringing Anakin Skywalker to Mortis in order to test him and see if he was the Chosen One, and then simply letting Anakin go because he didn't want to stay. Like, if I was the only thing keeping two very powerful Force Beings from tearing apart the fabric of the Universe, and I was dying, and the guy who is supposed to replace me showed up, proved he was up for the task, and then was like "no I don't want to " I would have grabbed him by the shoulders and been like "listen here you little shit its your turn now and you are going to like it"

In other words, in my version of this arc, Father never had any intention of letting Anakin go--he was either going to prove he was the chosen one and take Father's place, or he was going to die in the attempt. Everyone else is just unfortunate collateral.

Obi-wan: thank the Force the worst is behind us and we can finally go home
Son: *laughs*

Is it really the Mortis Arc if someone isn't captured to be corrupted to the dark side?

Anyways, thank you guys so much for reading this far! Your comments and kudos make my day, and I hope you are all staying warm as winter settles upon us! I'll try to have the next chapter up soon but with Finals coming up I can make absolutely no promises. However, seeing as how this AU was born while I was procrastinating studying for finals, you never know.

Chapter 7: tremble for yourself, my man

Summary:

In which The Force has many branches, but on this Path someone has to die. Mortis was always doomed, but perhaps something can still be saved.

Or, the Son has Rex. Anakin is going to do everything he can to get him back.

Or, Rex is straight up Not Having A Good Time, Obi-wan is the only adult with a half-working braincell, Ahsoka just wants her Ori'vod back, Anakin is forced to revaluate some things, and Jesse is still panicking.

Notes:

*Revives myself from the dead*

hello friends, it has been a while. Here is a quick summary of what happened:

Me: yeah, I should be able to write this chappie out during finals
*finals takes all my time and energy and kicks my ass*
Me: okay, but now I have a break, so I should be able to get this chapter out for the one-year anniversary of this fic.
My brain: nope. We are in complete burnout rn, can't do anything. Sit and rot.
Me: Christmas then?
Brain: nope.
Me: New Years?
Brain: uh still no
Me: At least let me write while I am on break
Brain: let me check the schedule. Let's see... still no.
Me: why not?
Brain: because f u c k y o u, that's why.

So, despite obstacles listed above, I am back and with the end of the Mortis Arc! And, as per my usual apology, here is over 17K words and 32 pages of me beating up Rex (for plot!)

Content warnings for this chapter include: self harm, stabbing, and suicide! Nothing the Mortis Arc didn't already do, but you know, just in case.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The moment Anakin left to join Obi-wan in the cockpit, Son wrapped his hands around Rex’s throat, around his mouth and it had burned with cold. He could not breathe, could only struggle weakly as Son whispered into his ear, “what do you think the Chosen One will do to get you back? 

 

The question is a dangerous one—Rex distantly remembers hands around his, tugging him to the surface, remembers thinking that Anakin was trying to save someone already dead. He remembers opening his mouth to let the Ocean in, refusing to take his Jettise down with him. He remembers drowning and unraveling and dying, and knows that even then Anakin Skywalker would not let him go. 

 

Anakin would evaporate an Ocean to get him back. And Son knows it. 

 

The shuttle dips violently, and Rex throws his head back sharply, dislodging Son’s hand to shout as he kicks out at the medical kit still open on the berth. It hits the floor with a crash, bandages rolling and glass shattering, the strong smell of bacta and burn salve filling the compartment. 

 

If Rex survives this, he’ll apologize to Kix later. 

 

He springs towards the door, hand already reaching for the button when electricity crackles over his skin, his muscles seizing and spasming as he hits the ground hard. 

 

Son kneels next to him, tipping his chin up with a finger so that he’s forced to meet the monster’s eyes. 

 

“Going somewhere so soon? The fun is only beginning.” 

 

Hands roughly pull him up off his feet, wrapping around his throat. His hands scrabble uselessly, black spots already dancing across his vision. The door slides open, and Anakin is there. 

 

“REX!”  

 

He’s turned sharply to face his General. They lock eyes, and Rex tries to speak, but all he can manage is a choked gasp. 

 

And then the sound of air rushing past his ears fills his head as they drop out of the bottom of the shuttle. 

 


 

Son has Rex. 

 

Angry, useless tears burn at the edges of Anakin’s eyes as he chases Son through the hazy sky, through a maze of stone and fog. He’s following on nothing but instinct and his own blurry vision. It is maddening, only relying on his natural senses for something so important. He can only catch glimpses of shadow, flickers of white plastoid. He has no other choice. Trying to use The Force makes his muscles burn, his vision spot with flashes of white. Of all the times to have Force Exhaustion, this has to be the worst. Anakin’s hands are white-knuckled around the yoke to keep himself from shaking. 

 

He had saved them. They were almost home. It was supposed to be over. 

 

How many times is he going to let his guard down early? How many times is Rex going to pay for it? First Valtameri, and then Malastare, and now this. Is he always doomed to fail Rex at the last second? Anakin should have killed Son when he had the chance. He should have kept a better eye on Rex. His Captain was injured and defenseless and Anakin left him alone. He let his guard down, and now—

 

And now Anakin is going to lose his best friend. Rex is going to die because Anakin was careless and foolish and—

 

He remembers the feeling of his lightsaber sinking deep into Rex’s stomach, the flesh unresisting, how easy it was for his anger to grow monstrous ruinous. He remembers the young cadet chained to a post, whip burning into flesh and tearing through muscle, teeth sinking deep into skin to muffle any screams, and Anakin unable to offer comfort. His mother’s voice taunts in his ear, “no matter how powerful you become, you will never save the ones you love.”

 

Maybe Anakin was only made to hurt. To cut others on all his jagged edges, a weapon refined through fire and pointed at the enemy. Chosen only because he is powerful. But now Anakin is nothing, his power stripped from his hands. 

 

Son has all the advantages. Even if they catch up in the shuttle, there’s no way to safely pry Rex from the monster’s claws. No way to attack without putting his Captain in the line of fire. There is no way this will end in victory. 

 

Rex is going to die. And it will be Anakin’s fault. All this power at his fingertips, and it won’t matter. He can’t touch The Force without getting burned. Dread runs through him raw and violent. Anakin can’t shove it away, can’t—

 

He thinks if he loses his Captain he will lose himself, that line between Anakin and The Force will blur and unravel and there will be no one to pull him back into his own body—

 

He can’t lose Rex. He can’t. He forces the shuttle to go faster, as fast as it can go, engines whining at the abuse. They are gaining on Son, who is weaving through the stone pillars with a practiced ease. On a particularly tight turn he manages to twist the shuttle clear at the last moment, challenging Son back, but the bat-like monster looks back to grin at him, like this is some sort of game.

 

He had thought that if he could just keep Rex away from the danger, he would be safe. If Anakin kept him off the field, if he kept him from missions, his Captain wouldn’t keep getting hurt. He sees now that he was foolish. This was always going to happen. 

 

It feels like his mother dying all over again. 

 

His Force Bond with Obi-wan flares. A deep breath, a fresh breeze. Anakin tries to follow, but his lungs seize in his chest, the movement aborting halfway through. “Anakin! Slow down!” Obi-wan has strapped himself in the co-pilot’s seat, and Anakin’s not sure when the switch happened. Ahsoka is frozen in the communications seat, eyes wide and hands clamped over her mouth, like she’s trying to hold back her horror somehow. Like if she presses hard enough she can stop herself from screaming.

 

“I can’t loose him!” Son swoops straight up, and Anakin chases. The stars are blinking out, falling from the sky. There is nothing but himself, Son, and Rex. He can feel The Force teetering, tilting dangerously to one side. The Force is wrapping around his head, a band of pressure. It’s calling to him, sparking at his fingertips. “I will give you all the power you seek,” it whispers, voice cold and sharp and sinuous. “Surrender to me, and I will give you power over life and death itself. You alone will be able to save that which you hold so dear.” Anakin’s guard wavers, fingers reaching, scraping across the surface— 

 

“We’ll have bigger problems if you crash this ship!” Obi-wan chastises. His Master’s voice snaps Anakin out of his almost-trance. Pain trills through his head and down his arms, but he revels in it, bites deep into his lip until iron coats his tongue, trickling down his chin. The pain is grounding, giving him the focus he needs. A reminder that if he loses his head, if he gives into his rage and acts recklessly, Rex will die. 

 

Son scowls, turning back towards the ground, his massive wings curling and unfurling around him, weaving a cloak of twisting clouds and mist and shadows. Rex is dangling in his claws like  a strip of meat held tauntingly before a massif, his white plastoid the beacon Anakin uses to follow Son through the darkness. 

 

“He’s too strong. Leave without me,” Rex’s voice spikes into his head, rattling like a bearing ball tossed into an empty can. He can feel the fear underneath the words, intertwined with trembling courage. Anakin remembers chasing Rex into the Empty Sea, remembers how Rex surrendered his life with a smile, breathing in salt water, unraveling and fading and—

 

Anakin knows Rex would die in a heartbeat if he thought it would save someone else. His Captain is always too quick to give beyond his limits, to measure the value of his life against the task at hand and find the cost worth paying. Like he’s something that can be easily replaced if he gets broken. 

 

(He wishes Rex understood that he isn’t. Rex is the only thing holding Torrent together somedays, the only thing holding Anakin together sometimes, and Anakin can’t do this without him. He can’t bear the weight of leadership, of war, of destiny, alone. He wishes Rex understood that Anakin would break every rule in the Jedi Code to keep him safe. That he would chase after him no matter how deeply he was Lost. That he would save him as many times as it takes to bring him home.) 

 

“Not happening. Hold tight soldier, that’s an order.” If Rex tries to sabotage his own rescue again, Anakin will never forgive him. 

 

"Anakin, he wants you,” his Captain warns, barely scraping through their bond. Anakin knows it is taking everything Rex has to speak through The Force, to warn him that this is a trap. 

 

His Captain should know that it doesn’t matter. Anakin is going to follow anyway. “I'm coming for you, Rex, just—“ The connection breaks, and with it a new flare of pain drilling through his head. The shuttle dips as he recoils from the sudden pain. Their Bond is gone, severed in two. Son looks at them over his shoulder, his teeth glinting through the darkness as he grins. 

 

Something splatters against the shuttle’s viewport.

 

Red crawls over the transparisteel, slowly pulled across by the air whipping past. Son flaps his powerful wings, suddenly much faster than before. A new knot of dread settles in Anakin’s stomach as he realizes that Son was playing with them this whole time. He converts all power to the thrusters, prays to The Force and every God his mother ever told him stories about that Rex isn’t—

 

The rear left thruster explodes, finally buckling under the strain Anakin has put it under. The shuttle spins wildly through the sky, alarms beeping and Obi-wan and Ahsoka screaming. 

 

Their landing is not gentle. 

 

The nose plows into the ground, dirt cascading over the viewport as it spews into the air around them. The headlights flicker, metal groans. Anakin’s going to be sore from the jolt, will probably have bruises up his spine. He’s unclipping himself from the seat before the shuttle comes to a full grinding stop, frantically pressing the button to open the door and lower the landing gear. 

 

The ground sighs beneath his feet, whimpering softly like an animal close to death. 

 

Son is gone. Anakin sinks to his knees, howling and screaming at the sky until his throat is raw, barely feeling the presence of Obi-wan and Ahsoka coming up behind him. The hands on his shoulders give no comfort, the quiet reassurances fall on deaf ears. 

 

Son is gone, and Rex with him.

 


 

Daughter feels the moment the ground cries out, joining the Chosen One’s agonized yell of grief. She feels herself growing weaker, feels the stars dim and stutter, everything dying around her. Within her. She closes her eyes, trying desperately to hold back the tears already trailing down her cheeks. 

 

Maybe if she went to Father, entreated him to fix things—

 

It’s too late. She knows. 

 

Father is no longer Father. Daughter is no longer Daughter. Son is no longer Son. This is the price of all their choices. 

 

Daughter has guarded the Paths her whole life. She has watched the birth and death of a thousand worlds. But they were all distant to her, like watching a dream, or merely hearing a recounting of events. It was a story, pleasant and full of lessons but not real. 

 

Father did not know what he was asking for when she used the stone. But Daughter knew, had been willing to sacrifice the Outside for their little Sanctuary, had weighed the value of her home against the great unknown and was willing to pay it because that’s what Father asked of her. Despite all her knowledge of what could be, she had been naive, blinded by her faith in Father’s wisdom and the promise of his love. 

 

But when the Visitors came, Daughter’s eyes were opened farther than they had ever been. 

 

The names she had called out into the Universe appeared as physical flesh and blood, something she could talk to and interact with. They had questions and feelings, and they made choices that she did not understand. She saw for the first time the consequences of her actions on the world beyond their Sanctuary. The Guide was hurt because she called them here, his mental shields crumpled by Father’s hand. 

 

Touch was forbidden of them. But she felt new sensations—shame, guilt, pain, anger—and reached out to heal. Daughter was so focused on the task that she did not stop the Chosen One when he grabbed her shoulder out of concern for his friend. His touch was warm, racing through her like stars bursting into being, like lightning singing across the sky. And she could taste engine grease on her tongue, bittersweet chocolate and laughter, warm and bubbling in her chest and stomach. She could feel his concern, his determination to protect. How desperately he wanted the Guide to be well. 

 

And, for the first time, she was angry at what Father had done, that he had dared to hurt something so precious. 

 

The longer she stayed in the presence of these Visitors, the more they showed her. There was doubt, shame, guilt, but also love, compassion, relief. And the more they showed her, the deeper the roots of uncertainty buried themselves into her stomach, twisting and crumbling her resolve. Mortis is doomed, has been doomed since before Daughter called into the Universe for a chance at Salvation. She knew the moment she tasted engine grease and chocolate that The Chosen One could not stay.

 

Father had brought the Visitors for nothing, dooming Mortis and the balance of the Universe all at once. 

 

Daughter is destroying everything she knows for everything she can never have. She feels the shackles of her old self fall away; the one bound by obedience to Father and her ignorance of the world outside their Sanctuary. If the Universe is to be saved Daughter must make sure The Guide lives, even if it means sacrificing Mortis. Even if it means dooming Father, Son, and Daughter to Death, which they were never meant to face.

 

This is the Price of all their choices. She only hopes she has the strength to face the trial ahead with dignity. The Force has many branches, but on this Path someone has to die. Daughter takes the first steps, even though she is afraid. 

 

Finally, she understands what it means to be Good. And though she is afraid, Daughter has no regrets. 

 


 

Son traces his fingers along the smooth jaw, turning the head back and forth to catch the different angles of light and shadow, considering the creature before him. It is quiet and still now, eyes shut as it hangs limply in the chains, the body weaker than the will. Softly, blood drips to the floor, trailing from its nose and a deep gash along its hairline. 

 

Absently, Son rubs his arm where the creature had the impudence to bite him.

 

Such a harmless creature. Son releases his grip, the head falling forward until its chin rests on its chest. Small, fragile, unassuming. He crouches on the ground, hands running over his face. Son is not sure if the sound that comes out of him is a laugh or a sob. 

 

Who knew such a small, fragile creature could cause so much harm? Now Son knows why Father feared it. With only a touch, it ruined everything. Memories that had long been locked away burst through, dizzying in both the number and the implications. 

 

Son has been here before, has done this countless times, a weapon under Father’s command. He wonders how much of this plan was his own choice, or an unconscious instinct to repeat the same pattern. 

 

He almost wants to kill it, just so he has something he can lash out at. Something that can take his anger so that Son is not what is falling apart. But the Guide can still be useful to him. It will only take a small adjustment, but he can salvage something out of this. 

 

He can be free from Father, from this prison. He will stop this cycle from repeating. 

 

The kaleidoscope opens before him, colorful and dizzying. This child is the key to everything, and Son has it chained before him. 

 


 

Rex is gone. Son took him. 

 

And Anakin and Obi-wan are arguing. 

 

“We need a plan!”

 

“I have a plan! Find Rex and get him back!” Anakin doesn’t look back as he stalks away from the downed shuttle, picking a random direction. They don’t know where Son took him. And Anakin’s Force Bond with Rex has been forcefully severed. Through her own Bond with her Master, Ahsoka can feel the raw end, can feel Anakin grasping at it like a child picking at a scab. Her Master is about to give himself Force-Burnout, and it’s the last thing they need at the moment. 

 

Obi-wan sighs in frustration and calls after him. “That’s not a—how are you going to accomplish that? You’re hardly in any condition to fight Son, we can’t trust that Rex is going to be in any position to help his own rescue, and Ahsoka and I haven’t been able to do much against these people. If we are going to get Rex back, we need to think this through and—"

 

Her Master whips around, fists clenched. “We don’t have time for that! Rex doesn’t have time for that!” Anakin turns and continues walking. Obi-wan jogs after him. 

 

“Anakin, we don’t know if he’s even—“ A severed Force-Bond usually means death. Anakin has to know. As much as Ahsoka wants to believe that Rex isn’t dead, she’s already seen him die before. 

 

It felt just like this. 

 

“He’s alive! And we’re going after him.” 

 

“Anakin,” Obi-wan’s voice drops into something regretful. “We don’t have a ship. We don’t have a plan, we don’t even know if we are going in the right direction, and we need help. If Rex is alive, we can’t afford to be careless.” 

 

“Son doesn’t want Rex, he wants me! And every minute we waste is a minute Rex has to pay for!” 

 

Anakin collapses to his knees, tears streaming down his face. Ahsoka has never seen her Master cry before, never seen the hard shell of anger break down and reveal the softer emotions underneath. Even with his limited presence in The Force, Anakin is a gushing wound of grief and regret, of shame and fear. Son took Rex, and it broke something open in Anakin. “I promised him, Master. I promised I would come for him.” 

 

Obi-wan kneels down. Anakin hides his face. 

 

“This is my fault! I’m the Chosen One—I should have known Son would—I should have stopped him.” 

 

“Oh Dear One, why are you trying to bear this burden alone?” Obi-wan wraps Anakin in a hug, Ahsoka kneeling down to join. Obi-wan is grounding, offering comfort in the midst of Ahsoka’s turmoil and fear. 

 

“But Rex—“ 

 

“We are no help to him like this. The Force is strong here—trust it will help us locate our dear Captain and show us the way.” 

 

The hug releases, and Obi-wan and Ahsoka sink into position. The Force is darker here, cloudy. Anchoring herself is much harder than it should be. Ahsoka prays her Ori’vod can hold out just a little longer. 

 

And then fingers rest against her forehead. 

 

“I’m sorry," her Master murmurs. “But I can’t risk losing anyone else I care about.” Ahsoka’s eyes snap open, but it’s too late. Anakin’s Suggestion rushes through her, limbs turning heavy as her vision goes black. 

 


 

“I only wish to help. I can take away some of his suffering if you let me.”

 

A hand presses against his cheek, and the edges of his pain are washed away, the Force-Exhaustion-induced-soreness leaking out of his muscles. His hands are momentarily numb, though he can feel how they radiate heat, how fever is beginning to take hold of his body. 

 

Daughter’s forehead presses against his. “This is not over yet,” she warns him. “I can’t heal you completely, but I can give you strength for the trial ahead, and a warning. My Brother will try to use you to get to the Chosen One. You must resist him in any way you can.” She pauses, seems to draw the light out of the air itself before pushing it under his skin. He feels strength return to his limbs, The Force warm and buzzing. He never thought it would be such a relief to have his connection to The Force restored. 

 

He’s not supposed to want that. 

 

“I’m sorry for what Father has done to you Rex. For what all of us have done. We never should have brought you here.” 

 

“Thank you,” he says, feeling better than he has for most of his time on this kriffing planet. 

 

“I am sorry I cannot do more,” she whispers. He hears the words underneath: I’m sorry I can not spare you from the trial that lies ahead. I’m sorry you will have to suffer more at the hands of my family. 

 

“It is enough,” he assures her.

 

 It isn’t. No amount of warning could have prepared him for what followed. Maybe Daughter knew that. Maybe that’s why she didn’t tell him everything that would happen in detail. 

 

Son slammed into his mental shields like a wedge and hammer, drilling into his head relentlessly. Rex bore the assault until he bled, reaching out to Anakin to warn him, to stop him from chasing recklessly. He had felt his Force Bond with Anakin snap, the whiplash such utter agony that in that moment Rex had thought he died. 

 

Rex wakes in chains. Whatever strength Daughter gave him before is gone, replaced by the heavy flush of fever. His ribcage feels tight, shoulders and spine pulling at the movements, the pain old and familiar. He takes a breath and his lungs hitch partway through, his chest splintering under the force of wracking coughs.

 

He barely has the strength to move, can hardly breathe around the pressure building in his chest. Rex thinks, deliriously, that he’s going to die like this, strung up like a cadet on the Post. 

 

“You’re finally awake,”A hand grips his hair, tilting his head up with none of Daughter’s gentleness. His eyes are forced open to meet Son’s red ones. The creature before him grins cruelly, eyes gleaming with a predatory glint as he watches Rex struggle to breathe.

 

“What do you want?” Rex tries to sound collected, steady, but his voice is rough and hoarse, triggering another round of coughs that leaves him hanging limp in the chains and gasping. Son watches with cold amusement. His clawed hand snaps out to wrap under Rex’s jaw, vice-like grip roughly turning his head back and forth. Just as quickly Son steps back, his red eyes calculating. 

 

“Your name. It means ‘King,' does it not?” Rex does not answer. The question is eerily familiar, the same question The Force asked him after Valtameri. There’s none of that gentle kindness, no affirmation of the name he chose. Instead, there is a twinge of cold humor, like he finds the name ironic. 

 

“You are not like Mother’s other children,” Son says. “What makes you different?” Last he checked, Rex didn’t have a mother, so he has no idea what Son means. If there is another of these Force Beings here, Rex doesn’t want to meet them. “Answer me when I ask you questions!” Son demands. Electricity bursts from his fingers, crackling over Rex’s skin. He can’t even scream, can only writhe as his muscles spasm and jerk, as his lungs seize in his chest. Eventually the barrage ends, and Rex sucks in a breath greedily, only to cough until his vision whites out. 

 

“I-I do-n’t know… wh-at y-you… mean,” he finally gasps out. Aftershocks are still trembling up his arms, harshly jolting his wrists and hands in the metal cuffs. He can feel blood start to drip down his wrists, and he can’t tell if the wounds in his hands have reopened or if the cuffs have cut open more of his skin. 

 

Son laughs, long and hard. It sends shivers up his spine. “You touched the Conduit of Mortis and lived. You were able to control my Sister and I, however briefly. You resisted Father’s Will. You pulled the Chosen One into Balance,” he says condescendingly, like these facts should bestow the most basic understanding of the Universe to Rex’s simple, stupid mind. “Surely you must realize that none of these are regular feats a mere mortal such as yourself should be able to accomplish, even with Mother’s gifts. So I will ask again: what makes you different from the others?” 

 

Son is talking about The Force. 

 

Rex still doesn’t understand how anything he has done has been particularly extraordinary. His struggle against Son and Daughter ended with Obi-wan and Ahsoka still being captured and himself being trapped in his own mind. Every time he has fought Father, in The Force or otherwise, he has lost. The only thing special about Rex is that he’s still alive despite everything the Universe has thrown at him.

 

“I’m… not s’posed to have The Force.” The words fall unconsciously from his mouth, more honest than he has ever been, even with his own Jettise. Son tilts his head. 

 

“Explain.” He says shortly. 

 

Rex laughs, tasting blood on his tongue, head pounding and spinning but he can’t stop the words from dripping out between his teeth.“Not Jetti, jus’ a clone soldier. ’m defective product, nothing special.”

 

Son frowns, but Rex doesn’t have any other answers that he can give. The Jettise were made to have The Force, were trained to control their powers and see them as a gift, as something good and precious. They always knew what they were and how they were expected to use their powers. Clones are not made for The Force. Rex is not made for The Force. They are not made to be individuals, to have value or gifts. They were made to do their job as soldiers and die, expendable so long as there are more brothers to step into the line and continue the March. 

 

Yes, Rex is different than the others: he’s not what a clone is supposed to be. He’s been made wrong. And the Universe is trying to correct this mistake by teaching this lesson to him over and over and over: Rex has no place among gods. 

 

Son laughs, his head tilted up at the ceiling, his whole body trembling with mirth. “All this power at your disposal, and you don’t want it?” 

 

Something pulls in him at the question. Had he been asked after Valtameri, he would have said yes. Maker knows how hard he tried to deny having The Force in the first place. Being different, being defective is dangerous, and Rex is already on thin ice with his blond hair. If he’s careless, he can put both himself and others at risk. The more people who find out, the closer the Longnecks come to finding out and whisking him away to Kamino, where he will spend the rest of his life on a table under Ko Sai’s scalpel. He can’t do it again. He can’t risk sentencing any of his brothers to a similar fate either. 

 

But, as much of a disaster as Malastare was, it also changed things. It changed Rex. He was able to speak to Balaam, able to understand the full picture in a way he wouldn’t have been able to otherwise. He wonders what would have happened to Balaam if he didn’t have those Visions, if he hadn’t been able to speak with the Zillo Beast at all. Would he have aided the Dugs in killing him? Would the eggs have remained lost in the museum, slowly consumed by rot and decay? 

 

And the sinkholes—how many brothers would have died if he didn’t push them out of the way? Jump, Clover, Luk’ie, Ponds—how many would have been killed if Rex wasn’t there to stop Balaam? 

 

You and I both know that for every brother you save on the field, another will die in the labs because of what you are doing!

 

“It’s your gift!” Ahsoka’s voice counters. “You shouldn’t have to hide it or be afraid of using it!”

 

Why drag others to their deaths over a useless dream? You and I both know that you were never made to be Jettise. Why are you trying to be more than what you were made for? 

 

Son laughs. “I see. You were not made to be free, to have choices. The thought terrifies you. The chains in your mind are much tighter than anything I could hope to devise. We are similar in that respect, I suppose. You have the power to shape the world into your own image, and yet, your potential is being held captive—a slave who can only use their power to serve a Master’s will. Allow me to show you the price of your choices, set you free from the cage of your own mind.” 

 

The chains release suddenly, dropping Rex onto the ground. His knees fold on him almost immediately, but Rex dips his chin and rolls, somehow stumbling to his feet. He makes two shaky steps before electricity races over his skin once more and he collapses in a heap of spasming limbs.

 

“You still do not get it, do you?” Son sneers, kneeling down next to Rex as he continues to convulse. “As long as I have you, I’ve already won.” 

 

Rex spits in his face. Son backhands him harshly, pinning his head to the floor. “It’s cute—admirable, almost—that you think you can keep your precious Chosen One from me,” Son laughs, eyes dripping with wrath. “But here you are, the Guide, right before me.” Son drags a long fingernail against Rex’s cheek, over the welt that he just made, and he can feel the blood in his veins stop, his world suddenly reduced to a painful absence. He gasps, but his lungs are frozen, heart silent and still in his chest. The silence grows, a sucking void, and Rex thinks he will implode from the pressure of it.

 

Pain flares briefly through his cheek, white sparking over his eyes. The blood feels cold as it drips down his skin. His mouth opens and closes uselessly, scrabbling for the sensation of breathing, but there is nothing. It is like his lungs have been cut out of his chest.  

 

Son runs his thumb over the cut, the blood bright on his pale skin. He grins, eyes gleaming with something manic. “You, dear King, are going to lead him astray for me.”

 

Before he can so much as twitch, Son has his teeth sunk deep into his wrist. Sound rushes into his head, and Rex cannot stop screaming. His blood bursts to life, boiling loud in his ears, and Son is laughing, loud and carefree as Rex’s bones disintegrate, splintering and shifting as he is stuffed full of fire. 

 

Cool fingers press gently against his skull, and Rex sobs brokenly at the slight relief against the all-consuming fire. “Oh, Little King, you think this is suffering? This is only the beginning,” Son croons. 

 

His mental shields are promptly torn apart like wet flimsy, Son’s cold hands clawing through his mind, stringing memories and thoughts out like intestines.

 

“Echo!” There’s a charred helmet on the ground, two perfectly symmetric lines nearly burned off, and Five’s voice ringing in his ears. The heat from the explosion seems to sink into him, making his eyes burn with unshed tears. But there is no time to mourn. Rex wraps his hand around Fives’ wrist, pulling him away from the twisted and molten wreckage of their shuttle. The agony radiating off Fives becomes his own, and Rex knows that his vod’ika will never forgive him. 

 

“General, we’ve been over the same area a dozen times. There’s no sign of Commander Tano.” 

 

“Not good enough, Rex. Try again.” The General’s voice is angry and cold, and Rex fears what will happen if they don’t find Ahsoka soon. The General’s anger is too volatile, and Rex is too close. He turns to look again, his vision slanting and spotting as a wave of exhaustion crashes over him. He’s been awake for over 72 hours, can’t remember when he last ate or drank or even sat down, but none of them will rest until Ahsoka is found. The General commands it. 

 

Only two fighters return. His heart sinks, trying to peer through the ray shields so he knows who to grieve. Jesse and Fives approach, taking off their helmets. “Where’s Hardcase?” Their eyes go dark with anger and grief, killing any hope he had tried to keep alive. (He should know better—this is no place for hope). “He didn’t make it.” Rex’s heart stops. He can’t breathe. His back spasms and aches, skin pulling as his shoulders hunch in on themselves. This entire campaign has been a disaster, and now Hardcase had to pay for Rex’s weakness with his life. What kind of Captain can’t stand up for their men? 

 

A Besalisk hovers over him, getting in his face. “Let me be clear about the punishment for the treason committed by ARC Trooper 5555 and CT-5597. They will be court-martialed, they will be found guilty, and they will be executed. Make no mistake. For crossing me, you will pay the price.” 

 

He’s on his knees, mind too loud to have thoughts. His gloves are soaked with Waxer’s blood, already sinking into his skin where he will feel the stain forever. The Lieutenant’s eyes are already empty, and Rex wishes he was blind if it meant he didn’t have to see the horror on his men’s faces, the agonizing realization of what they have done. 

 

He doesn’t think Cody will ever forgive him. 

 

His muscles ache, hands rubbed raw, blisters torn and bleeding. His chest tightens as he tries to breathe in the hot, dry air, sweat crusted to his skin. There’s a young Togruta beside him, struggling to keep pace as they work. She sways, eyes fluttering, and Rex drops his pickaxe and leaps to catch her. The Zygerrians shout, electric whips crackling as they scream for him to let the girl go and return to work. But he won’t let her be at the mercy of the whips alone. He curls over her, protecting her head and chest with his own body. His muscles start seizing, white spots crashing over his eyes. He thinks General Kenobi is shouting, and he can’t let the General do something stupid to get himself hurt. He needs to keep the slavers drawn on himself, needs to take their anger and the pain that results from it. This is what he was made for. 

 

He’s standing anxiously, waiting for the General and the Commander to return. He needs to apologize, needs to beg forgiveness.

 

Anakin returns alone. 

 

“She left,” he says simply. “The Council betrayed her, and I couldn’t convince her to stay.” 

 

And Rex is angry. He thought if he just followed orders, he would be in the position to help her. Did Umbara teach him nothing? No good comes from being complicit in bad orders. But he thought he could trust Anakin to fix things like he always does. He trusted the Council to keep his vod’ika safe. 

 

But Krell had taught him that he should not trust Jettise. And it’s a lesson painfully burned into Rex, the scar along his ribs aching. 

 

Ahsoka didn’t say goodbye. Which means she blames him. And why shouldn’t Ahsoka blame him? Rex had helped hunt her like an animal, even though he knew she was innocent.

 

It’s only fair that Ahsoka won’t forgive him. At this point, Rex has long forgotten how to forgive himself too. 

 

“This… is bigger than us, than anything I could have imagined. I never meant to… I only wanted to do my duty.” Fives is in his arms. His head is shaved and his armor is fresh, but even without the tattoo Rex would always know his vod’ika. Fives is dying, a gaping blaster hole in his armor. It looks like a glowing eye, burning into him, damning Rex for all his sins. 

 

“The mission… the nightmares… they’re… finally over…” The world comes crashing, his grief burrowing deep into his bones, and he thinks he will carry this unbearable weight forever. He keeps losing everyone he loves, and the grief is all he has left of them. 99, Echo, Hardcase, Ahsoka, Dogma and Tup, and now Fives. Too many ghosts for his weary shoulders, and this war will never end. He burns every man he has ever killed into his armor, into his mind, and he prays once again for forgiveness that he doesn’t deserve.

 

“Listen to me, Anakin! He’s lying to you!” Rex is desperate, desperate enough for disrespect. Reality is breaking apart around him, everything he thought he knew torn away by something much, much worse. 

 

Fives was right. He was right about everything. 

 

Anakin is pacing, hair wild and eyes flickering. “What if he’s not? You and I both know the Republic is corrupt, that the Jedi have lost their way. What if this is the solution? To burn everything to the ground and build anew? 

 

“Anakin, this Empire that he promised you will only result in more bloodshed. There will be no peace, only those with power they abuse and those who live in fear. A society of Masters and Slaves. And you would be both, the weapon that he uses to keep others in line. Tell me that’s not what you want.” 

 

“Think about it Rex. What has the Republic ever done for you and for your brothers? You’re already slaves. And the Order has been complicit in your slavery. If I help him, I can make you free!”

 

“Don’t pretend this is about us clones. The War is almost over. Senator Amidala is close to pushing the Clone Rights Bill through the Senate. You just need to trust her. We’re almost there, Anakin. We’ve almost won.”

 

“Padme is dying, Rex! The Council won’t help me. You saw how they betrayed Ahsoka. But the Council never trusted me, they’ve only ever tried to control me because they were jealous! Jealous and afraid of my power. How am I not their weapon, Rex? Tell me they haven’t been using me! Using you and your brothers!” 

 

“I won’t say they haven’t, because they have. But if you do this, you are betraying all of us. My brothers fought and died for peace, to defend the Republic. Your Empire would make it so that we fought and died for nothing. And Senator Amidala, do you think she would accept your decision to damn the Universe to hell just so she could live?”

 

“Shut up!” Anakin’s hands grasp his hair, clamping over his ears. “I have no other choice!”

 

“Is that what he’s been telling you? Because if that’s what you think, then you’re already his slave. He’s using you, Anakin. He won’t give you what you want. He won’t give you Padme’s life or our freedom. He won’t let us go, not when the Empire will still have need of soldiers. When he’s the one who ordered the karking chips to be put in our head in the first place!”

 

“I said Shut Up !” Anakin’s lightsaber ignites, and there’s a flash of blue before a burning pain tears through Rex’s stomach. He’s always known that Anakin has a temper, and he’s seen the sort of violence the General will commit when properly provoked. 

 

He just never thought Anakin would turn that violent rage on him. 

 

And Anakin’s eyes go wide with horror and regret. “R-rex. I never—I—I didn’t mean—forgive me.” His hands are pressing on a cauterized wound, the damage already done. And Rex can’t speak, can only gasp around the hole torn through him. 

 

It somehow hurts much worse the second time. 

 

And he watches the Universe crumble into war and violence and famine. He sees the Emperor’s Fist, a weapon and a monster and a slave. He sees his brothers turned into puppets, the paint stripped from their armor, names stolen and erased. He sees the Jedi murdered, hunted to near extinction. He sees Jesse, dead in some wreckage, the Republic Cog on his helmet split in half, blood spilling out of the crack and onto the ground, an orange hand limp and outstretched futilely towards his. 

 

“Now you see,” Son whispers into his ear. “You were made for suffering, Little King. Your loyalty will only ever be paid with blood. Why do you continue to serve those who betray you? I can make you so much more.”

 

“N-no.” Rex won’t believe this is how it ends. He can’t. 

 

“My dear King, I believe I already made this clear: I’ve already won. ”

 

Son’s hands retreat, and Rex’s world is consumed in fire. 

 


 

Daughter approaches the downed shuttle cautiously, making sure this isn’t one of her Brother’s traps. It appears exactly how she knew it would, the metal warped and scratched, the lights flickering slightly, the door sealed shut with molten metal. She places her fingers against the raised seam, concentrates her power against the weak points, and starts to burn it open. 

 

Teacher and Fulcrum are sleeping inside, completely unaware of the trial that lies ahead. It almost feels like a sin to wake them, but there is no time and Daughter cannot do this alone. 

 

She approaches Teacher first. Even asleep, the lines in his face are deep, a testimony of a hard life. She places her fingers against his temples, sending a quick spark. Teacher jolts awake, looking around the shuttle and quickly piecing together what happened. “Damn him,” he mutters under his breath. Then his eyes find Daughter’s, and his expression shifts from exasperation and worry to something softer. Kinder. “Thank you, my dear. Any chance you would know where my reckless Padawan has gotten to?” 

 

She nods. “I will take you to him. But there is first something else we need.” She bends down and awakes Fulcrum. The young one wakes frantically, cursing under her breath. “I need Teacher to help me retrieve the… an object. If I give you the location of Captain Rex, can you get there quickly?” The child’s eyes go wide with relief and hope, accepting the offer quickly. 

 

She presses a finger to Fulcrum’s forehead, pushing the knowledge into her mind as a Suggestion. Fulcrum’s mouth firms with determination, and she leads them to the cargo hold to retrieve the speeder bikes stashed there. 

 

“Stay safe, Ahsoka. Try not to engage before Daughter and I arrive.” 

 

Fulcrum nods and grimaces at the same time. “I’ll do my best, Master. But you know Anakin.”

 

Teacher rolls his eyes and makes an exasperated sigh. It’s intriguing how these Visitors display such a wide range of expressions and emotions so casually. “Unfortunately,” he agrees. He takes the second speeder, expression open as he makes an offer to Daughter. “Would you like to ride on the back? It will be faster, wherever we’re going.” 

 

Daughter would say no, but her power is quickly leeching from her bones. She needs to conserve what she still has. So she climbs onto the speeder, arms wrapped tentatively around his waist to anchor herself. The feeling of touch is still unfamiliar, and she is wary of pressing too hard and causing him pain. 

 

The speeder is fast, and it’s a different kind of fast than her shifted form flying through the sky. Instead of the wind in her feathers it’s her hair pulled back and whipped around behind her. She holds tighter, afraid that she will fall off. 

 

She feels her brother’s power swell, Mortis tipping further off its axis, making her dizzy and breathless and cold. Is this what dying feels like? She rests her forehead on Teacher’s back, trying to reach out and find Guide so she can comfort him. But the range is too far, and she only feels a growing void that sucks at her strength and makes her feel lightheaded and nauseous. 

 

“Are you quite alright?” 

 

She fears they might be too late. That she will die and it will save nothing. “We need to hurry.” 

 


 

He finds another monastery, the Dark Side leeching out of the black stone, fear and desperation and anger thick in his lungs, settling like a physical thing. The dread of it all settles into his bones, gnawing through his ribs and stomach. Anakin is not used to being afraid like this, terrified to the point of inaction. 

 

He got this far, and now he can’t take another step, stranding himself outside the gate, open like a dripping maw. He feels that once he breaches the threshold, something will happen that can’t be undone. That all of Anakin’s worst fears will be realized, and he will learn the true meaning of despair. He reaches tentatively into the Light Side of The Force, so much weaker than it should be. 

 

There is only Death inside. 

 

Has he already failed? Did Rex die in Son’s grasp, desperate for salvation that wouldn’t come? 

 

Force, he’s never felt so powerless and so alone. Even when his mother died, even when Count Dooku took his arm. 

 

Deep breath, Child. Have courage, The Force whispers, weak and wilting but full of comfort. He wonders what it must be like for Rex to have The Force speak to him often, to hear its voice so clearly. Even the Council often struggles to understand The Will of The Force, but Rex channels it like a mouthpiece, amplifying breath and turning it into melody. 

 

He refuses to believe that Rex is dead. That all that waits for him in the monastery is bones and regret. 

 

Courage. Anakin is not one to rely on faith, to wait for something to happen. He makes his own luck, and that means taking action. Every minute he stands indecisive is another minute Rex is in the hands of Son. 

 

He steps through the gate, into another courtyard. And there in the center is a massive tree, different than all the ones that he has seen on this strange planet. The tree is old, for one, the thick bark bleached white and petrified, the leaves dried and clinging to the branches like strips of sun-baked leather. He can’t tell if the tree is living or dead or suspended somewhere in between. 

 

And there, sitting calmly on the edge of some sort of short wall, is Rex. 

 

Son is nowhere to be found. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Anakin knows that it wasn’t supposed to be this easy. But there is Rex in front of him—unharmed and unguarded. 

 

“Rex, it’s me. You’re safe now. Let’s go home.” 

 

But Rex doesn’t turn around. His voice is soft, but it carries clearly across the courtyard. “Is that an Order, Sir?” 

 

“What do you mean, is that an order?” Anakin scoffs, even as his stomach twists with unease, his skin itching like bugs are crawling up and down his arms. “We don’t have time for this. We need to go. Ahsoka and Obi-wan are waiting for us.” He hopes they are safe in the shuttle, hopes they will forgive him for forcing them to stay behind while he went to face Son alone. 

 

“And what if I don’t?” Rex challenges. He still hasn’t turned around, focusing on something in his lap. “Will you try to force me to bend to your will, kill me if you can’t?” 

 

Anakin’s spine is buzzing, his skin tingling. He can’t help but think of his lightsaber sinking into Not-Rex’s stomach, his own anger so blinding he had lashed out without thinking. But he didn’t hurt Rex—it wasn’t real. Son was playing tricks on him. There’s no way he would actually—Rex must know that he wouldn’t— “Rex, where is this coming from?” Finally, Rex turns to face him. His eyes are a sickly yellow, dark cracks spiraling over pale skin, reminding Anakin starkly of the Blue Shadow Virus. 

 

Rex looks like a doll that has been broken to pieces. 

 

Rex hefts up his helmet, which must of previously been sitting in his lap. The bandages he so carefully wrapped around the Captain’s hands are gone, bloody handprints smeared across the white plastoid, covering the Jaig Eyes and the tally marks. 

 

“Can you name all of my brothers who have died, General? Do you still think of them, do their deaths keep you up at night?” 

 

Anakin pauses. Over the course of the War, he’s had thousands, if not tens of thousands of men under his command. There’s no way to meet them all, to learn all their names. He tried, at first, but after Teth—

 

He couldn’t stand to mourn so many. To know the name of every single man doomed to death by his orders. 

 

So Anakin took the easy way out. He started to look at empty positions that needed to be filled or trained as parts that needed to be replaced or repurposed to keep the well-oiled 501st-machine going. He left most of the work of troop replacement to Rex. 

 

Rex seems to read the answer in his eyes, expression hardening with anger. “That’s what I thought, General.” 

 

“Rex, you know I care about you and your brothers.” 

 

“When it’s convenient to,” Rex bites out. “But our lives are not always your priority, are they General?” 

 

“What do you mean?” 

 

“Can you name the men that Grievous killed?” 

 

“W-what?” 

 

“When we destroyed that listening station on Ruusan 2. You disobeyed General Kenobi’s orders and went to rescue R2, because a droid was more important than ensuring the safety of your team or the success of our mission, wasn’t it?”

 

“R2 had vital Republic intel that we couldn’t let fall into the wrong hands, and the mission was successful,” Anakin can’t tell where Rex is going with this. 

 

“We wouldn’t have been in that situation if you had wiped the droid’s memory like you were supposed to. And instead of owning up to that mistake, you left your young Padawan and five clones to destroy the facility and face General Grievous alone. Have you ever had a lightsaber hover inches in front of your face, the smell of melting plastoid in your nose and on your tongue, knowing that you are powerless to prevent being cut in half? Do you know the names of the three men he killed?”

 

Anakin is ashamed to say that he doesn’t. 

 

“Guts, Flit, and Teabag. Your actions killed those three men, but it all worked out for you, didn’t it? You got your droid back, your Padawan faced Grievous and lived, the base was destroyed, and it only cost you three clones you didn’t care about.”

 

The words hit deep. Because that’s exactly what happened, isn’t it? They had tracked Grievous to the listening station, and Anakin had insisted on an infiltration mission because it meant he had a better chance to recover R2. And by splitting from the group, he had decided, even if only subconsciously, that the lives of those men and his Padawan were something he could sacrifice in order to recover R2. He had abandoned his duty as a General and as a Master, leaving Rex and Ahsoka and his men to face an opponent they weren’t ready for. 

 

“You still haven’t wiped R2’s memory banks, have you?” Rex accuses knowingly. “Because despite the fact that it’s standard protocol, despite the fact that R2 has fallen into enemy hands before, you think you know better. Like a spoiled child, you think the rules shouldn’t apply to you.”

 

Rex smears another streak of red across his helmet, tracing the blue line outlining his visor. 

 

“The Council is right not to trust you. Your ability to follow orders is unreliable and unpredictable. Right and wrong is determined on your whim, and the Jedi Code only matters if it aligns with your current goals. But what does it matter if you are a hypocrite? What does it matter that you have a wife you’re not supposed to have, that you let your emotions control you, or that you disobey the Council’s Orders and get angry when they call you out on it, when you’re the one who undermines your own credibility? You deserve the right to do whatever you want, kriff the consequences for everyone else. After all, you are the Chosen One.”  

 

Every word out of the Captain’s mouth hits with the same stunning accuracy of Rex’s pistols: right on target. Rex is right that Anakin has still never wiped R2’s mission memory—R2 having that information has not only been useful, but the difference between life and death on several occasions. But after the Skytop Station incident, he spent several rotations with his slicers encrypting R2’s memory banks and installing a protocol that would corrupt and destroy the information inside if anyone tried to force access. 

 

But it took R2 falling into the wrong hands for Anakin to develop that precaution in the first place. And he had been so obsessed with recovering R2—not the critical and sensitive information inside, but R2 himself—that he had put his team in a dangerous position. He has brazenly disobeyed the Council on multiple occasions. He thought he was doing the right thing by acting on his instincts, but how is the Council supposed to trust him when he picks and choses which orders he follows? Which parts of the Jedi Code he follows? 

 

 Rex has every right to criticize him. 

 

He can’t help but wonder if this is what Rex really thinks of him—an impulsive and spoiled child that doesn’t care about his men, that values a droid over the living beings under his command, and who disregards orders and rules to do whatever suits him best. It’s clear that Son has done something to his Captain—those sickly yellow eyes and the dark cracks across Rex’s skin aren’t normal. But there’s still the chance that everything Rex said is how he really feels, and the camaraderie, the inside jokes, the companionship over late-night report reading and strategizing and drinking enough caf to give Kix a heart attack—there’s a chance that none of that was real. 

 

It almost feels like he didn’t know Rex at all. 

 

“What has he done to you?” 

 

Rex’s eyes flash with irritation before a slow grin creeps across his face. “Don’t like what you hear? Obviously something must be wrong with me if I’m criticizing you, the great and infallible Chosen One. He hasn’t done anything but show me the Truth.” There’s a visible welt along Rex’s jaw, a gash along his hairline, a deep scratch across his cheek, and raw red lines around his wrists that come from shackles. And that’s not even touching the yellow eyes and the dark cracks. 

 

“Whatever he’s done, we’ll figure it out together. Just come back to the ship with me and—.”

 

Rex laughs, condescending and hard. “Why? So I can be your slave again? So you can kill me when I disagree with you?” 

 

He wonders what he did to make his Captain so certain that Anakin would ever harm him. The image of his lightsaber sinking into Rex’s stomach keeps replaying in his head, Son grinning as he claimed that this was Anakin’s fate. But Anakin refuses to believe that he would ever strike his Captain in such a way. “Rex, I don’t know what you mean, but this isn’t like you.”

 

Anakin can feel Rex’s rage in The Force, bitter and boiling and venomous. Rex always has such control of his emotions that it throws him off-guard. “Don’t act like you know me! Like you care for me! You never did! Son showed me everything! He showed me what you will do, what you become! I am more myself than I have ever been.” 

 

“Rex, whatever Son showed you, it wasn’t real. Let me help you.”

 

The potent rage disappears just as quickly as it flared, replaced with a calm that is somehow even more disturbing. Rex smiles, a twisted, unnatural thing, and dread makes a deeper home in Anakin’s stomach. “Oh General, when will you understand? I don’t want your help—I’m not something broken that needs to be fixed.”

 

“I didn’t say that,” Anakin’s voice comes out weaker—more uncertain—than he means. “Of course you aren’t something that needs to be fixed. But Son did something to you, Rex. I know you can tell that something is not right. I know I’ve karked up but please Rex, trust me one last time. Let me help you.” 

 

Rex freezes, his eyes flashing blue. And for a second, Anakin has a sliver of hope that he’s getting through to his friend. But then the Captain flinches, face overcome with pain as he clutches at his head. Rex’s helmet drops to the stone, the visor cracking. Anakin stupidly thinks that the helmets aren’t supposed to break that easily. 

 

Then, like a puppet, Rex straightens back into attention, his movements mechanic and stiff.“Son wants me to give you a message: if you don’t join him, he’ll kill me.” 

 

Horror washes through him, cold and fierce. “I won’t let him,” he declares. He’s not sure if it’s a promise he can keep, but Anakin is prepared to reach as far into the Conduit as he can in order to save Rex. 

 

He won’t leave Mortis without him. 

 

Rex’s yellow eyes gleam with amusement, seeming to read his thoughts. “He thought you might say that. I suppose that just means you’ll have to kill me yourself.” 

 

Rex moves, disappearing from Anakin’s line of sight just like Father did. He spins wildly, trying to figure out where his Captain went, only to freeze when he hears the familiar hiss of a lightsaber igniting. Rex is standing by the tree again, as if he never moved at all. But now he has Anakin’s lightsaber. Kark, how did he get close enough to snatch Anakin’s lightsaber without him noticing? The blue blade casts strange shadows across Rex’s face, across the entire courtyard. And before he can process what is happening, Rex leaps forward, Anakin’s own lightsaber poised to cut him in half. 

 


 

Son kneels before Father, the perfect picture of obedience. It makes his blood boil, this show of deference that has long become hollow. Father does not see what Son has done for him. Instead of praise, there is only censure. 

 

It has been this way for lifetimes. Son is never obedient enough, never submissive enough to Father’s will. He is not Daughter; he cannot bury his nature under a thousand justifications, cannot give himself away to nothing, cannot make himself into what Father wants.

 

Son is no longer under the illusion that Father loves him.

 

“You have done what is forbidden,” Father accuses. “You chose the Dark, allowed it to feed your anger and desire for power. If you continue down this path, Mortis will be destroyed. But it is not too late to save what will be lost. Renounce The Dark! My Son, do not become what you should not.”

 

He knows what Father has done. And what Father has done is worse than anything Son could dream of doing. 

 

Son shakes his head, reaching for the rage curling in his stomach, lets it burn like acid up his throat. “And what is it that I have become?” Son stands, no longer able to feign obedience. “I have only done what you bid me to do. I delivered your message, I partook in your little test. I kept the Chosen One from leaving. Is that not what you wanted? Have I not been your loyal Son?” 

 

Daughter is the one who disobeyed. She healed the Guide against Father’s will, allowed the Visitors to touch her. She did not try to kill Teacher as Father ordered. Daughter is the one who has betrayed Father, has betrayed Son. But Father is blinded by Daughter’s light; he cannot comprehend that she would move against him. Father looks at Son and projects his own shortcomings, his failures and disappointment. He does not understand that everything Son has done he did for Father. 

 

He caused the rockslide to keep the Visitors from further desecrating Daughter. He poisoned the Guide’s hands to punish him for resisting Father’s will. He showed the Chosen One his deepest despairs so that he would fail the Test, so Father could not give up his place. And when the Chosen One tried to leave, when he would have abandoned the Sanctuary to its collapse, Son stole what was precious to him. 

 

Son was willing to bleed the Universe dry to free Father from his burden, so he would love them like he should. 

 

But now he sees that it will never be enough. 

 

“You only have yourself to blame,” Son whispers. He opens himself to the Dark, lets himself be swallowed in pitch and fire. Father’s eyes widen, but he cannot stop Son anymore. He is too weak, too frail. The lightning crackles, a beautiful, sharp sound. Father slumps against his throne. 

 

Son never thought freedom would hurt this much.

 


 

Daughter leads him to a cave. The stairs lead down into a seemingly endless chasm, and it feels like the deeper he goes, the farther Obi-wan is walking into a void. Strange teal fires flicker in the braziers along the walls, casting warped shadows. Then the stairs end, replaced by floating stone islands and what must be the Altar. 

 

“I can go no further,” Daughter admits. “When you reach the Altar, it will give you what you need.”

 

“I… I don’t understand,” peering at the Altar, Obi-Wan can see that it is empty. 

 

“The Altar holds a weapon capable of… stopping my Brother.” Her blank expression wavers, replaced with a mix of grief and fear. Daughter’s words from before come back to him. For helping them, Daughter and Mortis will die, and possibly her Father and Brother as well. And yet, despite that knowledge she is still helping them. He doubts that he has the strength to do the same—that he could kill Anakin, Ahsoka, Rex, or Cody for the sake of the Universe. 

 

“Thank you. I’m sorry,” Obi-wan doesn’t think words have ever been so woefully inadequate. 

 

“Do not mourn. My Brother made his choice, and I have made mine.” Daughter tilts her chin up, resolve replacing the last vestiges of uncertainty. 

 

Obi-wan approaches the Altar with a heavy heart, knowing the price Daughter is paying for them. Praying that all this suffering might not be for nothing. Hoping that he might be able to do something, instead of waiting for Anakin or Daughter to save them. Like petals blossoming the stones open for him, revealing a hilt. Obi-wan wraps his hand around it, watching in amazement as The Force becomes visible, flowing through the grooves in the hilt before forming a blade. 

 

The sensation of holding it is like nothing Obi-wan has ever known. 

 

When he gets back to Daughter, the goddess looks paler and perhaps dimmer than a few minutes ago. “It has already begun. Your friend does not have much time left. We must free him.” 

 

Obi-wan tightens his grip around the hilt, pushing down his fear and replacing it with resolve. No matter what happens, Obi-wan is going to fight. He is going to make sure all of them make it home. 

 


 

“Stop!” Adrenaline is pounding through her body, arms shaking with the effort of staying the blow, lightsaber hovering inches from her Master’s face. Anakin hadn’t even tried to defend himself. It reminds her sharply of the time she faced General Grievous, but this time it’s Rex she is fighting, and it is so much worse. 

 

He looks much like he did after the Blue Shadow Virus, pale and thin with dark lines spiraling out over his skin like cracks. His eyes are a sickly yellow, nothing like the golden honey brown they used to be. Nothing like the deep ocean blue they should be—Ahsoka reaches for him in The Force, and the absence of anything that feels like Rex makes her almost recoil. There is no steady calm, no unwavering resolve, no shining beacon of light that she can find. Instead there is only rage, disgust and hate, all boiled together into inky pitch. 

 

It makes her ache to see Rex made into this abomination. When Son shows his Sith’s-damned face, she is going to tear his teeth out and turn them into a new headdress. 

 

But first, they all need to survive this. Ahsoka reaches into The Force and pushes, throwing Rex back as harshly as she can without truly hurting him. He moves with a languid, predatory grace he shouldn’t have, easily flipping back onto his feet. She hands her lightsaber to her Master, keeping the shoto for herself. Through their Bond, she feels Anakin’s grim approval. 

 

“We don’t want to hurt him, but Rex isn’t going to hold back, so be careful,” he says, like Ahsoka didn’t save his shebs from being sliced in half just a second ago. 

 

Rex watches them with cold amusement. “Finally, a challenge,” he sneers. And then he moves. Ahsoka barely has time to react before he’s swinging Anakin’s lightsaber at her face. She blocks high, surprised by the sheer amount of strength in his strike. Anakin moves to intercept, and soon the three of them are trading blows, blades barely kissing over skin. She feels proximity burns forming along her arms and shoulders, stinging as sweat breaks out over her whole body. 

 

“When did he—even learn to—fight like this?” Anakin grunts. 

 

“I may have—showed him some forms—it seemed like a good idea—at the time.” This duel now is nothing like the practice spar they had all those rotations ago. Rex was careful then—careful not to hurt her or overextend himself when he was unfamiliar with the techniques they were using. Now, every movement is quick and violent, immediately aiming for any opening they leave. 

 

Ahsoka feints at his left, but he grabs her wrist and pulls her forward, her shoto burning into his side. Ahsoka immediately tries to recoil but Rex doesn’t even flinch, shifting his weight onto his right foot to plant a solid kick into her ribs. She feels several of them give under the pressure, her shoulder dislocating as her shoto is forced out of her grasp. Kark. Ahsoka hits the ground hard, all the air pressed suddenly and painfully from her lungs. 

 

“Ahsoka!” She gasps uselessly for breath that won’t come, vision swimming and ribs shifting as she watches the dance of glowing blades. Rex seamlessly moves through the stances she showed him, as well as some that she never taught him how does he know those moves— forcing Anakin on the defensive. Her Master is giving up more and more ground, his blocks getting sloppier.  

 

With slow, cold horror, Ahsoka realizes that her Master is losing. 

 


 

He has been scraped empty. Something has been stuffed into his skin that doesn’t belong.

 

He is angry. It boils through his veins like a fever, and he can’t get rid of the burning. It eats and gnaws on him, a thousand flies marching underneath and over his skin, and he thinks he will go mad before he is ever free of it. And if he doesn’t go mad, he will be withered away to nothing, either burned up by fire or chewed through by the flies. He wants to drag his fingernails through his own flesh, dig as deep as he needs to pull them out. He wants to split open his own head, as if that will stop the throbbing, stabbing agony driving through his temples. 

 

Either the Chosen One will die or he will, there is no other way for this to end.

 

He does not know how long they have been fighting. The Chosen One is tired. It is slowing down, unable to keep up with his superior speed and strength. And the youngling is still sprawled on the ground, hand clenching and unclenching as it struggles to breathe. He wonders if Master would be proud of him if he killed her, if the burning would stop just so he can breathe. 

 

He just wants to breathe without feeling like he’s drowning. 

 

He leaps, watching the way the youngling’s eyes widen as he descends. The youngling holds out its hands, eyes screwed tightly shut in surrender to the inevitable. The Force wraps tightly around his middle before whipping him back. “Do not touch her!” The Chosen One snarls, anger and desperation surging through the air, sharp like biting wind. But it cannot hurt him more than he already hurts. It cannot take more than has already been taken from him. This is what Master wanted, for the Chosen One to lose sight of what it was fighting. To give into the Dark to fight him. 

 

He is only the pawn, meant to lure the Chosen One into the trap. 

 

“Do you really think you can keep her safe from me?” He taunts, watching anger gather in the Chosen One’s eyes. 

 

“Don’t make me fight you like this, Rex.” The Chosen One is only saying that because it can’t fight for much longer. It is tired, weak. (He is going to kill it and then there will be nothing that can stop the burning.) “Rex,” The Chosen One’s voice wavers. It keeps saying ‘Rex,’ like that is supposed to mean something. It makes the burning and itching grow, and he wants it to stop.“I don’t want to hurt you. Whatever Son did, you can fight it. You still have a choice.”

 

He shakes his head. The burning crescendos. Son took something from him, and he can’t get it back. His head has never felt so hollowed out. The Voice is gone. Son killed it. And now nothing fits like it should. He is empty and filled with fire that only takes and takes and takes and Son took the Voice from him and it is dead and he is dead and there are no more choices left for him. 

 

This is not something he can fight. 

 

“You were a slave once, you know how this works,” He grins, and it feels like the sky settles on his shoulders, like he is a god crumpling under an impossible weight. He doesn’t know what he is, but he knows he was never meant to be free. Never meant to make choices. He is a pawn, something meant to be sacrificed. He was made to suffer, meant to kill and meant to die. There are no other choices for him. 

 

“W-what do you mean?” 

 

“You and I don’t get to choose how this ends. We were made to be weapons. We were made to think, to feel, to be able to make decisions that would make us good soldiers. But it isn’t cost efficient to make a weapon and give them a choice. So, you find a way to keep them in place,” Rex taps his head, the base of his neck, the inner elbow of his right arm, watching The Chosen One pale with every touch. “Good. Now you understand.”

 


 

Son greets them the moment they exit the cave. “Sister, so kind of you to retrieve the dagger for me.” 

 

Daughter stills, eyes wide with surprise. She grabs Obi-wan by the arms, shifting and lifting them into the air before he can comprehend what just happened. Red lightning whizzes by his ear, crackling before dissipating in the sky. Son chases after them, hissing and screeching as Daughter outmaneuvers his attempts to snatch Obi-wan out of her grasp. He keeps the hilt held tightly in both hands, occasionally swinging it to ward off Son’s claws. 

 

It is almost funny to think that they were chasing after Son much the same way only a few hours ago. Obi-wan would laugh at the absurdness of this situation if he wasn’t distinctly aware of how horrible it all was. 

 

Daughter yelps as Son crashes into her, and Obi-wan feels the familiar growing pit in his stomach at the sensation of free-fall. Son and Daughter continue to wrestle above him, claws locked together as they battle over the right to chase after him. Obi-wan fears that at this rate he is going to hit the ground before any rescuing of his person can be done. He twists towards the ground, spreading his arms and futilely trying to slow himself down while watching it approach. While The Force can do many things, he’s not sure it can save him from a fall at this velocity. 

 

Right as the ground starts to get much too close for comfort, claws wrap around his upper arms. Obi-wan feels relief only until he realizes that it is not Daughter who caught him. Son grins at him with beady eyes and sharp teeth, quickly shifting his grip so that he is holding Obi-wan by the hand that is holding onto the hilt and one of his legs. 

 

“If you bite me, I will drop you. I assure you, it is not something you will survive.” Son warns. Son is covered in a leathery hide so thick he wonders why he would fear something so ineffective as being bitten. Instead, Obi-wan reaches for his lightsaber with his free hand. He ignites the blade and slashes at Son’s leg. The angle is much too awkward for a clean blow, but he manages to glance a line across one of the wings, trying to ignore the awful smell of burning flesh and Son’s inhuman screech as he shakes him harshly. The arm in Son’s grasp is nearly dislocated, his lightsaber jolted from his grasp before he can make another strike. 

 

A courtyard comes into view as they tumble through the sky. Daughter blazes in like a comet, trying to rescue Obi-wan before they hit the ground. Instead, they all tumble into the middle of what looks like a fight between Anakin and…

 

Rex? 

 


 

Daughter and Son go tumbling from the sky with Obi-wan, almost landing on Anakin and Rex. Ahsoka uses the confusion to finally get to her feet, hissing at the uncomfortable feeling of bones grinding against each other and the aching of her shoulder. Rex certainly did not pull his kick. With a grunt, she pulls her shoulder back into place, biting into her lip to keep from crying out. 

 

Daughter and Son are already going at each other again, claws and wings and The Force flung around in a deadly dance. Rex doesn’t wait to continue his attack, leaping at Obi-wan who shoves him away with The Force. 

 

“Anakin what mess did you inadvertently make this time?”

 

“It’s not my fault, I found him like this! If anything it’s your fault for saying ‘see, nothing to be concerned about after all,’ right before everything went wrong!” 

 

“I hardly could have known we would be dragged onto a strange planet.”

 

Rex attacks again, this time going for Anakin. Her Master blocks late, yelling as a gash is scored across his thigh. This time Ahsoka steps in to throw Rex with The Force. Rex looks rightly annoyed at the action, but it doesn’t stop him from charging back just as fast. 

 

“You and your optimism jinxed us!” Anakin accuses. “And why aren’t you using your lightsaber?” 

 

“I’m afraid it was a casualty of the ride over here.”

 

“You dropped your lightsaber?! And somehow I’m the irresponsible one?”

 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but last I checked your lightsaber is blue and looks a lot like the one Captain Rex is currently trying to attack us with, so don’t try to act like you are faring any better here.” Considering that there were four lightsabers between three Jedi at the start of this whole mess, it is rather embarrassing that Rex, who had no lightsaber at all, now has half of them, while Ahsoka and Obi-wan both have nothing but The Force. Master Yoda would whack them all with his gimer stick if he saw just how much his lineage managed to be a disappointment. Or he might just laugh at them. Master Yoda is hard to understand sometimes. 

 

“Enough!” Rex yells. “This isn’t a joke, it isn’t a game!” 

 

Above their heads, Daughter lets out a screech as Son bites into her leg. Ahsoka now notices that Son is favoring his left wing. Daughter latches on to it and throws her brother to the ground. Son shifts back into his humanoid form, taking the opportunity to shoot lightning at her. Daughter falls from the air and shifts back as well, barely managing to shield herself from the next strike. 

 

“Of course this isn’t a game!” Anakin protests. “We’re trying to help you!” 

 

“Stop trying to pretend I matter to you!” The air swells with anger and despair and longing, Rex’s eyes flashing blue for such a small fraction of a second that she might have imagined it. Ahsoka resists the urge to look at Anakin and Obi-wan to see if they saw it too. 

 

Rex is still in there. He has to be. She just has to hope, just has to figure out how to reach him. 

 

Ahsoka pulls her shoto out of his hand, his head whipping towards her and snarling. He chases towards her, and Ahsoka barely retrieves her shoto in time to block. Even after fighting Anakin and Ahsoka and now Obi-wan for what feels like hours, Rex is still fighting with the same ferocity and strength in his strikes. 

 

“There are millions of clones who share my face, who can take my place like they are supposed to.” Rex grits out between strikes.“So why do you pretend to care? Is it because I had The Force? Did that make me special enough for you?” 

 

Had? Ahsoka feels her heart stop. She hasn’t seen Rex use The Force this whole time, but she thought… just what did Son do to him? She reaches out again, feeling the jagged, gaping edges in Rex’s Force signature, newly horrified. Is it possible to tear The Force out of a living being like this? 

 

She doesn’t know how to answer Rex’s accusations. Ahsoka tries her best to meet all her boys, to learn all their names, but the truth is that there are too many. She spends a lot more time with Rex and the Old Guard of Torrent because they are the men she works with. Would she feel so close to Rex if he didn’t have The Force? Would she have treated him differently? 

 

No. Ahsoka can’t let herself doubt like that. She cares for Rex like an older brother. Rex didn’t have to look out for the snippy, overconfident Commander who got thrown into the war at Christophsis, but he did anyway. He taught her how to fight hand-to-hand, showed her how to lead men and earn their respect. He’s supported her through her mistakes, even when they got good men killed. They train together, plan and fight campaigns together, look out for each other. 

 

Rex is probably the only reason she made it this far. 

 

She doesn’t want to hurt him, doesn’t want to fight Rex when he is so clearly not himself. “Ori’vod.” She watches blue barely flicker through the sickly yellow, this time certain that Rex is in there somewhere. That he's still fighting. “You don’t need The Force to have value. Not to me.” 

 

“You—“ Rex’s hand goes for his temple, and he lashes out at her blindly. Obi-wan shoves him back, Rex digging a large gouge into the earth with Anakin’s lightsaber. She briefly allows herself to wonder what Rex’s lightsaber would look like if he had one. 

 

“Any suggestions?” Anakin takes up position at her side, lightsaber up in guard. 

 

“Yes. We cut him free,” Obi-wan pulls out a… a hilt? In the next moment, Ahsoka can feel the way The Force is pulled through it and made into a solid blade. “This can kill the Son.” 

 

Rex’s eyes widen, and the voice that comes out is not his own. It is horrible and warped, a thousand voices layered over each other. “Where did you get that!” He hisses. “Give it to me!” 

 

“Enough!” Father descends upon the courtyard, his wings flared. Son and Daughter are sent sprawling across the courtyard, their fight temporarily broken apart. At Father’s arrival Ahsoka feels dread, and her uncertainty only grows when Son laughs, the sound hollow and chilling. 

 

“Father! How wonderful of you to join us.”

 


 

He no longer remembers who he was before he was Father, though he knows he was not always Father. He believes he had a different name once, but it is lost just like the Ones before him were lost, forgotten like burnt out stars—an absence that is slowly unrecognizable.

 

He thinks he dreams sometimes, about the Before, memories that linger like ghostly touches, the barest hint of pressure to remind him of their presence: the faint taste of something warm but bitter, looking at his children and thinking that their names fit wrong. 

 

He no longer remembers if this was punishment or mercy. A burden he took willingly or one that he was forced to bear. 

 

Father’s very nature is to be unchanging, to be neither good nor bad. He keeps his Children in Balance, keeps the same routine without end. Though the stars themselves must die, Father has watched the lifetimes of thousands of stars with his Children. Is that not immortality? To watch the stars themselves be born and die, to watch the night sky become something unrecognizable?

 

Skywalker is not the first to be called here. His Children do not remember (for he has always taken care to pry those memories from their minds) but there have been others. Countless other  Chosen Ones. However they were drawn to Mortis, by fate or by Father himself, it does not matter—Father killed every single one as well as their companions. And so Father and his Children remained. 

 

His Children will never understand what Father has done for them. What he has sacrificed.

 

But now Father is dying. He has seen his children turn into something he does not understand, something he cannot control. He wonders where he went wrong. Everything he so carefully made and maintained has rotted, and his chance at salvation has left him. 

 

What is left for him to do? What can he salvage of this broken stone? Father is no longer capable of being Father, but the Chosen One refuses to take his place. Father is already dying. Must his Children also die? Must they die like stars, collapsing inwards under unbearable weight and pressure before they explode?

 

The winds of The Force are changing, and Father does not know how to change with it, can no longer keep time suspended in one unending second. 

 

He prays that if he can not have salvation, that it is still not too late to have forgiveness.

 

“Stop this, my Son,” Father pleads. Son only laughs. 

 

“I know what you have done. You no longer have the right to command me, to control me. I am not your weapon, Father.” 

 

And Father realizes that it is already too late. His shields buckle under his Son’s growing force. The lightning burns as it trills over his skin once again. It has been so long since he felt pain, it is almost novel. 

 

“Brother, what are you doing?” Daughter sounds uncertain, unprepared. 

 

“What am I doing? I am simply doing what is right. Or, what is wrong, depending on your point of view.” 

 

“What do you mean?” 

 

“He did this to himself!” Son snaps. Father feels his body crumple, is forced to look up to meet his Son’s eyes. “This has happened before, all of it! We’re just tools to him, Sister. There was never love here, not for us.” 

 

Why would his Son think that Father doesn’t love him? Everything he did, it was for them. Even after everything else from the Before faded from his mind, after every emotion drained into a long, dull numbness, Father remembered that he loved them. 

 

Doesn’t he love them? 

 

 “He is just so selfish, and was taking too long to die, so I decided to move things along.” 

 


 

He is burning up, a star on the verge of collapse. He’s so angry, and he doesn’t even know what his rage is aimed at. His Master, the Jedi, himself. He feels himself drowning in it, choking down venom. He wants to fight, but he doesn’t know who he is fighting. 

 

He senses that no matter who he fights, he will lose. He wasn’t made to win he was made to be used.

 

“Anakin, now!” Teacher tosses the blade towards the Chosen One, and he leaps to grasp it out of the air. The blade hurts to hold, hot and heavy in his hand. He feels the burning increase, until he can’t think straight. His skull is buzzing, ants crawling over his skin, marching and biting and he hates them, the Jedi and their careless ignorance and unwavering goodness and how they can so freely use what he has to hide, how they make him think he can have value and want to be something more than he was made for. He hates what he has been made into, this hollow thing that has been emptied out and stretched thin and strung up like a puppet. He hates that he is always someone’s experiment, always someone’s slave. 

 

And in his hand is the key to his freedom. 

 

“Rex, no!” They can’t stop him, can’t order him about anymore. He smiles, waves the blade at them tauntingly. He will give the blade to Son and then everything will stop. 

 

“Good. Bring me the dagger, Little King,” his Master croons. 

 

He clenches the blade tighter, shaking. Son’s eyes narrow. “Give it to me now.” He feels himself being torn apart, the burning eating through his bones. There’s a barrier in his mind, and something is trying to burst through it. He feels it start to splinter, and Son holds out his hand, eyes glinting with annoyance. “I grow impatient, Little King.”

 

He traces a finger over the blade, watching the skin part easily, blood dripping to the ground. The wall in his mind finally crumbles, and—

 

“Are you angry, kid?” Alpha-17 asks him. ’67 nods, clenching his fists tighter, narrowing his eyes as he glares up at the older clone. His back is still a massacred battlefield of flesh, scabs and scars overlapping each other to sing a litany of pain. A testimony of his will to survive. His mouth still tastes of iron, and he hopes the blood is still on his teeth, makes him seem more dangerous than he feels. Dragged in front of the Alpha by a group of CC’s, he tries to pretend it is anger making his hands shake, making his skin buzz and his stomach twist. Anger means strength. It means he is not afraid of the Kaminoans who had left him to bleed on The Post. It means he is not afraid of the older clones, who decided he needed to be brought to their trainer, probably to have yet another lesson beat into him after they found him completing their sim for them and he bit the first CC who got too close. Anger is safe. 

 

“Anger won’t save you. Get rid of it.”Alpha must have seen his confusion, because something in his stance softens.’67 doesn’t let his guard down.

 

“Anger is a mask. It clouds your judgement and makes you waste strength you don’t have. Anger, fear, whatever it is that is making you shake. Get rid of it.” ’67 feels his shoulders tense further, sending a fiery twinge down his back. Alpha sighs. Against his will ’67 flinches. The tremors won’t stop. 

 

“Kid,” Alpha takes a step forward. 

 

“S-stay back!” ’67 growls. His eyes blur with tears, breaths uneven. Against his better judgement he looks towards the exit. He won’t make it, not injured as he was. He is trapped. Still, he refuses to show weakness just because these clones are older, more powerful. Just because he can barely stand. 

 

Alpha sits down, crossing his legs and regarding him calmly. “I only want to help,” he soothes. It is a lie, of course. No one has ever wanted to help ’67. “Let me show you how, kid.”

 

“Rex, please!” Ahsoka begs. 

 

“Come back to us, Rex,” Anakin holds out his hand, an offering. 

 

And he now knows it was never anger he was feeling, but despair. He knows that this can only end with Death. He knows he was only ever meant to be a slave to different Masters. 

 

Why should he try to fight it? 

 

“You were made for suffering, Little King. Your loyalty will only ever be paid with blood. Why do you continue to serve those who betray you? I can make you so much more.” Son’s words slip through his head. 

 

He approaches Son, holding out the blade. Son smiles, smug and self-assured, and Father looks defeated. 

 

It all ends here.

 

Rex rushes forward. His wrists are grabbed in a vice grip, the blade stopped just before it can pierce Son’s chest, the tip making only the slightest indent in the black cloth. Son’s eyes are brimming with anger, and Rex knows there will be no mercy for what he’s done. 

 

“Such a disappointment. It appears your usefulness has come to an end,” The dagger is pried from his hands, the blade buried into his gut. Someone screams, and it makes the ground tremble. 

 

Two fingers tap his forehead, and then there is nothing. 

 


 

Obi-wan watches the dagger sink into Rex’s stomach and out his back, the Captain impaled completely on the blade. 

 

Anakin screams, the ground writhing under their feet. Obi-wan covers his ears, but it does not stop the piercing sound. It’s as if the entirety of The Force is wailing with him. 

 

“You must protect the Captain from all who wish him harm.” Qui-Gon’s warning rings through his head, useless. He failed. Despite all his efforts, he failed. 

 

Son taps two fingers against Rex’s forehead and the Captain immediately collapses. Anakin rushes at Son, only to be thrown back into the ground. Son turns back to Father, ignoring them entirely. 

 

“The Jedi have brought me the dagger, and you have brought yourself. Now, I will be freed from you.” Son raises the dagger, and Daughter rushes from Obi-wan’s hold. Rushes towards the rest of her family. 

 

She dives in front of Father, the blade buried into her back. Father falls back, Daughter cradled in his lap, eyes wide with shock. 

 

Son steps back, letting go of the dagger and staring at his own hands, horrified. “Why?” He yells. “He was using us! I was setting you free!” Son collapses to his knees, tears streaming down his face. Father reaches forward, cupping Son’s cheek with his hand, wiping away the tears. 

 

“I only wanted you to love me,” Son whispers. “Why was I never good enough for you?” 

 

“I was selfish, and you suffered for my foolishness,” Father murmurs. “My Son, I have always loved you,” Father pulls him forward into a hug. "But it is my duty to keep Balance, and I cannot spare you this time." Son tries to move, tries to break free of Father's hold. 

 

"Father, you have betrayed me." 

 

"It will be okay, my Son." And Anakin takes the dagger, stabbing it through Son's back.

 

“That’s for Rex,” he snarls. Son’s eyes slide closed as he lists to the side. And Father places a loving hand against his Son's forehead. With a small flash of light, Son collapses fully, and the tree in the center of the courtyard disintegrates. 

 


 

Ahsoka cradles Rex’s body in her arms, ignoring the blood pooling around her. 

 

Tears are streaming down her face, falling onto his pale cheeks. His skin is still warm, but rapidly cooling. She cannot find him in The Force. There is only a void so empty it swallows light. 

 

Her ori’vod is dead. He’s dead and it is not a dream this time. There is no waking up. 

 

There is no going home. 

 

She traces a thumb over his cheek, wiping away her own tears, runs her fingers through his buzzed hair, trying to pretend that Rex is only sleeping. Obi-wan kneels next to her, radiating grief. He also reaches for the Captain, placing a hand over his still chest. She watches his face crumple even further, and all hope is driven from her lungs. 

 

Anakin looks to Father. “Can you help him?” his voice wavers, desperate. 

 

The balance is broken,” Father laments. “There is no light. It has all been brought to ruin. 

 

“You must do something!” Anakin demands, and Ahsoka looks up from Rex’s prone face to see tears streaming down her Master’s. “Tell me what I need to do and I will do it!” 

 

I cannot undo what has already been done. There is no hope. The Guide is dead.” There is no sympathy in Father’s words. Ahsoka’s chest is tight and stuttering with grief. She hugs Rex closer to herself, hating the way his head lolls. He way there is no breath, no heartbeat. Just a dead, silent stillness. 

 

“There is always hope. Bring him to me.” Daughter reaches her hand towards Rex. Father looks at her desperately, but then hangs his head in solemn resignation. Ahsoka wraps her arms around Rex tighter, not wanting to let her ori’vod go. But Obi-wan slides his arms under Rex, waiting for Ahsoka to let go before gently picking him up and laying him on the ground. 

 

“Then let my Daughter’s last act be to breathe life back into your friend.”

 

Father gestures for Anakin to kneel between them, guiding her Master’s motions. She watches him tap two fingers to Daughter’s forehead, watches her breathe one last time. A light bursts from Daughter’s chest, from Anakin’s eyes. Daughter and Rex are floating, glowing so brightly Ahsoka has to look away. 

 

And then the light dims, Rex and Daughter both falling as the connection is cut. Anakin sucks in large breaths, bracing himself on his hands, head bowed. “Please,” she hears him murmur. “Return him to me.” 

 

Daughter’s light has dimmed and faded to nothing, and Ahsoka knows she is dead. Father cradles her gently, lost in his own grief. 

 

She holds her breath, waiting for Rex to move. To wake up. 

 

“Please.” Anakin whispers. Obi-wan bows and shakes his head. 

 

Rex is still dead. 

 

It didn’t work. 

 


 

He is in an ocean full of stars, and it spirals endlessly around him. 

 

Rex reaches his hands out, feeling a galaxy spiral around his fingers. 

 

Little One, the Voice wraps around him. A hand runs over his shoulder, and he turns to see Midas. Behind him are Leo, Seconds, Bait, and Switch, Hevy, Crank, Lick, Steady. All the Vode who have died under his command. 

 

Midas smiles at him, eyes solemn and proud. He pulls Rex into a Keldabe. "It is not time for you yet, brother,” he murmurs before stepping back. “But while you are here, I want you to know that you were the best Captain I could have asked for, and I’m sorry I didn’t let myself see it until it was too late.”  

 

Hevy comes up to him next, wrapping him in a crushing hug that lifts his feet off the ground. “Say hi to Fives and Echo for me, and tell them that if either of them show up here too soon I’ll kick their shebse. And also,” Hevy sets him down, placing both hands on his shoulders, looking unusually serious. “What happened on Rishi wasn’t your fault, Captain. I made my choice. I would make it again.” 

 

Take your time coming back here, Rex,” Leo warns him. “But until then we’ve got your six.” 

 

He feels a tug in his gut. The stars start to blur, but Rex clings to his brothers. He just wants more time. 

 

He’s so tired. Why can’t he rest here just a little longer? 

 

Little One, The Force calls again. He feels the tugging, more insistent. He lets himself be pulled along this time, watching the stars slowly fade away, his brothers with them. 

 

He wakes with a gasp, lungs aching, feeling heavy and lightheaded all at once. Rex coughs, feeling like he hasn’t been able to breathe for a long time. Hands are supporting him, helping him sit up. Someone is rubbing circles on his back. 

 

“Rex, Rex, Rex,” Ahsoka is murmuring. “You are never allowed to do that again.” 

 

“Rex!” Anakin throws his arms around him, almost knocking him back to the ground. 

 

“Careful Anakin, don’t hurt him,” Obi-wan admonishes. The arms around him loosen up, but only slightly. 

 

He feels like he has been torn apart and remade, like his skin doesn’t quite settle right. His head is heavy and empty, and he can’t remember how to speak yet. His memories are all jumbled together, and trying to sort through it all makes his head hurt. 

 

“We are glad to have you back, Captain,” Obi-wan says. 

 

“What…?” He still has no clue what is going on. Carefully, he is helped to his feet. He is unprepared for the pain that tears through his middle, or his hands, which flare with hot, sharp pain. Anakin and Ahsoka are there to catch him when his knees buckle, and Obi-wan holds out his helmet, which is weirdly bloody and has a crack across the T-slit. 

 

It takes him a minute to gather himself enough to stand, taking the helmet and clipping it to his belt. “What happened?” Rex’s voice is awfully hoarse, and grates in his dry throat uncomfortably. 

 

“You were… lost for a bit, but you are alright now.” Anakin assures him. 

 

“What my Son has shown you must be forgotten.” Rex flinches at the sound of Father’s voice. Anakin, Obi-wan, and Ahsoka immediately move to his defense, putting themselves between him and the godlike being. Father looks much, much older now, the wrinkles in his face deep, eyes sunken. He looks like a man who has lost everything, and Rex almost feels sympathy for him. Father steps forward, and Anakin snarls. Father hesitates, and then says quietly, “It is too late for Mortis to be saved. What happened here will affect your Universe as well. But my Children made their choices, and I have no desire to harm you further. Let me restore balance one last time.” 

 

Hesitantly, Anakin steps back. Father moves slowly, telegraphing his movements. Two fingers tap gently against his forehead, and Rex does not miss the way all three Jedi tense up. He feels something pull in his mind, and then he feels himself sway, all the energy drained from his limbs. 

 

“Easy there, Captain,” Obi-wan carefully slings an arm over his shoulder, taking his weight. 

 

“It is time for me to pay for my sins, and for the four of you to leave,” Father has a strange dagger in his hands. He points the tip of the blade towards his chest, stabbing himself with a soft cry. 

 

Ahsoka makes a small, choked sound behind him. 

 

The crystal above them shatters, glass and light scattering and falling around them. The ground rumbles as the floating islands all crash to the earth. 

 

And then a great light explodes, washing everything in white. 

 


 

Jesse is definitely panicking. He’s tried to raise the shuttle three more times, only to get no response. None of their scanners are picking anything up. It’s like all of his CO’s have suddenly vanished into thin air.

 

“Prep a shuttle, I’m going out there myself.” 

 

“But sir—“ 

 

“That’s an order, Private,” Jesse barks. “Echo, comm Commander Cody. Tell him that we have lost contact with the Generals, and our scanners keep coming back empty.”

 

“Jesse, my guy, it has been thirty seconds,” Hardcase reminds him. “Don’t you think you are overreacting?” 

 

“No I don’t think I’m overreacting, Hardcase,” Jesse pings the shuttle again, nearly breaking the button as he slams it repeatedly with his fist. “Rex, you better karking pick up the com don’t you dare make me be responsible for these idiots! I’m too young to be promoted.” 

 

"Aren't we older than Rex, Jesse?” Hardcase unhelpfully reminds him. 

 

The holotable bursts to life as the call is finally picked up. Jesse promptly bursts into tears, his knees weak with relief. “Oh thank the Maker.” General Skywalker is weirdly slumped in the seat, like he was taking a karking nap. He blinks, slowly sitting up straight. 

 

“General Skywalker, are you there?” Echo pushes Jesse to the side, taking his place in the holo-call. 

 

“We read you, Echo. Can you hear me?” There’s some shuffling in the background, and some sort of hissed threat. 

 

“Yes sir, standing by,” Echo dutifully reports. “We were worried. You disappeared off the scopes for a moment there.” 

 

“Jesse was about to have a heart attack,” Hardcase snickers. 

 

The General’s face quirks with amusement, but is quickly replaced by confusion. “A moment? We were gone for more than a moment, Echo”

 

“For Force’s sake, stay down, Rex!” Is unmistakably hissed in the background.

 

Jesse, Echo, and Hardcase all share a quick glance with each other. “We don’t understand, sir. You’ll need to explain,” Echo says slowly. 

 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Anakin looks behind him. “Rex, if you don’t lay back down right now I will have Ahsoka sit on you,” there’s some annoyed grumbling, and then some squawking as the threat is very likely carried out off-holo, but it’s too muffled and indistinct for Jesse to pick out any specific words. “We’re coming in now, Skywalker out.” The transmission ends, and Jesse is relieved to see that the scopes are finally picking up on a shuttle heading towards The Resolute. 

 

“So,” Hardcase begins. “Time to alert Kix to prep Rex’s MedBay cot?” 

 

“Yeah, I’ll com Commander Cody,” Echo sounds resigned. 

 

Jesse just smacks his head on the edge of the holo-table.

Notes:

I personally never liked the last episode of the Mortis Arc anyway, so I just *got rid of it* by showing Rex the future instead and smashing the very end of Ghosts of Mortis to Altar of Mortis.

Anyway, memes!

Obi-wan: Anakin we need a plan
Anakin: I have a plan--knock you and Ahsoka out, trap you in the shuttle by literally welding the doors shut, and then run off on my own to face a literal god while dealing with Force Exhaustion!
Obi-wan: I don't think you could make a worse plan if you actively tried

Son: *listing a bunch of things that only 'The Chosen One' TM should be able to do*
Rex: okay, but I don't see how that makes me special

Son: you think this is suffering?
*speedruns Rex through all the trauma he will go through over the course of the clone wars*

Anakin: I wonder what it is like for Rex to be able to speak with The Force
*90% of Rex's conversations with The Force*: please shut up

Son: bite me and you are dead
Obi-wan: who in their right mind would try to bite Son?
Rex: ...*slowly raises his hand*
Wolffe: That's my boy!

Anakin, Obi-wan, and Ahsoka: We care for you, Rex.
Rex: but, I am supposed to be expendable??
Anakin, Obi-wan, Ahsoka, the Shebse, Torrent, the 501st, the rest of the clones, Daughter, The Force itself: no

"He was just so selfish, and was taking too long to die" is just such an iconic line, I had to put it in there somewhere.

Anyways, it took me so long to figure out what I wanted to do with Father, since I took his character in a much different direction than in the original arc. So half the reason this chapter took so long was because I was procrastinating on writing anything for Father, and then once I did figure out what I wanted, I had to re-write some scenes. Then I also kept re-writing scenes because I didn't like them.

Thank you guys for sticking with this story, even though it has been awhile since I got around to updating! Your comments and kudos make my day, and I hope all of you are getting enough sleep and sunlight :)

Chapter 8: You know that you have seen this all before

Summary:

In which it turns out there are consequences to being corrupted by the Dark Side, having your mind messed with by two different Force gods, having badly infected hands, getting stabbed, and literally dying and having the life-force of a dying god shoved into your corpse—and Rex is about to go deal with all of them all at once.

Or, in the wake of Mortis, conversations, threats, and shenanigans ensue.

Or, Rex is dying, the medics are trying, Jesse is somehow still In Charge, Cody wants to know the Truth (he can't handle the Truth), and Obi-wan is grounded.

Notes:

*crawls out of the trash to post a new chapter*

Hello friends, I am not dead yet, despite the best efforts of academia. In celebration of my not-dying, here is a 20k chapter (the longest yet) that didn't even start to address half of the stuff I had planned for the aftermath chapter. whoops.

Anyways, content warnings for this chapter include: breakdowns, panic attacks, medical trauma, kinda graphic depictions of injury (mostly Rex's hands, sorry in advance), Krell, and uh, Krell again.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Clover wakes up with tears streaming down his face. 

 

A Vision burns behind his eyes, The Force wailing with grief. And Clover knows in his heart that the dream came too late: everything he just saw has already happened. Dread and despair are tearing through him like fire. Someone is screaming. “He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone,” it sobs, broken by thick gasps for air. 

 

“Clover? Cloves, what’s wrong?” Luk’ie is shaking him, trying to get his attention and calm him down. Clover realizes that he is the one screaming. “Does something hurt? Did you have a Vision?” He can’t breathe, instead stumbling out of their bunk to harshly throw up whatever is in his stomach. Concerned voices murmur around him, someone is rubbing circles on his back, but they feel distant compared to the well of grief Clover is currently drowning in. 

 

Rex’s eyes are wide as the strange blade is buried into his stomach and out his back, the plastoid unresisting. The tall man who stabbed him taps two fingers to his forehead, Rex crumpling like a rope was cut, releasing all the tension holding him together. The ground trembles and writhes. The Force wails as if it is in pain. Someone is screaming. 

 

“Luk’ie, what’s going on? What’s wrong with him? Are his Visions normally like this?” He recognizes Argo’s voice, high pitched and nervous with stress. Clover gags, his throat burning as he throws up bile. 

 

“I don’t know! He woke up like this!” 

 

Someone kneels next to him. “Get Commander Ponds,” Jump orders authoritatively. Clover wants to tell him not to—all that escapes his mouth are more sobs. “gone. gone. He’s gone.” He continues to gasp out, his head pounding to the drumbeat of his heart and the mantra pouring from his lips. 

 

“Cloves, I can’t understand what you are saying,” Luk’ie tells him gently. “We can’t help you unless we know what is wrong. Tell us what to do.” 

 

Everything is wrong. The Force is aching with it. Can’t they feel the Universe bleeding? Can’t they feel this terrible dread? 

 

“He’s dead. Oh Force, he’s dead he’s dead—” Clover’s fingers bury themselves in his hair. He curls up into a ball, his forehead on the cool durasteel floor and his legs folded under him like he’s praying, but there is nothing that can answer his prayers. 

 

They just got ’67 back, and now Clover has lost him again. But this time, there is no getting him back. 

 

Clover retches and dry-heaves, but there’s nothing to throw up. 

 

“Clover, you aren’t making any sense!” Jump carefully grabs his hands and pulls them away from his head before he hurts himself. “Who’s dead? What are you talking about?” 

 

The door to their small barracks opens with a hiss as Ponds marches into the room, Stars trailing behind him. The Commander is fully kitted up and composed despite the late hour. He looks at the clones gathered on the floor with a strange sort of apprehension. “Tell me what you saw.” 

 

“Captain Rex,” is all Clover manages to gasp out. Pond’s lips thin into a line, eyes narrowed and calculating, more serious than Clover has ever seen him. Around him, all of his squad-mates have grown stiff. 

 

“What about Captain Rex?” Luk’ie prompts. “Cloves what did you see!” Clover sobs and shakes his head. 

 

“Lieutenant, I need you to tell me what happened to Captain Rex,” Ponds snaps, voice hard and commanding. The order allows Clover to briefly speak through his overwhelming grief. 

 

“He’s dead,” Clover’s voice breaks. 

 

Ponds sinks to his knees.

 


 

There are holes in his memories that should not be here. The last few days all blur together like an odd dream, a mix of sensations and colors, green and white, black and red, turquoise and grey. He has a jumble of odd pieces: hands that hurt, lingering desperation and anger, the sensation of falling. Of being carved open and drowning again, and thinking that he was never pulled from the depths, never set free from Ko Sai’s dissection table. He feels like a cadet again, like he is too old and his skin is too tight for all the grief he has to carry, like a fire was set inside his chest, that it was allowed to burn until he was hollowed out. 

 

It feels like he lost something. 

 

His head is strangely quiet. 

 

“We read you Echo. Can you hear me?” Skywalker is holding himself stiffly, like he can’t quite trust that this is real. Maybe it’s not. Rex moves to get up, grunting as the motion sends hot lances across his hands and up his wrists, piercing through his stomach and side. He bites down on his cheek and collapses back onto the floor of the shuttle with a grunt. 

 

The pain is real enough, although it is hardly a standard of reality at this point. 

 

Ahsoka is trying to take off his armor, but he thinks the hard plastoid is the only thing holding him together at the moment. The sensation of touch is unbearable. He swats at her hands, ignoring the way it hurts.

 

“Rex, stop that,” Ahsoka hisses.

 

“Yes sir, standing by,” Echo responds. “We were worried. You disappeared off the scopes for a moment there.” 

 

“Jesse was about to have a heart attack!” Hardcase snickers in the background. 

 

It’s like all the air in the shuttle has been sucked out, the tension so great it feels like something is about to snap. His brothers seem to think they only disappeared for a few seconds. How can that be when it feels like they have been away for lifetimes?

 

“A moment? We were gone for more than a moment, Echo.” Rex tries to push himself up again, needing to confirm what his brothers are saying. See the chronometer for himself. His stomach pulls open at the motion, and hands catch him before he collapses back onto the deck plating with a half-strangled grunt.  

 

“For Force’s sake, stay down, Rex!” Ahsoka hisses. 

 

“We don’t understand, sir. You’ll need to explain.” Rex is filled with the sudden realization that they are supposed to be dead. Echo, Hardcase, Jesse—they died, didn’t they? Blurred images split through his skull in rapid succession, and he forces himself to sit up again, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to crawl for the cockpit and see his men for himself. 

 

“Rex, if you don’t lay back down right now I will have Ahsoka sit on you.” 

 

“I’m fine, I just need to—“ Rex doesn’t get to finish as arms wrap under his, lifting him up and gently laying him back down on the floor, his head and upper back cradled in General Kenobi’s lap as Ahsoka sits on his legs. He lets out an undignified squawk at this new position. 

 

“We warned you to stay down, Rexter,” Ahsoka grins at him, but there’s too much worry in her eyes to be genuine. 

 

“We’re coming in now, Skywalker out.” The shuttle rumbles as it begins to move towards the cruiser. Then Skywalker is kneeling right in his face, hands hovering like he wants to touch, but is afraid of breaking him. He won’t look Rex in the eyes. 

 

“How are you feeling, Rex?” 

 

“Like a coddled cadet,” Rex grumbles. “Are any of you going to tell me what is going on?” The Jettise glance at each other, uncertain. Rex wants to smack them. “With all due respect, sirs, I wasn’t decanted last Taungsday. Something happened to me, and now the three of you are acting like I’m going to die if you look away for too long.” All three Jettise flinch. A cold feeling settles in his stomach. 

 

Through the transparisteel of the shuttle’s viewport, the stars blink and gape open like hungry maws, the empty space between them stretching into the droning buzz of a fly’s wings, into the ringing silence of a breath held in anticipation. He feels the phantom sensation of cold fire that gnaws, bone and teeth snapping, skin and sinews stretched apart and blood unraveled like fraying thread in a moment of eternity. Rex was consumed by it, made a part of that endless pain, the empty dust of a long decayed star. 

 

Oh. 

 

“I died.” 

 

His words are met with confirming silence. 

 


 

It is a strangely calm day in the MedBay. So far, there have only been minor injuries—a fortunately small welding burn from one of the mechanics, some alcohol poisoning from a vod in maintenance who got a bit too creative with his distilling materials, a shiny who accidentally stunned himself while checking the safety of his blaster (just what are they teaching clones on Kamino these days? Kix swears they get dumber and dumber every batch). Coric has been taking the initiative to finally reorganize their cabinets, pulling out all the supplies and rearranging or restocking as he sees fit. Kix is using the rare downtime to make sure their next set of requisition forms are properly filled out and filed so that restock will go smoothly once they get to Coruscant. 

 

Of course, the peace and calm doesn’t last. Kix swears there is some kind of curse—the first rule of being a medic is that the second you get some quiet time, something will inevitably come along to take it away from you. 

 

Despite his knowledge of the curse, the loud beeping of his comm still makes Kix startle.

 

“What’s your bet this time, Coric?” 

 

Coric looks up from where he is restocking bandages, several rolls sprawled haphazardly around him on a stolen bed sheet. “Who’s calling?” 

 

“Hardcase,” Kix swears, if Hardcase made the holotable explode again—

 

“Are the Jettise here yet? Because if they are, my money’s on some Force-osik that was out to get them.” The comm beeps impatiently, a second caller pinging his gauntlet. This time it’s Jesse. 

 

“Now Jesse’s calling. I’m betting bridge explosion,” with a deep, long-suffering sigh Kix picks up the second call, resigning himself to several hours of stressful work. Jesse’s blue holographic form quickly flickers to life. Even through the grainy image, Kix can see that he is crying. 

 

“What is it this time.”

 

“Did you seriously pick up Jesse’s comm instead of mine? I commed you first!” Hardcase shouts in the back, offended. 

 

“Kix, They can’t keep doing this to me! I’m going to go gray before I’m 11. I don’t want to ever be the top deck officer again, I’m not built for getting the Jettise out of their messes that’s Rex’s job—“ Jesse babbles.

 

“For kriff’s sake, get a hold of yourself—“ The holo-image shakes as Jesse’s wrist is grabbed, the camera turned to Echo. “The Jettise completely disappeared off the scopes for a bit, but are on their way back now,” Echo reports. “Based on some of the background chatter, you may want to prep Rex’s cot and meet them in the hangar.” 

 

“I can’t believe you answered Jesse’s comm instead of mine,” Hardcase continues his rant. “I thought I was your favorite batchmate!” Kix continues to ignore him. 

 

“Copy that. One of us will head over there now, Kix out.” Kix ends the holo-call and sighs. Deeply. Long-sufferingly. Just one mission. That’s all Kix is asking. One mission where things don’t go to absolute osik that lands Rex in the MedBay. There wasn’t even supposed to be combat this time! How do the Jettise mess up taking a shuttle to check out some coordinates in deep space?! 

 

He misses the days before Rex had all this Force-osik and it was just the war trying to kill him like every other clone. 

 

“I hate being right,” Coric grumbles. 

 

“Well, you won the bet, so do you want prep or intercept?” 

 

“Prep. I’ll set up some extra cots for the rest of the Jettise too. Have fun vod,” Coric hands him a medkit and a hover-stretcher with a mockingly wide-and-yet-still-sympathetic grin.  

 


 

Cody is dutifully pretending to do flimsiwork when his comm beeps, making him spill lukewarm caff all down his front and hands. He allows himself a few curses as he flicks the liquid off his fingers before wiping his hands on his blacks. He tries to look at least somewhat composed as he answers, Echo’s holo-image lighting up the dim closet office. 

 

“Commander, we have reestablished contact with the Jettise, who should be landing now. The Resolute will be heading towards your coordinates shortly.”  

 

“Reestablished contact?” Cody takes a sip of the caff still in his cup, trying not to wince at how grainy it is. He must have gotten the dregs of the pot. Lucky him. 

 

“The Jettise disappeared off the scopes shortly upon reaching the coordinates. We were unable to reestablish contact for thirty seconds.” Echo shifts uncomfortably, which is uncharacteristic of the vod. 

 

“What happened, Corporal?” 

 

“We— we’re not sure, Commander. General Skywalker seemed to think they had been gone for longer than the few seconds we lost contact.” 

 

Obi-wan has officially lost rights to his tea stash. Cody doesn’t even need to ask to know that some bantha-osik Force kriffery went down. 

 

Cody’s eye twitches as he resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Keep me updated.” 

 

Echo salutes, “sir yes sir.” The end of the holo-call makes the office feel darker than it was before. Cody sighs, burying his face into his hands and kneading at his temples with his fingertips. He can already feel a headache starting to form. 

 

He sighs again, letting it turn into a groan of frustration at the end. As a treat. Then he collects himself, as all good Marshal Commanders do, and pulls out the key for the “super secret hidden tea stash” that Obi-wan thinks he doesn’t know about. 

 


 

Kix arrives at the hangar bay just as the shuttle lands. He’s bouncing with anticipation as the bay doors are sealed and the landing dock is pressurized, fingers unconsciously tapping around the handle of the Med kit. He almost runs into the ray shield before it opens, reaching the shuttle right as the entrance ramp lowers. 

 

There’s no way to anticipate what he is about to encounter. Jetti bantha-osik is like that. Rex could be fine. His skin could be blue. He could be a little cadet barely reaching Kix’s knees. The only thing he really knows is that if the Jettise did stumble into some Jetti-osik, his Captain found a way to put himself into the center of it. Ahsoka exits the shuttle first, limping slightly and with her arms wrapped protectively around her ribs. The Commander’s entire front is covered in blood. 

 

Kix inhales sharply, already rushing to meet her. “Commander, what the kark did you—?”

 

“It’s not mine,” she assures him quickly, “But we want you to look at Rex.”

 

With that cue, the Generals emerge, Rex supported between them. The Captain has a scowl on his face, which is swollen and bruised and has two very noticeable gashes along his hairline and cheek. “I’m fine,” Rex insists, like there aren’t two gaping holes in his armor and bloody handprints smeared all over his helmet. He trips over his next step, face paling as the Jettise adjust to keep him upright, obviously jostling some wound in the process. 

 

“I’m fine,” Rex repeats. Kix wants to smack him. 

 

“I’ll be the judge of that,” the medic declares. “Lay him down here, if you will,” the Generals nod, easing Rex down onto the deck plating. Rex squints his eyes against the bright lights, breathing slightly fast. 

 

“I’m going to remove the top armor,” Kix comms Coric, the other medic picking up the call immediately. 

 

“What are we looking at Kix?” 

 

“We’re going to need cots for all of them,” Kix starts bluntly. 

 

“Now wait a minute,” Skywalker sputters. “Rex is the one who needs medical care!” 

 

“The Commander is covered in blood,” Kix states bluntly. “And even if it’s not hers, she’s still favoring her left side, especially her ribs and shoulder. You, General Skywalker, have what looks like a large burn across your right thigh, and General Kenobi is also favoring his shoulder and has enough dirt and dust on his robes that I imagine he has several bruises hidden elsewhere, not to mention the knot he has on the side of his head.” General Kenobi gingerly raises a hand to prod at the lump on his skull, wincing. "Furthermore, you lot look like you haven’t slept or ate for days, and I want to check all three of you for Force Exhaustion and make sure you get proper nutrients and rest. Anything I am missing?” 

 

The Jettise stare at him for a moment. “You’re good, Kixster,” Ahsoka huffs. 

 

“I do my best, Commander,” he kneels down next to Rex, unlatching the chest plate so he can begin removing the broken plates over his stomach. Rex gasps, clenching his jaw tight, whole body going rigid. “Captain, I need you to relax.” He peels away the plackart, finding two large holes in the blacks beneath.

 

What the karking kriff happened? 

 

“Coric, I’ve got what looks like a half-healed stab wound and a lightsaber burn, I’m cutting away the blacks now to see if it needs immediate field dressing.” Anger boils in him at the sight. There are only three people who could have possibly caused such a large lightsaber wound on the Captain, and they are all hovering anxiously over his shoulder. 

 

“Copy that Kix. Do you want me to join you on-site?” Coric’s voice snaps Kix back on task. 

 

“Negative, I’m bringing them to you. Prep the infusion pump and see if we have any bacta-infused bandages left.” 

 

“Will do. Coric out.”

 

He takes out his knife specifically designed to cut through the thick armor-weave of their blacks. Seeing the damage spread out across Rex’s torso makes the anger return bright and fast. The blacks are melted into his side, the skin horribly blistered and blackened, and Rex is doing his best to imitate a statue with how silent and still he is. “What the kark happened out there?” Kix growls.

 

The Jettise flinch. 

 

“We ended up on a strange Force planet with three ancient Gods and they wanted me to prove that I was the Chosen One.” Skywalker clenches his mechanical hand so tightly the gears grind. “One of them—The Son—captured Rex and… corrupted him somehow. Made him fight us.” 

 

“He stepped into the path of my shoto so he could grab my wrist and force it from my grip,” Ahsoka exhales shakily. “I didn’t want to hurt him Kix!” Anakin places a hand on her shoulder, glaring at Kix to say anything.  

 

“We were trying to save the Captain,” Kenobi adds. “Though I’m afraid it mostly happened the other way around.” The General looks…ashamed. 

 

This whole thing sounds like osik. After all, the Jettise only disappeared for a second. There’s no way they could have gone to a whole other planet, no way they would have run into gods or fought one another so viciously. But the marks are there, and Kix has to remind himself that Rex is not his only patient. With a huff, he returns to work, trying to gently pry the blacks away from the large burn across Rex’s side so he can get a better look at the damage. 

 

 A wet hand tightly snatches his wrist, trying to stop him. Rex immediately lets go, breathing fast and ragged. There’s a bloody handprint left on Kix’s skin and the cuff of his blacks. “I’m sorry I’m sorry it won’t happen again I’m sorry please don’t—“ Rex snaps his jaw shut with an audible clack, his brown eyes wide with panic. “I’ll be good now,” he pleads, trying to hold himself still. “I’ll be good. I promise I won’t do it again. I know the rules.”

 

Karking Sithspit. Kix is a Force-damned fool. “Help me get him off the floor, onto the cot,” he barks. Coric warned him about this. Early on in the war, Rex would have flashbacks in the MedBay, thinking he was still on Kamino. It took a lot of effort for Coric to build enough up trust between himself and Rex to treat the Captain without triggering a panic attack or flashback. That trust was something Kix had to earn for himself when Coric was out of commission with the Blue Shadow Virus. They haven’t had to worry about these kinds of episodes for awhile but Kix, being the fool he was, started treating Rex on the cold metal floor in the hangar bay where the lighting is bright after what was undoubtedly a traumatic experience. 

 

Kix taps Rex in the center of the forehead three times, trying to get his attention. “Rex, can you hear me? Nod yes if you can hear me.” Rex nods. 

 

“Can you speak? Nod for yes or shake for no” Rex shakes his head no. Kix mutters a curse. 

 

“Do you know who I am?” Rex shakes his head again. 

 

“Do you know where you are right now?” Rex nods. “Okay, blink twice if you are on Kamino, and blink once if you are on The Resolute. Blink nice and slow so I can see it, okay?” Rex blinks twice. Sithspit. This isn’t good. 

 

“Kix, what’s happening to him?” Ahsoka asks, her voice pitching high. 

 

“I need you to stay calm sir. I’ve got it handled for now. Let’s move towards the MedBay.” Kix moves as quickly as he dares, asking questions to try and keep Rex calm. The Captain is completely nonverbal, brown eyes wide and darting back and forth, breathing ragged and fast. The closer they get to the MedBay, the more agitated Rex gets. Kix is worried that entering the sterile environment will spiral the Captain directly into a complete dissociative episode. Unfortunately, Rex stops responding to his questions, and any touch makes the Captain flinch violently before trying to lock up even tighter. Kix wishes he had told Coric to meet them. The Senior medic has much more experience dealing with Rex’s episodes.

 

He scans the Captain with the simple diagnostic in his helmet, wincing at the results. He doesn’t want to sedate Rex, especially when he’s unaware and touch-averse like this, but his body can’t take this amount stress right now. “We need to stop.” Kix lowers the stretcher to the floor, pulling out a hypo. “Take a deep breath and try to relax, Rex. This should help you,” He moves to inject it when Rex swats the applicator out of his hands, the vial shattering and contents spilling across the floor. 

 

The Captain immediately starts hyperventilating. “I didn’t mean to— please I’m sorry please not the muzzle please—“ General Skywalker growls, making Rex flinch, his eyes blown wide with unrestrained panic. Rex rolls off the stretcher, somehow making his feet before stumbling to his knees. Skywalker and Kenobi move to catch him. 

 

“No!” Any touch is not going to have a good response. The Jettise flinch back, and Rex crawls towards the wall, leaving bloody trails as he goes. Kix sees that there is another wound in his lower back, blood smeared over the white plates. Kix has the horrible realization that Rex wasn’t just stabbed, he was impaled. 

 

The Captain tucks his back to the wall, curling his knees to protect his chest and dipping his head under his arms, continuing a steady mantra of apologies and promises to behave.  

 

“Kix, do something!” Skywalker orders. 

 

Kix drops to his hands and knees, approaching slowly. “Rex,” the Captain doesn’t respond. “Captain Rex. I’m going to touch you now, is that okay?” Slowly, Kix telegraphs his movement towards Rex’s hands. His fingers hover for a moment before making contact. 

 

The reaction is immediate. Rex whines, pressing his whole back against the wall and lashing out with his hands in a familiar gesture. Kix rears back and braces himself for a Force push, expecting to be flung across the hallway. 

 

Nothing happens. 

 

“No no no no no,” Rex murmurs. He extends his hands again, the palms and fingers infected and bloody and missing entire strips of skin. Maker above, just what happened to his Captain? “Please please it can’t be gone.” Tears are streaming down Rex’s face as he frantically waves his hands. “No no please it can’t please” the Captain wails, a devastating, heart wrenching sound that cuts through Kix like shrapnel. The wailing continues, and Kix no longer knows what to do. 

 

“I’m sorry Captain,” Kenobi approaches quickly, kneeling down next to Rex despite being in the range of his thrashing hands. When Kenobi reaches towards his head the Captain bites down on his wrist, teeth sinking deep. Kix realizes that Kenobi deliberately removed his gauntlets, leaving only the cloth of his robes as a barrier. The General hisses but does not flinch back, placing two fingers against the center of Rex’s forehead with his free hand. Rex immediately slumps, eyes closed. The General catches him, scooping him up into his arms and tucking the Captain’s head into his chest. Rex looks too young and small. 

 

The rest of the trip to the MedBay is done quickly and in heavy silence. 

 


 

Coric is about to go hunt down Kix and the Jettise himself when they finally trudge into the MedBay, looking like Jar Jar Binks was officially put in charge of the GAR. 

 

Captain Rex is unconscious, cradled protectively in General Kenobi’s arms. Skywalker and Tano are hovering right behind him, both limping, while Kix follows tiredly, the hover stretcher trailing behind him with parts of the Captain’s armor, the open Med kit, and General Kenobi’s gauntlets, for some reason. They continue their silent procession to what has been officially designated as Rex’s cot, General Kenobi gently setting Rex down and running a comforting hand through his hair. 

 

“Okay, Coric is going to look over you all starting with the Commander, and you three are going to tell me exactly what happened on that Force planet. Start from the beginning,” Coric takes the cue to guide Tano to the next cot over, scanning her injuries. Three fractured ribs on the left side and a forcibly relocated shoulder, several burns up and down her arms, a strained ankle. Coric grabs a jar of bacta, quietly listening as the story unfolds. 

 

The Jettise recount how they arrived at the coordinates, only to find empty space. They were able to establish contact with Jesse, who claimed to also be at the coordinates despite the fact that there was nothing in sight. Coric frowns, immediately not liking where this is going. Then Kenobi talks about how the ship died, even the life support and auxiliary power, only to power up again and be pulled into a massive black structure. They woke up on a strange planet, the shuttle perfectly landed despite the fact that no one remembered doing it, and all systems again being completely dead. 

 

General Skywalker picks up the story, talking about how they met Daughter (what kind of name is Daughter?). She led them across the planet, up some mountain trail when there was suddenly a rockslide. General Skywalker leaped forward to push her out of the way, at the same time throwing Rex back. General Kenobi interrupts to say that Captain Rex crashed into his back, sending them both off the edge of the path, making Anakin wince. And while Kenobi was able to grab onto the ledge, Rex caught himself much lower, shredding his hands open in the process. Kix hisses with disapproval. They decided to split up—Kenobi and Tano taking Rex back to the shuttle, and Skywalker continuing to follow Daughter to try and find a way off the planet. 

 

Coric wants to remind them just how stupid splitting up is. Especially three and one. And ask why none of them bothered to have a field kit on hand. Did they at least bring canteens? Ration bars? If they were aimlessly trekking through the wilderness on a strange planet with no supplies, Coric is going to cry. And sign up all the officers for an 8 hour basic wilderness training module. 

 

Commander Tano picks up the story, how they got back to where the shuttle was supposed to be, only to find it missing—along with all of their supplies. It had started to rain, and as it got dark all the vegetation disintegrated. Then Son showed up, and Coric hates him just based on the description: tall, pale, beady red eyes, sharp teeth, dangerously volatile and angry. He warns them about the storms and leaves, forcing them to find shelter just as lightning begins to strike. 

 

They tried to treat Rex’s hands best they could, but with no water, bandages, or salves, and with all the local fauna literally disintegrating into nothing, they only had The Force and General Kenobi’s dusty Jetti robes to clean and wrap the wounds. Coric wants to cry into his hands. 

 

Meanwhile, General Skywalker found a monastery and another mysterious being who called himself Father. He had built this Sanctuary for himself and his children who could wield The Force like no others. Who believed Skywalker to be some kind of chosen one. And General Skywalker agreed to a test, in exchange for passage off the planet. 

 

In the morning, Son and Daughter came for Kenobi and Tano, snatching them into the air. 

 

“Rex somehow managed to latch onto both Son and Daughter with The Force, almost brought us back to the ground when Father showed up and attacked him from behind, the hut’tuun,” she spits, teeth bared in anger. Kix looks like he wants to smack Rex, and Coric wants to join in. Wasn’t the whole point of keeping his Force-powers secret making sure as few people know as possible?

 

Coric pulls out some bandages and a splint, making sure the Commander’s ribs are properly in place before wrapping them tightly. “In the future, try not to reset your own shoulder,” Coric warns her. “You did an okay job this time, but it’s dangerous to try and reset shoulders, or any other joint for that matter, on your own.” 

 

“I’m sorry Coric,” Tano says, not sounding all that sorry. “We were in the middle of a fight and I didn’t have anything to stabilize it with.” Of course she didn’t, not with that dress she insists on wearing. 

 

He sighs and shakes his head. His commanding officers are self-destructive di’kuts. The whole lot of them. He needs the Commander to understand that broken bones and dislocated joints are not something that someone should set themselves, no matter what Rex thinks (and probably showed her). “If you do this wrong you can damage the tendons, nerves, or tissues,” Ahsoka winces, good hand twitching towards her shoulder. He gives her a stim of painkillers and a sling, adding the stern instructions to wear it for the next three rotations to give the muscles a chance to rest and heal. With Tano patched up, Coric takes the chance to massage his hands, trying to relieve the ache building in his fingers and palms. Stupid kriffing nerve damage. 

 

“How is he doing over there Kix?” 

 

Rex has been stripped of his armor and upper blacks, positioned so that he’s laying on his side. Coric can see a deep wound in the Captain’s lower back, blood smeared around the skin and clearly soaking into the lower blacks, even though the wound no longer appears to be bleeding. Deep purple and red bruises cover the majority of his back and electricity burns branch out from the center of his spine, likely wrapping around Rex’s ribs to the front. It reminds Coric uncomfortably of Malastare. 

 

Kix has a severe frown on his face, eyes widening as he double checks something with a scanner. “Kark. That can’t be right,” the CMO’s face pales as he scans the Captain again. “What in the Jetti-bantha osik,” Kix’s hands are shaking. Coric doesn’t think he has ever seen Kix’s hands shake before. Never seen him lose control of his emotions like this, not when treating a patient. “Tell me again what happened down there. This stab wound. How—?” Kix looks at the Jettise, who can’t seem to meet his gaze. 

 

Coric is lost. 

 

“Kix, you need to use your words.” 

 

Kix opens his mouth, shuts it, breathes deeply, trying to hide his growing panic. “According to the Med-scanner, Captain Rex died over three hours ago.”

 


 

Mace Windu came stumbling into the Halls of Healing in the middle of the night, half-conscious and supported by his Commander and cursing Skywalker and “Skywalker’s Force-damned Captain,” as he nursed a migraine bad enough he had reportedly been found curled up on the floor in his quarters by Commander Ponds. Vokara Che wasted no time getting the poor man settled, trying to use her healing to untangle the knots of energy causing him so much pain. The Force was writhing in grief, screaming and wailing like a mother who has lost their child. It stung like a raw nerve, swollen and agitated by every touch. Vokara could not find the center of such distress, but she had a sinking suspicion it has to do with Skywalker and his Captain, if Master Windu’s expletives had any truth in them. 

 

Once Master Windu was suitably pain free and given a sleeping aid to help his body recover, she sent off Commander Ponds with orders to rest himself, though she doubts the man did so—he seemed far too stressed, and if she remembers correctly, Commander Ponds was one of the clones who regularly snuck in to visit Captain Rex when he was a patient of the Halls. 

 

After checking to make sure Master Windu is still deeply unconscious, Vokara Che sneaks into her office to make a very important comm call. Her comm rings just as she begins to type in the code, and she is both relieved and disturbed to see that Lieutenant Kix is the one calling her. The poor medic looks like he has been run ragged, shoulders uncharacteristically slumped and eyes downcast. 

 

As the story unravels, Vokara Che decides she wants to join Mace Windu on his next anti-Skywalker retreat. Maybe they should send Senator Amidala to one corner of the Universe, get Skywalker to “guard” her, and then go to the opposite end just so she can get a break from this absolute nonsense. Master Windu also always has the best alcohol—that man has excellent taste. 

 

“Let me get this straight. Master Kenobi, Knight Skywalker, Padawan Tano, and Captain Rex disappeared off the scopes of The Resolute for thirty seconds, and in that time managed to spend three days on a Force planet that, according to our records, doesn’t exist, crashed a shuttle that is completely operational and shows no signs of damage, fought against three godlike beings guarding some ‘conduit in The Force,’ and managed to get Captain Rex injured, then captured, corrupted to the Dark, and killed by one of the Force gods, only for another one of the Force gods in question to revive him?” 

 

Lieutenant Kix sighs and rubs the his forehead with the heel of his palm. Words are not enough to convey the depths of sympathy she holds for this man. He nods wearily and inhales deeply. “I haven’t been able to test for myself, but the Jettise have said that Captain Rex doesn’t seem to remember much of the experience, though the bits and pieces he does remember are concerning. Something also happened to relapse his medical trauma. Coric and I have moved the Captain to his quarters for treatment, as the Med Bay is too stressful an environment and could trigger PTSD episodes. He also responds poorly to any kind of touch, making it difficult to calm him down.” Kix sighs again, looking lost and hurt. “It’s like all the progress Coric and I made with him over the last year has been erased overnight. I don’t know how to help him anymore,” the medic confesses, biting his lip. He glances around, as if making sure no one will overhear what he is about to say next. “But that’s not all,” Kix admits, his holographic eyes failing to meet Vokara’s. “Something changed him. Physically. Deeply. And I don’t know yet if it’s permanent or not. Maker, I hope it is not permanent.” 

 

“What do you mean?” Vokara leans forward, bracing her palms firmly against her desk as if proximity to the holo-projector will help her reach across the distance and offer comfort, ease some of the exhaustion that radiates off the medic even without The Force to confirm it. 

 

“His eyes… are no longer blue,” Kix pauses, taking a shaky breath. “His connection to The Force seems to have been completely severed,” Kix whispers, as if saying it out loud makes it too real. “Almost like it was never there at all.” 

 

Vokara feels a piece of her break, horror twisting in her stomach. Suddenly she understands the grief tearing through The Force and causing Master Windu such physical pain. A Jedi’s connection to The Force defines their life. It is the most essential piece of their personhood, guiding them and offering comfort and healing, giving them a deep connection to the Universe and the other sentients around them. And The Force was so strong in Rex, beautiful in how raw and powerfully it shone through him, singing and bursting with life in a way she has never seen even in the most powerful of the Jedi. She can’t imagine such a bright light being snuffed so cruelly, can’t imagine the pain of being shunned back into the dark after the Captain was finally beginning to accept The Force for the gift it was. 

 

Vokara sits hard in her desk chair, afraid she is going to fall over if she doesn’t. She breathes deeply. It isn’t impossible for a Jedi to temporarily lose their connection to The Force. Force-suppressants or Force-collars are both (illegal) means of severing one’s connection to The Force, and many Force-sensitives can lose their connection over time if it is not properly maintained and nurtured, the way a limb can atrophy if not properly exercised. “Are you certain?” 

 

Kix nods, lips pressed into a grim line. “Generals Kenobi and Skywalker have confirmed it. They say there are holes in his mind, like it was just… torn from him,” Kix shudders, seeming to understand the horror of such a thing. “I have a theory, but I wanted to confer with you before I bring it up with the Generals or the Captain, considering my lack of knowledge surrounding how The Force works.” 

 

Vokara hums and braces her elbows back on the desk, resting her chin on her hands. “I will answer your theory as best I can, though I can’t offer anything definite unless I examine the Captain myself,” she offers. 

 

Kix nods, suddenly looking nervous and self-conscious, as if afraid to offend. “I think the Captain’s missing chunks of memory are what is interfering with his connection to The Force,” the medic theorizes. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, glancing again at what is likely the door to whatever room he has sequestered himself in. “He is healing faster than should be possible,” Kix says slowly, carefully. “While I was treating his hands to make sure he hadn't developed sepsis, the lightsaber burn on his side healed over the wound debris in a matter of minutes. Coric and I had to reopen the wound to surgically remove the pieces of his blacks that melted into his skin. The wound through his stomach from being impaled was mostly closed when the Jettise returned, and already looks several weeks old despite being the last major injury the Captain received, at least by their accounts.” 

 

Vokara considers this new information carefully. In all her years, she has never heard of such a thing. Even the most advanced Force Healers cannot fix such extensive damage to the body so quickly. It takes too much energy in one sitting. Skywalker is going to make her an alcoholic at this rate. How that man constantly gets into these kinds of messes and drags everyone around him into them is beyond her. If she had hair it would be going gray. No wonder Master Windu keeps his head bald. Force knows Master Kenobi thinks he is being subtle by dying his rapidly graying hair. 

 

When that man next arrives on Coruscant, Vokara Che is not going to be held legally responsible for any damages that occur. 

 

“Do you know when The Resolute is next scheduled to arrive on Coruscant?” She absent-mindedly rubs at an old scar on the back of her hand, the raised skin offering something grounding. 

 

“We are scheduled to rendezvous with The Negotiator,” Kix informs her. “That should take at least another three rotations. Then I believe that Generals Kenobi and Skywalker are pushing to present their report to the Council in-person. If the request is granted, we will be at Triple Zero within the ten-day.” 

 

Vokara hums, “When you arrive on Coruscant, I will want to see Captain Rex for myself. In the meantime, I will send you several exercises to help rebuild the Captain’s trust of touch,  grounding techniques to help prevent flashbacks or PTSD episodes, and meditation techniques that should anchor him in The Force. Until then, keep me updated on any changes to his physical or mental state,” She selects several files to send to Kix, hearing the confirming beep from the other side of the line. “And Kix,”

 

“Yes Master Che?” The poor baby medic looks much too stressed. 

 

“You acted admirably given the situation. Do not be ashamed—more experienced medics have made worse mistakes in the heat of the moment,” she lets out a small smile when she sees the way tension drops out of the medic’s shoulders. “When you get to Triple Zero, I owe you a drink, if you and Sergeant Coric would like to stop by my office.” 

 

For the first time since the holocall started, Kix offers her a smile. “Copy that ma’am. I will be sure to let Coric know.” With that, the CMO salutes and ends the call. 

 

Vokara allows herself three deep breaths before sinking her face into her hands, releasing all the tension in her shoulders with one deep sob, pushing her grief into The Force. This war has been hard on all of them. Vokara often wonders how it came to this—a group of peacekeepers leading an army of child slaves. Sending their own children into the fight. She hardly recognizes the Jedi Order anymore. How dim The Force has felt lately, the dark creeping in, cloudy and cancerous as it slowly chokes out the light in a group of people normally so bright.

 

She admits that she has grown rather fond of Captain Rex, the poor child forced to carry too much on his shoulders. When he came into her care all those months ago he had been so deeply hurt, and yet such a bright force of hope. His men clearly admired him, if the number of times she had to chase clones out of her office was any indication. His earnestness and steady determination was a reminder of why she had become a healer in the first place. In the several rotations they spent together, he had revived her conviction to heal others, to remain firm in The Force no matter how bleak the War became. 

 

The Universe has not been kind to him, and the healer wonders how much one being can endure before he crumbles. In the sanctity of her office she prays to The Force that the Captain will be able to endure even this trial, that he will get a break to truly rest and recover. She mourns the loss of The Force in him, which had been so joyous and reassuring, stalwart and strong. 

 

In the silence of her office, Vokara Che wonders what else the War will take from them, ere the end. 

 


 

Cody has just sat down again when his comm beeps. He answers it without checking, expecting an update from Jesse or Echo. Instead, Ponds appears in the holographic display, looking devastated. It shouldn’t be possible for the dark circles under his eyes to be so distinct, but his batchmate looks like he hasn’t slept in a ten-day. 

 

“Ponds, are you okay? I thought you were on Coruscant what happened??” 

 

“Cody I need you to tell me that he’s okay,” Ponds is barely holding himself together. “Tell me that this isn’t real.” 

 

“Ponds, what do you mean?” 

 

Ponds digs his fingers into his temples, looking like he’s about to start crying. “Has The Resolute reported in yet?” 

 

“They have,” Cody says slowly, trying to figure out what this is about. “About an hour ago. The Jettise reestablished contact and should be aboard The Resolute by now. We will be rendezvousing shortly.”

 

“And… and Rex?” Ponds looks like he’s barely holding himself together. Like Cody’s answer might break apart any self-control he currently possesses. 

 

“I haven’t heard anything about Rex,” Cody frowns at the way Ponds tenses up. “Did something happen? Ponds, what aren’t you telling me?” Cody’s clenching his desk so hard the thin metal is starting to creak. 

 

“I just— I have an… awful feeling,” Ponds chokes out. “I haven’t been able to contact Rex or his medics—none of the other 501st officers seem to know what is going on. They said they got a weird message from General Skywalker and then sent the medics to meet them upon arrival, but no one has been able to tell me anything other than that.” 

 

Cody feels his heart stop. This feels awfully like Valtameri, where Cody didn’t know anything was wrong until it would have been far too late. 

 

Why won’t anyone tell him anything until it is too late? Why does everyone else seem to know more about the situation than he does?

 

“I’m sure Rex is fine, the Medics are probably just giving him a thorough checkover,” Cody tries to reason. He’s not sure who he is trying to convince more. “I’ll let you know when I get an update, but we are three rotations out from The Resolute, so it will be awhile until I have eyes on the situation,” Cody informs him. 

 

“Thanks vod. Tell Rex’ika to comm me when he gets the chance,” Ponds offers a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes before signing off. 

 

Cody leans back in his chair and sighs. 

 

Ponds is hiding something from him. That much is clear. After all, how would Ponds, who is on the other side of the Galaxy, know that the Jettise had returned when Cody himself had just gotten the report? And what did Ponds think had happened, to be so clearly panicked about Rex? As much trouble as their vod’ika manages to find himself in, he was with three Jettise on a low-danger scouting mission—he was probably the most well-protected clone in the Galaxy. 

 

Who is he kidding? His Jettise could find danger in an empty room. The fact that the Jettise seemed to think they were gone for longer than the thirty seconds The Resolute lost contact already points towards some Force osik happening. Cody just wants one mission that isn't ruined by Force osik. One. It shouldn't be that difficult. But of course his Jettise mess it up. Cody sighs and pulls his datapad closer so he can look over the newest batch of reports. He can only hope that whatever Force osik did happen, Rex was able to minimize the damage. 

 

Something niggling in the back of his mind feels suspiciously like doubt. 

 


 

Anakin is fiddling with an old midi-chlorian counting device, Ahsoka half-heartedly keeping a fire douser in her lap and pointed at her Master. Rex is asleep on his bed, deep lines on his face even in unconsciousness. The poor Captain has been spending most of his time sleeping since they returned, suffering from a persistent migraine that even Kix has not been able to ease except through drugged sleep. While Rex has yet to say a word of complaint about the matter, Obi-wan can tell the Captain is still reeling from the stress of his latest ordeal. He wishes he could take the burden of pain from the Captain, but there is nothing he can do at this point. There is nothing Obi-wan can heal, Rex’s hands carefully wrapped in bacta-infused bandages and every other wound miraculously closed and scarred, a faint reminder of the time they spent on Mortis. He can only sit vigil, hoping that his presence is enough to ease some of the anxiety and fear that constantly plagues the Captain’s waking. 

 

The feeling of uselessness is familiar. Obi-wan wishes Qui-Gon was here to offer advice. To ease some of the burden of responsibility for the three people under his charge. 

 

Obi-wan absently traces the hem of his new robes, grateful he let Cody convince him to keep a spare set or two (or a dozen) on The Resolute. He debates letting the silence sit, ignoring what he knows they must speak of. 

 

He can’t let his cowardice continue to delay the inevitable. He can’t keep pretending that he doesn’t see what is before him. (He remembers the way sand gritted between his teeth, burrowed under his eyelids—You have seen thousands of little warnings of what is to come, but you shield your eyes and look away. Even when you doubt, you do not question. You have seen the Order crumbling from the inside, and you do nothing—) 

 

Anakin hisses as the machine sparks and smokes, Ahsoka sending a burst of fire-suppressant at the offending device. 

 

“You know, I might get this thing to work if you would stop dousing it with chemicals,” his former Padawan grouses. 

 

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to douse it with chemicals if you stopped setting it on fire,” Ahsoka snarks right back. Anakin’s lips turn sharply into a frown, mouth opening to spit out something truly vicious when Obi-wan stops him with a firm look. Anakin grumbles something under his breath, but doesn’t rise to the bait of Ahsoka sticking out her tongue at him. Obi-wan is proud of him. Until Anakin sends a rude gesture of his own when he thinks his former master is not looking.

 

Clearly, Obi-wan set his hopes too high. 

 

“Now, when were the two of you going to tell me that your Captain is Force-sensitive?” Obi-wan tries to keep his voice light and casual. He’s not sure he manages to fully keep the hurt from his voice, but the attempt is there. 

 

Anakin and Ahsoka both flinch, the device in Anakin’s hands once again sparking. Ahsoka shoots off another spritz of the fire douser, the chemical foam missing the device entirely and hitting his former Padawan in the face instead. Anakin recoils, trying to wipe the offending substance away from his mouth and eyes as quickly as possible. He makes a disgusted noise as he wipes his tongue on his sleeve, only to gag as he realizes too late that his sleeves have long been contaminated with fire retardant. The device is still on fire, a trail of smoke pluming in the air. 

 

Obi-wan swears he raised Anakin better than this. 

 

“We were hoping you could conveniently forget you saw any of that,” Anakin replies with a wince, teeth ineffectually trying to scrape off the lingering taste of chemicals from his tongue. 

 

Obi-wan sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. When did Anakin stop trusting Obi-wan to help carry some of his burdens? To hide some of his secrets? “I’m not going to tell the Council, if that’s what you are afraid of.”

 

“You’re not?” Ahsoka’s eyes are wide and hopeful. 

 

“I can’t believe I need to say this,” Obi-wan huffs. “I don’t tell the Council everything, you know. I have some sense of tact and discretion.” Unlike his former Padawan and Senator Amidala. Force knows how they think they are being subtle. Obi-wan has briskly walked away from far, far too many closets. 

 

Anakin’s mouth opens and closes without actually forming any words. Ahsoka isn’t doing much better, mutely looking between Anakin and Obi-wan and Rex. 

 

“But you—you’re on the Council!”

 

“Much to Master Krell’s eternal dismay, I’m sure,” Obi-wan agrees. “But you are avoiding the question. With how closely our battalions work together, surely the two of you had a plan for when I eventually found out.” 

 

The awkward silence is damning. Obi-wan politely resists the urge to bury his face into his hands and scream, mostly for Rex’s sake. No wonder Captain Rex is the main strategist in 501st—he’s the only one with enough forward-thinking skills. 

 

“I suppose I would have bribed you with tea? I’m sure Padm—I MEAN, Senator Amidala could have helped me find something high quality if I asked nicely enough,” Anakin’s blush would be endearing if it didn’t further betray how utterly hopeless he was. 

 

“I thought we were doing a good job hiding it. I mean, you didn’t seem to notice anything,” Ahsoka admits sheepishly. 

 

Obi-wan wants to know where he went wrong raising these two.

 

The desire to smack his forehead with his hand and drag it down his face while dramatically sighing his disappointment is immeasurable. Even Obi-wan, with his admittedly awkward social skills and actual attempt at professional distance with the men under him, is aware of the rumors that Captain Rex has some sort of Jedi luck. They have existed since the early months of the war, and have become something more of a running joke (though the men have the sense not to say anything where they think Obi-wan and Commander Cody won’t hear, the newest recruits don’t always realize just how far sound carries down the hallways). Boil and Waxer also have some sort of bet set up around it that he’s pretending not to know about. The only reason Obi-wan didn’t seem to notice anything is because he was actively trying to avoid a Council meeting. Honestly, it’s embarrassing how dense Obi-wan allowed himself to be, especially considering his own suspicions that The Force was indeed strangely involved with the Captain. 

 

Rex groans, the end of the exhale hitching with pain, facial expression twisting into something of deep discomfort as he starts to shift. Ahsoka immediately springs up to run her fingers through his hair, radiating a sense of calm and contentment through The Force until the Captain lets out a soft sigh and settles back down. Ahsoka sits at the edge of his bed, pressing her thumbs into the edges of his brows by his nose before slowly moving outward. After repeating the motion a few times she starts to rub small circles over his temples.  “You’re going to be okay Rexter,” she murmurs, “you are safe with us.” 

 

“Aha! I think I got it!” Anakin yells triumphantly, only to wince when Ahsoka and Obi-wan immediately shush him. “I think I finally figured it out,” Anakin whispers at a much more acceptable volume. “Now I just need to test it,” Anakin pricks his finger, the device making some whirring noises before a gear starts to click. Obi-wan counts down from three in his head. 

 

The machine promptly bursts into flames. 

 


 

“This is possibly the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Echo hisses. 

 

“You didn’t have to come,” Fives replies knowingly. 

 

“Like kark I’m letting you do this on your own,” Echo glances down the hallway suspiciously, like Kix is going to jump around the corner and begin lecturing on sight. Fives isn’t worried—he has reliable intel that Kix is Jettise-wrangling in the MedBay, and he has Span in position to give warning or run interference as necessary. 

 

“Relax Echo, we’re just checking on him. The Jettise have been acting weird, and if Kix and Coric won’t tell us anything, then we are just being good officers who are concerned about the continued efficiency of the 501st, seeing as Jesse is somehow still in charge and something is bound to catch on fire any second.”

 

“I take offense to that,” Jesse grumbles. 

 

“My ears took offense to the three hour lecture we got on proper flimsiwork filing from Commander Cody,” Fives snarks back. “Seriously, how did you manage to requisition three tons of rotten fish instead of three cases of smoke bombs?” 

 

“I told you. The catalog codes were very similar, and I didn’t see the need to pay extra for refrigerated crates when they were supposed to be smoke bombs,” Jesse grits out. 

 

“Kix told us to leave him alone,” Echo reminds him, tactfully side stepping the argument. 

 

“Kix is just being an overprotective Nuna,” Hardcase declares. “Besides, even if the Captain is hurt, we can cheer him up!” 

 

“Well, if we’re going to do it, we better do it soon,” Jesse confidently presses the buzzer, but there is no sign that the door is going to be opened. He frowns and presses the buzzer again. 

 

“Here, let me do it,” Fives shoves him out of the way. He presses the buzzer and holds. “Cap, it’s Fives. Let me in.” 

 

After a second there is an answer. “Fives, Captain Rex isn’t up for visitors right now, come back some other time,” Coric’s voice sounds tired. Through the intercom, Fives can hear a crash. Coric’s curse is cut off. 

 

“I’m breaking in,” Fives announces. 

 

“You are doing no such thing,” Echo hisses. 

 

There’s a muffled shout through the door, along with another crash. 

 

“Well what are you waiting for? Get the door open!” Echo orders. 

 

Fives rolls his eyes and pulls out a code jammer, placing it over the lock and overriding it with the press of three buttons. The door slides open with a hiss. 

 

Fives wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t Coric straddling Rex’s hips and pinning him to the floor with both hands over his head. 

 

“My eyes!” Hardcase wails. 

 

Coric’s head snaps to look at them, eyes wide with mortified shock. Rex goes still under him, expression a strange mix of confusion and relief. “This isn’t—I told you not to come in!” Coric snaps. 

 

“You’re all…alive?” Rex breathes so quietly that Fives almost doesn’t hear it, trembling with hope and disbelief.

 

Fives shares a look with his fellow conspirators. “Last I checked,” he confirms, only to get smacked in the arm by Echo. 

 

His twin crouches down on the floor, closer to Rex’s line of sight. “Why wouldn’t we be?” He asks gently. 

 

Rex closes his eyes, face twisted with grief. “I saw…” his face furrows in confusion, blinking up at all of them. There’s some gashes and swelling on the Captain’s face, but Fives feels like he is missing something important. “I…you…” Fives swears he sees Rex’s eyes flicker, a brief flash of glowing light. With a cry, he twists out from under Coric’s slackened grasp, springing to his feet and tackling Fives with one smooth motion. Fives is too surprised to brace himself, and the both of them go crashing to the floor. Rex is scrabbling at his chest plate, fingers fumbling with the catches, a desperate whine filling the room. 

 

“Rex no!” Coric yells, grabbing Rex’s forearms and hauling him off Fives. He’s transfixed by the sight of white bandages around the Captain’s hands, blood starting to seep through. 

 

“He’s been shot! Let go of me! I have to—“ Rex’s face crumples in pain, going boneless as he clutches at his stomach. Coric curses, trying to catch the Captain and guide him safely to the floor before he cracks his skull open. 

 

“Get out!” Coric yells at them. But Fives is frozen where he’s sprawled on the ground, watching the scene unfold with a detached numbness as the realization finally hits him. 

 

Rex’s eyes are brown. Why are they brown? 

 

“I failed you. I got you killed. I should have listened I—“ Rex murmurs under his breath. His eyes flash white, unmistakably this time, as a blinding light fills the room. In that brief moment, pain tears through his chest. Fives sees a gaping blaster wound burned over his own heart. 

 

The Captain cries out, curling around his stomach. 

 

Fives frantically pries off his chest plate, fingers scrabbling at his blacks so he can feel underneath them. After remembering how the blacks work he starts yanking at the zipper, frantically trying to untangle his arms from the sleeves. 

 

There’s nothing there. The smooth, unscarred skin of his chest meets his fingertips. There is no pain. He almost feels betrayed by the feedback his eyes and hands are giving him. 

 

In that moment of blinding light, Fives had been so certain that he had been shot. 

 

When he looks up from his own chest, he realizes that the room is silent. Rex is passed out on the floor, an empty hypo in Coric’s hand. The silence stretches on, only broken by the sounds of Fives abruptly emptying the contents of his stomach onto the floor. 

 


 

Cody storms onto The Resolute, glare murderous enough to make several Vode scatter out of his way. He’s distantly aware of Boil and Waxer apologizing for him as they follow Cody down the hallways like an honor guard. 

 

The MedBay is mostly empty when he gets there, the three Jettise sitting on cots and shrinking under Kix’s scathing lecture. The three of them seem to be covered in soot and foam, and General Skywalker is missing both his eyebrows. Kenobi has a piece of shrapnel sticking out of his shoulder, and Ahsoka has a bruise forming on the center of her forehead. All three of them are in dirtied medical scrubs and haphazard bandages. 

 

“—enough problems without you lot sneaking out of my MedBay and blowing things up! The Force has done enough! I don’t want you trying to fix him before we—” Kix pauses at his arrival, looking slightly like he’s been caught discussing plans to desert from the GAR. 

 

“At ease Kix,” Cody strides into the room with his shoulders squared and his chin high. His eyes scan the room, looking for Rex. Unfortunately, the MedBay is completely devoid of any blond-haired menaces. 

 

Ponds was right. Something horrible happened here. And now Rex is missing

 

“Captain Rex is recovering in his quarters, Commander. Coric is with him,” Kix immediately picks up on his anxiety. Cody’s shoulders deflate with relief. 

 

Kix’s comm beeps, the medic answering with a curse. “Ruin my rotation, Sergeant,” he says, eyes flicking over to Cody.

 

“Gladly. I need you over here. A… situation came up,” Coric responds. Kix sighs deeply. Cody frowns.

 

“What do I need to bring?” 

 

“Bandages, suture kit, painkillers, cleaning wipes, a new door lock, and your sharp tongue,” Coric lists. 

 

Kix groans. “I’m on my way,” he grabs his medkit and pauses at the door. “Could you keep an eye on them, Commander? They’ve already escaped the MedBay once.”

 

“I’ve got them Kix.” The medic gives a grateful nod before schooling his face into a murderous scowl and marching off down the hallway with a demeanor that would make even veterans flinch. It really is an art, Cody thinks to himself. 

 

He takes a deep breath before leveling the Jettise with his own stern look of disappointment, feeling some satisfaction when they shrink on themselves. “Would one of you like to explain what in the Sith Hells has been going on?” 

 

“Commander Cody,” Obi-wan starts. “It’s… a Force thing. Difficult to explain, even harder to understand.” Anakin and Ahsoka nod, eager to let Obi-wan talk for them. Cowards. 

 

Cody raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. He grabs one of the hover stools Kix and Coric sometimes have floating around, sitting with his hands crossed. “We have plenty of time for you to figure out how to explain it so that I will understand, sir,” he says bluntly. “And none of us are going anywhere until I get an answer. I was told that your shuttle lost contact with The Resolute for approximately thirty seconds. What happened during that time?” 

 

None of the Jettise will look him in the eye. Cody stares, waiting for one of the Jettise to give in. He carefully selects several emotions to let through his mental shields, a curated mix of disappointment, worry for Rex, and anger that they are hiding something important from him. “He’s my brother,” Cody finally pleads. 

 

Ahsoka sighs, burying her face into her hands. “We went to Mortis,” she murmurs. 

 

From there the story unfolds, the Jettise talking of a strange conduit in The Force, guarded by three Force Beings that were interested in Skywalker. They talk about how Rex got thrown off a cliff, how Obi-wan, Ahsoka, and Rex were held hostage as part of a test, how Rex was captured as they were leaving. How his little brother was corrupted and controlled by the Dark Side of the Force, how he fought against the Jettise and nearly won before Rex broke free of the Son’s control. How they woke up in the shuttle as if nothing had happened at all, except for the various injuries they all sported. 

 

Cody sighs. Just once, he wants the Jettise to go on a normal mission. And to not drag Rex into their dangerous Force-osik. He’s going to start aging even faster if his vod’ika gets this close to dying every time he’s on the field. Cody is going to make sure that the 212th and 501st get assigned together on the next mission. He’s not letting his vod’ika out of his sight until he’s sure Rex can actually take care of himself. 

 

Obi-wan clears his throat, breaking Cody out of his thoughts. “Commander, we will need to make a trip to Ilum sometime before our next assignment.”

 

Cody narrows his eyes. “And why is that, General?” 

 

Obi-wan has the decency to look embarrassed as he scratches the back of his head and avoids eye contact. “In the battle against Son it… appears I may have lost my lightsaber.”

 

Cody wants to bash his head against a wall. He feels his eye twitch. This is the third time this month that Obi-wan has lost his lightsaber, for kark’s sake! He’s about to weld the Sith’s-damned thing to his General’s hand because even cadets have better sense than to lose their weapons like this.  

 

Instead of screaming and crying like he wants to, Cody looks Obi-wan dead in the eyes. “You’re grounded.”

 


 

Rex wakes with all the suddenness of a drowning man finally breaking the surface of water—with sharp, ragged relief and a lingering sense of panic. His eyes snap open, blurry with tears and desperate to ground himself in something familiar. He comes face to face with Cody, who is still asleep. His ori’vod’s forehead is pressed into his own, arms wrapped protectively around him, shielding him against the wall. 

 

Cody is here. 

 

Rex blinks, tries to shift so that he can get a better sense of his surroundings. He’s still in his quarters on The Resolute, the lights dimmed and a medkit open on his desk. Kix is here too, sitting in a chair and reading something on his datapad. As if sensing Rex’s gaze, the medic looks up to meet his eyes. 

 

“You’re awake,” the medic confirms, voice tinged with surprise. “Can you hear me? Do you know where you are? Are you in pain?” The questions swim in and out of Rex’s head, and he tries to blink them into some semblance of order. 

 

“Kix?” Force, his throat feels raw. 

 

The medic nods, relief clear in his expression. He looks like he wants to say something, only to close his mouth. With a sigh, he shakes Cody awake. His ori’vod’s grip on him grows tighter, a possessive hug, before the Commander’s eyes open. His expression immediately lights up with joy to see Rex awake, pulling them both up into a sitting position. Rex’s head swims as he adjusts to the new orientation, and a spot above his right temple throbs. 

 

“Commander, I need to give the Captain a check up now that he’s awake,” Kix informs. “Would you mind grabbing a meal from the mess? Make sure you eat something yourself as well.” Cody looks like he wants to protest, but he acquiesces rather quickly, giving Rex a keldabe before exiting the room. 

 

Kix waits several seconds to make sure Cody is adequately gone before he reaches for something at his feet, approaching the bed a moment later with a cup of ice chips. “Are you up to answering some questions? You don’t need to speak, just nod for yes and shake for no,” Kix’s voice is oddly gentle, and Rex tries not to dwell on it too much. He nods, sighing in relief as the first ice chip starts to melt in his mouth. 

 

“Are you in pain?” Rex has to seriously consider the question. Pain has been a constant companion as of late, so it hasn’t been unusual to wake up with some level discomfort. But now that he’s consciously feeling for it, his hands do sting, and his head aches, and there is something deep in his gut that seems to pulsate between sharp and dull pain, flaring with little breaths. He feels heavy and disoriented, like his senses have been muffled or dulled, and he can’t tell if it is the side effect of drugs or something else. It feels like he is missing something integral, like a limb or organ is gone and forcing the rest of his body to compensate, leaving a painful absence. 

 

His head is strangely quiet. 

 

He can’t feel—

 

“Rex?”

 

Reluctantly, he nods yes. Kix blinks, apparently surprised by Rex’s honesty in the matter. Rex can admit that he usually makes the medic’s job more difficult than it needs to be, considering his tendencies to downplay an injury if he can’t outright ignore it in order to avoid the MedBay. But right now he’s too tired to be stubborn. He just wants to get this over with so he can go back to sleep where the pain can’t reach him. 

 

Where he doesn’t have to think about what is wrong with him. 

 

Unfortunately, Kix seems to be concerned at this development, if the downward tilt of his mouth and the tightening of his brow is any indicator. The medic grabs a scanner, and Rex tries not to flinch as the light spears straight through his skull and makes his temple throb again. Kix waits for the diagnostic to load, muttering to himself. The device gives a shrill beep, and Kix scrolls through the feedback with a practiced speed. His brows furrow in concentration—and disappointment, for some odd reason, before he sighs and sets the device down. “Okay, lets get the obvious out of the way: do your hands hurt?” Rex nods, and Kix immediately brings his chair and medkit closer to re-dress them. Rex tries to stifle his gasp as the bloody bandages are gently pulled away from his still raw skin. 

 

The medic stops when he feels Rex tense, looking into his eyes as if searching for permission to continue. After a long, awkward moment, Kix returns to his work. 

 

Rex’s palms look absolutely gruesome, still swollen and shiny with fluid and bacta. Several gashes are starting to form a yellow crust on the edges, and the deepest ones have been sealed with some sort of synthetic material. 

 

“Your hands were too torn up for stitches,” Kix explains, as if sensing Rex’s questions. “Can I administer a local numbing agent?” Rex nods, and then has to shove down the sudden feelings of panic when Kix gets anywhere near him with the hypos. “Deep breaths, Rex. You are safe,” Kix assures him. Rex still can’t make himself relax, his breaths are starting to come faster and thinner, wheezing through his teeth. Kix retreats, letting Rex gather himself. “You don’t have to take the hypos if you don’t want to. I just don’t want you to have to deal with more pain than necessary while I treat your hands,” the medic’s voice is calm, grounding. Rex knows that whatever he chooses, Kix will accept it. 

 

Rex feels ashamed of his panic. He thought he got over these kinds of episodes. Why is it coming back now? He trusts Kix—he does—he shouldn’t be about to spiral into a panic attack because of some painkillers. 

 

Kix is not—

 

With a deep breath, he closes his eyes and holds out his wrists, turning his face away. Rex feels the applicators barely rest against the base of his palms. Without warning the hypos are depressed at the same time, letting out a hiss as the needles prick into his skin. Rex flinches away with a cry, his hands automatically tucked against his chest, breathing harshly. Already he can feel the medication working, draining away the harsh sting and raw ache that comes with flesh wounds. 

 

“Thank you for trusting me Rex, that was very brave of you,” Kix sounds entirely genuine, even though Rex knows he must be annoyed at how Rex is flinching away like a shell-shocked shiny. He’s a kriffing Captain, for kark’s sake. He shouldn’t be—

 

A wave of exhaustion burns through him, the pulsing in his stomach turning sharp and hot. He feels himself sway, blinking rapidly to keep himself awake. 

 

Kix starts to move to catch him, but flinches back before he actually makes contact. “Stay awake, Rex. Can you show me your hands?” 

 

Rex realizes that his hands are still tucked against his chest. Slowly, he unfolds his arms, offering his hands to the medic. Kix pulls them over to rest on his thighs, gently starting to clean them with some sort of cloth. “You won’t be able to use your hands for several rotations yet, until the scabbing is a little thicker and the infection is fully cleared out. With all due respect sir, you are karking lucky sepsis didn’t start to set in.” 

 

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he gives a noncommittal grunt instead. The numbing agent has fully taken effect, leaving his hands slightly tingly but painless. Rex is careful to hold still as Kix goes about debriding the wounds. It’s slightly fascinating to watch, his hands not even feeling like his hands. He tries to remember what caused the injury in the first place, but thinking just makes his head throb and his stomach flare with pain. “Ki—ngh” he hunches over himself with a groan. Kix’s head snaps up, nearly hitting Rex in the face. 

 

The medic hesitates, watching Rex intently, eyes wide with concern. He tries to breathe through the strange pulsating feeling originating in his gut. “Rex, what hurts? Is it your hands?” Rex shakes his head, the motion making the pain in his temple spike blindingly. The lights are too bright, his vision white spotting. If Kix is saying anything he can’t hear it any more. All he can do is curl up so that his forehead is pressed into his knees, eyes squeezed shut as he grits his teeth and bears through it. 

 

And then, as quickly as it had come, the pain ends. He straightens up and blinks, his vision slowly adjusting. Kark, he feels drained, like a leaking canteen. Or a cadet put through ARC training. Something is deeply wrong with him. But the part of him that should be concerned is too tired to care. He offers his hands out to Kix again, but the medic doesn’t make any moves to continue treating them.

 

“Rex—“ Kix cuts himself off, clearly torn about something. He sighs, taking Rex’s hands and beginning to smear a thick layer of bacta over the wounds. With a distracted hum, Kix grabs a roll of thin bandages, his movements quick and artful as he winds the bandages securely around his hands, the thin strips of cloth never folding or catching where Kix doesn’t want them to. He ties off the bandages and tapes the ends in place before admiring his work. 

 

“There. What else hurts?” Rex shakes his head, ignoring the way his temple throbs in response. He’ll be fine. He just needs to sleep off… whatever this is. Kix purses his lips, clearly sensing the lie. Thankfully, Kix doesn’t press for once. 

 

“Do you think you can stay awake to eat something?” Rex shakes his head. The movement sends black spots cascading across his vision. Eating sounds too exhausting at the moment. Everything sounds exhausting. He’s so, so tired. “Rex? Can you— Rex!” The last thing he sees is Kix lunging to catch him as he lists sideways towards the floor. 

 


 

“—just passed out on me after his eyes kept lighting up like kriffing flashlights. The scanner isn’t picking up anything wrong with him other than his hands, but he’s clearly in pain, Coric, even if his stubborn di’kutla shebs tried to deny it after practically folding in half.” 

 

Coric sighs, slumping into his chair on the command deck of the training room. Nothing can ever be simple and straightforward anymore, can it? Below him, the miscreants are still running laps. Fives has already thrown up several times, likely because he keeps skipping hard conditioning days whenever Rex is out of commission and can’t drag him down to the training deck—an unfortunately common occurrence as of late. Hardcase is also starting to look a bit green, though Jesse and Echo are still both holding strong. Span is sprawled and unmoving on the floor at the finish line, already done with his reduced punishment of 20 laps. 

 

“I don’t know what to tell you Kix. Did the Jettise have any ideas?” 

 

“Master Che says there’s nothing she can do until we get to Coruscant, and none of our Jettise are trained in Force-healing. General Skywalker is worried though. He said that something seems to be leeching at Rex, but he can’t find the source.” Coric curses softly. Below him, Hardcase finally stumbles off to the side to puke into the nearest waste bin. Fives catches up to join him. Rex is always telling them to take their conditioning seriously. Maybe now they will finally listen. 

 

“Coric, how much longer are you going to make us run?” Fives whines. 

 

“Until you di’kuts understand that when Kix and I tell you to leave our patient alone, it’s an order, not a suggestion. Now keep going.” 

 


 

Rex’s eyes are wide as the strange blade is buried into his stomach and out his back, the plastoid unresisting. The tall man who stabbed him taps two fingers to his forehead, Rex crumpling like a rope was cut, releasing all the tension holding him together. The ground trembles and writhes. The Force wails—

 

Clover jolts awake, biting down on his tongue to cut off his screams. He slaps a hand over his mouth, trying to muffle the sound of his sobs as he forces his breathing back under control. Hands are on him, suffocating even as they try to bring him comfort. 

 

He’s been having this dream all week, unrelenting. Even though Commander Ponds was able to confirm that Captain Rex is actually alive, Clover can still feel grief tearing through The Force like a raw wound. He’s mostly running on caf and spite at this point, and he knows his adopted batch-mates are getting concerned. None of them have said anything about him continually waking them all up over what seems to be a false alarm. They have even started taking shifts on who will stay up with him after the dream hits, just to make sure he’s not suffering alone. 

 

It’s fortunate that they are on leave. If this was in the middle of a campaign, Clover would be putting his whole team at risk. He’d never forgive himself if one of his squad-mates got injured or killed because they were sleep deprived. Because Clover couldn’t get his act together. 

 

“Clover? Are you with us?” Stars pokes his forehead. It must be his turn to make sure Clover isn’t having a complete mental breakdown. “Let’s get some tea.” Clover sighs and nods, rolling out of his bunk to join Stars. The lights are bright in the hallway, disorienting after laying in the near darkness. Clover feels drunk as he tries to walk with his eyes shielded and squinted almost completely closed. 

 

The kitchen is quiet, and Stars thankfully dims the lights to something more bearable. Clover watches silently as Stars dances around the kitchen, heating up water and pulling cups and tea out of the cupboard. “Do you want ‘Alderaanian Peppermint and Chamomile’ or ‘Corellian Spice’? we also have ‘Night on Naboo,’ whatever that means,” Stars says, already measuring out a cup of peppermint and chamomile for himself. “Oh, we also have—“

 

“Night on Naboo is fine,” Clover says absentmindedly. He can’t remember what is in it—hopefully nothing too fruity. He flexes his cybernetic hand, entranced by the movement. General Skywalker really went above and beyond when he built the prosthetic, making sure he could retain a full range of movement and sensation. If he doesn’t think about it, it’s almost as if he never lost the hand at all. 

 

It’s more than a clone like him deserves. It’s grossly unfair, that he was somehow considered special, considered worthy, when so many of his brothers weren’t— 

 

A steaming cup is set before him with a gentle clack, Stars taking the seat next to him. “Same dream again?” He tries to keep his voice light and conversational, but Clover can hear the concern underneath. 

 

“I don’t know what I’m missing,” Clover taps the side of his cup, not yet taking a sip. “The last time I had a Vision like this, it was trying to tell me that ’67 was still alive. But now I keep seeing his death, and The Force aches, as if this has already happened.” 

 

“Well, what have you done about it?” Stars asks expectantly. 

 

Clover frowns, confused. “What do you mean?”

 

Stars blushes, looking embarrassed.“I’m not going to pretend that I understand how all this Force osik works, but, well, General Windu meditates a lot, right? Or he goes to talk with other Jetti Masters to see if they can help him interpret what The Force is trying to tell him,” Stars shrugs and takes a sip of his tea. “Maybe you just have to look a little deeper, or ask someone to help you.”

 

Clover stares. Put that way, the answer seems so obvious, he can’t possibly imagine why he didn’t think to do it sooner. Stars laughs at the ridiculous expression that is surely on his face. “Your tea is going to get cold,” he warns, taking a sip from his own cup. Clover automatically takes a sip of lukewarm tea, grimacing at the overly sweet fruity taste that accompanies a floral herbal flavor. 

 

Should have gone for the Corellian Spice. 

 

“If it makes you feel better, you’ve been under a lot of stress the last few rotations, not to mention I doubt you’ve gotten any real sleep. It makes sense that your brain isn’t functioning at peak form at the moment,” Stars says, trying to sound like he isn’t a mind reader. 

 

“Are you sure you also don’t have The Force?” Clover accuses lightly. 

 

“Nope, just a slightly less sleep-deprived brain,” Stars finishes the rest of his tea in one large gulp. “Now, do you need me for this next part, or can I go back to bed?”

 

Clover places a hand over his heart in mock offense. “You’re only helping me so you can go back to sleep?” 

 

Stars yawns, stretching his arms above his head in theatrical exaggeration. “Yep,” he stands, bracing his hands on his hips and leaning backwards to stretch his back before twisting and making his spine crack audibly. “I’m getting old and need my six hours. We can’t all be insomniacs like you and Luk’ie.”

 

“We have the same genetic code.” 

 

“Clearly not, or I would have The Force. Do you still want that tea, or do you want me to make you a cup of Corellian Spice before you go off to do your Jetti osik?” Clover hands him the mostly full cup of tea, grimacing at it with disappointment. Stars drinks it in one long swallow. 

 

“Normally, I would make fun of you for this, but you’ve had a long rotation, so just this once I am letting you off the hook,” Stars heats up more water, pulling out the tin of Corellian Spice and grumbling as several other boxes fall out. 

 

“Thank you,” Clover says dryly, watching Stars with amusement as he bumbles around the kitchen area. 

 

He closes his eyes and tries to reach into The Force, to sense Stars without seeing or hearing him. There is something warm but indiscriminate. The Force is much cloudier here on Coruscant, hard to see through. He wonders if it has to do with the sheer number of people living on the planet, if there’s just too many Force-signatures that everything blends together like a forrest of trees from a distance. He frowns. 

 

There’s something hazy, like the burned edges of unconsciousness. He reaches for it, trying to see clearer—

 

A new cup of warm tea is placed in front of him, startling Clover out of his trance. “Try not to let it go cold this time?” Stars pats him on the shoulder before making his way back to their barracks. 

 

Clover takes a sip, sighing at the much more agreeable taste of the spiced tea. He picks up the cup and moves towards the lounge area, settling on the floor with his legs crossed under him. He dips into The Force like sinking into a river, letting the current guide him where it will. 

 

Rex’s eyes are wide as the strange blade is buried into his stomach and out his back, the plastoid unresisting. The tall man who stabbed him taps two fingers to his forehead, Rex crumpling like a rope was cut, releasing all the tension holding him together. The Force wails—

 

Clover flinches out of his trance, gasping for breath and angrily wiping the tears from his face. After he is calm, Clover reluctantly settles back into his sitting position, opening himself up to The Force once again. 

 

Rex’s eyes are wide as the strange blade is buried into his stomach and out his back, the plastoid unresisting. The tall man who stabbed him taps two fingers to his forehead, Rex crumpling—

 

He springs to his feet, pacing as his hands dig through his hair as he forces down nausea. He nearly kicks over the cup of tea, and quickly picks it up and moves it onto a small table. He can do this. He can figure out what this Vision is trying to tell him. Clover just needs to stay calm and trust in The Force to guide him towards the answer he’s looking for. He sinks into The Force one more time, releases his fear and anticipation. A sense of peace washes over him, anchoring him amid the swirling emotions and grief of The Force.

 

He lets the Vision come to him, and when it does Clover doesn’t let himself flinch away.  

 

Rex’s eyes are wide as the strange blade is buried into his stomach and out his back, the plastoid unresisting. The blue in his eyes flickers, wavers, dims. 

 

The tall man who stabbed him taps two fingers to his forehead. The eyes roll up, Rex collapsing as the blade is pulled out. The dagger seems to be some strange energy made into a physical thing. Blood drips from the edge, and Clover sees now that the tip is broken. 

 

 The ground trembles and writhes. The Force wails—

 

And Clover comes back to himself, perfectly calm. 

 

“Kark,” he breathes. 

 

His tea has gone cold again. 

 


 

With all the Jettise and Rex on medical leave, Cody is currently running both the 212th and the 501st. 

 

If they ever do this to him again, there will be murder. Either Cody will die, or he will kill a man. 

 

The last couple rotations have been hectic, to say the least. Cody doesn’t ever think he has seen so much flimsiwork in his life. Jesse offered to help him with it, and Cody almost said yes. He’s also in charge of training, assigning shifts, making inspections, filing requisitions, running safety drills, and coordinating their route to Coruscant. He’s pulling triple shifts to get everything done, but the to-do-list seems to grow rather than shrink.

 

Caf is the only thing keeping him going at the moment. Caf and spite.  

 

Rex is always sleeping when Cody stops by, or Kix and Coric won’t let him in because his brother just had an episode—whatever that is supposed to mean. Both Kix and Coric look exhausted, searching for the cause of his vod’ika’s distress. The scanner isn’t picking anything up, but something is making Rex waste away. 

 

The Jettise seem to believe that it has something to do with The Force, but even they can’t figure out what the cause is or how to fix it. 

 

This is Valtameri all over again, and Cody hates it. 

 

Two rotations out from Coruscant, Cody watches the medics physically throw General Skywalker out of Rex’s quarters. The wailing and screaming is so loud that the Commander can hear it at the end of the hallway. It does not quiet for a long time. 

 

Skywalker looks pale and shaken, sitting dumbly where he was thrown. Staring at nothing. Uncharacteristically silent. 

 

The door is locked when Cody tries it, and the door stays locked for the rest of the rotation, no matter how much Cody pleads and orders. 

 

The next morning, Cody marches to Rex’s door and demands to be let in. Kix grants his request with a weary sigh. 

 

“Caf, Commander?” Cody can’t remember the last time he slept. He nods and gives his thanks. Kix moves to pour him a cup. The caf is just the right temperature of scalding hot, though slightly sweet, and with an unusual aftertaste. 

 

It isn’t until halfway through the cup that Cody realizes that he has been tricked, but by then it is too late. Gentle fingers pry the mug from his loosening fingers, guiding him to the floor as he falls asleep. 

 

Unfortunately, now there is no one to stop Jesse from doing flimsiwork.

 


 

“I take it back, this is the worst decision you have made so far,” Echo declares.

 

“Oh relax, Echo,” Fives peers around the corner, making sure the hallway is completely clear of medics. 

 

“If I relax my legs are going to fold,” Echo hisses. “Didn’t you learn your lesson after running laps around the training deck until you physically couldn’t even crawl?” 

 

Fives grimaces and sidesteps that question entirely. His legs are still so sore they feel freshly shredded, his walk reduced to an agonized stiff hobble. “You didn’t see what I did, Echo. There was a kriffing blaster hole in my chest. I could feel it tear through me. But when I tried to take the armor off there was nothing there.”

 

Echo looks away, staring at the sheet plating on the wall. “I felt myself lose my legs,” he murmurs. “And my arm,” he holds up his right hand, “in an explosion.”  

 

Fives feels something in him shrivel, replaced with horror. “W-what? Why didn’t you say anything?!” 

 

“You were busy panicking over being shot, I obviously still had my limbs attached, and then we were running laps until our legs gave up and Coric was concerned about dehydration because of how much you and Hardcase were throwing up.” Fives’ stomach twists unhappily at the reminder. “Which is why this is a bad idea.” 

 

Fives rolls his eyes. “Again, you don’t have to be here.” 

 

“Whose going to keep you from doing something stupid if I leave?” Echo challenges. 

 

“Fives, Echo, looking for something to do?” Kix pops out of karking nowhere, sounding half-annoyed, half resigned, and half disappointed. Fives startles and very bravely does not shriek like a natborn. Echo just buries his face into his hands and groans. 

 

“Kix! What a surprise meeting you here!” Fives chuckles innocently. 

 

Kix raises an eyebrow, entirely unimpressed. “Outside of the Captain’s quarters?” Kix drags his hands down his face, heaving a great sigh. “I should assign you more laps and fresher duty just for lacking the common sense to avoid the Captain’s room after Coric and I have repeatedly told you to stay away,” he snaps. “Unfortunately, I was about to summon you di’kuts anyway.” 

 

Fives and Echo share a look of surprise as Kix ushers them into the room. Fives subtly hides his lock scrambler in his belt. 

 

Rex’s quarters are still dim, and smell faintly of sweat and sickness. In the far corner by the desk and the door leading to the fresher Commander Cody is awkwardly draped on one of the cots typically used in a Med tent on campaign. 

 

Kix sees their quizzical looks and mutters, “I want to know what CCs are fed, they have no right to be so kriffing heavy.” 

 

“Did you—Did you actually—“ Fives can’t finish the sentence.

 

“Did you drug the Marshall Commander?!” Echo says for him. 

 

“His officers warned me that he wasn’t sleeping so I spiked his caf,” Kix confirms, remorseless. 

 

“What did you need us for, Kix?” Echo asks. 

 

“I need to treat Rex’s hands, and it helps if he has someone there to ground him and keep him calm. I’ve been asking Jesse to do it, but apparently the di’kut was up all night doing flimsiwork, so I drugged him as well and dragged him back to the barracks. The Commander should still be in the MedBay if she knows what’s good for her, and Skywalker will get shot at if he so much as pokes his head into the room without permission.” 

 

Fives and Echo exchange a look. “Glad to know we were your first option Kix,” Fives says. 

 

“I was only going to ask for Echo, but since you were already here I cut my losses before you broke down the door again,” Kix says bluntly. “If you stress out the Captain I will make you clean out the bacta tanks and scrub the floor of the MedBay with a toothbrush,” he adds.

 

Kix goes and shakes Rex awake. It’s alarming how gaunt the Captain looks, face pale and eyes ringed with dark circles, faded bruises across his skin. Rex blinks tiredly, eyes flicking between Kix and the twins. 

 

“I need to treat your hands again, Rex. Is it okay if Echo and Fives sit with you?” Rex’s eyes shift between the three of them, hesitant. After several seconds, he finally gives a small nod. When Fives and Echo move to sit on either side of him, the Captain flinches. It breaks Fives’ heart to see Rex worn down like this. 

 

Rex is shaking as he holds out his hands towards Kix. The medic gently but quickly unwraps the Captain’s hands and injects two hypos into the bases of his palms. Rex flinches back and lets out a cry, his eyes wide and breathing ragged. His eyes start to flash white, guttering like a bulb about to burn out. 

 

“Kark,” Kix says. “Catch him.” Fives quickly moves to grab Rex as he sags, panting heavily. He lets out a whimper and weakly tries to curl into a ball, eyes glowing white. “I’ll be good,” he whispers hoarsely. “I know the rules,” He murmurs something else that Fives can’t make out before he goes completely limp. Echo lets out a strangled noise, leaping up and rushing to the fresher. The sound of gagging follows a second later. 

 

Rex’s eyes flicker open and he lets out a whine, his knees coming up to curl into a ball. 

 

Echo rushes back in a minute later, pulling the Captain into his lap and wrapping him into a hug, one hand running through his sweaty hair. Rex is trembling against him, still muttering deliriously. “It’s okay Rex, she can’t hurt you. We’re on The Resolute. I know it hurts, but Kix is just trying to help, you’re okay, we just want to help the pain go away,” Echo has tears streaming down his cheeks. Rex whines and buries his face into Echo’s shoulder, back arching as some unknowable pain runs through him. Echo just holds him and continues to speak soothingly. 

 

Kix takes one of Rex’s hands and starts to clean the wounds, grunting when Rex makes a wounded sound and tries to tug his hand away. 

 

“It’s okay Rex! You’re okay,” Echo says fervently. “Just focus on my voice. I’m here. You are not alone. We’ve got the watch. You don’t have to try to be strong right now.” 

 

Fives doesn’t know what to do. He feels useless sitting here while Echo tries to comfort and Kix tries to heal. Fives was never good at either of those things. He wants to help, but he doesn’t know how.

 

So he opens his mouth and says the first thing that comes to mind. “Hey Cap, did I ever tell you the story of how Echo and I graduated?”

 

“Really, you think this is the time for that?” Echo says incredulously. 

 

But Rex has stopped burying his face into Echo to look at Fives, confusion replacing his fear. Slowly, he shakes his head no. 

 

“Would you believe me if I told you that we almost failed?” Fives pauses and considers. “Actually, we did fail. Quite spectacularly.” Fives launches into the story, talking about Domino Squad, and how much they struggled to work together. He talks about their failed pre-graduation test, and how Echo and Hevy actually came to fists over how to properly follow orders before their instructor broke it up and threatened to have them reassigned to maintenance duty if they didn't get their act together. 

 

“You’d think that was our sign to shape up and figure something out, but we were too stubborn for common sense, I suppose. So naturally when it came time for our graduation test the next day, it didn’t go well. Droidbait got hit pretty early on, and Hevy tried to leave him behind. We got quite the lecture for that one, but somehow we were permitted to retake the test. I think the GAR just needed the soldiers. And we were all capable soldiers, you just couldn’t tell because we weren’t a team yet.” 

 

So Fives talks about how Echo and Fives tried to transfer to Bravo Squad, who had already passed their test, and how Hevy almost went AWOL before 99 found him and reminded him about brotherhood. 

 

“We didn’t really have a leader, and I think that made us directionless. I mean, Hevy was technically our Squad leader, but he kinda ran off and did his own thing instead of actually giving us orders. We were five people trying to complete the same objective, but we weren’t trying to reach it together, if you know what I mean. But Hevy came back from his talk with 99, he sat us down, and he asked us for ideas. He said ‘we know what the battlefield is going to look like, and we took the test once before. If we put together what we learned the first time, we can form a plan and have a fighting chance.’ So we finally talked like a team, put together a plan like a team, and we went out onto the field like a team with a plan that you would have been proud of. After all, Echo made a good chunk of it, and Hevy and I added our own flares to it. Definitely something Generally Skywalker would have approved of. Anyway, the plan actually worked for once, and we got to the base of the tower before we realized that none of us had our ascension cables. If we had done a proper gear check, we probably would have figured that out sooner, but we were a bit more focused on not being late because we lost track of time planning our attack.” 

 

Rex is still listening, focused entirely on Fives words. Meanwhile, Kix had returned to gently cleaning and re-wrapping Rex’s hands. 

 

So Fives tells him how they used the wall-turrets like a ladder, successfully climbing the citadel and grabbing the beacon, passing the test. 

 

“Hevy,” Rex’s voice cracks. “Hevy said to tell you both not to die too soon, or he’ll kick your shebse.”

 

Tears stream down Fives cheeks. He lets out a surprised laugh. Hevy would definitely say something like that. 

 

“You saw him?” Echo asks softly. 

 

Rex hums and closes his eyes. “He’s not mad at me for letting him die,” he whispers.

 

“Oh Rex,” Echo hugs the Captain tighter. “We never blamed you. Hevy made his choice.”

 

“He…really hated that base,” Fives agrees through a new wave of tears. “Probably was overjoyed to have the honor of blowing it up himself.” 

 

Rex’s head dips forward, the Captain completely limp. 

 

“Oh kark, Kix I think he just passed out,” Echo worries. 

 

Kix shakes his head. “He just fell asleep. This whole ordeal has been tiring for him,” The medic gave Fives a weird look. “How did you know that telling him a story would calm him down?” 

 

“I didn’t,” Fives admits. “I just wanted to help and I didn’t know what else to do.” 

 

Kix nods, considering. “Thank you. It’s been hard to keep him calm enough to change the bandages, and sometimes I’ve been forced to sedate him, which doesn’t help.” Echo makes a distressed noise, running a soothing hand through Rex’s hair. 

 

"Are you alright, Echo? Did you see something?” Fives remembers the way Echo bolted for the fresher partway through Rex’s episode. 

 

“Y-yeah, I’m alright. That was just… a lot,” Echo looks pale, his eyes stubbornly focused on Rex. “I’m never letting him step foot on Kamino again,” he tightens his hold almost possessively. Rex lets out a quiet groan but doesn’t wake. 

 

“What did you see?” 

 

Echo growls. “He was strapped to a table, writhing in unbearable pain, and that Sith’s-damned Kaminoan standing over him made Rex thank her,” Echo is shaking now, fresh tears streaming down his cheeks. “I thought I was going to die, that my bones were disintegrating, and when Rex had the audacity to scream, she grabbed his head and smashed it against the table until he stopped.” 

 

Kix’s eyes are wide. “Is that what he’s seeing every time I treat him?” The medic looks positively nauseous. 

 

Fives looks at Rex, held protectively in Echo’s arms, and wonders how the kriff the Captain manages to endure, how he hasn’t crumpled under the weight of his own suffering. Rex is young, only half a standard cycle older than Echo and Fives. 

 

He’s the strongest man Fives has ever met. 

 

Fives remembers how he felt on Rishi, how his life was falling apart before it had ever had a chance to start. And Rex walked into their absolute dumpster fire of a situation, all confident swagger and cool resolve, taking over and giving them hope that they would survive whatever the Separatists threw at them. And the moment Rex realized Hevy never followed them out of the base, Fives had seen all of that crumble into something fearful and desperate as they rushed back towards the vents they had crawled out of. 

 

He picked them up from the ashes of their old life. Gave them a home in Torrent, made them the soldiers and the men they are today. Fives owes Rex everything. He doesn’t know if he can ever repay the Captain for what he has done. But he resolves to try. 

 

If Fives can carry even a little of the weight Rex carries on his shoulders, at the very least he won’t have to carry it alone. 

 


 

The moment he is finally released from the MedBay, Obi-wan rushes to his quarters on the The Negotiator. 

 

It’s gone. All of it. 

 

The shelf he keeps all of his tea on has been stripped bare, all 20 boxes. All that remains is a small piece of flimsy with a strip of adhesive on the back, a very disappointed frowny face drawn onto the surface. 

 

Looking in his closet for his backup stash only reveals another frowny face. Checking the pockets of his spare robes, under the mattress of his bunk, in his pillowcases, the vents, and even the loose metal plates in the floor all yield the same result: more frowny faces, and no tea.

 

There’s no tea in the kitchen. There’s no tea stashed in Commander Cody’s quarters or office. None of his men seem to have any clue what tea is or where Obi-wan might find some. 

 

Fast, efficient, and ruthless. Obi-wan has always known he didn’t want to be Commander Cody’s enemy. 

 

Obi-wan sinks to his knees in defeat, and prepares to grovel. 

 


 

“No.” Cody says. 

 

“My dear Commander, technically it has been a week, don’t you think I have already served my punishment?” 

 

“Not at all, sir.”

 

“Come now, Commander, be reasonable.” 

 

Cody’s eyes flash. “I told you one week if you or Rex ended up in the MedBay. Not only did you and Rex end up in the MedBay, so did General Skywalker and Commander Tano, which means I have been running this ship practically by myself. And,” Cody continues dangerously, “this is the third time you have lost your lightsaber this month. So, my dear General, I believe that it is more than reasonable if you must wait seven weeks before you see even a drop of tea.”

 

“Cody, my dear, you can’t be serious!” Obi-wan exclaims. 

 

Cody levels him with a dead stare. “On the contrary, you will find that I am perfectly serious. Make better choices next time.”

 


 

“I have called you all here today to answer an important question: what are we telling The Council?” Obi-wan asks. 

 

“We can’t tell them about Rex,” Anakin says immediately. 

 

“Anakin, no one here is going to tell them about Rex. We need to figure out what we say so that the Council doesn’t find out about Rex,” Obi-wan says exasperatedly. 

 

“We tell them that we found nothing,” Anakin says. Obi-wan smacks his head and sighs.

 

“That won’t work for several reasons. Firstly, there would be no reason to request that we give our report to the Council in person if we found nothing. Second, all of us are still an obvious degree of injured, which means that something clearly happened.”  

 

“Maybe we can tell them what we told Commander Cody?” Ahsoka suggests. 

 

“Perhaps, but The Council won’t let the fact that the Captain was corrupted by the Dark Side go lightly. They may request some tests to make sure The Son’s influence was entirely purged,” Obi-wan strokes his beard. 

 

“Absolutely not! We can’t let the Council experiment on Rex!” Anakin stands up, waving his arms wildly and wincing when his movement pulls at his thigh. 

 

“Calm down Anakin!” Obi-wan snaps. “I was not suggesting that we let the Council experiment on him. Be patient and listen to what I’m saying before freaking out!” 

 

“Sorry, Master,” Anakin says, properly chastised. 

 

“We’ll also need to explain why Rex isn’t at the debrief with us,” Ahsoka muses. “Master Che already knows that Rex has The Force, but we could tell the Council that we were concerned about lingering effects from The Son possessing him. That way, Rex can see Master Che, and the Council won’t need to request any tests because Master Che would have done them already.” 

 

“With Master Che’s agreement, that could work,” Obi-wan agrees. 

 

“Good thinking Snips,” Anakin praises. Ahsoka beams in response. 

 

From there they hammer out the details of their report, trying to keep it as close to truth as possible, drawing as little attention to the times Rex used The Force as possible. Obi-wan feels that as long as they stick to the plan, the report will go fine. 

 

Of course, sticking to the plan is something Anakin couldn’t achieve under pain of death, so perhaps Obi-wan should start worrying. 

 

“Anakin, could you repeat the story back to me?” Anakin proceeds to stumble through the story and say something that would imply that Rex did in fact have The Force on three separate occasions. 

 

Who is he kidding, they are doomed. 

 


 

One of the vode from the 187th is there to greet The Resolute as it docks, demanding to see Kix. 

 

“Look kid, our medic’s busy right now. If you want his advice or his signature or something you are going to have to come back some other time,” Jesse has had a rough week full of flimsiwork and trying to help the medics with Rex and pulling all-nighters to do even more flimsiwork and help with Rex. He’s been forced to do work that is frankly above his rank, and even worse he has had to deal with more responsibility than he has ever wanted to have while watching the vod he admires most fall apart. If this week has taught him anything, it is that he will do several legal things and possibly several illegal things to prevent being promoted to Captain. Also that Rex deals with a lot more osik than should ever be allowed. 

 

In short, Jesse doesn’t want to deal with whatever this is right now. He wants to get through the docking procedure so shore leave can start and he can get drunk at 79s. 

 

“I have the same rank as you,” the vod huffs. “And I told you, it’s urgent. A matter of life and death. Just tell Kix that Lieutenant Clover needs to speak with him.” 

 

Jesse sighs. “Doesn’t the 187th have their own medic?” 

 

The vod groans in frustration and yanks off his helmet. The kid has dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, looking slightly like a lunatic. “You don’t understand! I’m trying to save your Captain’s life and you aren’t listening to me!” 

 

Jesse feels his heart stop. “What do you mean?” He says sharply.

 

“I know what’s wrong with him!” The vod claims. “So take me to you medic.” 

 

Jesse swallows and nods, gesturing for Clover to follow him onto The Resolute. 

 


 

Rex wakes up to Master Che leaning over him with a concerned frown, hands resting over his stomach. 

 

He is tired. Already, the urge to sleep is pulling him back under. He aches like a limb has been cut off, like there is a hole that can’t be filled. 

 

Rex thinks he might be dying. 

 

“It is there, as Lieutenant Clover said,” Master Che confirms. 

 

“How could the Jettise have missed this!” Kix snaps. 

 

“Peace, Healer Kix. Your Jettise are not trained Force healers. Even I am struggling to sense the disturbance in his Force Signature, dim as it is now. Without Lieutenant Clover’s help, I am not sure I would have been able to find it,” Master Che says calmly. 

 

“Rex has been suffering this whole time and I couldn’t figure out what the cause was! The scanner wouldn’t pick up anything! The Jettise just said that something was wrong but they didn’t know what! He is dying, Master Che! And the whole time it was because that thing was lodged in him and the Jettise couldn’t find it.”

 

A burning, pulsating pain radiates from his stomach. Rex makes a strangled noise. Immediately, a hand is on his forehead, running through his hair. He leans into the motherly touch. “Captain Rex, are you awake?” He nods, not having the energy to speak. Master Che moves so that she is looking him directly in the eyes. Her expression is sorrowful. “The blade that you were stabbed with is broken inside of you. I believe that this is the cause of your current lethargy and what has cut off your connection with The Force. I need to remove the foreign object as quickly as possible. Do I have your permission to begin surgery immediately?” 

 

When was Rex stabbed? He tries to remember, but it just makes his head hurt. Kix lets out a curse. Rex just wants to sleep. He’s tired. 

 

Doesn’t he deserve to rest?  

 

“As his medic, I am giving you permission to operate,” Kix says. 

 

“Captain,” Master Che says urgently. “You are too weak to receive sedatives or heavy painkillers. If I operate, I can only put you in a medical trance. Do I have your permission?” 

 

The words feel so far away. Everything has a distinct edge of unrealness, as if nothing is happening to him. Rex has nothing else to give. He has been scraped empty, an ocean drained dry. Rex has been in pain for so long. He feels himself sink, his vision blacking out. He has been fighting as long as he can remember. Sometimes Rex fears that it is the only thing he is truly good at. The only thing he is good for. 

 

This isn’t something he can fight.

 

So maybe it is time to surrender. 

 

Rex clenches his fist in the affirmative sign and hopes that Kix understands. 

 


 

“Remember, just let me do all the talking,” Obi-wan had whispered outside the doors. 

 

“Okay,” Anakin had agreed. 

 

That deal lasted less than three minutes. A personal record for Anakin, unfortunately. 

 

The second one of the Council members (Krell, it was Master Krell, bitter asshole that he is) started questioning whether Rex’s presence had been necessary after all, Anakin went off on a tangent about how Rex had made several important observations and was able to resist Father’s Suggestion long enough to see his face when their shuttle was commandeered. 

 

Unfortunately, the next part of the debrief details how Rex’s hands had been shredded after being thrown off the mountain, followed by how they split into two groups to get Rex medical treatment. 

 

“I fail to see how the clone was helpful,” Krell sneers. 

 

“It was my fault Rex was in that position to begin with,” Anakin retorts immediately. “And it wasn’t like Obi-wan and Ahsoka could follow me anyway.” 

 

“Anakin, peace,” Obi-wan lightly scolds. “I would ask the Council to hold their comments until we have finished giving our report.” 

 

“Granted,” Mace Windu immediately says. He has been digging his fingers into his skull the entire time, barely able to make eye contact with the group. 

 

Master Krell huffs, but keeps his tongue. Obi-wan continues, making sure to highlight all of Rex’s contributions, especially in bringing Anakin back when he dived too deep into the Conduit. Yoda gives a thoughtful look at that, and only years of practice allow Obi-wan to hide his wince. 

 

The report continues smoothly for all of one minute, until Obi-wan gets to the part where Rex is captured and the three of them chased after Son to retrieve him. 

 

Master Krell scoffs. 

 

Anakin lets out a string of curses so vile it would make Jabba the Hutt flinch. Obi-wan and Ahsoka have to grab him in order to prevent Anakin from approaching Krell and strangling him on sight. 

 

“What’s your problem? If you have something against Captain Rex, say it to my face!” 

 

“Nothing of the sort, Young Skywalker,” Master Krell says aloofly. “I merely worry that you are overly attached to Captain Rex, and that this attachment is clouding your judgment. After all, would it not have been more tactfully sound to escape and leave the Captain behind? Sacrifices of this nature are sometimes necessary, after all, and the clone would have served his purpose.” 

 

Obi-wan sees red. It takes him a full minute to calm down enough to realize that Anakin is shouting. 

 

“—twice the warrior you could hope to be. Rex is my Captain, and he has saved my life more times than I can count!” Anakin exclaims. “Perhaps a slimy, heartless hut’uun like yourself simply can’t understand loyalty—”

 

“Enough, Anakin, let me handle this,” Obi-wan says diplomatically. “Master Krell, make no mistake that it was in our best interest to recover the Captain. Rex is an integral member of the 7th systems army, and one of the best strategic minds in the entire GAR. His input has been invaluable in planning campaigns and formulating counterstrategies. Captain Rex can win a battle with minimal casualties, which is a skill you would be wise to learn.”

 

Krell sputters. 

 

“Furthermore, it would be disgraceful of us to disregard everything Captain Rex has done for the war effort, and to abandon him at his greatest need out of convenience to our person. The Jedi Code forbids attachment, that is true, but it also calls for us to protect and defend all life, and to view it as sacred and precious. The Code does not call for us to make convenient or easy decisions, but rather those that uphold the dignity and honor of life. Therefore, Master Krell, I fail to see your point.” 

 

“Spoken well, Master Kenobi,” Yoda says. “Precious, all life is. Sacrifice unnecessarily, we should not.” 

 

Krell scowls, but doesn’t argue his point further. Instead, he just continues to glare. Obi-wan feels smug satisfaction that he has reduced Master Krell to speechlessness. 

 

Obi-wan continues, watching with sympathy as Mace Windu’s fingers dig deeper and deeper into his temples. Fortunately, he is able to get through the rest of the report without further interruption, though he carefully avoids mentioning that Rex died, rather stating that he was incapacitated after breaking free of Son’s corruption. 

 

“All three Force Beings were killed, and shortly after the four of us woke in the shuttle as if nothing had happened at all. According to our bridge officers on The Resolute, only thirty seconds passed between when we lost contact and when it was reestablished,” he concludes. After a few questions, the three of them are quickly dismissed. 

 

Obi-wan is just glad that nothing caught on fire this time. 

 


 

Rex wakes feeling wrapped in a blanket made of comfort, his mind feeling clearer than it has since they arrived on Mortis. When he turns his head, Kix is there, passed out in a chair. He lets out a small smile, knowing that Coric will be giving the CMO a lecture on hypocrisy. 

 

The strange pulsating pain in his stomach is gone, and it feels like Rex can finally breathe again. 

 

Little One, The Force sings, wrapping tighter around him. Rex hasn’t felt her touch in so long, her absence like a lost limb. He reaches back and bathes in the feeling of warmth and comfort and life. 

 

And then a splitting pain tears through his head, nearly making him go blind. Rex groans and curls up, his hands holding his skull together so that it doesn’t shatter. 

 

“Rex? wha—oh kark!” He feels Kix’s hands on his forehead, then trying to pry his hands away so that he can see what is wrong. “Master Che!” Gentle hands settle over his a minute later, and a soothing coolness flows into him as Master Che guides The Force through his head, trying to locate the cause of his distress. 

 

“Captain, can you guide me to where the pain is localized?” Rex lets out a strangled grunt, memories he didn’t have before washing through him. 

 

“As long as I have you, I've already won,” Son croons into his ear. His shields are torn away to nothing, and Rex is pulled out, something else stuffed in. It feels familiar, like it has always been there, simply waiting for the right moment to take over. 

 

“Kill them,” it whispers. “They are traitors. Kill all of the Jedi. That is your purpose. That is your mission. The nightmare will end when you kill them all.” 

 

“Please Rex, trust me one last time. Let me help you,” Rex wants to trust Anakin. He wants to believe that he can be saved. But then pain explodes from above his right temple. Son prods at the piece of shrapnel in his mind, speaks to the rot and decay that he was born with. 

 

“The Chosen One will join us, or I will kill you. Skywalker won't save you. Because if I can't have you, no one will. I will make sure of it." 

 

Rage runs through him, but even the rage is not his own. He feels nothing, merely a tool meant to be used. Clones were never meant to be people. They were meant to be weapons for a master. His master fills him with rage and he takes it. He takes and he takes and he takes, with no thought to how his body is falling apart. Nothing matters but the mission.  The nightmare will only end when all the Jedi are dead. This is what he was made for. 

 

With sudden clarity, Rex feels as something wrong and dark writhes in his mind. Master Che recoils with a cry, finding a trash bin to throw up in. Rex grabs Kix’s arm, eyes wide with desperation. 

 

“There is something rotting in my head. You have to cut it out.”

Notes:

As always, here are my thoughts writing this chapter, in meme format:

Cody: How the kark did Ponds know that something happened to Rex before I did?
Ponds: *watches two different people who are especially attuned to Force Bullshit TM have spectacular breakdowns and say something about Rex*

Father: I fixed his memories so he won’t know the future
Rex: *memories are scrambled in his head like an egg, having constant breakdowns, can’t access The Force—*
The Force: you fucked up my perfectly good Chosen One is what you did. Look at him, he has anxiety.

Obi-wan: despite having no social skills—
Cody: aren’t you called The Negotiator?
Obi-wan: yeah but I only know how to flirt and show my disappointment in style, I can’t actually hold normal conversations
Anakin: but, you go on all those diplomatic missions—
Obi-wan: ….
Anakin: oh my kark you were flirting with Hondo
Obi-wan: I do not want to talk about this

Cody: I fear no man
*Jesse doing paperwork*
Cody: but that thing, it scares me

Fives and Echo: holy kark, did you actually drug Commander Cody?
Kix: I’ll fuckin’ do it again.

K*ell: the clones are expendable
Anakin: I dare you to say that again, you worthless slug
Kenobi: Anakin, stop, let me handle this
Kenobi: I dare you to say that again, you worthless slug.

 

yeah, I didn't realize just how many scenes involved having a character throw up until I was editing. In my defense, I think throwing up was an appropriate reaction to what Rex had to go through, and also either thinking you got shot, running to collapse, or finding an inhibitor chip that is rotting and overflowing with the Dark Side of The Force.

Also, credit to Fred MAcDuff for the idea of Cody leaving a sticky note with a frowny face when he confiscated Obi-wan's tea stash. I wrote that scene pretty much right after I got the comment, so I have been sitting on that gem for months.

Thank you all for your patience while I take my time to write, it means the world to me that you guys are invested in this story still :) Your comments and kudos give me life, so remember that you are a sentient house plant that needs water and sunlight in order to function. Also, give yourselves a treat.

Hope to have the next chapter out soon, as we will be picking up right where we left off and continuing with the aftermath of Mortis and beginning our descent into the Citadel Arc.

Chapter 9: your grace is wasted in your face

Summary:

In which the entirety of Coruscant seems to have suddenly and inexplicably run out of tea.

Or, the medics have a major crisis on their hands, important Conversations are attempted, several people are grounded, Anakin and Rex are Definitely Not Avoiding Each Other, a kitchen is brutally harmed, and Fox does not get paid enough for whatever this is.

Or, the Galaxy takes a step towards healing, one chaotic bread-themed disaster at a time.

Notes:

Once again, I am not dead, but every year I learn that I can, in fact, have less free time than I currently have. But, I have not abandoned this story, nor do I intend to. It's been slow work, but I do finally have a full chapter. So, thank you, as always for your patience, and without further ado, here are 24k words of angst, hurt, comfort, and wholesome fluff and comedy.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Did you really think it was going to be this easy?” Son’s cold breath ghosts across his cheek, dry lips brushing faintly against the shell of his ear and making the hairs on his neck stand on end. “Do you think you’ve won?”

 

“You’re dead,” Anakin grits his teeth. “I killed you myself.” When he turns his head, he’s alone. 

 

A slow, humored chuckle echoes through the room, clawing its way up Anakin’s spine. “Nothing ever really dies, my son,” his mother appears before him, her eyes glassy and blank, even as her mouth moves. Anakin’s hand clenches the hilt of his lightsaber, but his mother only laughs, her voice warping into something deeper and colder. 

 

“I am a God—you cannot kill me,” Son’s voice drips with condescending gentleness, like he’s talking to a particularly naive child.

 

“What do you want?” Anakin’s mouth feels dry, like he tried to swallow a mouthful of sand. 

 

Why so harsh? You and I are not so different, after all.” 

 

Anakin snarls.You’re wrong. I’m not like you! I will never be like you!” 

 

Son only looks amused at this declaration. “Everyone around you fears what you are capable of. They fear your anger and your passion. They don’t understand that it makes you strong. But it doesn’t seem to matter how strong you are, because your strength brings nothing but weakness in the most vital moment. You cannot save anyone around you, only bring them pain and misery and cruel deaths.” Son shifts back into his mother’s corpse. Blood drips from her empty eyes like mocking tears, a hole gaping through her gut. The smell of cauterized blood fills the room, making Anakin’s eyes water. He clenches his hands into fists, gloves feeling strangely wet. 

 

“For all your strength, you are powerless. Unless you join me and embrace the Dark.”

 

Like I’d ever join you!” Anakin snarls. “Not after what you did to Rex!” 

 

Son laughs, suddenly before him, shadows stretching and growing sharper. “I only showed him the Truth,” he claims. “Just as I am trying to show you.”

 

“Liar!” Anakin swipes at Son, prepared to strangle him with his bare hands. His hands grasp nothing. Son disintegrates, his laugh grating as it echoes around the room. 

 

Now, wouldn’t that be convenient? 

 

Anakin swings at shadows, Son’s maddening laugh digs into his skull. “You cannot hide from the Truth forever,” Rex stumbles, a hole burned into his gut, his skin covered in dark cracks. His mother’s hands are on his face, her eyes glinting, teeth bloodied as she laughs and laughs. 

 

You have not saved anyone, Anakin Skywalker. He is still mine.”

 


 

Obi-wan finds Anakin tearing apart the training droids on the training grounds like wet flimsi. Sweat drips down his face, his hair plastered to his forehead, and the bags under his eyes are worryingly visible from across the room. What Obi-wan came all this way to say immediately flees from his mind. “Might I inquire as to the last time you slept?” Obi-wan knows Kix told Anakin to take it easy while his thigh was healing. He highly doubts this training session is medic-approved. 

 

“Not now, Master,” Anakin hisses as one of the orbs gets a shot in, hitting his left bicep and giving him a stinging shock. Anakin responds by slicing the poor droid in half and spitting out a string of curses that Obi-wan graciously pretends not to hear. 

 

Another batch of training droids power on, humming as they swarm. Anakin’s movements become increasingly frustrated and jerky, the scowl on his face deepening and gritting his teeth together. There’s none of the precision, grace, or general coordination that makes his former Padawan such a great warrior. Several droids hit in short succession, driving Anakin to his knees. A moment later, all the droids are held in place, whirring in panic as gears start to grind. Simultaneously, they crumple on themselves and fall to the floor, smoking. Anakin continues to lift them up and smash them into the ground until all the droids are unrecognizable heaps of scrap. They join a concerning large pile of scraps already on the floor. Anakin kicks the nearest one into a wall, cursing and then grabbing at his foot. 

 

“No, I don’t want to talk about it,” he grounds out just as Obi-wan opens his mouth. “Go drink tea or meditate or whatever it is you do.” 

 

Obi-wan sighs at the reminder of his misfortune. “I’m afraid I can’t do that at the moment.” 

 

“Then leave me alone!” Anakin snaps. In the past, Obi-wan tried to respect his wishes and give him some time to sort through his thoughts. But now he wonders if that was the best course of action. Obi-wan himself prefers being left alone to sort through his emotions privately, and even the thought of showing vulnerable emotions around others is embarrassing. However, he’s self-aware enough to admit that more often than not, being alone only leads deeper down the spiraling path instead of off it. 

 

It has been a long time since Obi-wan has seen Anakin this angry. It is admittedly terrifying, but Obi-wan resolves not to leave Anakin to sort through it alone. 

 

Anakin powers up another round of droids, and Obi-wan immediately types in the cancel code. It’s clear that the droids are not doing anything to calm his former Padawan’s temper. Besides, if Anakin keeps this up, there won’t be any training droids left. And Anakin is going to land himself back in the Halls of Healing. He’s doing everyone a favor, really. 

 

“Hey!” 

 

“I think you have tortured the training droids enough for the rotation,” Obi-wan says lightly. “I received the notification that Captain Rex is out of surgery. Perhaps you would like to visit him with me?” He hopes that Anakin seeing his Captain well and recovering will help.

 

Those hopes are quickly dashed when Anakin tenses up, shaking his head. “I can’t.” He kicks another smoking heap of former training droid, glaring as if it personally wronged him and ruined his life. 

 

Obi-wan’s brow furrows. “Why ever not?”

 

His former Padawan scowls, becoming defensive. “I just can’t.” 

 

“That’s not an answer,” Obi-wan presses gently.

 

“Kix kicked me out of the MedBay with extreme prejudice and a promise to shoot on sight, so I can’t go even if I wanted to,” Anakin finally mutters. Obi-wan blinks. 

 

“Why don’t you want to visit Captain Rex?” 

 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” The low sound of grinding metal starts to fill the room, Anakin’s hands clenched into tight fists. 

 

“Anakin—“

 

“I said leave me alone!” The Force slams into Obi-wan, throwing him into the wall. Stars burst in front of his eyes, and he catches himself on his hands and knees, dazed. Before he can collect his bearings, the hum of a lightsaber fills the air. Obi-wan realizes that the blade is pointed at him, trembling inches from his face. Bloodshot eyes widen and Anakin immediately stumbles away before turning to run.

 

Well, shit. 

 

“Anakin wait!” Anakin doesn’t stop, and Obi-wan is left staring at the smoking heaps of scrap on the floor. 

 


 

“There is something rotting in my head. You have to cut it out,” Rex pleads. 

 

“Rex, you just came out of invasive surgery! There’s no way I can—“

 

“Kix, please,” Rex begs. “You have to get it out!” 

 

“No! There’s no way your body can handle a second surgery right now! It will kill you,” Kix’s tone is hard, shutting down any argument. Rex shouldn’t even be coherent right now. Kix and Master Che had just been elbows deep into the Captain’s guts not even a standard hour ago, looking for a tiny shard of “physical Living Force” or however the kark Clover had tried to describe it. That’s not even considering all the damage the broken shard was doing for the week or so it was left to fester inside of Rex, combined with the weird flashes of white light that seemed to take all of the Captain’s energy and haven’t gone away like they were supposed to. Kix still isn’t sure what the extent of damage is or what the recovery period will be for this level of Force-osik. 

 

It’s one thing to dig around someone’s abdominal cavity to look for something small and out of place. It is an entirely different thing to dig around someone’s brain. If Kix makes one wrong incision, he could kill or cripple his Captain. And Kix will never forgive himself if he is directly or indirectly responsible for Rex’s death because he botched a highly delicate surgery. 

 

Of course, Rex’s Jetti-brand stubbornness doesn’t listen to common sense. “I’ll be fine.”

 

“Like kark you will!” Kix barks. “With all due respect, what part of ‘you just came out of invasive emergency surgery and your body needs time to recover before we cut you open again’ are you failing to understand?” 

 

“I’m already healed,” Rex claims. 

 

“That’s ridiculous, there’s no way—”

 

“If I may interrupt, Lieutenant, I believe the Captain is correct,” Master Che says regretfully, still looking pale and slightly sick.

 

“Master Che, you can’t seriously be considering surgery right now,” Kix tries. 

 

“Whatever is in his head cannot be left to fester. It is of utmost importance that we remove it immediately,” the Healer declares. 

 

“Kix,” the Captain looks up at him with firm resolve, eyes hard and narrowed. His jaw is clenched tightly, a visible grimace on his face as he fights against yet another unseen enemy. “I need you to strap me down. If this thing activates, I won’t be able to control it.” Rex could barely stand to be touched all week, and now he’s demanding brain surgery and restraints with the same calculated coolness he uses to issue orders on the battlefield. Whatever is in his head, Rex is terrified of it. Is willing to risk death to get it out. 

 

“N-no. I can’t. We’re talking about brain surgery, Rex. I wouldn’t even know where to begin, I don’t even know if your body can handle sedatives right now.” Kix has watched Rex suffer for a  week, unable to do anything but watch and try to treat what he could see. And now, the solution is right there. Kix could fix this. 

 

But he’s terrified of what his Captain is asking him to do. He knows too little about The Force, and whether it will be enough to help Rex through this. Kix has a steady hand and a quick mind, but it won’t be enough to guide him through these uncharted waters. He is so far out of his depth that he can’t see the surface, and Rex is asking him to swim deeper. 

 

“I trust you. Everything will be just fine, Kix,” Rex’s tone is absolute, the one he uses at the turning point to urge troops to run towards the fire. 

 

Kix feels courage swelling in his chest. 

 

And then Rex convulses, eyes widening with fear and pain, sweat beading around his brow. “I c-can’t hold—“ and then he goes still, face blank as everything that was Rex drains away. 

 

“We’re out of time,” Master Che hisses. She moves to sedate him, only to get kicked across the face. Rex springs to his feet, movements strangely stiff as he approaches Master Che.

 

“Jetti,” he says in a voice perfectly blank, “you are in violation of Order 66.” 

 

Kix tackles him to the ground. The stiff robotic movements are replaced by wild, uncoordinated swings as Rex struggles like a man possessed, snarling and growling and biting Kix’s arm. The medic howls, feeling a weight pin him down in his moment of distraction. “CT-6116, you will be executed for acting in violation of Order 66,” hands wrap around his throat, quickly cutting off his ability to breathe. 

 

“Re-“ he gasps, clawing at the hands around his throat. Just as Kix is about to black out, the pressure is released and Rex is thrown off of him. The rush of air into his lungs burns. Kix chokes and wheezes, unable to move. 

 

“Captain, I do not wish to harm you,” Master Che says sternly. Rex doesn’t seem to care, as something shatters a moment later, accompanied by a pained grunt. He hears the doors slide open even over the sound of blood rushing through his head.

 

“Kix!” 

 

“What the kark?”  

 

Hardcase and Jesse must have heard the commotion from outside.

 

“Don’t—” Kix’s voice is a harsh, grating wheeze that only makes his throat and lungs burn. Black spots wash over his vision as he coughs. Kix clings desperately to consciousness, but the tug is too strong. His awareness drips away, ears ringing as the sound of blaster fire fills the MedBay.

 


 

“Did you hear that?” Hardcase asks.

 

“Hear what?” Jesse is surprised that Hardcase can hear anything, considering how he works with explosives for fun. 

 

“I thought I heard Kix,” Hardcase shuffles nervously, glancing at the door they are guarding.  

 

Jesse rolls his eyes. “You’re just being paranoid. The door is basically soundproof. There’s no way you should be able to hear—“ a loud crash comes unmistakably from behind the door, followed by a pained grunt. Jesse can feel Hardcase smirking from underneath his helmet. The smugness is immediately wiped away when Hardcase realizes that the sounds they are hearing means that something is going horribly wrong. 

 

“Kix!” When he doesn’t immediately see his batchmate, dread ices through his veins. The feeling doesn’t go away when he finally spots the medic sprawled on the floor. Jesse prays he is just unconscious, not dead. “What the kark?” 

 

Jesse looks up only to see Rex sprinting towards them, tackling him to the ground and wrestling his blaster out of his arms. In one smooth motion, the blaster is aimed at Master Che. The sound of blaster bolts firing sends Jesse further into shock. 

 

“R-Rex!” Hardcase sputters. 

 

“Seal the door!” Master Che barks. She has drawn her lightsaber, carefully deflecting Rex’s shots into the ground.

 

“The door!” Master Che calls again, voice tight. Rex has not let let up on his barrage, instead closing the distance and shooting while also engaged in hand to hand. Jesse forgot just how terrifying his Captain could be as an opponent. The Jedi Healer is struggling to defend herself without destroying delicate equipment or hurting the Captain. Master Che uses The Force to push Rex back and pull Jesse's blaster out of his grip, slicing it in half with her lightsaber. She’s forced to turn the blade off as Rex charges at her, reckless and uncalculated. Jesse wants to yell at his Captain for being so stupid, but then the situation catches up to him. 

 

“Door’s sealed,” Hardcase informs him. 

 

“Hardcase, set your blaster to stun,” Jesse orders. 

 

“But Jesse—“

 

“If you won’t do it, give me the blaster. You hold him off, and I’ll stun him when there’s a clear shot.” 

 

“Kark no, I don’t want to fight that. I would die.” Hardcase gestures to Rex, who scores a particularly nasty kick to Master Che’s ribs, followed by a swift punch to the jaw. Master Che crashes to the ground, and Rex is on her before she can get back up. The wrestling is even more vicious, and Jesse watches as his Captain claws deep scratches into the Healer’s wrist, hands scrabbling towards her throat. Jesse doesn’t want to fight that either, but they don’t have time to argue. 

 

“Fine. Then you take the shot, and I’ll draw him off. But if I die, I will march right back here to eat your kneecaps.” With that, Jesse charges into the fight. And immediately regrets it. 

 

Because holy kark, Rex is terrifying. 

 

Jesse is getting the sinking suspicion that his Captain was holding back when they sparred. His strikes are strong and swift, immediately aimed for any opening and forcing Jesse off balance. He can feel bruises forming along his arms, despite the fact that he is wearing armor and Rex is not. Jesse has a newfound respect for Master Che for holding out as long as she has without resorting to incapacitating injuries. 

 

“Hurry up Hardcase!” A solid kick to his ribs drives every inch of air out of his lungs, his cuirass snapping in half at the force. He hits the ground stunned and gasping for air. A stun bolt sails over his head. From his position on the floor, Jesse watches it miss Rex entirely. Not even close. He is utterly disgusted by his batchmate’s show of marksmanship. A shiny could make a better shot half-blind. Still unable to speak, Jesse curls his hand into a thumbs down. 

 

“That wasn’t me! Something curved the shot!” Hardcase says, voice panicky. He lets out a yelp as half of Jesse’s blaster is thrown into his face. Right as he recovers, the second half is thrown as well, and Hardcase stumbles back with a curse. Rex charges for the blaster, but Hardcase recovers quickly and shoots. 

 

Rex… catches the shot. His Captain seems equally surprised by this outcome, the stun bolt hovering between his outstretched hands. His eyes widen in fear and he tries to throw it away. The bolt hits Hardcase, sending him to the floor in a heap. 

 

Kark. 

 

They are so dead now. 

 

Equipment and cots rattle as an invisible wind starts to whip through the Med Bay. Jesse crawls to his feet, using a nearby counter as support, and takes a defensive position. Rex’s eyes are wide and wild as he swats at the air around him, eyes flashing white. Whole body flashing white. Jesse’s broken chest plates are picked up and flung into the wall. 

 

Over the sound of the wind, he doesn’t hear the sound of a lightsaber cutting through metal.

 

On the opposite side of the MedBay, Master Che has her hands extended and her eyes closed. Jesse doesn’t know what she’s trying to do, but he shuffles towards her position so that she can protect him from whatever Force Osik is currently happening. 

 

With a cry, Rex stumbles to his knees, light tumbling out of his body. His eyes and mouth are so bright Jesse can hardly look. For a brief moment, Jesse swears he sees a woman holding Rex’s face in her hands, wiping away his tears with her thumbs. Master Che clutches at her head, overwhelmed from whatever is happening in The Force. 

 

A loud cry pierces the air, two voices mixed together. Wings made of light burst from Rex’s back, followed by a karking bird. The bird is hard to look at, and Jesse is no expert on birds, but even he can recognize the small wings, large body, and long tail distinct of a convor. 

 

A weirdly glowing, green and white colored convor. That came out of his Captain’s body like something out of the Alderaanian mythology that Appo liked to read. 

 

Oh kark, his Captain! 

 

Jesse’s brain must have turned off, because he approaches Rex with none of the caution one should have after watching said man fight on par with a Jettise and then snap inch thick, reinforced plastoid chest plates (and possibly several ribs) in half with a single kick. Thankfully, Rex appears to be completely unconscious. Master Che approaches, holding one hand to her forehead. 

 

“We must act quickly, before he wakes up. Lieutenant, I’ll need you to—“ 

 

The sound of metal crashing to the ground fills the room. Anakin Skywalker bursts through the hole he just cut into the doors, lightsaber up in guard and eyes scanning the room wildly. A stun ring flashes over him not a moment later. Master Che thankfully grabs the General's lightsaber with The Force before he can land on it. Jesse scans the room to figure out where the shot even came from. 

 

“I warned him,” Kix rasps from the floor. 

 


 

“It has to be you,” Master Che says. Blood is pooling from a burst blood vessel in her left eye, complemented by a fair amount of swelling from a broken nose and possibly a bruised cheek bone. She squints at him through undoubtedly blurry vision, trying to sound reassuring. 

 

“I can’t. My hands have nerve damage. They shake,” he rubs a line of scar tissue, trying to work out the ache already building. “There’s no way I can lead a delicate and complex surgery like that. Are you certain Kix can’t operate?”

 

Master Che shakes her head. “Healer Kix was strangled to the point of unconsciousness. As is standard practice, he is off-duty and under medical observation for the next rotation to ensure there is no serious damage to his throat or brain.” Across the room, Kix is sulking on a medical cot, arms crossed and frown carved deep into his face. Dark, finger-shaped bruises circle around his neck, both eyes deeply bloodshot. On the beds next to him, Jesse, Hardcase, and the General are still out cold. 

 

“I will guide you through The Force, but you are the only medic who has the correct clearance, wellness, and ability for this procedure,” Master Che says gently. 

 

Coric hasn’t done anything more delicate than stitches in months. Now he’s being asked to cut through his Captain’s skull and remove something from his brain. Under normal circumstances, Coric would refuse and defer the surgery to another medic, even one outside of the 501st. He knows Hale is on-planet, and has worked with Rex before. Helix from the 212th is also a dependable medic, often working alongside the 501st. But the Captain is vulnerable right now, and if he were to suddenly wake up in a panic and use The Force in front of Hale or Helix…

 

Master Che is right. It has to be him. 

 

“Okay,” Coric whispers. “I’ll do it.”

 


 

Cody storms into the 187th barracks, nearly running into the vod he came to find. “Ponds, we need to talk,” Cody grabs his batchmate’s hand, dragging him into an empty supply closet. 

 

“Now is not a good time, Cody,” Ponds tries to brush past him, but Cody stands his ground. Ponds sighs. “Lieutenant Clover just informed me that Rex is in surgery again. They took him to the Temple. I’m going to the Halls to see if I’m needed.” 

 

“Again?” Cody feels his stomach sink. Why would Kix agree to a second surgery when he had been so nervous about the first one? “Why wasn’t I informed?” 

 

“I just got the comm myself not even a minute ago. Apparently Rex woke up unexpectedly and kept saying that there was something in his head. Whatever it was must have been serious enough to risk a second surgery,” Ponds says, brows furrowing with concern. Cody wants to find Rex and wrap him up in several layers of beskar armor, wants to keep him away from the War and everything that could hurt. Rex is not supposed to almost die every time Cody takes his eyes off him. 

 

“Cody, breathe, he’s going to be okay,” Ponds has his hands on Cody’s shoulders, grip firm and voice stern. 

 

“I can’t keep doing this, Ponds,” Cody wheezes out. “Every mission he comes back hurt, and I can’t keep sending him into the field knowing he’s going to be so reckless.” 

 

“That’s not your call to make,” Ponds says gently. “We’re clones, Cody. We don’t have the right to save each other. Even if we did, you know Rex would never agree to being benched. He won’t ask his men to assume any risks he wouldn’t take himself.” 

 

“We’re going to lose him Ponds!” Cody’s eyes sting, vision blurring from the tears he so desperately tries to keep from falling. He tries to convince himself that it is anger making his voice crack. “Rex chases after his Jettise alone and they lead him into battle against monsters and gods and some day he’s not going to come back! I can’t keep him safe anymore,” those words break the dam, tears streaming down his cheeks.  

 

Ponds drags him into a kneeling position, thumbs brushing away the tears. The rough material of the gloves is grounding. Cody sucks in three deep breaths, lungs hitching with each exhale. 

 

“You can’t,” Cody flinches at the harsh, simple truth.“But Cody, Rex is alive now because you took him in as a cadet. And if he lives, he will live because you taught him to survive.” Ponds puts his hands firmly on Cody’s shoulders, shaking him until he looks up to meet his batchmate’s eyes. “You did everything possible to ensure that kid had the chance to show everyone what he is made of, and now Rex proves he is the best of us every single time he steps onto the field. He’s earned those Jaig Eyes a dozen times over and it is because of you, Kote,” Ponds says fiercely.

 

“I don’t envy your position of having to be the one to give the 501st their assignments, but you aren’t responsible for whether Rex lives or dies. No mission is guaranteed success, no matter how skilled the soldiers are. But you also can’t start mourning Rex’s death before it happens. Rex is here. He’s alive. He’s fighting. His medics are doing everything they can. Don’t give up on him yet.” 

 

“Okay, I just… okay,” Cody manages. A fresh round of tears bubble up from his eyes, something in his chest twisting until it feels like his heart will snap. Ponds wraps his arms around him, holding him together. 

 

“Relax, Cody. Let me be the older brother for once. You don’t have to carry the burden of caring for Rex alone. We’re all here for the kid.” Cody wants to remind Ponds that the last time he let him watch Rex, his vod’ika got stuck in a sinkhole with a giant, angry lizard, was poisoned, and then convinced Kix of all people to let him out of the MedBay to find evidence of treachery against the Republic, only to get himself captured, shocked half to death, and attacked once again by the giant, angry lizard. But Cody knows well that Rex is as smart as he is reckless, and it takes a battalion to make sure the kid takes care of himself. Deep down, he knows Ponds isn’t to blame for Malastare. 

 

Cody is tired, so he lets himself relax into Pond’s firm hug. Ponds hugs him tighter, a hand reaching up to stroke his hair. He feels himself falling asleep. His brother guides him all the way to the floor so that Cody’s head is resting in Pond’s lap. 

 

“What about Rex? Didn’t you want to see him?” 

 

“Rex will be fine for a few more hours, Cody. Let me take care of you.” 

 

Cody makes the mistake of closing his eyes, and then he doesn’t have the strength to open them again.

 


 

When Ponds tells him the news, Obi-wan almost doesn’t believe it. He asks three of his men to confirm the information before checking for himself.  

 

Cody is asleep. 

 

Obi-wan visits his Commander’s barracks and pokes him just to be absolutely sure. Cody doesn’t budge. Ponds raises an eyebrow. To be even more safe, Obi-wan also puts a sleep Suggestion over his Commander’s mind, ensuring that he gets a long and restful sleep. 

 

“If Commander Cody wakes, please inform him that I am meditating in my room and do not wish to be disturbed,” Obi-wan asks Ponds. The Commander’s brow furrows, seemingly confused by the request. 

 

“Sir?” The acknowledgement sounds more like a question, but Obi-wan considers it good enough. With all the dignity he can muster, he quickly exits his Commander’s quarters. 

 

And then he immediately heads to the Temple’s kitchens, where a warm cup of tea will soon be in his hands. It feels like his Life Day came early, and he is nearly bouncing on his feet like a Youngling. He ponders in his head what kind of tea he should indulge in—black or green, herbal or spiced. Does he want cream or sugar—no, that will take too much time. Cody has an odd ability to sense when Obi-wan is going to do something that he has been told not to. His Commander says it comes from raising Rex. There could certainly be some truth to that—Obi-wan doesn’t need The Force to know when Anakin is about to do something stupid. 

 

When Obi-wan gets to the kitchen, the tea cabinets are empty. All ten of them. There is not a single box or bag left. Not even the Licorice tea has been spared, which has been left untouched longer that Obi-wan has been alive. How could this possibly be?? Obi-wan opens and closes the cabinets again, as if this will magically fill the cabinets with tea. There are many Jedi who drink tea before or after meditation. Obi-wan has never seen the cabinets be anything but fully stocked, not after the legendary fit Master Qui-Gon threw when they ran out of Peach Orange Ginger Turmeric. 

 

“Looking for something, are you?” Obi-wan startles and turns to see Master Yoda hobbling in, a steaming cup of tea in his hand. It smells like Corellian Spice, Obi-wan’s favorite. 

 

“Master Yoda, the cabinets appear to be empty. May I ask where you found some tea?” 

 

“Gone, it is,” Yoda hums. “Drank all the tea, I did. Will of The Force, it was.”

 

“A-all?” Obi-wan stares at the sadistic green goblin with horror. A strange kind of desperation overtakes him, the kind that immediately trades reason for insanity. He takes a staggering step towards his Grandmaster, hands twitching. Murder is typically a last resort, but Obi-wan is tempted to make an exception. “Master Yoda, surely you wouldn’t mind sharing—?”

 

Yoda immediately takes his gimmer stick and whacks Obi-wan over the head with it.

 

“Mine this is. Have it, you cannot.” And then his Grandmaster drinks the whole cup in one swallow, seemingly unaffected by the fact that the tea was still steaming hot. And then Yoda leaves, humming to himself and walking merrily away. 

 

Obi-wan sinks to his knees. 


Coric’s hands are the steadiest they have been in months. Master Che’s presence is grounding against his mind, guiding him where he needs to go. Through the Jedi, he can feel the pulsating mass of something Dark. It pulls at him with a deep fatigue, with a malignant coldness that settles into his bones like mud. Still, Coric trudges onward, knowing that what he is doing could kill him. Knowing that if he doesn’t, his Captain will die. 

 

Loyalty is a funny thing. He doubts there is a single clone in the 501st who would not fight to the death for the Captain, and beyond them a line extending into the Upper Command of the GAR. Considering their upbringing and purpose, it is considered a strange privilege among clones to choose one’s death. Coric knows all too well he is alive by the whims of luck—an honor bought with the blood of many brothers. Rex and himself are all that’s left of Teth, and that brotherhood alone is worth dying for. Is worth marching into Hell for. Even if it breaks him, Coric will do this for his Captain. 

 

There. 

 

There is the rotted mass, poisonous and pulsating like a dying animal. It bites and writhes against his mind, but Coric firms his resolve and keeps his hands steady. He wrestles against it for a long time, feeling the ghostly sensation of old wounds opening along his body, shards of glass stabbing deep into his hands once more. 

 

A medic needs their hands. If he can’t do his job, Coric will die. He’ll be sent to Kamino to be decommissioned, but only after his hands are dissected to inspect the nerve damage first. He knows exactly how they will do it, splitting open each finger along the bone, tearing out the scar tissue and peeling the muscles apart on his palms while he is still awake and alive to feel it. But the Long Necks don’t like the sound of screaming, so they put the muzzle on his face again

 

A hand is on his shoulder, grounding him against the sensations and images crawling against his skin. Coric shudders and grits his teeth. Whatever this Darkness is, it will not have him or his Captain. As long as he has his hands, Coric will use them to save people. 

 

Finally, he cuts away the tumor, the blackened thing almost immediately breaking to pieces as he pulls it out. 

 

With a patient, cautious hand, Coric finds each piece of debris, each shard of malignant tumor and blackened vein extended from the main body. Through him, Master Che moves The Force like a cleansing fire, chasing away the infection and sepsis that had started to take hold. 

 

As the wound is closed, Coric feels a heavy weight lift from his chest. The air is light as it dances through his lungs, almost burning with how crisp and fresh it feels. In all his euphoria, Coric sits on the ground, limbs going numb. Master Che sits down next to him, and Coric wraps his arms around her, sobbing in a way he hasn’t since Teth.

 


Something is burning in The Force. Ahsoka shakes her head and tries to focus on her assignment, but the flare is so bright it overwhelms, like a bombardment of fireworks in the night sky. She sighs, giving up on trying to analyze the Kel Dorian poetry she selected for her Galactic Cultures class. It’s not like she expected to get very far anyway, not after receiving the news that Rex was in surgery again. Even if the assignment was due last week. And she had plenty of time to do it sitting around the MedBay. 

 

She had hoped that a visit to the Room of a Thousand Fountains would calm her down and help her focus, but restlessness reaches her even here, The Force itself becoming a distraction. The sound of growing murmurs reaches her sensitive lekku, and Ahsoka realizes that all the other Jedi in the room with her are beginning to perk up as they also pick up on the bright flare.

 

“The Force is so warm!” one of the younglings exclaims loudly. 

 

“Yes, it has not felt this happy in a long time,” The Creche Master looking over the group of younglings nearly has tears in her eyes. “I had almost forgotten what it was like.” 

 

As long as Ahsoka can remember, The Force has been cloudy and dark on Coruscant. But now it is like a beam of sunlight is burning through the fog, and everything feels warmer now, like she is wrapped in a blanket of comfort. As Ahsoka opens herself up to The Force, she realizes it feels like Rex. Steady and calm, bursting with life. 

 

And then a convor flies into the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Delighted and surprised shouts fill the air, once again ruining the quiet tranquility the room is known for. The bird also has a strong Force signature, one that feels strangely like Daughter. The coloring of the feathers are similar too. 

 

But Daughter is dead. Ahsoka watched her die. 

 

The convor circles the room and then lands on her shoulder. Looking into the bird’s eyes, Ahsoka can see an ancient sort of wisdom. She reaches out a finger to stroke the soft feathers. The convor coos and then uses her beak to pull out one golden-white feather. 

 

When Ahsoka touches it, she knows that this bird is somehow Daughter. Or, perhaps, what Daughter used to be. 

 

“Thank you, Morai, for watching out for us,” Ahsoka tells the bird. The convor bows its head before taking off from her shoulder, disappearing as quickly as it had come. The only sign that the convor was ever here is the feather held delicately between her fingers.

 

Gradually, the flare in the Force dies down, but Masters and Younglings alike continue to smile and talk quietly, as if freed from a burden they hadn’t realized they had been carrying for too long, or suddenly relieved of a deep pain that had lingered. 

 

All around them, The Force continues to sing.

 


 

Sidious scowls as the shadow he spent decades weaving around Coruscant begins to weaken. A bright Force presence flares, burning it away. Sidious is no fool. He knows to cultivate a garden. How to carefully watch everything he needs to prune and water or uproot and burn until it can’t threaten the future he is making. 

 

This Force presence is nearly bright enough to challenge Skywalker. It shouldn’t be possible. There is only one Chosen One, prepared by his Master.

 

He calls his most trusted servant. 

 

“Perhaps it is Skywalker?” Tyranus suggests. 

 

“No. This Force Signature is different, untainted. It needs to be found and destroyed before it interferes with our plans.” 

 

“It will be done, my Master,” Tyranus bows and ends the holocall. Sidious leans back and steeples his fingers. 

 

He has spent decades making systems that will take even longer to undo. He has slowly raised the price of housing and food while stagnating wages. He has let the lower levels of Coruscant become holes of crime and sin, slowly driving a wedge between the privileged and the poor. He has subtly influenced elections to find Senators who are greedy and corrupt, who care more for power and influence than the people they serve. He has shown them eating their fill and attending expensive galas while their people work in the dirt and starve and die. He has embroiled the Republic into an expensive, unwinnable war, sacrificing home worlds and rationing valuable resources all while espousing the necessity of it all for the good of the Republic and the preservation of Democracy. He has slowly poisoned the Republic and its people, making Coruscant the center of this writhing tumor, allowing the anger and despair to cloud The Force slowly, so that the Jedi would not know they were blind and powerless in the dark until the dirt was already falling into their graves. Once the Jedi are gone, the people will beg for the security and peace of his Empire. People don’t care what government they are under as long as food is on the table. It is a lesson Sidious learned long ago. 

 

He has planted the seeds and cultivated them carefully. Skywalker will be the jewel of his garden, a Son of The Force made into a weapon, powerful and feared and loyal to Sidious alone. 

 

Coruscant is only the model of what is to come. 

 

But Sidious did not plan the revival of a Sith Empire only to be stopped by a single weed. No, whoever caused that flare in The Force will be uprooted and left to wither in the sun, the stalk crushed and the seeds burnt so that there is no chance of revival.  

 


 

Mace Windu wonders if his eyelid is ever going to stop twitching. 

 

“I called this Council over an hour ago. Where is Master Kenobi?” Mace has other things he planned to do today, like take a nap while pretending to do flimsiwork. Or gossip with Ponds while baking bread shaped into the face of certain politicians he doesn’t like and then burning it. Or doing literally anything to distract himself from the week-long migraine Skywalker and his Captain have given him. If it weren’t to keep up appearances that he cared about what was going on in The Force, Mace wouldn’t have bothered gathering the Council at all. 

 

“Occupied with other matters, he is.” The decrepit frog makes an amused chuckle. Mace feels his eyelid twitch at the same time a vein in his temple throbs. 

 

“Why would you not say so sooner?” Mace demands. 

 

“Crossed my mind, it had not. Forgotten, I must have.” The mischievous smile on Yoda’s smug gremlin face contradicts the words leaving his mouth. Mace decides that he doesn’t have the energy to deal with the Grandmaster today. 

 

One of the burned loaves is definitely going to be frog-shaped. 

 

“Never mind then, we can fill Master Kenobi in later. Let us begin our Council,” most of the other Council members already look bored, and Master Krell has come prepared with his usual disapproving frown on his face. “I’m sure you all noticed the flare in The Force over an hour ago. Were any of you able to discern a source?” Mace Windu already has his fucking suspicions, of course, but he’s not going to say anything. 

 

“There was a peculiar bird spotted in The Room of a Thousand Fountains,” Master Tiin reports. “A green and white convor brimming with the Light. It landed on Padawan Tano’s shoulder briefly before flying off.” 

 

This is the first time Mace Windu is hearing about such a strange bird, but the fact that it sought out Tano does not change his theories as to who was responsible. However, he will take an out where he can get it. “Any reports as to where the bird went?” 

 

“I’m afraid it disappeared shortly after,” Master Tiin says. 

 

Mace rubs futilely at the base of his left eyebrow. “It is possible the bird was somehow responsible for the Flare, but unless it shows up again, we don’t have any evidence. Which brings us to the next item on our agenda: who the fuck took my Lavender Chamomile Tea?” 

 

Several Council Members flinch, as they damn well should. That tea is one of the only things that helps his migraines, and all three boxes he keeps stored in the Temple kitchens disappeared.

 

“Drank all the tea, I did,” Yoda answers without an ounce of fear or remorse. 

 

The vein in his temple throbs menacingly. Several burnt loaves are definitely going to be shaped like the decrepit frog. “You don’t even like tea!” he accuses. Whenever Mace drinks his tea, Yoda has to say something along the lines of ‘swamp water, I would rather drink.’ 

 

“The Will of The Force, it was,” Yoda says, sounding solemn. Mace isn’t buying it. 

 

“You’re grounded.” 

 

“Ground me, you cannot.” 

 

“You are grounded. No more Dagobahnian swamp frogs until you get my tea back.” 

 

“Master Windu, be reasonable, you must.” 

 

“I will be reasonable when you get me my damn tea, Master Yoda.” 

 


 

Kix pokes at one of the fragments on the debris tray. “What—?” His voice crumples and breaks off into a series of grating coughs. 

 

“Stop talking, you di’kut,” Coric scolds. He is checking Rex’s vitals for the third time in as many minutes, and Kix is all too familiar with that kind of anxiety to say anything. He knows Coric won’t truly relax until the Captain is awake and coherent. 

 

Kix pokes at one of the fragments again. It looks a bit like a rotted tumor, but something like that should have shown up on a Med-scanner well before it became so harmful. The fact that it didn’t means that the tumor wasn’t registered as an anomaly.

 

Kix doesn’t like the implications.

 

Coric finally leaves Rex’s cot, coming over to look at the fragments. “Whatever it is, it’s in sad shape,” he grumbles. 

 

“It doesn’t look like any tumor I’ve ever seen,” Kix continues, regardless of his voice. “And I didn’t think that tumors rot like this either.” There’s a weird pattern to the decay, starting at the center and branching outward. But there are patches that are more rotted than others, even some holes that expose something shiny.

 

“Where did you get that!” Kix jumps as the General’s voice snaps from behind him. Kix turns to scold him for getting up from his cot, only to pause. The General’s face is pale, eyes wide and whole body tense and shaking with barely restrained fear. 

 

“I said, where did you get that!” He orders. 

 

“It was in the Captain’s head, sir,” Coric finally answers. The General responds with a string of curses so vile that Kix has several new words and phrases to add to his vocabulary. 

 

“What is it, General?” Instead of answering, Skywalker storms out of the Halls. Kix is too confused to stop him. 

 

“Kix,” Coric’s voice sounds slightly strained.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Do those shiny things look like wires to you?” 

 


 

“How did we get volunteered for this?” Fives whines. 

 

“Because Rex just got out of surgery, Kix is the one who did the surgery, and Hardcase and Jesse are guarding them, which means you and I are the only officers available to oversee training, which is vital to the continued efficiency of the 501st,” Echo reminds him calmly. 

 

“I can’t teach shinies, Echo! They act so overconfident while being completely clueless!” 

 

“Now you know how Rex feels teaching you.”

 

“I am a joy to train with!” 

 

“Yes, I’m sure the Captain enjoys watching you taste mats for over an hour because you won’t make the adjustments to your form that he keeps recommending. I certainly find it entertaining,” Echo muses. 

 

“I still don’t understand how he does that kick,” Fives whines, rubbing his heel into his chest. “It should be impossible to put that much force into his legs with that wide of an extension.” 

 

“I’m sure Rex would teach you if you weren’t allergic to listening or following instructions.” 

 

“You say that like we aren’t ARC troopers, Echo. We’re the best of the best!” 

 

“You might be good with a blaster, but your hand-to-hand made Alpha-17 cry.” 

 

“That’s only because I punched that training droid,” Fives scoffs. 

 

“You shattered your hand!” 

 

“I don’t see how that’s relevant. If I remember, Alpha-17 was crying because he had ‘another Kote on his hands,’ whatever that means.” 

 

As they round the corner to the training hall, Fives and Echo nearly collide with General Skywalker, who looks like he battled Rex in a no-sleep marathon. His hair is frazzled, eyes wide and bloodshot. Before Fives can make so much as a comment, the General’s gaze seems to finally lock on them. 

 

“Echo, with me,” he orders before turning around and briskly stomping back the way he came, not even looking to make sure he was being followed. Fives shares an uneasy look with his twin. Echo just shrugs and gives him a lazy salute. 

 

“Good luck with the shinies, vod,” with that, Echo hurries to catch up to the General. 

 

It takes a second for the words to register in his head. “Wait, no! Don’t leave me! Echo!” Fives realizes with sinking dread that Echo has no intention of returning any time soon. Which means he will be training the shinies by himself. 

 

“Kark.” 

 


 

Echo groans and throws his splicing kit onto the table with frustration. “It’s almost completely rotted through. The data’s too corrupted for me to get any real information out of the code. Best I can tell, there’s a list of orders, and one of them must be the default when the chip gets too damaged. You said this was in his head?”

 

“Yes. I tried to take it out as one piece, but the thing crumpled when I touched it,” Coric has a pensive look on his face, as if he’s putting together a puzzle in his head that he doesn’t like. 

 

“It’s a slave chip. I’m sure of it,” The General says darkly. He’s been sulking in the corner as Echo worked, occasionally pacing around, trying and failing to hide the concerned glances he sends Rex every few seconds. The Captain has stayed completely out of it—something Echo is grateful for. Not only does Rex deserve the rest, but the update he got from the medics was rather concerning. 

 

“When would—“ Kix’s voice breaks off roughly, followed by a harsh wheeze. 

 

“You. Stop talking,” Coric scolds immediately. Kix rolls his eyes, but obeys.

 

“How could someone have put a slave chip in his head without us noticing?” Echo voices for them. “Did this happen on your last… mission?” Echo’s still not quite sure what to call it. The medics and the Jettise have both been pretty tight-lipped on the details. 

 

Coric shakes his head. “Based on the size of the fragments, and the fact that it is mostly made of organic matter, this thing has been there for awhile. It had time to grow into place—it’s too big to have simply been shoved in at some point, not without visible scarring from an implant surgery. And if you look here and here, you can tell that there are different patterns of decay. It’s clear that this chip was already starting to disintegrate, but it was happening at a much slower rate. Something must have triggered a rapid decay response here, I’d say sometime in the last week, otherwise the rot would have lead to infection and sepsis much sooner.” 

 

“What are you saying?” General Skywalker looks like he wants to murder something with his bare hands. Instead, he takes to firmly anchoring his hands to the edge of the table, knuckles white.

 

Coric turns to Kix with a stoic look. “I want you to scan my head for a chip.”

 

Kix is clearly taken aback by the request. “What, why?” 

 

Coric gives his fellow medic a look for speaking, but then sighs, glaring at the pieces of rotted chip. “It makes no sense that Rex would be the only clone to have a chip. Think about it. Besides Geonosis I and Teth, he’s never been taken captive, and never in a place where he was removed from the battlefield, or taken where the Seppies would have the time or equipment for that kind of operation. The chip is organic, and the lack of scarring means it was implanted at a young age. The Kaminiise are the only people who would have the time and equipment, but they don’t know about the Captain’s Force Sensitivity, or they would have never let him off of Kamino. Even if they wanted to monitor him closely for his hair mutation, the contents of the chip don’t make sense. We know that the chip has a list of Orders, one of which has something to do with attacking the Jettise or anyone in sight, and as far as we can tell, that is the command that the chip defaults to when damaged to a certain degree. The only thing I can’t figure out is why the Kaminoans would program a clone to go rogue.” 

 

A loud crunch sounds throughout the room, the table General Skywalker is gripping dented under his hands. 

 

“Do the scan.” Skywalker orders. “I’m going to meditate,” he stalks out of the room, glass shattering across the floor, metal and machines creaking ominously as he goes.

 


 

Rex wakes slowly, his awareness dripping back in pieces. There are voices, too muddled to understand, but familiar and comforting. His hand moves, and he is the one in control of it. Rex clenches it into a fist, then releases his fingers one by one, slowly curling them again. His hand obeys. Though swollen and painful, it belongs to him. He wants to sob with relief. 

 

If The Force hadn’t intervened, who knows what he could have done before someone stopped him?

 

Rex makes the mistake of opening his eyes. The bright light of the Halls of Healing bores into his pupils and brings full awareness to a horrendous headache, making him shut them with a quiet groan.

 

“Rex?” Not quiet enough, apparently. Soft footsteps approach, and a hand checks his forehead. Rex gives a quiet grunt to indicate that he is awake, but refuses to open his eyes. 

 

“Echo, go turn off the lights.” Two sets of hands help lever him into a sitting position. His whole body sparks with soreness, and even with his eyes closed the movement makes him dizzy and nauseous. His head feels heavy and about to split in half. Someone is rubbing circles into his back, another massaging their cool fingers into his temple. He nearly moans in relief when the pain starts to fade. 

 

“You can open your eyes now, Rex,” a voice gently presses. Slowly, he cracks his eyes open, expecting pain and blindness. Instead, the lights are almost completely off, save for the emergency lights along the floor and walls. Through the dim lighting, Rex can make out the faces of Kix, Coric, and Echo. 

 

“How do you feel?” Kix asks. His voice is hoarse, and Rex remembers trying to strangle him. 

 

He had almost killed his vod, had felt Kix’s throat collapsing under his hands, unable to stop himself. “I’m sorry, Kix. I’m so—“ his voice cracks, throat suddenly dry.

 

“Rex, that wasn’t your fault,” Kix tries to reassure him, but the painful rasp in his voice is only a reminder of what Rex almost did. “You were right.” Kix moves to bring over a tray. On it are three fragments of what looks to be some sort of wires surrounded by blackened organic material. Some parts are completely rotted out, filled with holes, while other parts are only starting to blacken. The whole thing looks to be slightly smaller than his thumb. 

 

He doesn’t understand. 

 

“How long have you been getting headaches or migraines?” Coric asks, something knowing in his tone. Rex tries to think. He’s had almost constant headaches for awhile now, ranging from slightly annoying to nearly crippling, but that was from Force Exhaustion, stress, and at least one minor concussion. It wasn’t from—it couldn’t have been from—

 

He’s sure Son is the one who put this thing in his head. That’s the only thing that makes sense. All those headaches, the hours spent in the dark waiting for the pounding of his head to cease, there has to be another explanation. 

 

“I don’t understand,” Rex rasps. His throat burns, something in his chest twinging painfully. 

 

“That,” Coric gestures to the blackened fragments, “was in your head. Now answer my question: how long have you been getting headaches? Don’t downplay this, Rex. Not this time.” 

 

Rex tries to think back. Lately, he’s constantly been injured or recovering from injury, so he’s quite honestly stopped keeping track of what is going wrong with his body at any given moment. If anything, his life entered a downward spiral once he learned he had The Force—

 

“Valtameri,” Rex breathes. “I think that’s when they started.” 

 

Coric nods, like Rex has confirmed something. Then the medic reaches over and flicks him hard on the forehead. 

 

“Ow, Coric—“ 

 

“This is why you don’t hide osik from the medics.” 

 


 

Fives is pretty sure he is going to have bruises on his bruises. He’s pretty sure every new batch of shinies comes out of Kamino dumber and dumber. He had a shiny put him on his ass three times while he was trying to explain how to use forearms to block or redirect an attack. Half the karking shinies kept trying to kick him while he was offering corrections, and then the other half had the audacity to ask him to repeat his instructions at least ten different times, as they couldn’t think to listen to the instructions the first time. No matter how many times he repeated himself or tried to break down his instructions into more manageable pieces, at least one shiny would ask what they were doing, and then proceed to do some secret third thing he assumed they were doing. When he paired off the shinies to have them practice forearm blocks, several groups kept dodging their partner’s kicks and punches. Others kept aiming their kicks too low for their partners to block with a forearm. Another group kept  gossiping about how Lieutenant Jesse assigned some dumb schmucks to fresher duty for a month because they used their real blasters instead of training blasters during a simulation drill. 

 

Anyways, at the end of the rotation, Fives doesn’t have a karking clue how Rex survives handling this level of incompetence regularly. All he knows is that the second his Captain is freed from the confines of the Halls of Healing, Fives is giving him a hug, an apology, and a drink at 79s. 

 


 

“Did you do as I asked?” Echo stares the shiny down, arms crossed and eyebrows raised expectantly. The shiny cowers slightly in fear. 

 

“Y-yes sir, I kicked him every time he said ‘you’re going to kick me’ during his explanation of what we were doing. I also had my batch-mates pretend to not understand what was going on until he broke down the instructions into short, simple terms. Then I switched helmets with Olive, disregarded instructions entirely and kicked at my partner’s legs so he had to stop me and explain why we were learning forearm blocks and what I needed to do to help my partner learn.” 

 

Echo laughs. Operation: Turn Fives into Command Material is a go. “Thank you, CT-5385. Sorry I couldn’t be there myself, I got called away last second for an urgent matter. But, it seems you and your batch-mates handled yourselves quite well even without my help,” he pulls out a handful of hard candies from his utility belt. The shiny looks at them as if they are droid poppers about to go off. 

 

“These are a reward for you and your batch-mates, for a job well done. Now, how long did it take Fives to catch on to what you were doing?” 

 

The shiny chuckles nervously as he awkwardly cradles the handful of candies in his hands. “I- uh, I don’t think he ever caught on— sir?”

 

Echo doesn’t know why he is even surprised. 

 


 

There is a chip in Coric’s head. It doesn’t show up on anything except for a Level 5 scan. The type of scan Kix would typically have to request clearance to use. If he wasn’t using the medical equipment in the Halls of Healing, Kix probably wouldn’t have considered going that high, just for the attention such a request would bring. And now he knows why. 

 

Master Che looks over his shoulder at the scan’s results. 

 

“Lieutenant, I want you and Corporal Echo getting scans done as well.” The Healer’s face is still pinched tight in worry or pain. There are several dark bruises across her face and Lekku, shiny with the tell-tale use of bacta. Kix feels awful that he has brought so much pain to the Healer, just as he is grateful for her help. 

 

Coric huffs a bitter laugh. “Kark. And here I was hoping I was wrong.” 

 

Echo touches a hand to his head, lips pinched with distaste. Rex’s face crumples into something devastated beyond words. 

 

Whatever it is that they have stumbled upon, it seems to be bigger than any one of them. How deep into the GAR does this extend? 

 

Kix fears he already knows the answer. 

 


 

He is always there in the corner of his eyes. Lurking in the shadows, dripping words into his ears like blood. Your shame and guilt will never leave you. He can barely look at his lightsaber without picturing it sunk deep into his Captain’s gut. Without seeing his mother’s corpse grinning at him. 

 

The blood of the innocent is on your hands. 

 

You and I are not so different after all. 

 

The Galaxy is very different from what Anakin made it out to be. The Republic is no longer what he thought it was. Mortis opened his eyes to the Truth, and now Anakin no longer knows how to forgive his own willful ignorance, if he even deserves forgiveness. He’s supposed to be the Chosen One, but how can he bring balance—how can he bring peace, now that he doesn’t think the Republic is worthy of being saved? 

 

Rex’s words linger along his spine, tracing thin fingers along the knobs of bone. They prod at the ugly, terrible Truth that Anakin tried to ignore. 

 

You were a slave once, you know how this works. We were made to be weapons. But it isn’t cost efficient to make a weapon and give them a choice. So, you find a way to keep them in place. 

 

The chip in Rex’s head—possibly in all his men’s heads, only confirms what Anakin tried so hard to ignore. The Jedi aren’t meant to be soldiers. They aren’t meant to lead armies. The Republic abused the Jedi’s position as peacekeepers, guilted them into fighting a conflict that they had no interest in. Gave them an army perfectly ready, who had grown up with no choice but to fight, as if this whole War had been decided upon long ago. As if it were inevitable. 

 

What bastion of freedom fights with an army of slaves?

 

Anakin wants to fight something. He wants to run until his lungs burn and his limbs ache, scream his throat raw. He wants to find the Senators who agreed to this war and punch them in the face. He’s tired of being angry. He hates that his first reaction to uncomfortable feelings is to want to tear something apart. After his reaction in the Halls, and with Obi-wan this morning, he feels ashamed. 

 

Something needs to change. Anakin can’t keep doing this, can’t keep building the fire in his chest until it burns him, until it burns those closest to him. His men don’t deserve that. Rex doesn’t deserve that. Obi-wan especially doesn’t deserve it, not when he has only ever tried to be helpful. 

 

So. So Anakin is going to do something about this anger that he can’t control. Before he hurts someone again by lashing out with The Force. He finds himself wandering the Temple, lightsaber locked away in his room where he can’t use it to hurt anyone. 

 

And he stumbles upon a room he has never seen before. 

 

Colorful paints sit on a large shelf that spans an entire wall, other, smaller shelves stocked with canvases, paper, and paintbrushes. A dusty canvas sits forgotten on an easel, only half-painted. The room smells terrible, and Anakin quickly spots the source—an unbelievably moldy cup of tea. Though the liquid evaporated a long time ago, the mold seems to have made quite the home before drying out, valiantly creeping up the tea bag string looped around the handle. A faded sunset-orange tag sticks out, too covered in mold to be read properly. 

 

It looks like no one has been here in years. 

 

Anakin is about to leave (and find someone to take care of the moldy tea—either housekeeping or toxic waste disposal services) but then The Force prods at him, anchors him in the room. 

 

My son, your shame and guilt will never leave you.

 

Anakin has always used his anger as a shield. He has always feared that if he were to let it go, the shame and guilt he tried to push back would drown him. Or worse, he would forget the terrible things he has done. But now he sees that he is holding his anger like a knife without a handle, a weapon kept only to cut himself, to hurt anyone who tries to take it from his bloody hands. 

 

This is why Rex and Obi-wan fear him. Because Anakin’s anger does not make him strong. It only makes him dangerous.

 

“Why baking?” Anakin asks Rex through a mouthful of fried bread. 

 

“It gives me something to do with my hands without having to think too much,” Rex holds up his hands, flour and bread dough still stuck between his fingers. “Working with the dough, shaping it between my fingers…it’s grounding, I guess. Forces me to stay in the moment and think about what I’m doing.” 

 

“But why not, I don’t know, painting or poetry?” 

 

Rex flips the piece of dough in the pan, flinching back when hot oil sloshes a touch too close to his hand. “Baking is far more predictable. As long as you follow the right steps, you get the same result. And if you understand the steps, then you can adjust to your preference and get something even better. Painting… it’s unpredictable. The brush is hard to control, and you need a steady hand to keep the lines straight. Painting my Jaig Eyes is hard enough,” he huffs a laugh, before getting a pensive look on his face. “And poetry… well, I don’t know about anything but being a soldier, so I don’t have anything else to write about meaningfully. I don’t want to try and make War beautiful or glorious, and I think it’s already sad enough. Besides, writing involves too much sitting still and thinking.” Rex gives him a mischievous smile. “I do enough of that correcting your after-action reports, sir.” 

 

Anakin laughed at that. “Just you wait, Captain, I’ll publish a whole volume of poems, and when I do your name is going to be in the dedication.” 

 

“You can’t sit still enough to write poetry, General. You can’t even write briefs correctly.” 

 

Anakin finds himself smiling at the memory despite himself. Out of spite, he had tried to write a poem on the spot. It was just as terrible as Rex had predicted it would be. Obi-wan looked constipated when Anakin read it to him. Padme had laughed for twenty minutes before diplomatically telling him that the Republic was fortunate that he was a better warrior than he was a poet. 

 

Now, surrounded by paints, he thinks about what Rex said. Something grounding. Something to do with his hands. Something that requires being in the moment. Something that doesn’t involve sitting still and thinking. 

 

There’s an extra easel resting next to the one already set up. Anakin grabs some random colors from the shelf, carries them to a small table set up by the easels. There’s a pallet to hold the paint already there, the colors long dried to the cheap plastic. A cup with paint-crusted brushes sits next to it, the water long evaporated. Anakin sets the ruined brushes aside, refilling the cup with water. 

 

He remembers taking some basic art classes as a Padawan, though he hadn’t paid much attention at the time. But he remembers that the paints he grabbed need water added to them to activate. 

 

Without thinking, he dips his brush into the cup of water, and then into the blue. Then he presses the paintbrush to the canvas. The watery paint immediately begins to drip down, leaving a blue trail. He tries to stop the bead of water, but all he does is smudge it against the canvas. With a huff of frustration, he sets the brush back down. 

 

This was a mistake. Anakin already ruined his painting before he even knew what he wanted to make. And now there’s a big blue line smeared over the center of the canvas, like someone tried to wipe away angry tears. 

 

Like someone tried to wipe away angry tears. 

 

Anakin stares at the canvas for a long time. And then, with a shuddering breath, he picks up the brush again. 

 


 

Obi-wan hates the market, hates how loud and smelly and dirty the streets are, but he’s desperate. He wanders about through the thick crowds, eyes scanning for food stalls. He finds several selling baked goods, caf, and different types of honey or “fresh” fruit. Some food vendors are also selling drinks with street food, but none of them are offering tea. 

 

With a sigh, he walks up to the nearest booth. The Rodian running it gives him a skeptical once over. “Excuse me, do you know where I might find some tea?” 

 

“Out of luck pal,” the Rodian answers with a flippant wave of his hand. “Just had a massive recall several rotations ago. Apparently some major packaging plant of the CoruscanTea Company had some deadly bacteria of some sort contaminate their supply. All the tea they sent out was recalled, and anything else got bought out shortly after that. Must have just gotten here, if you missed all that commotion.”

 

Obi-wan’s expression falters. Some desperate, illogical part of him wants to blame Cody somehow. If anyone could orchestrate a city-wide shortage of tea, it would be his Commander. Unfortunately, even Obi-wan can admit that Cody wouldn’t have had the time to pull this off. It’s also disingenuous towards his Commander to believe that he would be so petty as to cause a major economic shortage. 

 

“Thank you for your time then,” Obi-wan turns to disappear back into the crowds. 

 

“Hey buddy, aren’t you going to buy something?” Obi-wan sighs, and reaches for his purse. 

 

“I suppose that would only be polite.” 

 


 

“Rex does this all the time, how hard can it be?” Hardcase has all the ingredients set out on the counter, a datapad open to one of Rex’s highly annotated bread recipes titled “Super Duper Easy Herbed Bread so Simple a Gungan could probably Make it on the First Try.” He has watched the Captain make it probably over a dozen times, to the point that Rex doesn’t even look at the recipe, simply pulling out the ingredients and measuring them into the bowl. 

 

He’s ready. He can do this. How much harder can it be than making a bomb? 

 

“If I remember correctly, the kitchen was an absolute disaster the last time you tried to bake anything,” Jesse corrects. 

 

“If I remember correctly, it was a group effort, and you were part of it,” Hardcase huffs.“Besides, I’ve grown since then. I’m smarter, wiser. More responsible.”

 

Jesse raises an eyebrow. 

 

Hardcase’s shoulders droop. “I wanted to do something nice for the Captain, since the vod has been going through a lot lately. I thought maybe some bread will help cheer him up, after, you know, he tried to kill us and everything. But since he still can’t use his hands…”

 

“That’s… surprisingly thoughtful of you, ‘Case,” Jesse admits. 

 

“I can be thoughtful!” Hardcase protests. 

 

“Tell that to our QM, who found you “borrowing” blasters from the armory and taking them apart to make bombs near the heavy artillery,” Jesse scoffs. 

 

“That was one time! I was a shiny bombs specialist! You can’t hold that against me forever.” Hardcase absently rubs his ear, still remembering the absolutely scathing lecture he had gotten from Rex, before also getting several crates of broken blasters he could salvage for parts and a repurposed hangar where he could work on his creations without threatening to blow up the ship and everyone on it.

 

Rex is practical like that. Hardcase loves him for it. 

 

“Just saying, ‘Case. When you try to be thoughtful, you usually skip over the steps that include basic safety and common sense.” Just because Jesse's right doesn’t mean Hardcase is going to give him the satisfaction of agreeing. 

 

“If you’re going to be here, are you going to make yourself useful? Or are you just going to make fun of me?” 

 

“Well, I was just planning to make fun of you. But if you need me to do something—“

 

“Great! You can read the recipe. That way I don’t have to keep turning the datapad back on.” Jesse sighs, beckoning for the tablet. Hardcase hands it to him with a grin. 

 

“Okay, first up, four cups of flour.” Hardcase’s grin immediately fades. 

 

Well, kark. How does one measure in cups again? He tries to remember what Rex used, but his mind comes up blank. Maybe he’s overthinking it? If it’s just a cup, why would there need to be a special tool? Hardcase shrugs and grabs a caf mug out of the cupboard, scooping it into the jar of flour and then dumping it into the large bowl. 

 

“Next you want to add the salt, yeast, and water and herbs,” Jesse instructs, frowning at the recipe. “I think.” 

 

“What do you mean, you think? What does the recipe say?” 

 

“It says to whisk them? I don’t know what a whisk is,” Jesse says. “Maybe, I don’t know, stir it or something?” 

 

Hardcase frowns. He really doesn't want to mess this up, and if the directions say to whisk, is it really okay to stir? “What do Rex’s notes say?” 

 

“He didn’t write anything on this step,” Jesse unfortunately informs him. 

 

Hardcase sighs. “I guess stirring will have to do. How much am I adding?” 

 

“Two teaspoons kosher salt, one teaspoon active dry yeast, and one tablespoon freshly chopped herbs of choice, though Rex wrote that he prefers Alderaanian Rosemary if it’s on hand. If it’s not, thyme, basil, or oregano will work. Or if stocks are low, he has a stash of dried herbs in the pantry that will pass in a pinch.”

 

Hardcase buries his face in his hands. “I don’t even know what any of those are!” 

 

“Well, add the salt and yeast first, and then figure it out.” Hardcase nods, grabbing one of the spoons he has on the counter. He’s not quite sure what a teaspoon or a tablespoon is, but the cutlery drawer had two different sized spoons, so he thinks he can use those. He measures two spoonfuls of salt with the smaller spoon and then pours some yeast onto the spoon over the bowl. He accidentally pours a little too fast, and a fair bit of yeast overflows from the spoon and into the flour. That’s probably fine, right?

 

“Okay, where do we even keep the herbs?” 

 

“How should I know?” Jesse scoffs. “It’s probably in the cryro storage if it’s perishable.” 

 

Hardcase opens the door and shuffles through a few bins, finally finding a stash of plants in a small drawer labeled “Rex’s herbs.” He pulls out the whole container and shifts through the bags, pulling out a plant with thin leaves on a slightly woody stem. The bag says Rosemary on the label, so Hardcase is fairly certain this is the plant he wants. He takes out several sprigs, chops them, realizes he has more than he needs, and decides to dump the whole thing in anyway. He doubts Rex will complain if there’s more herbs than usual. 

 

With Jesse’s guidance, Hardcase adds two cupfuls of “room temperature” water. It might be a little on the warm side, mostly because he didn’t want to wait for the tap water to cool. He digs his hands in enthusiastically, mixing the water and flour together into a thick paste. It clings and sticks to his fingers, nearly impossible to scrape off. 

 

“Is it supposed to be this wet and sticky?” 

 

Jesse shrugs. “Rex’s notes say it should be pretty sticky.”

 

“I don’t think there’s enough flour,” the dough seems a little too soupy, in Hardcase’s untrained opinion. He grabs a handful of flour and tosses it in. But then the dough doesn’t seem sticky enough. 

 

Kark. 

 

Hardcase begins a delicate dance of adding more water, then more flour, until he gets a substance that seems wet and sticky enough without being soupy or dry. 

 

“What am I doing next?” 

 

“The recipe says you are supposed to let it sit for 12 hours.” 

 

“Ugh!” Hardcase dramatically drapes himself over the counter before hitting his forehead on his folded arms. “There’s no way I can wait that long!” Hardcase thinks hard for a second, trying to figure out what he can do. He can’t work on bombs—his muscles are still spasming from being stunned, and his vision isn’t quite cleared from being lightly concussed by Jesse’s blaster. Concussion means no training either. Which means he has nothing to do for even one hour. Which means he will die of boredom. 

 

"Wait! I got it!” Hardcase starts searching through the different jars on the counter until he finds the yeast. “This is the stuff that is supposed to make the bread rise! So if I add more, it will make the bread rise faster!” 

 

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” Jesse says, ever the doubter. Hardcase scoffs at him, already grabbing the spoon he used to measure out the yeast the first time. Two large spoonfuls later, he starts stirring it in. The bread dough doesn’t look all that different, but Hardcase just shrugs. It will rise in the oven, that’s what’s important. 

 

“What do I do after it has rested?” 

 

Jesse rolls his eyes, but dutifully scrolls to the next steps in the instructions. “You are supposed to dump the dough on a floured surface and coat it with flour. After that you knead the dough just enough to work the flour in.” 

 

Hardcase eagerly takes handfuls of flour and throws it onto the counter. A cloud rises, making him sneeze. Jesse makes a face when Hardcase immediately throws the bread dough onto the pile of flour. 

 

“Dude, you just sneezed all over that!” 

 

“Relax, baking it will kill any germs. I think.” Hardcase focuses on coating the sticky dough in flour. The dough sticks to his hands, making it impossible to properly knead. It doesn’t want to keep its shape all that well either. Hardcase gives up and dumps the whole wad of dough into the flour bowl. Jesse makes another face, but doesn’t say anything. Once the dough is properly coated in flour, Jesse dutifully gives the next set of instructions. Hardcase pulls the dough into three pieces, trying his best to make them even. One of the balls looks smaller than the others, but that’s probably fine. 

 

Next, he puts the loaves on the plastic tray that he vaguely remembers Rex using. He makes sure to put extra flour around the loaves so they won’t stick. 

 

“What next?” 

 

“It says to “preheat” the oven. You’re supposed to let the bread rest for about 20 minutes. 

 

Kark, not more waiting! 

 

Hardcase heats up the oven higher than the recipe calls for to make it preheat faster. He’ll turn it back down once the bread is in. 

 

Speaking of which, the flour-coated bread dough looks like it is already losing its shape.“Jesse, are the loaves supposed to flatten out like that?”

 

“Rex left a note that the loaves tend to flatten out a bit while resting. It should puff back up in the oven.” That’s good at least. 

 

The oven takes forever to get to temperature, but it finally does with a shrill beep. Hardcase can hardly control his excitement when he carefully lowers the tray into the oven. Rex is going to be so pleased when Hardcase sneaks him fresh bread in the Halls of Healing! 

 


 

Coric is standing in what used to be the kitchen. Again. 

 

Acrid smoke is billowing out of the oven, which has set off the fire alarm and the sprinklers. Instead of putting out the fire, however, the sprinklers have busied themselves in making a paste out of the copious amounts of flour dumped onto the floor from a knocked over bowl. Hardcase and Jesse are waving frantically at the open flames with their bare hands, like absolute di’kuts. 

 

“Stand back!” 

 

Coric grabs the fire douser and sprays it in the general direction of the oven. Jesse and Hardcase shriek as they are covered with chemical foam. Coric keeps a firm hand on the nozzle until the foam runs out with a hiss. 

 

Somehow, the oven is still on fire. Looking into the inferno, he can see the remains of a plastic tray and whatever was on it, all melting off the metal racks and burning to the bottom of the oven.  

 

Maker damn it, Coric just wanted some caf. 

 

He turns to Hardcase and Jesse. “Did either of you di’kuts burn yourself?” 

 

The two di’kuts look at each other, then at the oven. Eventually, Jesse answers. “Well, no—“

 

“Good.”Coric smacks both of them over the head. “You are both grounded until the War ends or you develop common sense—and make no mistake, I have very little hope for the latter.” 

 


 

Rex wakes to his hand being held. The touch is gentle, careful not to press against any of his wounds. Above his head, he can hear quiet humming. Around him, The Force is warm, nearly buzzing against his skin. It’s almost enough to lull him back to sleep. 

 

The hand holding his adjusts, grabbing his index finger. His palm lays across the back of the hand, pulling at scabs and stitches and adding pressure directly to the half-healed wounds, sending a stinging pain up his arm. A hiss escapes his teeth before he can stop himself. 

 

Ahsoka jumps, something cold brushing over the tip of his index finger. A jolt of pain runs through his hand at the sharp motion. 

 

“Rex! You’re awake! I was just—dang it, now it’s smeared—“ she furiously scrubs the pad of her thumb over his fingertips, once again careful to hold his hand in a way that won’t bring pain. Rex cautiously tries to take his hand back. Ahsoka hisses at him.

 

“Be patient, I’m almost done.” 

 

“What are you doing, Commander?” 

 

“I’m painting your nails? I noticed you haven’t done them in awhile. Do you still have the bottle I gave you?” 

 

“Sorry, Commander, I—“ Shame wells in his stomach, fearing he offended her. The bottle is still sitting in his desk drawer, unopened. He takes it out to hold every now and then, but the nail polish is such a precious gift, he’s afraid of wasting it. “I promise I appreciate the gift, I just—“ 

 

“Rex, I’m not mad at you,” Ahsoka assures him. She returns to her work, and now Rex can recognize the cool sensation of the brush sliding over his fingernails. “You know I can always get you more, right? I bought you the nail polish because you are my ori’vod, and I thought that it was something you would enjoy.”

 

He feels something brush against the jagged edges of his mind, fluttering like bird’s wings. “Ori’vod,” the word settles heavy in his chest like a broken promise, nestled between his ribs. It hurts.“You don’t need The Force to have value. Not to me.” 

 

“You—“ you meant something to me. Ahsokathe gnawing crescendos, chewing up his thoughts. He lashes out blindly, trying to get back the pieces that Son has took. He’s being pulled in two directions while underwater, and he wonders if it is better to just pick a side, even if he drowns. 

 

“I shouldn’t be,” Rex admits softly. 

 

“Shouldn’t be what?” 

 

“Your ori’vod.” The hand holding his squeezes tightly. Rex hisses and tries to tug his fingers free, but Ahsoka does not let go.  

 

“Nope. Illegal,” Ahsoka puts extra effort into popping the ‘p,’ the hardness of her eyes and grip the only thing betraying her casual tone. 

 

“Ahsoka I attacked you!” Rex puts his free hand to his throbbing head, only to hiss as it makes his palm throb as well. His memories have been coming back in blurred snapshots, but he remembers the feel of Ahsoka’s ribs under his heel, remembers attacking her while she was vulnerable and feeling glad that it was almost over. “Kark, Ahsoka, I tried to kill you.”

 

Hands settle over his ears, and Ahsoka’s forehead presses against his. “I can’t believe attempted murder is what it took for you to stop calling me Commander.” 

 

“Ahsoka—“

 

“I’m going to say this until you start believing it, so it will be easier on both of us if you listen up the first time, Rexter.” He feels her fingertips around the shell of his ears, angling them towards her face, still pressed up against his. 

 

“You are a di’kut, the biggest one I have ever met, if you think I am going to blame you for what Son did using your body. The whole time we were fighting I never once thought that you had betrayed us. When Son captured you, we thought you had died. Skyguy’s Force Bond had been severed, and there was blood spattered on the viewport, and even then we were still coming for you, dead or alive. No matter what you’ve done, no matter what’s been done to you, I will find you and bring you home. Even if you do Fall, I will drag your shebs back into the Light. You are worth that fight, Rex. Force or no Force, war or no war. You are more than a soldier to me, and you and your brothers are more than just clones. You named me as your vod’ika, and now I claim you. Ni kyr'tayl gai ori’vod, Rex.”

 

“Ahsoka—“ the guilt scrapes his ribs hollow. He doesn’t deserve forgiveness for what he’s done. He broke her ribs, he almost sliced Anakin’s leg off. He said poisonous things that he doesn’t fully remember, but knows he said to bite deep. Rex knew their vulnerabilities, and he purposefully exploited them. 

 

He would have killed all of them on Mortis. Just like he would have killed his brothers and Master Che. Rex has always known he was made to be a weapon, but he never imagined just how easily he could be turned and used against those he cares about. Those he was raised to protect. 

 

“Do you blame the men who were possessed by brain worms on the transport to Ord Cestus? Do you blame Barriss? She is almost a fully-trained Jedi, and yet she let her mind be overtaken.” There’s a dangerous edge to Ahsoka’s voice, and he can’t look her in the eyes. 

 

“Of course I don’t blame Commander Offee or those men,” he says. “But I—“ Ahsoka firmly whacks him over the head. 

 

“No buts. If you don’t blame a trained Jedi or your fellow men for being mind-controlled, then there is nothing to be guilty for. Rex, you had The Force physically and painfully torn out of you, your hands were a useless infected bloody mess, and you had been fighting the will of literal Gods since we arrived on Mortis. Don’t you dare think that you failed us just because you lost the fight for a time.” 

 

The conviction in Ahsoka’s voice is intoxicating, leaking into The Force and wrapping around his head. He breathes and his chest feels lighter. Little One, The Force croons.

 

“Morai,” Ahsoka breathes. There’s a convor in the room, feathers colored an unusual green and gold. Without thinking, Rex holds out his arm, and the bird lands gracefully. Light seems to spill from her feathers, eyes betraying an ancient sort of knowledge. Rex immediately recognizes Daughter, reborn into a new vessel. He can feel the way The Force wraps around her, protective and motherly. Morai ruffles her wings, plucking out a feather and bobbing her head for him to accept it. 

 

“Hey, we can match now!” Ahsoka shows Rex her silka beads, which now have a golden feather attached to them. Daughter croons in approval, once again offering the feather out for him to take. With his free hand, Rex slowly accepts the gift. 

 

“Thank you, for everything,” Morai flaps her wings and coos, taking off and disappearing through the ceiling. 

 

Rex looks at the feather in his hand. It glows with an inner light, making the gold-white gleam. For some inexplicable reason, the feather brings an odd sense of hope, some invisible burden lifted off his shoulders. The guilt of what he was forced to do lingers, but it is no longer crushing. Rex has the oddest sense that despite everything they just went through, he will be okay. That he will heal, that he will be able to accept himself. 

 

“Okay Rexter, give me your hand back. I want to finish painting your nails before Kix or Coric kick me out again.” ]

 


 

Cody takes a drink from his flask, wincing at the acrid taste. One of these days, he’s going to get alcohol poisoning from drinking the toxic waste his men try to ferment. Or maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll go blind. Cody takes another swallow and pretends he handles it better. “Any updates on Rex?” Cody doesn’t know what Ponds’ sources are, but they seem to be more accurate than Cody’s. 

 

Cody has no sources. No one has bothered to tell him osik.

 

It is driving him karking insane. 

 

“Rex is out of surgery, and has been stable for a rotation now. The medics still aren’t allowing visitors until further notice, outside select members of the 501st. Here, if you insist on getting drunk right now, drink this—it doesn’t taste like crude oil and Gundark piss and it’s less likely to cause immediate organ failure.” Ponds takes a sip out of his flask before handing it to Cody. 

 

Cody groans in frustration. “The medics do realize that we outrank them, right? We should get some pull as Rex’s ori’vode.” He takes a sip of the flask, appreciating the much more pleasant burn. Ponds always manages to get his hands on the Good Stuff. Or at least, much better stuff than the rotgut Cody keeps confiscating from Waxer and Boil and the occasional ambitiously dumb batch of shinies. He takes another sip or two, feeling warmth spread out from his stomach. 

 

“And as a Marshall Commander?” 

 

Cody hands the flask back, taking advantage of Ponds’ empty bunk to lay down and stretch out his back. Kark he’s getting old. “I’ve stopped pretending that rank meant anything to the medics a long time ago.” Ponds hums in agreement, taking another sip of the flask himself before returning to his flimsiwork. 

 

“Maybe we could break in? How hard can it be?” 

 

“Not wise vod. Kix has reportedly been stunning anyone who enters the Halls of Healing without authorization. Including his General.” 

 

“Maker, wish I could have seen that.” 

 

Cody’s comm beeps, and he groans. “Commander Cody,” he answers with as monotone a voice as he can manage. 

 

“Commander! It’s Boil. We have a Code Orange on our hands!” Cody immediately bolts upright, startling Ponds. 

 

“Sit rep, and make it quick!” 

 

“The General just asked Waxer how holonet shopping works! Waxer is stalling for time, but I don’t know how much longer he can hold out. The General looks really, really sad, and he’s making porg eyes—“

 

This is bad. It was one thing to orchestrate an economic shortage, but taking down every tea-selling site on the entire holonet is another. He already owes Fox an entire shipment of caf and a case of high-grade whiskey, and he doubts the bastard is willing to do more work before the debt is paid. “Give me your position, I’m on my way,” Cody bolts to his feet, wobbling the first few steps before regaining his balance. 

 

“Good luck vod,” Ponds offers a lazy salute with the flask, a viciously amused smirk on his face. Cody returns the salute with his middle finger, before rushing down the hallway as fast as he can while still maintaining his dignity. 

 


 

Anakin steps back from the easel, scrubbing his tired eyes with his forearm. Black and purple smears of color crowd the smudged blue tears trailing through the center of the canvas, all of this a background for a hazy mess of splattered red handprints. 

 

It deserves a title, don’t you think?” Anakin startles at the voice, but when he looks no one is there. Hairs prickle at the back of his neck, fists clenched at his sides. 

 

“Show yourself! Don’t you dare hide from me, you coward!” He may not have his lightsaber, but Anakin is not afraid to fight The Son with his fists. 

 

I am not hiding from you. It is you who blinds yourself to my presence. Look through The Force, Anakin, and you will find me here, where I’ve always been.” Anakin sighs, but obeys the Voice. Suddenly, Qui-Gon Jinn is there before him, inspecting the painting he has made. 

 

“This is quite good, for an amateur. Your raw emotion comes through very clearly with your unconventional brushstrokes, and your use of color is obviously intentional.”

 

“What would you know about painting?” Anakin huffs. 

 

Qui-Gon laughs. “I would hope I know at least a little bit, considering this used to be my room.”

 

“This used to be your room?!” 

 

Qui-Gon glances around the room as if trying to soak it all in again, as if the space itself was the ghost, and not himself. “It was. My Master put it together for me as a gift for my Knighting.” 

 

Count Dooku built this room?” Anakin sometimes forgets that the leader of the Separatists was once a Jedi himself, much less a highly respected one. Anakin had never lived in the Temple at the same time as his great-Grandmaster, and Obi-wan did not mention the Count often, claiming that Dooku now was almost unrecognizable from the man he had known. 

 

“He did. Even after he left the Order, he would send me regular shipments of art supplies,” Qui-Gon pokes at the moldy cup of formerly tea, his translucent hand sinking right through. 

 

“I find that hard to believe,” Anakin scoffs. “Why would he bother sending you art supplies when he hated the Jedi?” 

 

My Master was a difficult man,” Qui-Gon agrees. “He… lost faith, long before he ever left the Order. But I like to believe he never hated the Jedi, nor stopped believing in The Force, but instead was waiting for a sign that The Order could be what they were meant to be.

 

“As a Padawan, I found that painting helped me make sense of the Visions I saw through The Force. My Master knew this, and I want to believe that he wanted to support me, even if he could no longer support the Order.” 

 

Anakin looks at the unfinished painting on the easel. White, red and gold mixed together to form a brilliant star, surrounded by a roughly sketched pattern of swirls. 

 

While I painted it, the title was going to be “The Last Hope,” but now I think it should be called “The End of War.” Perhaps you will help me finish it.” Anakin jolts as he realizes that Qui-Gon must have been painting this right before he died. It would explain the long-abandoned cup of tea, the brushes so carelessly left uncleaned while the water in the cup evaporated, leaving a crusted layer of sediment on the bottom. 

 

He looks at his own painting, at the ragged brush strokes and frantic splatters. He looks at the watery red paint still staining his hands. He had tried to capture the weight of unpardonable sin, the shame and guilt that has plagued him since his Mother died. 

 

Maybe Son is right. Maybe it will never leave him, and the burden of guilt is the punishment he will always carry for his actions. Perhaps his hands will always be stained with the blood of the innocent. It is the least he deserves. 

 

But the past is a graveyard, and Anakin can’t linger here forever. He can’t keep cutting himself on the knife in his hands and bleeding onto everything he touches. 

 

“Do you have a title?” The glint in Qui-Gon’s eyes tells him that his Grandmaster already knows. 

 

He nods. Scans the painting one more time, taking in each brush stroke and splattered beads of red paint. The weight of colors, and the emotions they feed into. Looking at the surface, it is clearly a piece about guilt and shame. Anakin wants to lay his grief to rest, to bury it along with the dead, even if he doesn’t deserve it. 

 

“Nothing ever really dies, my Son,” his Mother whispers in his ear. 

 

“Forgiveness.” 

 

That is the only way forward. 

 

This is how he will set the knife down. 

 

Anakin will learn to forgive himself. 

 


 

“We need to figure out what to do about these chips.” Coric lays the pieces of Rex’s decayed chip onto the table, along with the scans confirming that Coric, Echo, and Kix have them as well.

 

“So far, I have not seen any adverse affects from chip removal in Captain Rex,” Master Che confirms. “However, the Captain seems to be struggling with his connection to The Force. I have been unable to determine whether the removal of his chip is the main cause, or whether it is a side effect of—”

 

The door to Master Che’s office opens, and two clones stumble into the room. One is guiding and half-carrying the other, who has the heels of his palms pressed into his eye sockets, body hunched over itself in pain. From the paint on their armor, Coric immediately recognizes them as vode from the 187th. 

 

The clone being supported has a stream of pleas tumbling from his lips, desperate and afraid. “Please don’t take me, Captain please, I can handle it, we don’t need to find—” The words are cut off with a sharp cry of pain, and it is a scramble for the vod supporting him to keep them both off the ground. 

 

“Sorry,” the vod guiding the other gasps out, chest heaving as he catches his breath. “Clover needs help, and I didn’t—Commander Ponds said I should take him to you. N-nothing is working, and we don’t know what to do anymore.” 

 

All three medics immediately stiffen. “Come here child,” Master Che grabs a bench from the corner and guides Clover to sit on it. “Where is the pain localized?” 

 

“Right temple and eyes,” Clover murmurs. Coric presses his lips into a firm line. He feels Kix stiffen beside him. 

 

“Our CMO ran some scans, but nothing showed up,” the Captain informs them.  

 

 “The pain won’t go away. It’s already been three rotations,” Clover’s lip wobbles, and he takes a sharp breath, hunching forward, prosthetic fingers digging at his skull. The other vod immediately tries to pull his hand away before he hurts himself. 

 

“Can you open your eyes for me?” Master Che keeps her voice calm, but Coric can see the tension running through her body. Clover shakes his head, biting off a sob. Coric goes to dim the lights, while Kix pulls out Master Che’s med kit and starts looking for a hypo. None of them want a repeat of what happened with Rex. If this is a chip malfunction, they need to act immediately. 

 

“Lights are dim,” Coric reports. Master Che hums her thanks and presses her fingers into Clover’s right temple. The clone slumps in relief as the pain starts to fade, nearly going boneless. Cautiously he blinks open his eyes. Coric is startled to see that they are glowing a brilliant silver, the same way Rex’s eyes glow when he uses The Force. Slowly, the silver drains, returning to a honey gold. Master Che slowly guides Clover to lay down on the bench, keeping her hands gently pressed to the vod’s temple. 

 

“Thank you,” Clover breathes. 

 

“You need not be afraid of what you are, young one. I seek only to help those who need it. Commander Ponds was right to send you to me. For one so untrained, you see deeply into The Force.”

 

“If these are Visions of what is to come, I cannot bear it,” a fresh wave of tears stream down Clover’s cheeks. The Captain is quick to put his hand on Clover’s shoulder, trying to offer comfort. Coric feels fear curl deep in his chest. Clones are desensitized to many of the worst aspects of war long before they leave Kamino. None of them are strangers to watching brothers die violently. To seeing the worst parts of sentient species. For Clover to be this upset, he must have seen something truly terrible. Perhaps he has even see how the War ends, or the fate that awaits those of them who are left at the end of it. Coric does not want to ask. He thinks the knowledge might crush him. 

 

“Alone, the burden is great. Shared, the weight becomes bearable,” Master Che assures him. “It is no weakness to let others help you.” 

 

“Rex, I want to talk to Rex,” Clover tries to sit up, only for Master Che to firmly push him back down. 

 

“Captain Rex is currently resting, though you may speak to him once you are both well. However, we need to address the source of your issues with controlling your connection to The Force. Lieutenant Kix, we need to prep the operating room,” Master Che declares calmly. 

 

“What?” Clover tries to pull away, but his face crumples in pain the moment he breaks contact with Master Che. 

 

“It is a minor operation,” Master Che assures him. “But we must act quickly to prevent long-term damage.”

 

“What’s wrong with him?” The Captain’s voice grows sharp with worry. 

 

“Is it the chip?” Kix asks. Master Che nods. 

 

“Chip? What chip?” Clover cries. 

 

“There’s a chip in your head—all our heads, most likely. We think the Kaminoans placed them there, don’t know why. But yours is deteriorating, just like Rex’s was. Which is why it needs to come out now.” Coric informs him bluntly, leaving no room for emotions. Clover blinks then nods. 

 

“Get it out. Please,” he whispers. Kix quickly sedates him with a hypo. 

 

“I’m not taking any chances,” Kix mutters. 

 

Coric frowns down at the unconscious vod. That both Rex and Clover have had their chips deteriorate so close to each other cannot be a coincidence. There has to be something causing the chip’s deterioration. The only similarity between the two cases is that both Rex and Clover seem to have a connection to The Force, and they both discovered it recently. But why would the Kaminoans make the chips so averse to The Force if the clones were made for the Jedi? Is this simply supposed to be the way the Kaminoans ensure they keep the clones Force-null? Or is this something deeper, more sinister? 

 

“Please tell me what you know about the chips” The Captain says. 

 

“We hardly know anything ourselves, other than the fact they exist.” Coric tells him.  

 

“You said Rex’s chip also deteriorated. Is he okay now?” 

 

“We are still closely monitoring Captain Rex,” Master Che supplies. “The full effects of chip removal cannot be known yet, especially concerning his condition at the time the chip was removed.”

 

“Are you sure the chips are even safe to remove? If the Kaminoans put them in us, they surely had a reason.” 

 

Kix slams a fist on a nearby table, his expression dark. “You don’t understand. Whatever the consequences, these chips cannot be allowed to stay in any vod’s head. Right now, the chips are dormant, and this is probably how they have avoided detection so far. But when they activate, not even Rex could fight it. There was a void where Rex used to be, and all that was left was an empty shell that tried to kill us.” Kix tugs down his medical whites, revealing the stark, hand-shaped bruises still on his throat. 

 

The Captain’s gaze becomes piercing. “Tell me what I need to do. I want to help.” 

 


 

“How are you feeling, Captain?” Kenobi carefully settles himself in the chair by Rex’s medical cot, holding two cups. “Would you like some caf?” Kenobi offers one of the cups, only to wince when Rex holds out his heavily bandaged hands to accept it. 

 

“I am doing much better now General, thank you,” Rex eventually finds the least painful way to hold the cup steady, eyebrows raising at the contents. It doesn’t look like any caf he’s ever had before, considering its opaque caramel-brown color. But it still smells like caf, and he trusts the General’s word that this is in fact caf, if nothing else. He slowly takes a sip, immediately appreciating the scalding temperature and the way the bitter edge is blunted, leaving only the rich flavor behind. Whatever this caf is, it’s not the dirt-water from the barracks, that’s for sure. 

 

Kenobi takes a tentative sip of his own caf, face screwing up in distaste. Rex takes another sip to hide his amusement. Cody must really have his General on the ropes, if Kenobi is resorting to drinking caf—or “unrefined swill,” as he so fondly calls it. 

 

The humor quickly dies as the General clears his throat, fingers tapping at the cup cradled in his hands. Rex instantly recognizes that this isn’t just a visit for pleasantries. He tries to sit up straighter against the cushions strategically wedged behind him. 

 

“I wanted to discuss the events of our recent… adventure, and where we should go from there if you are feeling up to it,” Kenobi avoids eye contact as he says it. Dread immediately churns in Rex’s stomach, and he closes his eyes in resignation. There’s no way Kenobi doesn’t know about Rex’s connection to The Force, not when he used it directly in front of the General more than once. Which means it’s over. General Kenobi will tell the Council, and Rex will be sent back to Kamino. Rex knew he was on borrowed time, but he had hoped he would be able to keep his secret a little longer, be able to help save more people. He had hoped the doppelgänger who came to visit him on Mortis was wrong. Rex is a naive fool for thinking General Kenobi would take it as well as Anakin and Ahsoka had.

 

“I-I understand General. I submit myself to disciplinary measures, and to trial before the Council and to the Tribunal of the Grand Army of the Republic,” something warm starts to splatter into his lap, and Rex doesn’t realize how badly his hands are shaking until Kenobi is quickly peeling the cup out of his hands with a curse. The bandages have been soaked through in some places, the heat scalding through to his skin. 

 

“Oh dear, I suppose I should have gone about this better,” Kenobi reaches for Rex again, and he feels every muscle tense up. Various instruments start to rattle, The Force wrapping around him instinctively. His eyes are burning, and he hears the General suck in a breath through his teeth. 

 

“Captain, I assure you that I have no intention of bringing you before the Council. Or the Tribunal for that matter,” The words don’t sound real. Why wouldn’t General Kenobi bring him before the Council? Rex is used to Skywalker going against the Council’s express wishes—it is practically a game at this point—but he can’t imagine General Kenobi doing the same. After all, General Kenobi is on the Council, and it is his duty to bring up something so important to the war effort. There’s no way the Council won’t see a Force-sensitive clone as a threat to the Jedi order—after all, isn’t that why the Kaminoans engineered them to be Force-null in the first place? Isn’t that why the Jedi Order so carefully monitors Force-sensitives? There’s no way the Order would let him operate as an unaffiliated Force-user. And once the Kaminoans get word that there is such a thing as a Force-sensitive clone, they will stop at nothing to get their hands on him—

 

“Captain? Can you hear me?” Something shatters, and General Kenobi curses softly. “Please don’t bite me again, but I need to get these bandages off quickly.” What? Warm hands wrap around his wrists, the wet bandages heavy as they are peeled off. 

 

“Kix and Master Che are going to kill me,” Kenobi murmurs. One hand stays anchored to his left wrist, and Rex flinches as something cool and wet trails along his skin. The contradicting sensations of warm hands and cool ointment grounds him, and eventually Rex is able to climb out of his own panic.

 

“Thankfully, the burns appear to be mild, the bandages must have mostly protected your skin from direct contact.” Kenobi murmurs to himself, “now, where does Master Che keep the bandages?”

 

“Third shelf on the left,” Rex manages to say. Kenobi hums his thanks, standing up to find the bandages. Rex simply watches as the swaths of white are firmly wrapped around his wrists and hands. Kenobi says nothing at first, focusing entirely on his task.

 

With how gentle the General is treating him, Rex is almost embarrassed by his earlier bout of panic. 

 

“I apologize Captain, I did not intend to cause you distress. I have no desire to bring your…” Obi-wan pauses to mull over his choice of words. “Your gift to the attention of the Council, not when you have cause to fear for your health and safety if the matter were to be made public. While I will not pretend to know what the Council’s feelings on the matter would be, I agree that it will be safest to remain discreet.”

 

Rex winces. “You heard that?”

 

Obi-wan nods. “You projected quite loudly, my Dear.”

 

“Ah,” Rex felt his cheeks start to burn. “If you don’t mind my asking, Sir, if you aren’t here to bring me before the Council, what did you wish to discuss with me?”

 

“I’ll admit the primary reason for my visit was to see that you are doing well and recovering,” Obi-wan says. “I had hoped to lift your spirits by bringing you caf, though I’m afraid that did not go as planned,” from the way the General avoids eye contact, Rex has a niggling feeling that the caf was for more than just his spirits. Growing up with the Shebse, he is more than capable of spotting a bribe when he sees one. 

 

“I also wanted to…offer myself as a resource for you.” Obi-wan continues to avoid eye contact, instead folding his hands repeatedly and tapping his thumbs together. “While I’m certain Anakin agreed to train you, he is also rather busy teaching Ahsoka and fighting a War, and well, I imagine it wouldn’t hurt to learn from multiple teachers…” 

 

Rex considers the offer. 

 

He knows the General is considered to be one of the strongest Jetti in the Order. Rex has seen firsthand the way he uses The Force to fight, the way he subtly weaves Force Suggestions into his words when he negotiates with Separatists or the people they are protecting. Kark, he’s a member of the Council for a reason. 

 

Rex also happens to know that General Kenobi is certifiably insane, even if he tries to hide it behind his reasonable locution and tea drinking. He gets along with Cody, of all vode, and it’s hard to forget that this is the man who trained Anakin. Rex does not want to end up like that. No thank you. 

 

Obi-wan must see the hesitation (read: visceral terror) in his face, because the General’s shoulders droop. “Ah. Forget I said anything.” He fiddles with the sleeve of his robes, inadvertently revealing a pair of crescent-shaped scabs that look exactly like a bite mark. Rex wonders when that happened—maybe Daughter tried to bite him the way Son bit Rex? His head flashes with pain, and belatedly Rex realizes that he dropped his shields—

 

There’s a hand against his forehead, Kenobi’s shields instinctively wrapping around his mind.

 

Rex sighs in relief, his mental shields slowly reforming. After having them destroyed so many times by Father and Son, Rex has had much more trouble keeping his shields intact. Master Che has told him that his shields are being weakened by severe exhaustion, mental and physical, and that he will gain his normal mastery back as he recovers. But Rex isn’t so certain. He feels different after Mortis. Less contained. Less controlled. His connection with The Force is much more raw, in a way it hasn’t been since Valtameri. 

 

Obi-wan has a worried frown on his face, and Rex can’t tell if he was projecting his thoughts again. 

 

“Captain, if you don’t mind my asking, is it… are you having difficulty with your shielding?”

 

Rex nods, cheeks once again coloring with embarrassment. Shielding is a skill he supposedly mastered months ago. The fact that he keeps losing basic control of his abilities is shameful. The fact that Master Che has to keep rushing to his side whenever he slips up because he can’t build his shields up on his own is even more so. 

 

Obi-wan hums, interrupting Rex’s mental pity party. “From what I could gather, you are already quite proficient at shielding, which is more than impressive for someone your age. I imagine only Anakin has achieved such thorough mental defenses, considering the amount of time we focused on shielding techniques when he was a Padawan. I dare say you even give my friend Quinlan a run for his credits.” 

 

What. 

 

“I have found that stronger Force users struggle with building proper shields. Anakin constantly lost control as a kid, and then again as he was going through puberty, giving impressive headaches to anyone who managed to be too close. And you, Captain, seem to be having similar issues. Though in your case, Captain, I believe the type of shielding you use, while strong and flexible, is simply taking too much energy for your recovering mind. May I teach you a temporary form of shielding to use as you recover? It will be less effective, I’m afraid, but far more stable.”

 

Suddenly, Rex realizes the trap he has fallen into. Damn Kenobi. But Rex can’t very well let his shielding keep falling apart like this. He won’t always have a Jettise on the field with him if he slips up. If the General has a way to help him, it would be stubborn foolishness not to take him up on it. 

 

Reluctantly, Rex agrees. Kenobi walks him through the steps. Instead of water, he is imagining the branches of a tree, wrapping around his mind like a living cage. It’s a bit more rigid, but there are controlled access points to The Force, rather than a constantly shifting wall. It’s an intermediate mix between the different types of shields that Rex has already learned, making it easier to pick up. After that, Kenobi shows him several other types of shields, with different rigidity and flexibility, and has Rex practice shifting between the different shields one after another. This way Rex can immediately slam up his beskar-walls when he first loses control, before gradually shifting to healthier shields based on what he has the concentration and energy for. 

 

Kenobi is gentle and patient the entire time, keeping Rex cocooned in his mental shields until he is certain the Captain can handle shielding on his own. By the end of their session, Rex feels more at ease and in control of himself than he has in a long time. 

 

“Thank you, General, I appreciate it, more than I have the words to express at the moment. Perhaps… I wouldn’t be opposed to future training sessions? If that is okay with you, of course.” Rex wonders what he was so worried about before. The 501st and 212th work together often, so finding a time to train isn’t the issue so much as finding a way to keep it secret. Based on the shielding session they just had, Kenobi has an approach to teaching other than Anakin’s preferred “throw-them-right-into-it-and-see-what-happens” method. Kark, Rex might actually understand what he’s doing for once. 

 

Kenobi brightens considerably. “It would be my pleasure, Captain. I am delighted to be of service to you.” He takes a sip of what is undeniably cold caf at this point. Based on the face he makes, the General had forgotten it was caf in the first place. 

 

“Captain, if it is not too much trouble, would you be able to assist me in finding a more… agreeable beverage?”

 

Rex tries his best to keep his face completely blank. He doesn’t believe he is successful in the slightest. “Apologies General, but if the Commander is still mad at you, I’m afraid you are on your own.” 

 

Kenobi looks disappointed, though not surprised. “Are you certain? I have heard that the Commander is like an older brother to you. Surely, as his younger brother, you would be able to curry favor with him?” 

 

Rex learned long ago that to get between Cody and his campaigns is to make a death wish, and he has no desire to interfere in whatever wrath the General brought down upon his head. Especially if Cody is going so far as to drag Fox into his plans. Anyone who so much appears to consider helping Kenobi get his hands on some tea, or otherwise commute his sentence, is sure to face a punishment worthy of the Sith’s deepest hell. As far as the clones are concerned, the General has dug his own grave, and no one feels the need to dig it deeper or wider to join him. 

 

“Unfortunately, General, I’m a younger brother, not a miracle worker.” 

 

Kenobi slumps into his seat, looking thoroughly dejected. “It was worth a shot.” 


Anakin takes a step back from his easel, wiping his brow with his forearm to avoid smearing paint on himself. In his chest, The Force hums with approval. From the canvas his mother smiles back at him, her hair pulled up into an elegant braid. Wrinkles crinkle around her eyes, but they are lines of care, rather than stress. Faint lines of gold weave around her like the natural balm of sunlight. After all, Shmi was firmly bathed in the Light. 

 

Tears start building in Anakin’s eyes. His memory of his mother’s face had started to fade, and he had feared that his memory of her would leave with it. But now he has a picture to keep, and it is something he made with his own hands. For the first time since she died, Anakin can face his mother, and he can face her without shame. 

 

If he had not stumbled upon this room, Anakin would have never known he had the ability to paint like this. To lay himself down in The Force and let it guide him through his emotions. Anakin can finally see why Obi-wan likes meditating so much, why Rex bakes at every available opportunity. He feels grounded, fully in control of himself. He can examine his emotions and the roots of them the same way he would solve a mechanical puzzle. The anger and shame are still with him, of course, but they are simmering now, not the only thing he can focus on. 

 

You think you can escape me so easily?” Son’s voice tickles against his ear. “I am buried within you, marrow and blood. Soon you will realize that you can’t live without me, that you will need what I can offer you.”

 

Anakin moves his dirty brushes to a small utility sink, methodically cleaning the bristles. “You’re right. I can’t escape you. That’s why I am going to face you head on. I’m not going to let you control me.” 

 

“Your Guide is still mine, and so long as he is he shall suffer.” 

 

“Then I shall free him from you. Day and night, I will scour The Force to find his chains. And when I find them, nothing will stop me from destroying you.” 

 

I am a God, you foolish mortal. You cannot kill—“

 

“I have already killed you once. You are nothing more than a ghost clinging to its former shell.” 

 

The door opens, Obi-wan carefully sneaking in, scanning the hallway before closing the door as quickly and quietly as he can.

 

“Master, what are you doing here?” 

 

Obi-wan startles so badly he knocks over a table and several bottles of paint with The Force. 

 

“Anakin! What are you doing here?” Even as the question leaves Obi-wan’s mouth, he’s clearly distracted in his search for something. His eyes flit around the room like a sparrow being hunted.

 

“Painting.” Anakin gestures to the drying canvas. “Are you looking for something?” 

 

“Ah, yes, I suppose you could say that.” Obi-wan’s gaze lingers a little too long on the biohazard still sitting untouched by Qui-Gon’s unfinished painting. Anakin had honestly forgotten it was there. 

 

A sense of ominous foreboding fills the room. Sweat trickles down the back of Anakin’s neck. He knows quite well the desperate spark in a man’s eyes, when dignity and humanity have fled with reason. 

 

“Master, no.” 

 

Obi-wan lunges for the cup anyway, and Anakin pulls it to the floor with The Force. The cup shatters into hundreds of tiny pieces, but that does not stop Obi-wan from falling to his knees, picking up the moldy tea bag and barely taking the time to brush off the shards of glass before shoving the whole thing in his mouth. 

 

Anakin does not think his eyes will ever recover. He crumples to his knees from the psychic damage just as Obi-wan starts retching. 

 


 

“Captain, I am happy to inform you that your recent round of tests have all come back satisfactorily,” Master Che announces. “You are now released from the Halls to recover in your barracks, so long as you continue to regularly check in with Healer Kix or Healer Coric.” She levels him with a stern glare. “By regular check ups, I mean once every other rotation, or immediately if you start experiencing concerning symptoms, such as dizziness, severe or reoccurring headaches, insomnia, fatigue, abdominal pain, deep aches, hot flashes—“ 

 

“Thank you, Master Che, I appreciate the concern, but I think I will be—“ The healer cradles his face in her hands, looking at him intently. 

 

“The next time I see you, Captain Rex, it better be as a visitor, and not a patient. In order to ensure that favored outcome, you must take care of both your body and your mind.” Master Che presses her forehead to his, and Rex can feel The Force humming and swelling around the both of them. The feather stashed under his medical gown grows warm, almost burning against his skin. “You are strong, Captain. One of the strongest individuals I have ever met, both in The Force and in strength of mind, but even the sturdiest rocks may be weathered by the storm. Take care to remember that you are not alone in your trials.” 

 

Rex struggles to swallow the lump forming in his throat. “Thank you, Master Che. I promise to take your words to heart.” 

 

“I give it three weeks, max,” Coric murmurs to Kix. A moment later, Coric lets out a yelp when Kix’s elbow nails him in the side. Rex wonders if his medics have started getting subtlety lessons from Fives and Echo. Master Che rolls her eyes before turning to face her fellow medics. 

 

“Whoever created those chips wanted them hidden. If we are to start removing them, we must do so discreetly.” Kix and Coric both nod, determination in their eyes. 

 

“Blond Squad is working on a way to bypass the report function that is used whenever a Level 5 scan is requested. They are also having some of the splicers look into programming the surgery into the machines where the data will immediately be wiped. While they modify the scanners and surgical machines, Coric and I will start spreading the information through the GAR medic network,” Kix explains. “For now, we will only operate on cases where we suspect chip degradation has already begun, and then expand our efforts to clones in medical, command, and spec ops.” 

 

Master Che nods. “If more of your brethren show signs of Force Sensitivity, have them contact me using this comm code.” 

 

“I can help too,” Rex offers. “I can teach—“ 

 

“Not on your life, Captain,” Coric immediately shuts the offer down. “Let us medics handle this, that’s an order.”

 

“I outrank you,” Rex huffs. 

 

“Not when it comes to the health and safety of the men,” Kix and Coric respond in sync. 

 

“If you’re so concerned for my health and safety, am I at least allowed to bake?” Rex hasn’t had the chance to bake since before Mortis, and the desire to bury his hands in some dough is nearly overwhelming. 

 

Kix and Coric exchange some sort of look with each other. “Normally I would say yes, but,” Kix scrunches up his face like he bit into something sour. 

 

“Hardcase and Jesse exploded the kitchen. It is currently unusable,” Coric finishes. Rex feels all joy and hope in humanity leave him at once. If he sees Jesse or Hardcase on the way back to the barracks, he’s not sure he can stop himself from murdering either of them. 

 

“I think I need to go lay down for a bit.”

 


 

What remains of his armor is sitting in his quarters in the barracks, cleaned and stacked into neat piles. Inspecting the pieces, Rex sighs when he realizes he’ll have to get a new chest and back plate again, considering the gaping hole through both of them. 

 

His memory of Mortis is still mostly jumbled, hovering in his mind like a foggy mist. He picks up the chest plate, running a finger over the sharp edge. Even the moment he was stabbed feels unreal to him, the scar already faded and old. He knows he was not fully himself at the time, his body and mind torn apart so something dark could be shoved in. Rex thinks that a part of that darkness still lingers, that he can feel it throbbing under his skin. 

 

Before he can spiral too far, Rex sets down the chest plate and picks up his helmet. Faint streaks of dried blood still linger on the surface, and Rex vaguely remembers dragging his bloody hands over the surface, trying to drown out the blue paint. The Jaig Eyes he wasn’t worthy of, the tallies of all the missions "successfully" completed. With a sigh, Rex puts on his helmet, planning to inspect the HUD for damage. 

 

In the upper right corner of the HUD, a small red light is blinking, signaling that there is a recording to view. Rex sucks in a breath through his teeth, opening the file and setting his HUD to project. He turns off all the lights, so that the recording is the only source of light. 

 

The video starts with a panorama of floating islands and lush vegetation. It is almost eerie how the islands simply hover, how quiet and still everything is without animals. It makes the hairs on the back of Rex’s neck stand up. 

 

“What?… What? Uh, Did you guys hear that?” Anakin asks off to the side. Rex turns to look at the General, only to see him turning in circles. 

 

“Hear what, sir?” Rex hears himself ask. The camera whites out and is filled with static a moment later. It fluctuates and continues to only catch bits of landscape and conversation for the next few minutes, only coming into clarity again when a landslide happens. The frame freezes and glitches before resuming, but in that time Rex sees a dark blur hovering in the left corner of the frame. Then the video captures Rex being thrown off a cliff with perfect clarity. He watches his hands scrabble uselessly for a handhold, hears each pained grunt and panicked curse as he fails to catch himself. 

 

Rex watches for what feels like hours, as the recording recounts what he experienced. Without the memories to back up the video, it feels like watching a dream version of himself. The video also struggles to capture anything having to do with The Ones, leading to voids in the film. He watches himself be dragged around by Father, watches Anakin burst open the Conduit of the Force, bending night and day to his will. He sees Anakin’s face when he is captured by Son, and the naked fear and desperation sends a shiver down his spine. The video cuts out for a while after that, until Rex is holding the helmet and pointing it at himself. 

 

Rex almost doesn’t recognize himself, seeing what Son had forced him to be. Dark veins spiral over his pale skin like cracks, eyes molten gold and bloodshot, lips pulled into an unnatural snarl as he paints over the camera lens with blood. 

 

And then Anakin comes, and Rex hears himself say every secret thought he swore he would die with, spitting it at his General like the deadliest of poisons, every word meant to cut deep and burn. But no matter what he says, the General still keeps trying to save him. Then Ahsoka joins the fight, and neither her nor Anakin ever move to maim or kill, even when Rex does. 

 

Rex’s eyes start to burn, and the next thing he knows tears start streaming down his face. His chest is twisting with a raw grief he can’t name, and he he presses his hands to his mouth to choke down the wretched sobs making his throat ache. 

 

He finally understands Ahsoka’s words. That the Jettise will fight for him like he isn’t a clone. That she views him as something worth fighting for. It was so much easier when Rex believed he would die alone on Kamino, when he could convince himself that no one would mourn him, and he was replaceable like a clone should be. 

 

Even when the Shebse found and adopted him, Rex could convince himself that they might mourn for awhile, but would be able to move on. After all, the clones were painfully aware of the cruel reality of death from the moment they were decanted. Rex is supposed to die. That is the whole purpose of his existence. And if he dies during the war, then he doesn’t have to worry about what happens after, doesn’t have to think about being anything other than a soldier. 

 

It is a strange thing to watch himself die. To watch Ahsoka cradle his dead body. Seeing the grief on her face, in Anakin and Obi-wan makes him hate his own cowardice. Rex has not been trying to die, but he has not been trying to live either. The realization of his own value terrifies him. His brothers, the Jettise, they all see him as a man—as something individualized, valuable, irreplaceable. But Rex still sees himself as a number, and he doesn’t know how to reconcile his purpose with his humanity. 

 

Rex throws his helmet across the room, and then curls into a ball and stays that way for a long time, the video replaying in eerie shadows on his wall. 

 


 

Fox does not get paid. Even if he did, Fox could not be paid enough to deal with this osik. His eyes are blurring, no longer able to focus on the words on the datapad. 

 

Two rotations. He has been working for two full rotations. If his medics knew, they would kill him, which is why he has locked himself in his office and directed all inquiries to Thire for the time being. But the Chancellor needs his report on the CoruscanTea company investigation and monopoly bust filed by tomorrow, and Fox is never doing Cody a favor again. 

 

Sure, Fox was already planning on giving at least Amidala and Chuchi a heads up on the shady tea company, and Cody’s request to suddenly get rid of all tea on Coruscant had been a good excuse to get things into motion, but not even two cases of fine Corellian Whiskey will fix the amount of bantha-osik Fox has had to deal with. Turns out tea-addicts are much, much worse to deal with than regular alcoholics and spice users. General Kenobi has been stopping by his office nearly every day for an update on the case, and an estimate on when tea will be back on the market. 

 

With a sigh, he leans back and rubs at his heavy eyes. The desire to sleep is about to pull him down, so he reaches for his caf, only to find out that the cup is empty. Karking osik. After a few more curse words, he’s able to push himself up from his chair, back and neck protesting every movement with a series of loud pops. He tiredly swipes up his empty cup and starts making his way to the kitchen, because Staples and Patch won’t let him keep a caf machine in his office, arguing that he’ll abuse the access to caf. They aren’t wrong, but it’s inconvenient that he has to walk all the way to the kitchen. 

 

Odd. The lights are already on. Considering the time, the only Corries awake are himself and anyone assigned to night shift. Besides, the caf machine is the only thing in the kitchen anyone knows how to use, and any Corrie worth their salt can use it in the dark. The light is abrasive, and Fox stands in the open doorway to the kitchen, blinking hard several times so his tired eyes will adjust. Then he blinks again, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. When his vision finally clears again, he can mostly confirm that he’s actually not hallucinating the scene in front of his eyes. 

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be dying in a MedBay somewhere?” 

 

His little blond menace lets out a surprised shriek, whipping around and throwing the nearest convenient projectile. Fox doesn’t even try to dodge, accepting his fate as it soars through the air and hits him directly in the chest, creating a cloud of fine white powder that coats his face. After a moment, the thing peels off his armor and plops onto the floor. Fox nudges it with his foot, surprised by how squishy and pliable the blob of material is. 

 

“Fox!” Rex chokes out. “What are you doing here?” 

 

Fox holds up his empty caf cup as an explanation. “Better question: what are you doing in my kitchen at 3 in the morning?” Fox isn’t actually sure that’s the current time, but it feels like the correct time.

 

Rex sighs and gestures at the blob on the floor. “I was making bread.” 

 

“You mean the thing you just tried to murder me with?” Fox nudges the supposed bread with his foot one more time, for emphasis. 

 

“I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be awake,” Rex mutters sulkily. He gives the bread on the floor a forlorn look before he starts scooping up the powdery mess on the counter into a pile, sweeping it into the bowl he picked up from the floor. 

 

Fox ventures further into the kitchen. “And why are you trying to make bread in my kitchen at three in the morning?”

 

“Couldn’t sleep.” Now that Fox is closer, he can see that Rex’ika does indeed have worryingly dark circles under his blue eyes. It’s going to take a while for Fox to get used to that. His vod’ika also looks far too pale and skinny to be healthy.

 

It still doesn’t explain why Rex is in his kitchen. 

 

“You aren’t hiding from your medics, are you?” 

 

“Like you’re any better,” Rex rolls his eyes, scooping a certain amount of white powder into a larger bowl. “They released me this morning, if you’re that worried.” Fox watches with interest as Rex adds in a few more powders and salt before pouring in some water and mixing everything into a paste. He doesn’t remember seeing any of these things before, which means the menace brought them himself, with the full intention of making a mess in Fox’s kitchen. Still, Fox can admit there is something soothing about the repetitive motions Rex makes. Despite the dark circles under his eyes, his vod’ika really does look more at peace, the tension draining from his shoulders. 

 

“Do you want to try?” 

 

The question startles Fox out of his thoughts. 

 

“What?” 

 

Rex gestures to the paste. “Want to try making bread? I mean, I know you’re probably busy—I get it, really. But, you feel—you seem stressed, and I find baking helps.” 

 

Fox should say no, should grab his coffee and go back to holing up in his office. He really needs to finish that karking report. But the blond menace is looking at him with those hopeful tooka eyes, and the voice in his head is whispering that he should take any moment he can get with his brothers—for all Fox knows, this might be the last time he sees his little menace alive, especially with Rex’s recent track record. 

 

“Give me a moment,” Fox sets down the empty mug and turns on his heels. The dark hallways seem much emptier without the warmth and light from the kitchen. Fox tries not to think about it as he grabs the stack of data pads on his desk and makes his way back. 

 

Rex brightens considerably when he returns. Fox sets down his stack of data pads and approaches Rex by the counter. His little menace pulls out another bowl and starts instructing Fox on how to make his own paste mixture. He’s still a little doubtful on how this is going to become something edible, but Rex seems confident enough. 

 

Mixing everything together with his hands is… surprisingly calming. He ignores Rex’s knowing grin as he focuses on making sure all the flour is incorporated into his blob of dough. After that is done, Rex briefly turns the oven on and then off again. 

 

“Usually I let the dough rise overnight, but for the sake of time, we’re going to use the one-hour method.” 

 

The hour of wait time gives Fox the chance to finally make his caf and work on his report. Rex spends the time cleaning up the rest of his mess and then reading over Fox’s shoulder, offering the occasional correction and snarky comment. 

 

Rex pulls the bread out of the oven, and Fox is surprised to see that the blob has doubled in size. Following Rex’s example, he works to coat the sticky food in flour, mesmerized by the pillowy texture. Fox is starting to see why Rex is so obsessed with this. Absently, Fox pinches off a piece, popping it into his mouth. 

 

“Fox, wait-“ 

 

Maker, it tastes awful. Almost worse than their ration bars. 

 

Rex bursts into laughter, the sound slightly hysterical. Tears start streaming down his vod’ika’s cheeks and he uses the counter to keep himself upright. 

 

“You’re telling me you raided my kitchen at 3 am to make this osik?” Fox washes the taste of bread out with cold caf. All his faith in his youngest vod’ika has been wasted. He picks up his data pads and prepares to march out of the kitchen with any dignity he still has. 

 

“Wait, wait,” Rex gasps out. “It isn’t baked yet, you di’kut.” 

 

“What do you mean it isn’t baked yet—isn’t that why you put it in the oven for an hour?”

 

“That was to proof the dough,” Fox gives him the blankest stare he can manage. “I gave the yeast time to work its magic so the dough would rise.”

 

“I see,” he doesn’t, actually, but Rex doesn’t need to know that. Thankfully, his vod’ika is distracted by shaping the loaves and coating them in butter, herbs, and salt, and then they are left to rise one final time while the oven gets to temperature. Fox finishes his report while the loaves bake in the oven.

 

The little menace has an osik-eating grin as he hands Fox a thick slice of still-steaming bread, then sits there like a karking vulture, anticipating the first bite. 

 

Hesitantly, Fox takes a small nibble. He has to fight to restrain himself from inhaling the rest of the bread, instead making a noncommittal humming sound as he chews the next, significantly larger bite as slowly as he can. 

 

“Well??” The menace is so eager for his approval. It’s honestly kind of cute. 

 

“It’s alright, I guess.” Fox would do several illegal things to have an entire loaf of this bread. He would even consider doing another favor for Cody. His eyes are starting to sting from the effort of holding back tears of joy, his jaw clenched tightly so that not even a ghost of a smile can form on his face. “I suppose you are worth keeping around for a little bit longer.” 

 

Rex beams, then hands Fox another thick slice of bread. 

 


 

Thire marches into the Corrie break room, finding his men huddled around the salvaged caf table and whispering amongst themselves.

 

“We should try it! It smells so good, it can’t possibly be bad.” 

 

“Goat, what is wrong with you? We have no idea who left it here—what if it is poisoned?” 

 

“Yes, Tyrel, because if I wanted to murder vode, the easiest way I can think to do it would be to sneak something poisonous into a high-security military complex, instead of just using anti-war-protest-mobs or shooting them on the street.” 

 

“What seems to be the problem?”

 

The Corries whip around, immediately falling into attention. This tells Thire that the whole lot of them are shinies. No one else in the Corrie Guard bothers saluting their superior officers. 

 

“At ease. Now, sit rep.”

 

One of the shinies—Tyrel, if Thire had to guess—holds up an object pinched between his thumb and index finger, carefully extending his arm to keep it as far away from his body as possible. “Sir. This appeared in the break room sometime last night.”

 

On the caf table is several trays of what appears to be over a half dozen round objects, sliced into smaller pieces. The outer core is a golden brown, the top covered in bits of green leaves and tiny clear crystals. The inside looks spongy and lighter, also filled with green chunks. Thire has no idea what it is, or how and why it appeared in the break room. If he had to guess, based on the fact that it is sitting on trays alone, it might be a sort of food, but it looks nothing like the rations the GAR serves, nor the protein mush they were fed on Kamino. 

 

Whatever it is, he doesn’t trust it. Not one bit. 

 

“Did you ask medical to check it out?” Thire finally asks. 

 

“Staples said he was too busy for me to be wasting his time with such bantha-osik, and to avoid putting it in my mouth if I was that concerned over it being poisonous,” Tyrel admits sheepishly. 

 

Thire sighs. “For now, don’t touch it, and treat it like it’s hostile. I’ll have someone from Analytics come get a sample—hopefully they can figure out what it's supposed to be.” 

 

It is at that moment that Marshall Commander Fox himself strolls in, cup of caf in one hand and a datapad in the other. With barely a glance at everyone else in the room, he makes a beeline towards the caf table, picks up a slice of the Unidentified Substance—somehow without setting down his caf or datapad—and takes a large bite out of it before holding it in his mouth and turning to leave. 

 

“NO!” Without thinking, Thire slaps the thing out of Fox’s mouth, inadvertently smacking the caf and datapad out of his hands as well. Unidentified Substance, caf, and datapad all end up in a wet pile of broken glass and porcelain on the floor. 

 

For a moment, Fox just stares blankly, like he’s going through the 5 stages of grief deep in his own head. It’s when the Commander meets his eyes that Thire starts to consider that he maybe karked up. 

 

“Commander Thire, I sincerely hope you have a good explanation for this.”  

Notes:

Before I give you my thoughts, here are the memes, as per usual:

Rex: we can do a second surgery. I am already completely healed.
Kix: why would you even try to lie about that?

 

Master Che: Its gonna have to be you
Coric: but I can't use my hands???
Kix: *possibly concussed, was just strangled half to death*
Master Che: *squinting at Coric through the blood in her eyes, dealing with several fractures across her body, definitely concussed*
Master Che: its gonna have to be you

*Master Che helping Coric with Rex's surgery*: The Force take the wheel

 

Cody: I need someone to hide all the tea in the Temple from Obi-wan. Can I trust you?
Yoda: no more, must you say. Handle it personally, I will.

Mace Windu: But you don't like tea?
Yoda: be made, sacrifices must.

 

Obi-wan: economic shortages happen. Even in Coruscant. I shouldn't be so disingenuous towards Cody to believe that he would be petty enough to orchestrate something like this.

Cody: *is absolutely petty enough to orchestrate a planet-wide economic shortage of tea*

 

Obi-wan: so Rex, what kind of shielding do you already know?
Rex: its like a shifting ball of water? I guess?
later, Obi-wan to Master Che: why the hell would you teach him the most complex form of shielding we have
Master Che: well it worked, didn't it?

Son: feel guilt, shame, anger, and know it will never leave y-
Anakin: sorry, can't hear you over the sound of my painting and embracing healthy hobbies and deciding to actively improve myself and my relationship with my past

Rex: oh boy I can’t wait to bake my stress away
Kix and Coric: uh yeah, about that. Hardcase and Jesse exploded the oven
Rex: … I think I need a minute *lays on the floor*

*that night*

Fox: what the fUcK are you doing in my kitchen at three in the morning.
Rex: *covered in flour and bread dough* baking my stress away
Fox: …. Show me how

*next morning*

Corrie Guard: what is this thing that has been left in the break room? Is it poisonous? Will it kill us?
Thire: don’t eat it, just to be safe
Fox: strolls in with a slice of bread in his mouth, chewing happily

 

It seems very fitting to me that my doc hit 400 pages during the scene where Hardcase and Jesse were messing up a loaf of bread in every possible way. The recipe their attempt at baking was based off is actually a real recipe, and one of my favorites. To find it, look up Ridiculously Easy Rosemary Bread by The Café Sucre Farine.

This chapter had a lot of moving pieces, as the clones now know about the chips, even if they don't exactly know what their purpose is yet. Palpatine is also now aware that Rex exists, even if he doesn't know it is Rex yet. Moving forward, it is going to be a race to see what happens first: the Clones secretly removing the chips, and Palpatine finding Rex and "weeding" him out. With this in mind, we are moving towards the Citadel Arc >:)

If you've made it this far, get yourself a cold drink (preferably water or iced tea) and a nice little treat. Thanks again for taking the time to read, getting your kudos and comments always makes my day :)

Chapter 10: your boldness stands alone

Summary:

In which Rex believes he is recovered from Mortis and ready to return to the field (no one else believes this).

Or, the beginning of the Citadel Arc, featuring: awkward family road trips with heist music, Anakin actually doing his job for once, Ahsoka being a teenage rebel, Cody, professional Obi-wan tea denier, Bly, who wasn’t even supposed to be here, and Rex being the middle child (attacked on all sides).

Or, the game of cat and mouse begins. Sidious makes his first move.

Notes:

I'M BACK!!! I know its been a long wait, but hopefully I can make it up to you with the start of the Citadel Arc :)

This chapter fought me like wrestling a snake bathed in lotion--every time I thought I had figured it out, it found a way to slip away again.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

“Echo!!!” 

 

The heat from the explosion is intense, nearly blinding Rex and making his eyes water. But he doesn’t dare look away. There, on the ground, is a charred helmet, two perfectly symmetric lines nearly burned off. Fives’ cry of anguish keeps ringing in his ears, Rex’s own throat aching, his lungs collapsing in his chest. There is no time to mourn. Kenobi gives the order to move out, and Rex wraps his hand around Fives’ wrist, pulling him away from the twisted and molten wreckage of their shuttle—

 

Rex wakes with a gasp, lungs heaving as he bolts up from the floor of the fresher. He feels like static is crawling over his skin, tingling up and down his spine. He paces the floor of his quarters, barely aware of the sound of metal vibrating, objects shifting. 

 

It was just a dream, he tells himself. But even then, there is a chasm growing in his chest, and Rex knows he is lying to himself. His gut is telling him that this is a warning—he has seen this before. 

 

Either way, he’s not going back to sleep tonight. 

 

Rex creeps out of his quarters on silent feet, squinting at the bright lights of the hallway. As his eyes adjust, he makes his way towards the barracks. 

 

He can’t make himself enter, not wanting to disturb his men over something so trivial as a bad dream. So Rex sits with his back to the door of the barracks, tentatively reaching into The Force to find his vode. Hardcase is easy to find, his Force presence brimming and exuberant, even in sleep. Next he finds Jesse and Kix, both vode calm and content, steady in The Force. Coric is dreaming, though of what Rex cannot tell. Thankfully, Rex cannot sense any pain from him. Fives is next, his vod’ika restless but otherwise untroubled.

 

He can’t find Echo. 

 

Fear stirs in his chest, making it harder to focus. He searches again, sifting through each presence one by one. Still, Echo is not there. 

 

Panic claws its way up his throat. Rex tries to type in the access code to the barracks, but his hands are shaking too badly. Each failed attempt increases his panic, until Rex punches the key pad, the door giving a shrill beep. 

 

It’s a karking access code. How many men would die in the field if Rex took this long to open a door?

 

“Captain?” His eyes snap up to meet Echo’s, the vod looking at him in confusion. Rex takes several moments to look him over, making sure there are no visible injuries. For some reason, Echo still has his armor on. If he weren’t so tired, maybe Rex could figure it out. 

 

“You’re still awake?” 

 

Echo narrows his eyes, looking at Rex with poorly hidden concern. “I have night duty this week,” he says slowly. “Are you alright, Captain?”

 

Rex wants to kick himself. “I’m fine Echo, just having a little trouble sleeping. Mind if I take a lap with you?” 

 

“Not at all sir,” Echo falls in step with Rex’s quick pace. They walk together in comfortable silence. In many ways, Echo is a vod after Rex’s own heart. His vod’ika is becoming a great strategist, and as such he can read the mood and timing of most situations with startling accuracy. But, Echo is first and foremost a fixer and a problem solver—something he likely picked up from his specialty in splicing—so Rex knows the silence won’t last forever. 

 

So Rex resolves to make the first move, keep the conversation off him. It doesn’t matter what he was dreaming—it’s enough for him that Echo is alright. That now he gets to spend some time with his vod’ika. 

 

Unfortunately, right as Rex opens his mouth to speak, Echo beats him to it. “Sir, how are your hands?” 

 

Rex flexes them with a grimace. “Stiff,” he admits sullenly. The wounds in his hands have only just recently closed, sealed with synth-skin once the infection finally cleared out. They are still delicate, and constantly tear back open. He’s only recently been allowed to start some PT exercises to bring back his grip strength, mobility, and coordination, but it’s been a slow and frustrating process. 

 

“Have you been seeing Master Che still?” 

 

Rex shakes his head. “Whatever The Son did to infect my hands is beyond her ability to heal. I just have to wait for the poison to purge itself.” Meditation and Force Healing can help keep the pain away for a bit, but it’s a bacta-patch solution. There’s a part of him that fears his hands will never fully heal, that this wasn’t Son’s doing after all. Perhaps this is his punishment for touching the Conduit of The Force, his hands crippled from channeling a power he had no right to control. 

 

“I can hear you worrying,” Echo takes one of Rex’s hands in his own, twisting it back and forth. The bandages are clean, and Rex breathes a relieved sigh. “It might be slow, but you are healing. Your hands are strong, and that strength will come back to you. And if it doesn’t, we’ll adapt like we always have. You’re stuck with us Captain, no refunds, returns, or trades.” Echo places Rex’s hand over the mark on his armor, over his heart. Even through the armor, Rex swears he can feel Echo's heart beating. 

 

“You would manage just fine without me,” Rex says quietly. However, he can’t deny the relief that follows Echo’s affirmation.

 

Echo snorts. “I think Jesse would get a heart attack and die just to avoid that promotion, Captain, and none of the boys feel like fighting clankers with rotting fish anyway,” Echo finally gives Rex his hand back, his gaze piercing straight through Rex. “Besides, we only hold down the fort half as well as we do so we can give it back to you.” 

 

They round the corner, and Rex sees the door to his quarters coming up. “Thanks for the company Echo, though I probably shouldn’t distract you any longer,” he wishes he could walk rounds with Echo for the rest of the night, savor his presence as long as he still has it. That he could fully convince himself that Echo is not going to die. 

 

“Anytime sir. It was good to talk with you.” as they reach the door, Echo hesitates, gives a quick salute, then pauses again. “If you, ah— ever need a listening ear sir, or if I can support you in some way, don’t hesitate to reach out. I’m here for you, and I know the other boys are too. What I’m trying to say, Captain, is you don’t have to go it alone.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind, vod,” Rex’s heart is breaking all over again. He lets his gaze fall on Echo’s chest plate. It humbles him sometimes, how his handprint—the symbol of their first meeting—has such a prominent position on his vod’ika’s armor, on his identity as a soldier. And Rex knows, in that moment, that if Echo dies, he will never forgive himself. Something will break in him that can never be fixed. Echo gives another salute, then continues his rounds. Rex watches him go, dread pooling into his stomach. 

 

The second Echo is out of sight, Rex makes a beeline for the kitchen.

 


 

“Alright team. We have called this meeting because we have a problem on our hands.” Kix holds up a lemon-thyme muffin. The muffin is one of dozens and dozens, with at least five other flavors, all neatly stacked on trays on the break room table. 

 

The group the medics assembled—The twins, Hardcase, and Jesse—all stare at him blankly. Kix feels disappointment in the deepest part of his soul. Sighs. “Does no one else see the problem here?” 

 

Hardcase grabs the muffin from Kix and takes a large bite, chewing obnoxiously. “Whab’s wrong wifb these? Bey taste greab bo me?” 

 

Coric smacks Hardcase upside the head. “Not the muffins themselves! Who do we know who bakes to deal with stress?”

 

Hardcase swallows and raises his hand. “Oh! I know this one! Rex does!” 

 

“Why’d you raise your hand?” Fives asks him. “What are you, a cadet?” 

 

“It’s called being polite and waiting your turn to speak,” Hardcase says, puffing out his chest with superiority. 

 

“But you didn’t wait, you just spoke,” Jesse points out. 

 

“Oh yeah,” Hardcase deflates. 

 

“Focus,” Kix hisses. “There is one person on this ship who can bake with enough skill to make the end result edible, and does so when stressed. The last three rotations, the break room has been full of baked goods each morning. Using the brains I’m beginning to doubt you have, what does this tell you?” 

 

“Rex is stressed? That’s not exactly new,” Jesse offers. Kix doesn’t know why he had more faith in his batchmate. 

 

“Rex is baking muffins, which means he’s trying to make us happy?” Hardcase tries. Truly, brilliant detective work. Kix is starting to wonder if it is too late to get new batchmates. 

 

“It means Rex is baking instead of sleeping?” Echo is Kix’s new favorite person.

 

“Yes! Thank you!” Coric exclaims. 

 

“He’s also been in the solo training areas a lot recently—mostly the Sim room, but also in the Jettise’s private room,” Jesse adds on. “Whenever he’s there, he seems really frustrated, like he’s hitting a wall and can’t seem to work around it. I’ve offered to spar with him to let out some steam, but he just blanches and makes an excuse to leave.”

 

“Maybe because he knows I haven’t cleared you for sparring yet, due to the fact that your ribs are still cracked,” Kix growls. Jesse just shrugs. 

 

“Are you sure you guys aren’t just freaking out about nothing? I mean, we’ve been on shore leave for almost two weeks now, vod might just be getting a little stir crazy. Or, he’s taking advantage of the free time to get back in shape without judgement and do something he enjoys, now that you and Coric aren’t always hovering over his shoulder,” Fives reasons. 

 

Kix just stares at him. Hasn’t Fives heard anything that they just said? Kix is about to open his mouth to tell Fives off when Coric sighs. 

 

“You may be right.” Betrayed. Kix has been betrayed. 

 

“Coric, you don’t actually—“

 

“The Captain’s been through a lot of osik lately, and we have been hovering because of it. Maybe it’s time for us to back off and let Rex sort through things on his own. We can’t fix every problem Rex has for him, Kix.” Coric sighs again and runs a hand over his bald head. “That being said, I don’t like that the Captain is isolating himself, and I don’t like that he is clearly avoiding sleep.”

 

Hardcase swipes up another muffin, this one almond and poppyseed. “Well, why don’t we just spend time with the Captain, one on one or in small groups, and maybe get the vod to relax a bit? We don’t have to press him for anything, just—show him we’re here for him? Maybe? Why are you all looking at me like that?” 

 

“Hardcase, I think that is the most intelligent thing you have said in your entire life,” Jesse exclaims. 

 

“I take offense to that,” Hardcase sniffs. “I have said many intelligent things.” 


Kix doesn’t bother to correct him, though the desire is there. 

 

“Alright team, lets get to work. Who wants to go first? 

 


 

“Captain!” Hardcase bellows down the hall. Rex startles at the loud noise, and Hardcase can feel the eyes of everyone in the near vicinity. Jesse is shaking his head behind him and sighing, but that does not stop Hardcase from approaching the Captain with a confident stride and a wide smile. Until he gets really close. 

 

Rex still looks like osik. He’s pale and a little too thin, which only highlights how dark and large the circles under his eyes are. No wonder the medics are so worried. Vod looks like he hasn’t slept in rotations. 

 

“Captain, do you want to bake a—?”

 

Rex immediately becomes stiff and rigid, and his Command Voice activates so quick Hardcase finds himself standing at attention before he even registers what the Captain is saying. “—if either of you so much as step a toenail over the threshold to the kitchen, I will make both you di'kuts run laps until there are holes in the deck plating and your stomachs are turned inside out. Then, I will personally take you for five rounds in the ring.” Hardcase feels himself pale. Rex stalks off and disappears before he can gather himself. 

 

“Well, that went well,” Jesse mutters. 

 


 

“Hey Commander! Look, it’s your CT!” Boil exclaims. 

 

“He’s walking like a prickly little Nexu,” Waxer observes. 

 

Cody watches Rex march into the training area, only to make direct eye contact with Cody, turn around, and immediately head for the door. 

 

If he were a kinder vod, he might have let Rex get away with it. 

 

“Vod’ika, looking for a match?” Cody cracks his knuckles. 

 

Rex immediately flinches and tenses up. Cody sees several emotions flicker across his face. Hesitance. Uncertainty. A flash of fear. “Not right now, Cody,” he finally says. 

 

Cody frowns, narrowing his eyes. Typically, Rex isn’t one to pass up a challenge. It has been ages since the two of them have had a chance to spar. If anything, Cody expected Rex to jump on the opportunity to train together. And it hasn’t been like Rex is avoiding training. No, Cody has seen the sim and training logs. Rex is putting in plenty of hours, and Cody can see that he’s finally gaining some muscle back. While still pale and a little too uncomfortably on the lean side, Rex is walking sturdier, flexing his hands less, and the headache that has been pestering his vod’ika for so long seems to have finally subsided, if the lack of tension in his face is any indication. Slowly but surely, Rex is starting to look like himself. 

 

Still, Cody won’t trust Rex’s progress until he sees it for himself. 

 

“Come on, Rex’ika. One round won’t hurt. We need to get you back into fighting form. Show me what you got.”

 

“Not right now, Cody.” Rex has his hands tucked in his crossed arms, as if trying to hide them from sight. 

 

Cody crosses his own arms and raises an eyebrow, daring Rex to admit that there’s something wrong. “Are your hands still bothering you?” From what Cody understands, the injury to Rex’s hands, while incapacitating in their own right, were among the more minor wounds. “You are cleared by the medics to train, right?” 

 

“Of course I’m cleared to train,” Rex grumbles. “I just don’t feel like sparring.” Somehow, Cody is not convinced. 

 

“Bet it’s ‘cause the Captain thinks he’ll lose,” Boil whispers to Waxer with absolutely no tact. Unfortunately, Rex doesn’t rise to the bait. 

 

“If you don’t feel like sparring, we could do a training sim instead,” Cody offers. 

 

Finally, Rex seems to realize that he’s not going to get out of this. Cody won’t believe that Rex is ready to return to the field until his vod’ika proves it to him personally. 

 

His shoulders slump, and Cody has never seen his vod’ika look so dejected accepting a challenge. “Alright, but don’t complain when my score is higher than yours.” 

 

Cody does his best to look properly offended, hiding his excitement. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Rex’ika. You’re still a half-snack at best.” 

 


 

Waxer and Boil burst into the Mess, panting and gasping for air. They are ignored. 

 

“Captain Rex and Commander Cody are facing each other in a sim!” 

 

Chaos descends. 

 


 

As word spread, clones rushed through the halls, trying to get to the observation deck above the training grounds as quickly as possible. Bets are quickly placed, arguments growing in fury as the clones debate who is the more skilled. 

 

“The sims are usually an accuracy challenge, and Rex has higher accuracy scores than any vod I know. Ain’t nobody beating him in a blaster fight,” a 501st vod named Chute argued. 

 

“When he’s not injured, that might be true. But the Commander doesn’t need a blaster to dominate the field. If they are using sim droids, then Commander Cody will tear through them faster than the Captain can shoot ‘em,” Longshot rebutted. “The Commander is the champion when it comes to hand-to-hand.” 

 

“If it’s a race, Captain’s faster,” Fives piped up. 

 

“Haven’t you seen our Commander run laps? Vod could be going all day and not break out in a sweat. I doubt your Captain has the stamina to keep up.” Crys challenged. 

 

“I’ve seen Captain Rex kick a chest plate clean in half,” Jesse added. 

 

“Our Commander punched Grievous so hard he left a dent. Come back to me when your Captain has done that as well,” Waxer announces. 

 

By the time they reach the observation deck, the sim is already in full swing. 

 

The Captain and Commander are engaged in a sim typically meant for a squad to complete. There are sim droids and turrets along the walls, as well as barriers and platforms to hide behind. Across the room, a beacon is locked behind a wall opposite from the start point, the key hidden somewhere on the field. Cody and Rex are racing across the course looking for it, dodging the turrets and taking out the droids as they go. Cody currently has a higher kill count with the droids, but Rex isn’t far behind him. 

 

The Captain attaches the cable launcher to his blaster, using it to pull himself onto a higher platform. From there, he’s easily able to take out more droids and get a clear picture of the field. Below him, Cody punches and kicks through four droids, knocking one’s head clean off with his famous roundhouse kick. Both are making their way towards a turret along the wall. 

 

“Captain Rex is going to win,” Keys announces. 

 

“Where’s your facts vod? Commander Cody has the higher kill count,” Boil says.

 

“This sim is a race, an accuracy challenge, and a puzzle, all things Captain Rex has the advantage of. Also, while they have both correctly deduced that the key is hidden in one of the turrets, the Captain seems to have picked the correct one.” 

 

“How do you know that’s the correct one?” Longshot questions. 

 

“That turret is firing rounds in a pattern that spells K-E-Y in dadita.” 

 

Several 212th vode curse at that. 

 

Both the Captain and Commanders reach their respective turrets and disable them. Sure enough, Rex’s turret has the key hidden in a small cache under the swiveling turret-head. 

 

The lights in the sim room turn red as the B1 sim droids are replaced with Super Battle Droids. Cody shoots Rex an incredulous look, while Rex smirks at him in satisfaction.

 

Key located. Beginning end phase of simulation. Retrieve beacon within T-minus three minutes.

 

“Told you the Captain was going to win,” Keys smirks. 

 

“I wouldn’t make that claim yet, Keys. The Captain still has to get the key to the wall and retrieve the beacon. Otherwise, Commander Cody still has the higher score,” Crys points out. 

 

Behind the Captain who is preparing his cable, an SBD rises up on a previously hidden platform. 

 

“Oh kark, I don’t think the Captain sees it,” Span exclaims. 

 

Commander Cody also spots the danger, yelling at Rex through the coms and gesturing with his arms. The Captain finally turns, realizes the danger, and freezes. The SBD takes its aim, almost point blank. 

 

“Kark,” Fives curses.

 

The SBD freezes, shudders, then explodes. 

 


 

“You didn’t need to stop the sim. Were you that jealous I was winning?” 

 

“Vodi’ika, a droid exploded in your face!” 

 

“So?” 

 

“I’m taking you to medical”

 

“Like kark you are!”

 


 

Coric is blissfully going through some requisition forms when Commander Cody drags Captain Rex into the MedBay by his arm. Thankfully, Rex is walking under his own power, and there are no obvious injuries. Otherwise, Coric would kill the Captain himself. 

 

“Commander, Captain. What can I do for you,” Coric keeps his voice professionally level, instead of cussing them out like he wants to. Alpha-6 would be proud. 

 

“Sorry to bother you Coric, but I was hoping you could give the good Captain a once over,” Cody says cheerfully. 

 

“I’m fine, Cody, you don’t need to bother Coric over this.”

 

“With all due respect sir, I’ll be the judge of that. Now, can one of you explain what happened?” 

 

“Sim droid malfunctioned and exploded in Rex’s face.”

 

“I’m fine, the training armor absorbed the blast.” Coric already has the scanner in Rex’s face. Thankfully, the Captain managed to correctly assess his physical wellbeing for once, and the training shell truly did absorb the blast. However, there are also concerning signs of sleep deprivation and nutrient deficiency. 

 

As much as he wants to intervene, Coric also agreed to give Rex the chance to sort things out himself. So long as the vod doesn’t make himself sick or do anything actively harmful, Coric will give his Captain the distance. “All clear Captain,” he admits hesitantly. Rex gives Cody a very rude gesture. “Despite the fact that neither Kix or I cleared you to use a blaster yet, your hands look fine. Though I suggest you get some rest, and a good meal.” Well. Coric tried. 

 

Cody gives the rude gesture right back. 

 

“Come on Menace’ika, lets get some food from the Mess.”

 

Rex groans. “I thought Ponds was the Mom of the group.”

 

“I can comm him if you want,” Cody hovers a hand over his gauntlet. “I’m sure he would love to hear all about how you lied about your medical status again.” 

 

“Let’s get food from the Mess.” 

 


 

They have been running for rotations. Trying to maneuver around the Separatist fleet combing this part of wild space. But now they have been surrounded. There is nowhere left to run. 

 

Even Piell curses his fate. Curses the hyperdrive that broke down at the moment of salvation. His options are not pretty—only a single Venator against a dozen Separatist frigates. They would be blown to bits immediately, their shields unable to withstand the amount of firepower aimed at them. 

 

They cannot run—no hyperdrive, and fuel cells running too low to keep up their previous plan of evading enemy forces. 

 

Mysteriously, the Separatist frigates do not fire. Instead, TIE fighters swarm out of their mother ships like bees from a hive. It takes Even Piell only a moment to understand: the Separatists mean to board his ship. 

 

Which means they must know about the information on board. 

 

The options before him are this: he can run, or he can surrender. Only one might save the lives of his men. If he’s correct in thinking that the Separatists know about the Nexus Route coordinates, they won’t kill him right away. But if he runs, the knowledge in his hands will do nothing to spare the lives of his crew. 

 

Someone has to run—has to inform the Council of what has happened here. But it can’t be Piell. Not if he wants to keep his men alive. 

 

“Wipe the computers! Man your battle stations! If they want to board, we’ll give them nothing but a fight!” He barks out. The men under his command immediately begin picking targets on the bridge. One of the Separatist frigates goes up in sparks. The Detriment groans as they are fired upon in retaliation—a warning shot. One that Even Piell ignores. The Separatists won’t get their info if everyone on board is vacuumed into space, and any Commander worth the flimsy cardboard soles of his boots would know that. “Axe Squadron, Meteor Squadron, Teeth Squadron, I need you in the skies!” 

 

“Kohl, get me the Council,” as far as he knows, no one is close enough to come to his aid, but if Piell can get the Council a message, they will know to look for him. 

 

“Long range signals are being jammed, General,” Kohl reports. Of course they are. Damn the droids. 

 

“Teeth ready to launch at your command, Sir,” Captain Teeth responds. 

 

“Copy that for Axe Squadron,” Lieutenant Hammer calls. 

 

“Meteor is go for launch,” Corporal Asteroid reports. 

 

“Axe and Meteor launch!” Piell waits only a moment for confirmation before switching Captain Teeth to a private channel. “Captain, I have special orders for you and your squadron.”

 

“Sir?” Piell can hear the rush of air as the fighters launch into the vacuum of space, the clanking of metal as gears shift, the sound of plasma firing. He thinks he rather hates the symphony of war. 

 

“Long range signals are being jammed. You and your squad are going to make a run for it. Get to Coruscant, report to the Council what has happened.” 

 

“But sir—“ 

 

“Now, Captain. Time is of the essence. Now launch.” Even Piell watches as the small squadron of fighters takes to the sky, immediately rounds off, and flees the field. A squad of TIE fighters give chase, but Evan Piell has faith in Teeth and his men. 

 

And now, there is nothing to do but wait for the inevitable. 

 

Finding the Nexus Route coordinates had been a mission only the Council and the Chancellor knew about. And yet, the Separatists arrived almost as soon as the coordinates were secured, as if they had been lying in wait. As if they knew what Piell and his men were looking for. It’s too clean, he thinks. Perhaps their hyperdrive failing hadn’t been coincidence after all. 

 

Someone must have leaked the information. Even Piell had been betrayed from the start. 

 

“Captain Tarkin, come here.” Captain Tarkin is a rat of a man. He may do his job well, but not in a way worth thanking him for. Piell wonders if the man ever gets bored of sneering at others. But, the man has principles, and can be trusted to stick to them. Tarkin won’t break under pressure, not when it makes him feel less than someone else in the room. 

 

Piell takes out the holocron that holds the coordinates. He has the device split the information in two. “Memorize the first half of these coordinates. If the Separatists want the Nexus Route coordinates so bad, they will have to break both of us to get it.” 

 


 

“The good Commander and I are on our way to Ilum,” Obi-wan announces. 

 

“Good luck Master,” Anakin doesn’t give Obi-wan even a small glance, his focus entirely on his new painting. However, his former padawan does half-heartedly extend a thumbs-up in his general direction. “Don’t die in the caves,” he adds thoughtfully. 

 


 

“The good Commander and I are on the way to Ilum,” Obi-wan announces. 

 

“Don’t get lost and turn into a crystal!” Ahsoka doesn’t look up from where she is beating Hardcase in some sort of hologram-based pod racing game. 

 

Obi-wan sighs and takes his leave. 

 

If he does die in the caves, he’s blaming those two. 

 


 

“I’m taking my di’kutla Jetti to Ilum, so no almost-dying while I’m gone,” Cody informs his menace vod’ika. 

 

“That’s nice,” Rex says absentmindedly, fiddling with the bandages on his hands. “Any chance I can get my room back soon?” Rex’s quarters are stacked from floor to ceiling with crates of tea, with barely enough room to change and a line to the fresher. 

 

“Fox won’t stash it anymore, and it’s not like you are using your quarters,” Cody grumbles. 

 

“I’ve been out of the MedBay for almost a ten-day now, Codes.”

 

“Just a few more weeks,”

 

“I want to sleep in my bed, Cody,”

 

“Move it and see what happens.” 

 


 

“Alright Captain, lets see those hands of yours,” Kix carefully unwinds the bandages, the layers falling away to reveal Rex’s hands. The calluses he worked so hard to form are torn off, replaced with deep scars and synth skin. The new skin is lighter, softer, fusing to the old skin in a patchwork that looks strange. Rex clenches his hands, and they feel stiff and weak. The very center of his right hand still aches, where a gash was particularly deep. 

 

They don’t feel like his hands at all. 

 

 

“Looking much better,” Kix notes. “Do you feel any pain still?” 

 

 

“No,” Rex lies, “I am fine, Kix. I’m ready to return to duty.” Kix narrows his eyes, as if trying to pry a different confession from Rex with his glare alone. A tremor runs through his hands, and Kix raises an eyebrow. The medics have made it clear that they believe it is still too soon for Rex to return to the field. Rex keeps his will firm. “Any longer will be suspicious. You know as well as I do.” 

 

“That may be,” Kix admits softly. “But I can’t clear you for combat when you still can’t hold a blaster properly.” 

 

“But Kix—“ 

 

“I’m sorry Rex, but my ruling stands. Light duty, exempt from combat until re-evaluated by a senior medic.” 

 


 

“Hey Coric—“ 

 

The medic doesn’t even look up from his datapad. “If you are hoping I will override Kix’s ruling to exempt you from combat, turn around, find your bunk, and keep dreaming.”

 


 

“What do you have there Commander?” 

 

Cody looks up from his datapad. “Datapad,” he grunts. 

 

“No, your other hand.” 

 

Cody looks at his steaming cup of tea. “Datapad,” he repeats. 

 

“Can I—?” Cody levels Obi-wan a glare so harsh he’s pretty sure his heart stops in his chest. A lesser man might have died on the spot. 

 

The rest of the flight is completely silent.

 


 

Ahsoka finds Rex in the training room the Jedi have claimed for themselves, holding a staff and slowly moving through the lightsaber forms she showed him. She watches him silently for several moments, admiring how easily he flows through the stances. Times like this remind her of just how powerful the clones are—how precise and in-control they are with their movements. 

 

Rex slows his katas, turning to face her. “Commander,” he greets. 

 

“Ori’vod,” she greets back, grinning when Rex gets flustered by the title. “Working on lightsaber forms, I see.” 

 

Rex glances at the staff in his hand. “Sort of. I need something to clear my mind.” 

 

“I see. Is there anything I can help you with?” 

 

“Don’t worry about it Commander. You obviously came to do some training of your own, no need to set that aside for my sake.” 

 

“I was hoping to spar, but I can’t find Skyguy anywhere, and he’s not answering his comms,” Ahsoka huffs. Chances are, her Master is hanging out with Padme again, and believing he is subtle about it. 

 

Rex bites his lip. “I’d spar with you Commander, but my current connection to The Force is… unpredictable.” 

 

Ahsoka frowns and reaches out to Rex through The Force. His presence is strong, brighter than it was before, The Force wrapped protectively around him like a cloak. But even then, it ebbs and flows, fluctuating slightly. It feels like a heartbeat, almost, or waves crashing against the shore. She’s never seen anything quite like it. After what The Son had done to Rex, she is indescribably grateful that Rex still has a connection to The Force, and that it feels stronger than ever. She brushes a hand over the feather Morai gifted her, nestled right next to her silka beads, feeling a surge of comfort. 

 

After Mortis, her own senses are sharper as well. Everything is brighter, louder, more distinct than before, to the point where it is making her jumpy. Reaching into The Force is as natural as turning her face into the breeze, taking almost no effort or thought. She was hoping some sparing would help her reset, or at the very least re-attune her to her own senses. 

 

“I think Mortis changed all of us,” Ahsoka admits softly. “There’s no shame in going back to basics, Rex. In fact, that’s what I was planning to do anyway.” 

 

Rex gives her a doubtful look. “If you’re certain, Commander.” 

 

“I am. We don’t have to start with sparring. In fact, we should probably work on katas first.” 

 

Ahsoka takes a training staff and joins Rex on the mats. They work through the stances together, then slowly pick up speed. With a swing of his training staff, Rex accidentally shoves a rack of equipment across the room into the wall.

 

They start again, and each time Rex hurls objects across the room. Ahsoka can tell he’s getting frustrated with his lack of control, so she decides to switch tactics. 

 

“Let’s work on object manipulation,” she declares, pulling a container off one of the shelves by the door. There are several balls of different materials, sizes, and weights. Ahsoka places a small ball made of thin dura-plastic in front of Rex. “Concentrate on the ball in front of you. Extend your hand and picture lifting it.” Rex does so, and the ball immediately shoots up into the air and slams into the ceiling, falling back to the ground in a flat heap of duraplastic. “Not bad, Rexter.” Rex gives her a disbelieving look. “Now, try to anticipate the weight this time. This ball is very light, so it doesn’t take a lot of force to lift.” Ahsoka demonstrates by having a ball hover in her hand. She juggles it back and forth, around the back, and then tosses it to Rex, who jumps with surprise and once again flattens the ball against the ceiling. 

 

Ahsoka hums and sets another ball in front of him, this one thicker and heavier than the light duraplastic ones. This time, Rex is able to make it hover for several seconds before it shoots up towards the ceiling. Rex yanks his hands back, dropping the ball to the ground before it can break something. 

 

“That was much better! Lets try this,” Ahsoka hands him another heavy ball. “Hold it for a few seconds, then try to lift it with The Force, once you have a better feel for the weight.” Rex tosses the ball up and down in each hand, eyes narrowed in concentration. Slowly, the ball starts to hover over Rex’s palm, wobbling slightly. 

 

“Good. Now, see how long you can hold it there.” 

 

“What are the two of you up to?” Anakin says from behind her. Rex startles badly, launching the ball at Skyguy, who dodges it with a yelp. The ball thuds into the durasteel-plated wall and stays lodged there. 

 

“Easy Captain,” Anakin says with a laugh. He looks at the dent in the wall. “We might have to try that one on the droids.” 

 

“Master!” Anakin’s natural hand is stained with reds, purples, blues, and oranges, dots of the same splattered over his robes and smeared across his cheeks. Surprisingly, there is no pungent scent of motor grease or sickeningly strong perfume. “Where’d you come from?” 

 

“I’ve been… about,” Skyguy evades. “I’m more interested in what the two of you are doing.” 

 

“We’ve been practicing object manipulation,” Ahsoka sniffs. “I thought it would be a good way to help Rexter work on his fine control.” 

 

Anakin hums with approval, which makes Ahsoka’s heart soar. “Not a bad idea, Snips. In fact, I think I have a drill for the two of you. Wait just a minute.” Skyguy rushes out of the room just as quickly as he entered. 

 

“Well, we’re about to die. I would get as much practice in as you can before he comes back, Rexter.” Rex nods solemnly, then immediately picks up a ball to practice with. 

 


 

Anakin returns with water balloons and eggs. “Alright, this drill is meant to focus on throwing and catching multiple objects with The Force,” Anakin holds up water balloons and eggs. “The two of you will spar hand-to-hand, and as you do I will throw one of these at you and call out a name. If I throw a water balloon, the goal is to tag the other person with the water balloon. If I throw an egg, you will catch it while the other person tries to make you drop it. If you accidentally crush the balloon or egg while trying to catch it, or tag someone with an egg, you owe me 10 seconds of lifting a boulder with The Force. If you get tagged with a water balloon, or hold onto it for more than 5 seconds, that’s also 10 seconds of boulder lifts.”

 

Ahsoka groans, “boulder Force lifts? Did you get this idea from Master Yoda?” 

 

“It’ll be good for you Snips, it builds character.” Anakin grins and tosses a water balloon up and down in his hand. “Ahsoka!” His Padawan scrambles to catch the water balloon before throwing it at Rex, who dodges neatly. The water balloon splatters harmlessly against the floor. Ahsoka then has to block a series of punches from Rex. 

 

“Rex!” His Captain takes a step back from Ahsoka to catch the egg. However, instead of catching it, Rex flings the egg into the nearest wall. His Captain looks at his hands with disappointment. 

 

“Plus 10 Rex,” Anakin calls out before launching an egg at Ahsoka. Rex charges at her as she tries to catch it, but instead she accidentally crushes the egg with The Force. “Plus 10 Ahsoka,” his Padawan groans. 

 

“Rex!” Anakin throws a balloon, and Rex swats it into the wall opposite of where Ahsoka is. His Captain lets out a small grunt of annoyance. Anakin quickly throws an egg at Ahsoka, who manages to catch it without it exploding. So he immediately follows it up with a balloon. Ahsoka catches the balloon, but drops the egg. 

 

“Plus 10 Ahsoka.”

 

“But I caught the egg!” 

 

“And then you dropped it,” Anakin shrugs. “Also, you’ve held that balloon for more than five seconds, plus 10.” Ahsoka responds with an indignant squawk. 

 

Anakin should have thought of this drill sooner. He lets them spar for a minute or so before throwing a balloon at Rex’s back, just to see if he notices, but the balloon explodes. Water splatters over Rex, who turns around confused. 

 

While Rex is distracted, Anakin throws a balloon to Ahsoka, who finally manages to tag Rex in the shoulder. 

 

He throws a balloon to Rex so he can make it even, and the Captain does so with a perfect shot to Ahsoka’s chest. 

 

“Great shot Rex!” Anakin tosses an egg at both of them. He notices how Rex watches Ahsoka to see how she holds her hands, and then tries to copy it; this time, his egg shatters when he tries to catch it, but it isn’t flung into a wall. Anakin tosses several more eggs at both of them, forcing Rex to learn how to catch, and Ahsoka to hold multiple objects. 

 

He then tosses a balloon at Ahsoka, who accidentally launches several eggs along with it. Rex, however, dodges the eggs and catches the water balloon before launching it back at Ahsoka, tagging her in the leg. 

 

The drill continues until Anakin runs out of water balloons and eggs, and by the end he’s impressed. Ahsoka managed to hold up to five eggs at one time, and accurately throw a water balloon, tagging Rex without dropping an egg. Rex only managed to catch one egg without shattering it or flinging it into a wall, but he could also throw the water balloons with deadly accuracy, at one point reversing the direction to hit Ahsoka in the back after she thought she had dodged. 

 

Anakin is going to make them do this drill so many times. 

 

“Out of the kindness of my heart, I have decided to skip the punishment for today, so no boulder lifts,” Anakin grins at the relieved looks neither of his students manage to hide. Each of them had racked up several minutes worth of boulder lifts by the end. “But, just because I’m going easy on you today, don’t expect the same next time.” Ahsoka groans. 

 

“Now, I think that’s enough training for one rotation. Meet me here same time tomorrow, we’re going to work on lightsaber forms.” With that, Anakin strides out of the training rooms. His painting should be dry now, which means it’s time for another layer. 

 


 

The second Obi-wan sets foot on Ilum, at least 10 different crystals sprout out of the ground at his feet. 

 

“Well, that makes it easy,” Obi-wan says in disbelief. 

 

Cody just rolls his eyes and turns to head back up the ramp.

 


 

Plo Koon strokes his chin, contemplating the silent holotable before him. Master Piell has missed the last three check-ins, and the Force is beginning to stir. Threads are curling together, iridescent like spider’s silk. The road before them is being laid, clearer than it has ever been before. Plo is uneasy about the path he sees. 

 

“Sir,” Wolffe sets a fresh cup of tea in front of him, the steam carrying a gentle aroma. Plo watches its path for as long as he can. 

 

“Meditate with me a moment, Wolffe,” Plo has never asked this of his Commander before, but he’s hoping Wolffe’s steady presence will help him find clarity. Wolffe raises an eyebrow, but settles next to him without a word. Plo looks deeply into the force, pondering this question, trying to find those gossamer threads and bring them more fully into the light. 

 

There is a cord being woven before his eyes, several muted blues and yellows and white. In the center of this mass are two strings, much more vibrant than the others. Ocean blue and sunlight gold entwined so tightly they appear to be one, heading towards a mass of tangled black strings. There, in the wrecked mass, is a woven red thread. 

 

Plo Koon tries to place his hands on that dark tangle, to understand what the Force is trying to tell him. But the threads disintegrate in his hands, concentration breaking as a headache spears at his temples. 

 

“General, are you alright?” Wolffe’s brow is crinkled in concern, even as he tries to look indifferent. 

 

“It is time to call the Council together.” 

 


 

“Kix, I can complete sims just fine. I don’t see why—“ 

 

“Hold these—“ Rex’s fingers instinctively wrap around the light weights that Kix shoves into his hands. 

 

“Is this really necessary?” 

 

Kix doesn’t bother responding to the question. “Extend your arms, like you are holding your blasters.” Rex does, wincing at the way he immediately struggles to keep the weights steady, hands starting to tremor. After a minute or two, the weights slip out of Rex’s hands. The Captain curses. Kix grabs his hands and unwinds the bandages, noticing immediately that the wounds have torn open again, blood seeping through the white cloth. With a curse of his own, Kix pulls out a sterile wipe, trying to clean up the mess so he can see exactly where the skin has split. Blood stubbornly continues to well up from the tears, smearing across Rex’s palms. 

 

“Kark,” Rex gasps, fingers continuing to twitch as Kix pulls out a tube of bacta. 

 

“Just so you are aware, trying to use the sim I didn’t clear you for as evidence of you being ready for combat isn’t the convincing argument you think it is, especially when you exploded a sim droid in your face with The Force,” Kix says, slathering Rex’s hands with bacta. “Also, you aren’t hiding the fact that your hands keep breaking open nearly as well as you think you are. Please just find Coric or I instead of trying to bandage your hands on your own.” The Captain grits his teeth, his refusal to respond all the confirmation the medic needs. With a sigh, Kix grabs a new roll of bandages. Rex is quiet as he works, brows furrowed in frustration and eyes slightly glassy. 

 

Kix carefully keeps any sign of anxiety off his face. He knows as well as Rex does that this quiet won’t last forever. The 501st will be called on soon, and it won’t look good if the Captain is still on medical leave when the Jettise are all fully healed. But for now they have time, time to figure out why Rex’s hands won’t heal properly, to find a way for Rex to use his hands without going through three rolls of bandages each rotation.  

 

Kix doesn't know what to do if their time runs out. 

 


 

Thire meets the single fighter at the docks. The fighter is battered, still smoking and likely going to be scrapped. 

 

A single vod stumbles out, and Thire sees the window of the co-pilot’s bay was shot out. Blood still coats the duraglass.  

 

“C-captain Teeth, reporting for duty,”

 

The Captain is young, probably only a few months off Kamino, and his knees are shaking. Thire steps forward to catch him before his legs collapse. It’s too soon to tell if it is physical injuries or grief, but based on the marks on Teeth’s pauldron, the vod just lost his whole squadron. 

 

“Medical first, vod. Report to me on the way.” 

 

“No!” Teeth tries to pull away, but only sags instead. “I have to report to the Council! I can’t waste any time!” 

 

Based on the look of things, the poor vod was flying nonstop for several rotations, being harried the whole way. Watching his brothers get picked off one by one. 

 

“Vod, you can report from the Med Bay, but right now you are not in the condition to be going all the way to the Temple.”

 


 

“Send Kenobi and Skywalker, we should,” Yoda immediately suggests. 

 

“Kenobi I can understand, but Skywalker? This would be a highly delicate infiltration mission, the success of which would rely almost entirely on remaining undetected, a feat I’m not sure Skywalker has managed for a whole minute at a time,” Windu digs his fingers deep into his temples, already anticipating migraine this mission would cause if Skywalker were to be part of it. 

 

“Will of the Force, it is,” Yoda gloats.

 

“Could we ask the Force to reconsider, just this once?” Maker, Windu wants the Force to reconsider.

 

“I’m afraid the Force is quite clear on this matter, Master Windu,” Plo Koon strokes his chin. “It wants Kenobi and Skywalker.” The Kel Dor looks equally perturbed, like he’s staring at a complex math problem and isn’t quite sure how the solution was reached.

 

Windu perks up. “Skywalker’s Captain is still exempt from combat—which according to the Skywalker Wrangling protocols, Skywalker can’t go on any highly delicate missions without—“

 

The holotable in the center of the room dings, having received new orders directly from the Chancellor. An infiltration mission to retrieve Jedi Master Evan Piell from the Citadel, where Republic intelligence believes he is being held. A combined task force of elite operatives from the 212th and 501st—

 

Windu stares at the roster, and thunks his head on the table, burying his face in his arms.

 

“Will of the Force, Master Windu,” Yoda tries to pat his back in a comforting manner. It does not help.

 


 

Anakin arrives at the training grounds, pleased to see his Padawans already going through warm-up stretches. Once they are done, he sets them on beginner katas. For a beginner, Rex’s form is already excellent, needing only a few adjustments here and there. Ahsoka taught him well. 

 

“Today we are going to focus on the stances for the Djem So style of lightsaber combat, but we are going to combine it with Jar’Kai in order to incorporate dual wielding elements.” Anakin tosses both of them two training sabers. 

 

Rex looks at the training sabers in his hands with uncertainty. “Uh, shouldn’t I start with one ‘saber, sir?” 

 

“These are training sabers, which means the settings are low enough they won’t burn you. Besides, you’re already ambidextrous Rex, might as well take advantage of it,” Anakin shrugs. 

 

“No fair! I still tend to favor my right side,” Ahsoka complains. 

 

Anakin breaks down the stances for each form, then shows them how to combine the two in order to make a dual-wielding style that quickly switches between offense and defense. 

 

“Now, I’m going to take turns attacking each of you. I will make three swings, and in that time you need to switch from defensive stances to offensive stances. Ahsoka, you’ll start. Show Rex how it’s done.” Anakin trades blows with each of his students for a while, pleased to see them both adopt the stances he was showing them. By the end of their training session, both of his students are able to take the offense within three strikes against a range of different lightsaber styles.

 

 “Good job, Padawans. That will be all for today.” Both of them drop to the floor in a sweaty, panting heap. 

 

“Water,” Ahsoka groans, “I need water or I’ll die.” 

 

“I could use a sonic,” Rex agrees. 

 

While his Padawans recover, Anakin shows them what the final product of the combined forms will look like. Rex asks several questions on whether or not this form could be adapted to wield a saber and blaster at the same time, and then Ahsoka chips in what she learned from wielding with two full length training sabers, rather than her saber and shoto. Anakin’s comms start beeping, and he is startled to see that it is a summons from the Council. 

 

“Alright Padawans, get out of here,” Ahsoka immediately springs to her feet, making a beeline towards the Mess. Anakin desperately, but futilely hopes she isn’t going to try making iced caf again. 

 


 

The second Obi-wan steps foot on Coruscant, he is pulled into a Council meeting, much to his dismay. When he arrives, he finds his former Padawan already there. From the grim faces of the rest of the Council, he can already tell that this meeting is not going to be anything pleasant. Standing off to the side is a young clone with plain armor, save for a Captain’s pauldron and a set of light-gray fangs painted around the mouth of his helmet. Kenobi takes his council seat, glancing at the other members. 

 

“Several rotations ago, scouts from the 21st Nova Corps reported finding debris from a destroyed Venator,” Plo Koon begins. “With the report of Captain Teeth here, we have been able to confirm the destroyed Venator as The Detriment, Master Piell’s flagship.” 

 

Kenobi sucks in a breath through his teeth. 

 

“In our last contact with Master Piell, he reported that he had been successful in retrieving the Nexus Route coordinates. We have reason to believe that the Separatists were aware of the nature of Master Piell’s mission, and captured him and his officers in order to obtain the information for themselves.”

 

“And the rest of Piell’s command?” Anakin asks.

 

“Decimated,” Captain Teeth reports shakily. “The Separatists destroyed the escape pods as they boarded. Anyone not killed defending the bridge died when the ship exploded.” 

 

“Do we have any clue where the Separatists are holding Master Piell?” Obi-wan asks. If possible, the faces of the Council get more grim than before. 

 

“The Citadel, Master Piell is being held at,” Yoda informs them.

 

Well, kark. 

 

“And I suppose Anakin and I will be the ones to infiltrate The Citadel to retrieve Master Piell,” Obi-wan predicts, only slightly hysterically. Two frontline battalions have no place taking on this kind of mission, which is better suited to special ops or literally anyone else. A likely suicidal infiltration mission with the 501st is the last possible type of assignment Obi-wan wants to attempt with Rex out of commission. If they avoid detection for over a minute, Obi-wan will eat his robes. 

 

“Orders, the Chancellor has given,” Yoda confirms. Maker, does Obi-wan hate being right sometimes. “A combined infiltration team of 212th and 501st, we shall send.” The roster appears on the holotable. 

 

“Absolutely not,” Anakin says, when he sees the roster. “There is no way my Captain will be cleared by medical before we have to leave. I also don’t want Ahsoka going anywhere near this mission.” 

 

Obi-wan raises an eyebrow at the roster as well. Among the 212th vode listed, he sees Longshot, a sniper, Iffy, who is regular infantry with no specialization that would be pertinent to this mission, and Stub, a boisterous heavy gunner known for his general lack of spacial awareness and basic coordination. Waxer and Boil, his infiltration and reconnaissance specialists, are both absent from the list. In fact, Obi-wan sees no scouts from either the 212th or the 501st, nor any medics. At a glance, there doesn't seem to be much rhyme or reason to the Chancellor’s selections at all. In fact, only Fives, Echo and Cody have the specific training and physical health for this kind of assignment.

 

“I’ll admit this roster seems… ill-conceived,” Obi-wan settles on. He’s trying to not actively think about the fact that practically the entire high command of the 7th Sky Corps is being sent on a suicide run. 

 

Windu sighs. “I said as much to the Chancellor, but he… disagreed.” The sour look on Windu’s face says everything Obi-wan needs to know about how that conversation went. 

 

“Master Nu is currently searching the archives for any information on the Citadel’s layout. In the meantime, we have sent several probes to scout out The Citadel, though it will take several rotations before they are in position. The Wolfpack and I have offered to serve as your point of contact and extraction team, should it be necessary,” Plo Koon assures. In spite of the odds stacked against them, Obi-wan does feel slightly better knowing that the 104th, a battalion that specializes in rescue and extraction, will be serving as their backup.

 

“How long do we have to prepare?” Obi-wan asks, already calculating in his head. While the nature of this assignment requires all possible haste, it would not do to rush ahead without a proper plan and take unnecessary risks. At the most dire necessity, five rotations would do, but they would likely be relying on outdated archival information in their strategy, which is an uncomfortable risk. A week, Obi-wan decides, would be just enough time to gather the information and supplies needed to form a workable plan of action. If they play their cards right, Rex might even be fit to join them.

 

“You have three rotations,” Windu answers. 

 

Any remaining scraps of desperate, naive hope for this mission’s success dies with those words. 

 


 

“Echo!!!” 

 

The heat from the explosion is intense, nearly blinding Rex and making his eyes water. But he doesn’t dare look away. There, on the ground, is a charred helmet, two perfectly symmetric lines nearly burned off. Fives’ cry of anguish keeps ringing in his ears, Rex’s own throat aching, his lungs collapsing in his chest. There is no time to mourn. Kenobi gives the order to move out, and Rex wraps his hand around Fives’ wrist, pulling him away from the twisted and molten wreckage of their shuttle—

 

Rex wakes up to a crate of tea almost falling on his head. He doesn’t understand why the dream continues to torment him. Rex briefly considers talking to Clover, but the 187th is currently deployed, and he doesn’t want to be a distraction over something that boils down to a bad dream. Part of him itches to bake, but baking isn’t working anymore. No matter what he bakes, or how much, there’s still something hollow and restless prying him apart. 

 

It’s just one more way Rex is broken. 

 

Still, Rex isn’t going to be able to sleep, so he might as well go punch something. 

 


 

Jesse finds his Captain on the training grounds like he knew he would be, beating on a sand bag like it is Dooku himself. The Captain’s hands are bleeding again, the bandages soaked around the palms, red streaks painted across the the sand bag and splatters on the floor. Kix would be having a fit if he saw it. A quick glance at the training logs shows that Rex has been here for an hour already. And if he knows his Captain, Rex will put in another three or four hours unless someone stops him. 

 

At first, Jesse had been glad that Rex was spending so much time on the training grounds. It was a sign that things were going back to normal, that the Captain was healing and ready to take up his duties and Jesse could step back and breathe. But then the hours in the log kept growing, and the circles under Rex’s eyes got darker, and Jesse can’t remember the last time he saw Rex outside of the training grounds. The expression of rage and frustration and grief that twists Rex’s face is not something Jesse ever wants to see again. And Jesse thinks that if Rex doesn’t slow down, something is going to break all over again.

 

So Jesse decides he can be responsible a little longer.

 

“Captain, would you like to spar?” Jesse watches Rex’s fist sink through the bag, sand spilling out and pooling to the floor.

 

“Kriff, not again,” Rex mutters. It is then that Jesse notices three bags that have shared a similar fate already lined up against the wall of the training room. 

 

Maybe offering to spar was a bad idea. 

 

“Lieutenant, now is not a good time,” the Captain unhooks the bag, dragging it over to the wall of murdered sandbags before hooking up a fifth. 

 

“Respectfully, I think now is absolutely a good time. Sir,” Jesse challenges. 

 

The glare Rex gives him would send any shiny running to the farthest corner of the ship, but Jesse stands his ground. “I’m going to forget you said that, Lieutenant, so long as you turn around and march through that door.” 

 

Maker knows, Jesse is tempted to do just that. The Captain is rarely angry like this, and Jesse doesn’t know how much he can push Rex before he’s running laps until he pukes. But Jesse has watched the Captain spend hours tearing apart sandbags for the last several rotations, and clearly it has done nothing but make the Captain more and more isolated. Rex has been left with his anger long enough. 

 

“Can’t do that, sir. Assign me all the laps you want, but I’m staying until either you spar with me, or you tell me what is bothering you so much that you feel the need to break every sand bag in three klicks and avoid the Vode, because it is clear to me that this is no longer something you can handle yourself.” Jesse looks Rex directly in the eyes, hoping he looks a lot braver than he feels. 

 

Rex bristles, and Jesse mentally prepares himself to run laps until he dies. The Maker must spare some mercy for Jesse, because Rex deflates instead, the tension draining out of him until only an exhausted shell remains. The Captain doesn’t say anything at first, so Jesse pretends to be cool with awkwardly staring at him for several minutes. 

 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Rex admits, quiet enough Jesse has to strain to hear it. 

 

“Why do you think you would hurt me?” Jesse plays dumb.

 

Rex gives him an incredulous look, as if he had been asked where the business end of a blaster was. “Jesse, I attacked you. I tried to kill you and Hardcase and I—” Rex breaks off, wrestling with what to say. “How can you forgive me after that?” Rex drags his hands through his hair. “Kark, Jesse, I had no control of myself. It was like watching a holofilm from within my own body. And I keep waiting for it to happen again.” 

 

Jesse knows he doesn’t have the whole picture. All he’d been told was that whatever made Rex freak out and attack everyone had been taken care of (and the medics certainly wouldn’t have released the Captain from the Med Bay if it wasn’t). Still, the sensation of his chest plate (and three ribs) snapping under the force of Rex’s kick hadn’t been pleasant, and it takes all of his willpower not to shiver at the memory. 

 

“I’m no expert, but between you and me I think I’m still alive.” 

 

“Jesse, I’m saying I would have killed you—” The Captain makes a choked-off sound far too similar to a whimper, and it’s a painful reminder that his Captain is still a kid. Jesse latches his hands onto Rex’s shoulders and pulls him into a keldabe. Kark, he can feel Rex’s shoulders hitching as he holds back sobs.

 

Jesse should have done this so much sooner. 

 

“Rex. Breathe. ‘Case and I are fine, and we don’t blame you. He’d tell you as much if you asked him.  As far as I’m concerned, that wasn’t you. Besides, if you were truly trying to kill us, that was the lousiest murder attempt I have ever seen. You had several opportunities to kill us, and didn’t.”

 

“I broke your ribs!”

 

“Yeah, if you really wanted to kill me, you could have snapped my neck or shot me with my own blaster instead. Heck, considering the state of those sandbags, you could have punched a clean hole through my chest if you really wanted to. Instead, I got off with a few cracked ribs, and Hardcase got a minor concussion. Kix only had minor damage to his throat, and you had every opportunity to crush his windpipe. That doesn’t sound like a calculated killing machine to me. That sounds like a brother fighting with everything he had to stop something he otherwise couldn’t control, and I will personally smack some sense into any di’kut who says otherwise.” Jesse smacks Rex upside the head, just to prove his point. 

 

Rex is rendered speechless, and Jesse allows himself to celebrate what he will never achieve again. 

 

“Now, are you ready to spar, or do I have to talk more about feelings?” 

 

Rex lets out a laugh, probably the first genuine one in a while, and Jesse feels a swelling sense of pride that he was the one to break through to the Captain. 

 

They take positions in the square, and at first Rex lets Jesse take the offense, only redirecting or dodging his blows. Then, as Rex gains more confidence, he throws out attacks of his own. Jesse blocks and dodges in stride, and soon they have a perfect rhythm going. Jesse hasn’t had a spar like this in ages, and he can tell Rex hasn’t either. The air sings around them, crisp and fresh even with the heat building. Jesse blocks a high kick with his forearms, the sting of an imminent bruise washed away in a moment. Jesse’s ribs feel better than they have in days, he’s breathing easier even with the heavy exercise. 

 

Jesse takes a closer look at his Captain. There is a faint shape glowing under his blacks, the Captain’s eyes a vibrant glowing blue. 

 

Relief washes over him. Rex’s eyes had been completely dead the last time they had fought—a blank, muddy brown. But now Rex is alive, his movements perfectly controlled and calculated.

 

Jesse doesn’t win a single round. But he also isn’t thrown by the Force, nor is a hole punched through his chest. And seeing his Captain start to relax, to trust himself again, is fully worth the bruises he will have in the morning. 

 


 

“Anakin, my dear boy, I was told you wished to speak with me,” The Chancellor has a pained look on his elderly face, shoulders hunched, weighed down by the burden of making so many tough decisions for the sake of the Republic.

 

“Chancellor, I must formally request that Ahsoka Tano and Captain Rex are excluded from our mission to infiltrate the Citadel.” 

 

Palpatine rests his chin on his hands, propped up by his elbows. “And why is that, dear boy?” 

 

“Ahsoka, though skilled, is young, and lacks the experience for such a critical and dangerous mission,” Anakin says plainly. When Palpatine frowns, Anakin presses his point further. “This mission is practically a suicide run, unfit for a child. It is my right as her Master to decide which missions my Padawan is prepared for, and what types of risks she should and should not be allowed to take.” 

 

“Very well,” Palpatine reluctantly agrees. “But your Captain cannot be spared, I fear.” 

 

“Rex is on medical leave,” Anakin argues. “There’s no way he will be cleared for this mission in time.” 

 

Palpatine folds his hands again, sighing deeply. “Your Captain has been on medical leave quite often as of late,” there’s something in the Chancellor’s tone that makes Anakin uneasy. 

 

“You know the kind of missions the 501st is assigned,” Anakin counters. “It is a testament to Rex’s skill as a soldier that he has survived. And you can hardly complain about his results, Chancellor.”

 

“I suppose not.” The Chancellor leans back in his chair, stroking his chin in thought. “However, there have been concerns brought to my attention, by a member of the Council no less, that this Captain of yours is… starting to become a burden on you, and the efficiency of the 501st.” 

 

“What do you mean?” Anakin is trying to figure out who on the Council would complain about Rex’s effectiveness as a soldier. The only person he can think of is Krell, sleazy son of a Hutt that he is. “If it was Master Krell, I can assure you—“

 

“I fear I must agree with his assessments, my boy. I have read over several reports from your most recent missions, and have found that your… attachment to your Captain has lead you to make some reckless decisions as of late—decisions that could put the whole war effort at stake. I cannot have you risking your life, or the success of a mission, for a single clone.”

 

Anakin’s gut churns with unease. “Chancellor—“

 

“Anakin, my boy, it is my duty, both as your friend and as the Chancellor of the Republic, to take this matter very seriously indeed. The people of the Republic look up to you as the Hero with No Fear. If something were to happen to you because you chased after a mere clone Captain, well—” 

 

Anakin’s face flushes with rage. “You are wrong, Chancellor. Captain Rex is no “mere” anything. All of the clones are elite soldiers, and Rex is the best of the best. He is the main strategist of the 501st, and his plans are critical to the battalions’ success. I would not be the Hero with No Fear without Rex by my side.” 

 

Anakin doesn’t know why, but the expression on the Chancellor’s face fills him with unease. “Apologies my boy, I did not mean to imply that the clone was useless, merely that your own life is important to me and to the people of the Republic. Especially since your Captain seems… prone to harm, at the moment. I fear he is simply unable to keep up with you, my dear boy. Perhaps it is time to reconsider the Captain’s position in the 501st.”

 

“There’s nothing to reconsider,” Anakin bites out. The Chancellor can’t seriously be thinking about replacing Rex, can he? 

 

“The Kaminoans have expressed an interest in the Captain as a genetic template. As the Prime’s DNA is running out, they are seeking to use the DNA from successful models to supplement the cloning process. The Captain would be stationed on Kamino as a trainer in the meantime,” Palpatine continues. “If his skills are as impressive as you say, he will be invaluable in raising the next generation of clone soldiers. You would get one of the newest Command class models to reimburse your loss, of course. I've heard the latest batch is quite impressive.” 

 

Anakin feels ice flood through his veins, heartbeat loud in his ears. He feels the gears in his prosthetic hand start to grind together, but the pain doesn’t register. Kamino is the absolute last place Anakin wants Rex stationed. He remembers the dozens and dozens of lash marks torn into his Captain’s back, watching the young cadet bite into his bicep to stop his screams. He remembers the way Rex freaked out when he pricked his finger to get his midi-chlorian count, his cries that he would be good, and follow the rules, thanking some monster for making him useful. If the Kaminoans were to look at his DNA, he’s sure they would notice the elevated number of midi-chlorians in his blood, and he can’t imagine the kinds of tests they would run to pry his force-sensitivity out of him. 

 

He will never forgive himself if Rex is forcibly reassigned to a place where he will be tortured or killed at the hands of the monsters who created him. 

 

“With all due respect Chancellor, I want Captain Rex, and only Captain Rex. I assure you he is crucial to the war effort, and the continued efficiency of the 501st. I believe it would be a mistake to transfer Rex to Kamino at this time.” Anakin puts as much of The Force into the words as he can, hoping to sway the Chancellor’s mind. 

 

“Very well,” Palpatine leans back in his chair. “I will deny the Kaminoans’ request on one condition.” 

 

Anakin releases the breath he was holding. “Anything, Chancellor.” He’s willing to do whatever it takes to keep his Captain from the maw of the Kaminoans. 

 

“Your Captain will accompany you to the Citadel. Consider this mission a test. If he cannot perform his duties as a soldier, I will have him reassigned.”  

 


 

“Absolutely not.” Kix growls. “The Captain can’t even hold a blaster properly. There’s no way I’m sending him on this mission.” 

 

“Look, I don’t like it any more than you do, but we don’t have a choice here, Kix,” Anakin snaps back. “If Rex doesn’t go, he will be reassigned to Kamino.” The medics eyes go wide, his breath audibly hissing through his teeth. “The hut’uuns want to use his DNA to supplement their template, and if they do that, it will become pretty kriffing obvious that Rex has The Force to them.” 

 

“The Chip too,” Kix murmurs. “Once the Long-necks realize the Captain doesn’t have a chip, they might recall the whole 501st to see if the rest of us have had ours removed as well.”

 

“And have you? Removed any more chips?” 

 

“Only Coric’s. But if the Kaminoans learned that we are aware of the chips existence, there’s no telling what they would do. At the very least, removing them quietly would be impossible.” Kix buries his face in his hands. “Kark.” 

 

Anakin wants to comfort the medic, but he’s pretty sure any attempt would lead to his hand being bitten off, or Kix shooting him again.

 

“Rex is going to be so insufferable about this,” Kix murmurs, so quietly Anakin almost doesn’t hear him. 

 


 

Rex is correcting checking over Jesse’s requisition forms when he gets a series of notifications: one, that he’s cleared for combat, and second that his presence is requested at the Jetti Temple for a strategy meeting in about five minutes. Rex raises an eyebrow, not sure why Kix, who was so adamant about Rex needing to let his hands fully heal, would suddenly clear him without so much as a checkup. Reading the messages from Kix do not clear up the decision.

 

Kix: Just so we’re clear, I’m only doing this because my hand has been forced. In no way, shape, or form do I actually believe you are ready for combat.

 

Kix: If you get hurt or die because of this, I will never forgive you. 

 

Kix: Also, the bandages stay on during the mission.

 

As it is, Rex has just enough time to slip on his armor and move a stack of tea crates out of the holo-projector’s range in order to join the meeting. Kenobi, Cody, Skywalker, and Plo Koon all appear in the blue hologram, as well as a map of some large facility. 

 

The more Rex is read into the situation, the less he likes it. Breaking into an impenetrable fortress… fine. That’s a regular Taungsday for the 501st. Doing so with wildly outdated information from the archives for the layout and practically no information on the security is going to be difficult, but Rex has faith in the tried and true 501st strategy of “You can’t mess up a plan if you didn’t really have one in the first place.” The Jettise are much more confident that Master Piell is still alive than Rex is. He wouldn’t put it above the Separatists to execute Piell and his officers just so neither side gets the Nexus Route Coordinates. 

 

After the meeting concludes, Rex is sent the mission outline so far, and his heart sinks. Echo and Fives are on the roster. They are some of the only vode who should be. If Rex didn’t know better, he would say this mission looks designed to fail. The fact that he was rostered for this mission, despite being listed as exempt from combat, is also concerning. Why would the Chancellor want to send a clone who can’t use his hands? And why would Skywalker and Kix agree to do it? 

 

The Force stirs with unease, and Rex finds he doesn’t have the courage to ask. 

 


 

“Come on, answer dammit,” Fox stares at the buzzing comm, praying that Cody picks it up. After the call fails, Cody switches his status to busy, and mutes his comm. 

 

Cody: Can’t talk. In meeting. Call u back later. 

 

Fox swipes a caf cup off his desk with a huff, ignoring the sound of ceramic shattering. When he tries to call Rex, the comm reports that the line is already busy. 

 

Fox: Rex, when you see this, call me. It's important. 

 

He has a double shift patrolling the lower levels in a few minutes, and there’s no guarantee that a comm will reach from there, even if Fox isn’t going to be busy making sure he doesn’t get shot or dragged into a grubby alley and lynched. He has no faith that Skywalker understands what is at stake, and by the time Fox gets a hold of someone who does, it might be too late. 

 

As he gets ready for patrol, Foxs realizes his hands are shaking. Rex is walking into a trap, and Fox can’t help him. 

 

Kark, maybe he does care about the ankle biter. Just a little bit. 

 


 

“Master, sorry I’m late. I just heard about the briefing. We’re going to rescue Master Piell, right?”

 

Skyguy stops walking. Master Plo Koon and Master Obi-wan exchange looks. 

 

“It seems the two of you have much to discuss,” Master Plo says, before he and Master Kenobi retreat as quickly as possible. 

 

“Ahsoka I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but you won’t be coming along on this one.” Skyguy claps a hand on her shoulder, like that’s supposed to be some kind of comfort. 

 

“Not coming? But you’re breaking into the Citadel! No one’s ever done it. You’re going to need me.” 

 

Anakin sighs. “The Citadel wasn’t designed to hold common criminals, it was created to hold Jedi if any of us lost our way. It’s not a place for Padawans.” 

 

“You’re just being protective again!” Ahsoka snarls. “Rex is going, and he was cleared for combat five minutes ago. That’s not fair. How am I supposed to learn if you won’t let me share the risk? Don’t you trust me?” 

 

“Believe me, I don’t want Rex going on this mission either, but I don’t have much of a choice in the matter. I trust you Ahsoka, I do. But this isn’t a mission for learning. You either do or die. And that’s not a risk I’m willing to share.” 

 


 

“Is Rex actually medically clear for this mission?” 

 

Kix nods stiffly, hands clenched at his sides. “With the exception of his hands, Captain Rex is in perfect health, and should be capable of accompanying the 501st and 212th.” His gaze strays slightly to the right of full eye contact. Either Kix is trying his damndest to lie to his face, or he is not fully confident in his own words. 

 

Cody crosses his arms, unconvinced. “Rex isn’t going,” he declares. “As his commanding officer, I am pulling rank.” 

 

Kix bristles, going slightly red in the face. “As his medic, I outrank even you when it comes to the health and safety of my men.” 

 

Cody wants to laugh at the bizarre claim that sending an injured clone on a suicide run is for their own health and safety. “And why would you do that, Lieutenant?” He challenges. 

 

Kix squares his shoulders, looking Cody square in the eyes. “Because Rex is going to be reassigned if I don’t.”

 


 

Echo finds Rex in his quarters, scowling at Jesse’s requisition forms. Crates and crates of something fill every available inch of the place, including the bunk, and Echo distantly wonders where his Captain has been sleeping. If his Captain has been sleeping. Rex looks up from his work, staring at Echo for a long moment.

 

“Echo. What can I do for you?” 

 

Echo shuffles, holding up a bucket of paint in one hand and brushes in the other. “I brought paint, but we might need to move the party elsewhere.” 

 

“Here’s fine,” Rex huffs, clearing a small space on the floor. Echo shrugs and begins stripping off the plates. For the most part, his paint just needs a few touch ups. Rex, on the other hand, has a new helmet, and the stripes on the arm plates are badly scuffed up. His Captain starts on the stripes, and Echo notices the way Rex’s hands are shaking as he tries to hold the paintbrush. It’s painful and awkward to watch, and Rex is clearly frustrated with his lack of fine-motor control. 

 

“With all due respect sir, I don’t think you should be going on this mission.” Frankly none of them should. A roster that doesn’t make sense, information that is vague and outdated, a near-impossible objective. If Echo didn’t know better, he would think that Chancellor Palpatine was trying to hand the top command of the 501st and 212th over to the Separatists in a wrapped package. Or simply get them all killed. 

 

“Orders are orders, Corporal. It’s not our place to decide,” Rex says sharply. 

 

It makes something angry bubble up inside him. Anyone who has a working eyeball and accompanying brain cell can see that Rex is not fit for combat. And yet the Jettise and the medics are doing nothing to stop this. Kix has been sulking and stomping through the hall like someone replaced the caf with dirt-water and spit, but he cleared Rex anyway, and Coric backed him up. Echo just can’t understand what would make Kix—who normally would rather eat the ammo pack of his blaster before giving Rex any sort of leeway when it comes to his health—back down when Rex still can’t use his hands properly. 

 

Kix is afraid of something. Something worse than sending Rex on a suicide mission in his current condition. But all Echo can see is that his Ori’vod is going to die. And if Rex dies, Echo thinks something in him will break that can never be fixed. 

 

“What if you swapped armor with Jesse, and laid low on the Resolute?” Even as the words leave his mouth, Echo knows that Rex would never agree to it. 

 

“I’m going on this mission, Echo,” Rex says firmly. 

 

“You shouldn’t have to! The Republic is sending you to die!” 

 

“We’re clones, Echo. That’s what we’re made for,” Rex says gently. “We don’t have the right to save ourselves.”

 

“This mission is senseless, and you know it,” Echo counters. 

 

"Not for me.” Rex says quietly. All it does is make Echo angrier. 

 

“I just—Force Rex, what more do you need to prove? Who else do you need to prove yourself to?” Echo doesn’t understand why Rex is so desperate to go on a mission where he will die. 

 

“I don’t know what we are anymore!” Rex snaps, his eyes widening in surprise at his own confession. Quietly, hesitantly, Rex continues. “We’re clones of a man, but we were trained and treated as weapons. Which are we, Echo? Men get to make choices, get to have a purpose beyond their creation, but we don’t. Weapons don’t have feelings, but we do. I want to know if I can be something other than a weapon, Echo. I want to know if these hands can save lives, instead of destroy them.” 

 

Slowly, Rex unwraps the bandages from his hands, and Echo gasps at the raw patchwork of torn skin and bloody stitches. His Captain’s hands are shaking, and Echo reaches out to them. He places Rex’s bloody hand over the paint of his chest plate. His Captain tries to pull away, but Echo holds firm. 

 

“You’re not a weapon, Rex. Weapons don’t pick names for themselves, or grieve the destruction they’ve caused. We might not have a choice now, but some day, we will set our blasters down and learn what it means to be something other than soldiers."

 

Echo takes a deep breath, then continues. "I’m going to have a garden someday, and I’m going to grow every single type of plant I can think of. A thousand different flowers are going to bloom there, and every single fruit you can name. In the center of that garden I’m going to grow an apple tree, and I’m going to give you the very first fruit it produces,” Echo promises, the taste of apples tingling on his tongue. He sees the garden blooming in his mind’s eye, sprawling and large and bursting with life. It will be the most beautiful garden in the world. 

 

“So no dying before that day, Rex. That day we will prove we are men, and that we are meant for more than war.” 

 

“Okay,” Rex whispers, broken. Tears are dripping down his cheeks, and Echo wonders why his Captain’s expression is so full of grief. 

 


 

“Master Plo, may I speak with you?” 

 

The Kel Dor looks up from where he is tuning his fighter. “What is it, Little Soka?” 

 

“It’s about the mission. Master Skywalker doesn’t want me to go.” Ahsoka works hard to keep her voice level, mature. She’ll never get Master Plo to agree with her if she sounds like a whiny child. 

 

“That is his choice,” Plo Koon says simply. 

 

Ahsoka turns around so that he won’t see her eye roll. “I know, but I feel like he is being overly protective! He’s picking and choosing what assignments I can be a part of.” 

 

“He is your Master,” Plo Koon reminds her. 

 

“Yes, but it’s not for him to decide when and how I should put my life in danger. That should be my choice!” 

 

“Soka, something tells me this is about more than Master Skywalker being overprotective,” Plo Koon has stopped working on his fighter to find a seat next to her. 

 

“How am I supposed to prove myself to Skyguy when he won’t let me take any risks?” Ahsoka asks. “Captain Rex is going, but anyone who looks at him for longer than thirty seconds would know he should still be on medical leave. So why does Skyguy trust Rex to take care of himself, but not me? Am I just a burden to him?” 

 

“You are not a burden, Little Soka. But for all your skill, you are still a child. It is natural that your Master tries to protect you where he can, especially when he could not do the same for his Captain.” 

 

“What do you mean?” 

 

“Your Captain was assigned to this mission on orders from the Chancellor, not from Master Skywalker.”

 

Ahsoka slams a hand on the crate she’s sitting on. “That doesn’t make any sense!” Why would the Chancellor of the Republic want to send an injured clone on a high-stakes infiltration mission?

 

“I’m afraid I don’t know all the details, young Soka. But I can assure you that Master Skywalker has tried, and failed, to have your Captain removed from this mission.” 

 

Ahsoka considers this new information carefully. “If what you say is true, Master Plo, then wouldn’t my help be even more necessary? Skyguy needs someone to watch his back, especially since Rex can’t do it.” 

 

Plo Koon tilts his head. “I believe, young Soka, that this is a question only The Force can answer.” 

 


 

Anakin finds his Captain sitting on the floor of the kitchen, counters a mess, cradling a burnt loaf of bread. 

 

“Rex?” 

 

“I burned it on purpose,” Rex says, voice low and hollow. Tear tracks are dried to his cheeks. “Needed to remind myself, I guess.” 

 

Anakin isn’t sure what his Captain means by that, but he finds a seat on the floor next to Rex anyway, dragging his finger through a fine pile of flour as the silence builds. 

 

“I thought a lot about what you said,” Anakin starts carefully. “On Mortis.” Rex stiffens, but doesn’t say anything. Anakin presses on. “You were—are right. I do tend to follow orders based on what is convenient to me, and that places an unfair burden on you and your brothers. I have been careless with the Vode, and put you all in dangerous situations needlessly. I have taken your loyalty for granted, and abused it to suit my own needs. I’ve failed you as your Commanding Officer and as your Master, and I want to do better—to be better.” His Captain has a pinched, uncomfortable look on his face, like he wants to hide in the vents and never be seen again. 

 

Anakin continues before his Captain decides to bolt. “I need you, Rex. Maybe this isn’t fair of me to ask, but I want you to be honest with me, and tell me when I’m being a di’kut, when I’m full of myself, when I’m not doing right by you or your brothers.”

 

“I don’t—I’m not—“ Rex starts. “You shouldn’t—“

 

“I trust you,” Anakin does not miss the full body flinch Rex makes. “I trust your judgement, and I need your guidance.” 

 

Rex continues to stare at the burnt loaf in his hands, fingers digging into the charred flakes of crust and turning his fingertips black. “I’m not the perfect soldier you think I am, General. I’m broken, a liability,” Rex laughs, the sound brittle and empty. “Have been for some time.” Rex says it casually, but something in Anakin’s chest twists at the bitterness lying underneath.

 

Before now, he had never really noticed how Rex talks about himself. Calling himself a liability, like he’s a tool meant to be utilized at all times. Like he’s going to be thrown out or replaced the moment he isn’t fulfilling his purpose. Maybe if he had, Anakin would have seen the clones as slaves much, much sooner. 

 

No, Anakin shouldn’t have needed Rex to tell him. Rex’s fear and refusal to share a name or remove his helmet when they first met should have been enough. The fear of all the clones should have been enough.

 

“Rex, I’m not asking you to do this because of how you are as a soldier. I’m asking you to do this because of who you are as a man.” 

 

Rex’s eyes finally meet his own, wide and confused.

 

Rex must see something in his gaze, the hesitance in his expression turning into firm resolve. “I trust you, General. For the sake of the Vode, I will be your Guide.” 

 

Anakin extends his senses, immediately finding Rex in The Force. His Captain is like a beacon, radiating the Light so brightly it almost seems to burn. The Force wraps around him protectively, much like it was after Valtameri. Anakin reaches further, realizing just how much he missed feeling Rex’s strong, steady presence in The Force. He surrounds Rex’s Force presence with his own, drinking in the comfort it provides. 

 

Something snaps back into place, like resetting a broken bone. Rex recoils with a yelp of surprise at the flash of pain, grabbing for his head. The ache in the back of his mind had been there so long Anakin had learned to ignore it, but now the absence of pain brings catharsis, tension draining out of his body and making him giddy. 

 

“Sorry ‘bout that Rex, didn’t mean to hurt you.” Without the bond, Anakin hadn’t realized how much his Captain was still suffering. But now he can try to ease the hurt, to build back what they once had. 

 


 

Bly has been on shore leave for all of two minutes when he is approached by a frantic Fox. To anyone else, Fox would look his normal composed self, but Bly can read his emotionally-stunted brother like a book. The stiffness in his shoulders as he walks, the slight way his head turns, scanning the area around him, is all textbook Fox-is-panicking mode. 

 

“Fox, how are you doing?” 

 

“Bly. You wouldn’t have happened to run into Rex’ika recently, have you?”

 

“We just arrived two minutes ago, so no. Why, did something happen?” Bly is alarmed—if Fox is directly asking about their adopted vod’ika, something is seriously wrong. 

 

“The Chancellor was talking to Skywalker about him, and I doubt it was for a medal. He kept bringing up recent medical leaves and mentioned reassigning Rex to Kamino if he can't prove that he's keeping up with the 501st.” Bly’s veins flush with ice. He can feel himself going dizzy. 

 

“How long ago was this?” 

 

“Two rotations. I heard the 501st and 212th are teaming up on a small covert mission. I haven’t been able to contact Rex or Cody, and I don’t know when they are planning to leave, but—“ Fox grabs Bly’s shoulders, and Bly swears he hears Fox’s voice tremble. “Rex needs to know. Tell him to keep his di’kutla head down for once, otherwise he is going to find himself disappearing or taking a one-way trip back to Kamino.” 

 


 

“My dear Commander,” Obi-wan begins. “I was thinking—“

 

“You are not getting any tea, Sir.” 

 

“Surely, it would be appropriate to enjoy certain comforts before we embark on what could be our last mission.”

 

“You are still grounded. If you want to drink tea, you’ll have to wait until after the mission,” Cody says. 

 

"Just one cup, to boost morale.” 

 

“No.” 

 

“But Commander—“

 

“Not a chance, General.” 

 


 

Fives thinks it feels a bit like dying.

 

The carbon freezing hurts. The cold presses in relentlessly, sucking the air from his lungs until they feel pancaked in his chest. And then he is left stranded in that feeling of suspended breath. 

 

Awareness of everything else drifts away, and all Fives can focus on is the stagnant feel of his lungs in his chest. Fives wants out, but his mouth is similarly stuck. The only mercy is the slow dripping of his consciousness into a static hum. If he tries hard enough, he can convince himself that this is just like falling asleep. 

 

With his last coherent thought, Fives vows that he will never agree to being carbon frozen again.

 


 

In his frantic run to find the 501st and 212th, Bly turns a corner and collides head first into Rex’s vod’ika.

 

“Apologies, Commander Tano, would you perhaps know where Rex is? I need to pass on an important message.” 

 

Tano winces and rubs her montrals. “Just missed him, Bly. They headed over to the carbon freezing chamber half an hour ago. I am heading there myself if you want to join.” 

 

Bly falls in step. His heart is rabbiting in his chest with urgency. When they get there, the latest batch of carbon freezing just concluded. Bly tries to find Rex among all the slabs, but the room is dark, and the harsh shadows on the carbonite distort the faces. 

 

“Two latecomers? I was told there would only be one,” a gruff voice says from behind him. “Well, get in there clone. I don’t have all rotation.” Before Bly can protest, he is dragged over to the carbon freezing machine, the carbonite residue quickly clinging to him and locking his joints in place. Tano is already on the platform next to him. Her eyes are closed, breaths deep and deliberate, like she’s trying to calm herself.

 

“Commander!—“ Tano looks at him, eyes widening in surprise. 

 

“Wait!” She calls out to the operator. But the carbon freezing process begins, the cold so sharp Bly forgets how to breathe. 

 


 

Being thawed from carbonite is nearly as uncomfortable as being frozen in the first place. Cody’s lungs hitch, still half frozen in his chest. The headache is brutal, like someone wrapped a band around his skull and started driving spikes into his temples. 

 

He braces his hand on the melting carbonite block, trying to find his balance. The cold bites his fingers through his gloves. Near him, Fives staggers to his hands and knees, throwing up. Echo goes to pat his twin on the back, only to also start throwing up. Cody winces in sympathy, fighting his stomach’s urges to join them. 

 

“How you holding up, Rex old boy?” Rex is several shades paler than normal, but he’s standing up and only looks slightly nauseous. Lucky bastard. 

 

“I’m fine, Cody.” Behind Rex, another figure stumbles out of their carbonite prison.

 

“Kark,” Bly gags. “I’m never going to complain about being hungover again.” 

 

“What the haran are you doing here, Bly?” Cody snaps. The Jedi look over, and Cody sees that Ahsoka Tano has also wormed her way onto this mission, even though he had been assured several times the Padawan was not coming. 

 

“I was trying to deliver a message,” Bly grumbles. “But I think I got confused for one of your boys, Codes.” 

 

“Oh dear, that is quite unfortunate.” General Kenobi observes. “Well, nothing to be done for it now. Welcome aboard, Commander.” 

 

Bly nods miserably. “General Secura is going to kill me.” 

 


 

“Bly is where?!” Aayla shrieks. 

 

“We believe he was accidentally carbon frozen with the group sent to infiltrate the Citadel,” Plo Koon repeats. 

 

“How do you accidentally carbon freeze someone!?” 

 


 

The entry point to the Citadel is intimidating, to say the least. Rex hands General Skywalker some binoculars. 

 

“You were right, the wind conditions are too strong for Jetpacks,” Cody admits with disappointment. 

 

“Yes, we’ll have to do it the old fashioned way—with ascension cables and a steel grip,” Kenobi adds. 

 

“I don’t think so,” Skywalker interrupts. 

 

“What do you mean?” Kenobi asks. Rex zooms in on his HUD, and immediately sees the problem. 

 

“Electro mines. There’s nowhere to put a grappling hook at that height. And if we hit one of those, the mission’s over. They’ll know we’re here.” 

 

“I suppose that means we free climb it,” Bly suggests. 

 

 Rex does not miss the way everyone else looks at his hands. “Kark.” 

 


 

It’s when they get to the wall that the argument breaks out. 

 

“I’m carrying Captain Rex,” Fives announces. 

 

“Like haran you are,” Rex says. 

 

“Rex is right. I’ll do it,” Cody interjects. 

 

“I can climb just fine on my own,” Rex insists. 

 

“Why does Rex need to be carried?” Bly asks.

 

“I don’t.” 

 

“With all due respect, Captain, you will tear open your hands almost immediately,” Echo points out. “And I don’t believe blood is conducive to a good handhold.”

 

“I’ll be fine.” Rex grits his teeth. “Everyone else is free climbing without a rope.”

 

“Everyone else has two fully functioning hands. Quit being stubborn, Rex. You’re not climbing on your own, and that’s final,” Cody says. 

 

“The Commander is right,” Obi-wan agrees, and any chance of Rex free climbing without help dies. 

 

“I have an idea,” Skywalker announces. 

 


 

In the end, Rex is tied to a rope connected to Generals Kenobi and Skywalker. The Generals start the climb side-by side, so that if Rex slips, or needs a break, the Generals can carry him. With their larger formation, they will have to be very careful picking their route up the wall. Ahsoka is below him, just in case something happens to the rope. 

 

It is utterly humiliating, and yet Rex reluctantly admits that it was necessary. About half an hour into the climb, Rex is starting to leave bloody handprints on his handholds. His hands sting and ache, and he mutes his comms so that he can curse in the safety of his own bucket. About halfway up, his hands slip right off the cliff face, and General Kenobi and Skywalker immediately catch him with The Force.

 

“Rex, for kark’s sake take a break,” Cody orders into his helmet. He must have found some of Rex’s bloody handprints on the wall. 

 

“I’m fine,” Rex grunts. He doesn’t quite mute the hiss he makes when his next handhold digs into his palms. His hands slip again, and Rex feels blood well up and drip down his wrists. 

 

“Menace’ika, listen to Cody,” Bly says, his voice laced with concern.

 

“Captain Rex, take fifteen, that’s an order.” Kenobi calls down. Rex reluctantly complies, bracing his legs against the wall and tucking his hands to his chest. Through The Force, he can feel everyone else starting to flag as well. He reaches out, trying to give them strength and resolve. Through his bond with Skywalker, he feels the General start to do the same. 

 

“The entry point is just a few more meters,” Kenobi calls. They climb up to a narrow ledge below the platform, then the Jedi haul Rex up as well. The rope is long enough for Kenobi to scout the entrance while the two of them catch their breaths. 

 

“Let me see your hands, Captain,” Skywalker orders. Rex complies with a grimace. The gloves are still in one piece, but soaked in blood.

 

“You didn’t have to climb, Rex. Obi-wan and I could have handled it,” Skywalker insists. Before Rex can answer, Kenobi reports that the door is locked.

 

“Ray shielded? That wasn’t the plan!” Anakin cries. 

 

“Well it’s in the plan now!” Obi-wan retorts. 

 

“There’s an opening above the door,” Ahsoka observes. 

 

“We know. They’re ventilation ducts, but they’re far too small for us to gain access,” Anakin says.

 

“Too small for you, maybe, but I think I can squeeze through.”

 

“Well, we hadn’t planned on Ahsoka being here,” Obi-wan reasons. “Perhaps she’s right.” Ahsoka grins and quickly scrambles up past them. A minute later, she's peeking over the edge of the platform with a smirk, giving the all clear signal. Rex takes a deep breath and mentally prepares to climb the last stretch up to the platform.

 

“Oh no you don’t,” Skywalker picks Rex up with The Force and throws him up onto the platform. 

 


 

While Commander Cody reams out Rex for climbing, Echo braces himself at the edge of the platform, helping haul up everyone coming after him. His muscles are trembling under his armor, and Echo seriously hopes he won’t have to use his arms for the rest of this mission. 

 

After hauling up Commander Bly, Echo turns to help Charger, the last vod up. From here, Echo can see his arms shaking. As Charger reaches for his hands, the rock he braced his feet against gives, and Charger grunts in panic as he starts to slide back down and can’t find a handhold. A vod dives past him in a flash of blue, and Echo catches his wrist more out of instinct and muscle memory than anything. The diving vod grabs Charger as he starts to truly fall, and Echo grunts as he is pulled off the platform by the weight of two vode. 

 

Hands anchor around his other wrist just in time, thankfully ending the human chain they were forming at three. “We’ve got you, Echo!” Fives calls down. The vod below him yells in pain. Echo looks down to see Rex, and realizes with horror that his grip is already beginning to slip, red smearing across his gauntlet. 

 

The next moment, Generals Kenobi and Skywalker are there, using The Force to haul up Rex and Charger while Fives, Bly, and Cody pull him back onto the platform.

 

“Holy Kark,” Echo coughs, the adrenaline threatening to turn his heart inside out. Fives slaps him on the back. 

 

“Great catch, Echo,” Cody praises. 

 

“Thanks for saving my life there Captain,” Charger says. The poor vod is shaking from head to toe as his body slowly realizes he’s not about to fall to his death.

 

“Anytime, vod,” Rex says. He’s holding his hands out from his body with a grimace, and Echo is certain a lesser vod would be screaming in pain. 

 

“Rex, what kind of di’kutla bantha-osik would convince you to take a swan dive off the platform without a word?” Commander Bly yells. 

 

“Gut instinct. Besides, I knew Echo would catch me,” Rex shrugs, apparently having much more confidence in Echo’s skills than Echo does.  

 

“Some heads up would have been nice,” Echo grumbles. 

 

“You did great Echo, just like in practice,” Rex says, and Echo immediately forgets his anger in the wake of the Captain’s praise.

 

“Wait, you practice catching each other human-chain style?” Bly looks between all the members of the 501st, who are nodding. 

 

“At least once a month, when possible. We practice all sorts of catching techniques. Never know when you’ll need it!” Fives pipes up.

 

“How often does this happen that you are dedicating regular training time to it!” Bly exclaims. 

 

“Are you kidding, it's a great team bonding exercise. Besides, clone-launching is one of General Skywalker’s favorite tactics—though Rex is by far the best at it,” Fives says. Rex shakes his head and sighs. Commander Bly pauses, blinks, and then goes back to yelling at Rex and smacking him over the head. 

 


 

“Sir, one of the cargo shuttles was cleared for landing but never arrived,” a droid reports. Osi Sobeck glances at the report. 

 

“Sir, the ray-shielded gate in sector 9-G turned off several minutes after the scheduled patrol reported the all-clear,” another droid reports. 

 

“Log it and activate all security protocols. Prepare my special units,” he orders. “The Jedi might have found a way past the life-form sensors, but they have come to me like flies to a spiderweb. Now that they are in the web, I will see to it that they never escape.” 

 


 

One moment everything is going unusually well, the next they turn a corner and three different patrols are there to greet them. And the walls start firing at them. 

 

“Uh, I think they know we’re here,” Fives guesses.  

 

“Karking brilliant deduction, detective,” Echo spits out while shooting a turret. 

 

“Take out the surveillance!” Skywalker orders. The Jedi make a defensive circle, leaving the clones to take out everything else. It takes only a minute for the hallway to be silent again, smoke drifting from the deactivated turrets. 

 

“Phew, that wasn’t so bad,” Fives says. Every single clone looks at him with a glare that can be felt through the visors. 

 

“What?” 

 

“You’re a di’kut,” Echo informs him. The floor jolts, and Fives turns to see a purple wall of death racing towards them. 

 

“The walls are electrified! Go! Go! Go! Go!” 

 


 

Longshot isn’t going to make it. The coils of electricity are already reaching for him, making his armor spark and his hair stand on end. His teeth start to buzz, and just as the pain begins to register, he feels a hard yank to the side. He crashes into Captain Rex, muscles jolting from the electric shock and armor smoking. Warmth seeps into his limbs, washing away the pain of electrical burns. 

 

“Longshot!” Commander Cody calls. “Are you alright?” 

 

“Still functioning, but my gear’s fried Commander,” Longshot reports. He can’t quite wrap his head around the fact that he made it around the corner. 

 

“Quickly, we must keep moving,” Kenobi orders. Iffy helps pull Longshot to his feet, and together they continue to stumble down the hallway. 

 


 

The interrogator droid is reaching for his eye when the door to his cell opens. Two clones enter and begin taking out the droids standing sentry in the room, while the clone who enters immediately after takes out the interrogator droid with a single shot to the central processor in its head. Even Piell will never admit aloud the relief he feels watching that piece of scrap smoke on the floor. 

 

Soon, Skywalker and Kenobi are there, cutting him down from his bonds. Piell isn’t sure whether he should be feeling grateful or offended that these were the Jedi sent to rescue him. He decides to hold off on his judgement until they get back to the Temple. 

 

“Obi-wan. What took you guys so long?” Skywalker will get his acknowledgment when he earns it.  

 

The two Jedi share a look. “At least your sense of humor is still intact,” Skywalker quips. 

 

“It takes more than they got to break me, young Skywalker,” Piell would rather die than lose to Tarkin in a game of wills. 

 

“So, you have the coordinates for the Nexus Routes?” What does Skywalker think they are here for? A Primeday picnic? Piell revises his earlier ruling: he is offended that Skywalker specifically was sent to rescue him. 

 

“I got them all right. Half of them, anyway. My Captain’s got the other half. I erased the computers when we were boarded, and had both of us memorize part of the intel. That way, if somehow I cracked, the information would be useless to them without the other half.” Not that he would have broken. If the interrogator droid had followed through with his threat to ruin Piell’s working eye, he would have refused to share the information purely out of spite. 

 

“Where’s your Captain?” Obi-wan asks. 

 

Piell almost suggests they leave Tarkin here, but he supposes the Republic will also want both halves of the information. “Being held with the other officers, I assume.” 

 

“We’re going to need a new plan for getting out,” Skywalker says. Piell supposes he should be grateful they had a plan in the first place. 

 


 

They take a few minutes in the interrogation room, just enough time for Echo to hack into the prison’s computers and locate the officers’ holding cell. While he does that, the Jedi check over Even Piell while Cody forces Rex to change the bloody bandages and gloves on his hands, and then they venture back out into the hallways of death. 

 

Bly has to admit that this whole thing has gone smoother than he would have given the 501st and 212th credit for. He’s heard enough horror stories about 501st-212th joint missions to expect a level of chaos that is terrifying and unholy. But other than Rex deciding today was a good rotation to dive off a cliff without warning, nothing has gone so terribly wrong that Bly feels unprepared or out of his depth. Bly almost feels like offering Rex and Cody an apology for thinking so poorly of them and their battalions. Of course, Ponds swears up and down that Malastare was going smoothly until the last three rotations or so. Bly decides he doesn’t need to do anything prematurely.  

 

Perhaps it’s because he’s expecting the other shoe to drop any second that Bly is able to snag General Skywalker as he starts rising up to the magnetized ceiling along with all their weapons. 

 

You fools!” A loudspeaker crackles. “I hope you enjoyed the reunion with your fellow Jedi, because you are going to be my guests for a very long time.” 

 

Commando droids appear on either end of the hall, and Bly does his best to dodge blaster fire while holding onto General Skywalker like a balloon on a string. 

 

“They're magnetized!” General Kenobi curses as he fails to push the commando droids back. The Jettise on the ground are mostly keeping the commando droids bent backwards with The Force, but that only keeps the droids from shooting for so long. 

 

“Commander, aim me towards my lightsaber!” Skywalker orders. Bly dodges a bolt aimed at his outstretched arm and tries to get a good look at the ceiling. From the ground, he can vaguely see a small, light gray cylinder, and aims for that. He releases General Skywalker’s foot, and watches as he continues the journey upwards. The hum of the magnet stops, and a slightly smoking Skywalker lands a moment later with all of their weapons.  

 

“Good aim, Commander,” Skywalker praises. “Thanks for the assist.” 

 

“Anytime, General,” Bly replies, though he doesn’t really mean it. He’s thanking every available deity that 1) he somehow didn’t get shot while standing completely exposed and defenseless in the middle of a hallway and 2) Skywalker wears leggings under his robes. 

 


 

It takes several more ambushes to get to the detention cell where Piell’s officers are being held. Rex is genuinely shocked that the plan they formulated has mostly held together at this point. He’ll have to double check with Jesse, but he’s certain it’s a new 501st record.  

 

Cody would probably punch him for suggesting it, but perhaps Bly, the most accident-prone of the Shebse, is somehow using his bad luck to cancel out all the chaos of their joint missions. 

 

But then Rex gets a good look at the officers being held in the cell, and he changes his mind. Instead, he thinks that all the bad luck of this mission was being stored up for this moment. 

 

Because there, standing in the holding cell with a cocky grin, is Staunch—his old SL from Grit Squad.

 


 

“Now that you’ve found us, how do you expect to get us out?” Tarkin challenges, his nose in the air. “If they’ve locked this fortress down, there’s at least ten squads on their way. It’s going to be impossible to escape.” 

 

Obi-wan is sorely tempted to suggest that Tarkin could stay behind to host a welcome party if he wished. Instead, he decides to respond diplomatically. 

 

“What if we split up? My team will create a diversion, while Anakin leads the others away. That way, if one of us is captured, the enemy will only have part of the information and not all of it.” The plan is risky, especially since they would have to find a way to coordinate pickup with R2, but with the addition of so many officers, their group is large and vulnerable enough that they would have no way of hiding, and the Warden would simply need to send wave after wave of droids until they are cornered and slowly wiped out. Splitting groups would also split the Warden’s attention, and make their moves much harder to anticipate. 

 

“General Kenobi, I think it’s better if we stick together. A stronger force would have a better chance of protecting the information,” Tarkin argues. 

 

“Not in this situation,” Obi-wan grounds out. He doesn’t typically get this prickly when someone questions his plans, but something about Tarkin makes his skin itch. 

 

“But surely, we’d have more strength in numbers, rather than divide us” Tarkin presses. 

 

Before Obi-wan has the chance to say something un-diplomatic, Master Piell steps in. “Obi-wan has a point. I’ll go with him, you go with Skywalker.” Obi-wan can’t quite tell if Piell sided with his plan because he sees the merit of it, or if it was purely out of spite towards Tarkin, but Obi-wan is glad he’s getting Master Piell for the next leg of the mission. 

 


 

For once, Cody wishes that he went with Skywalker. While part of him is relieved that he will get a break from Tarkin, the other part of him stresses that he won’t have eyes on Rex. He trusts Bly, he does, but he doesn’t trust Rex after seeing some of the osik he’s already tried to pull. 

 

As they place the charges throughout the corridors, Cody keeps a careful eye on Longshot. The vod seems to be moving okay, but Cody still can’t erase the sight of his armor smoking and limbs twitching. His dread watching the electrified wall approach and knowing that his brother wasn’t going to make the corner in time. 

 

Cody tries to distract himself by placing the charges, but his brain won’t stop showing him Longshot being swept up in the electrical field, only to be jerked to the side at the last possible moment, Rex ready to catch him. He wonders if Rex was shocked by the proximity, and then remembers the way Rex collapsed after returning from Malastare because he let a heart arrhythmia go unchecked. 

 

Longshot must notice his staring, because he cants his head and gives Cody a thumbs up before placing another charge. It startles Cody out of his pessimistic spiral, allows him to focus on the issue at hand. Longshot is fine, and he got a much larger voltage than anything Rex would have received. There’s plenty of ways for this mission to go wrong without Cody inventing more. 

 

As they lead droids back through the rigged halls, Cody prays that whatever luck has currently blessed them continues to hold. 

 


 

Anakin is pissed that he was left with Tarkin. 

 

“The tunnel’s clear!” Ahsoka reports. 

 

“Looks like Obi-wan’s distraction worked. Things seem to be going as planned,” Anakin says with relief.

 

“It’s when things don’t go as planned that concerns me. What then,” Tarkin sniffs. Anakin idly wonders if the droids spit in his prison rations this morning, or if Tarkin likes to spit in them all by himself. 

 

“It’s when things don’t go as planned that the 501st is at our best. Trust me.” The 501st doesn’t have any other choice, with their record. 

 

“I reserve my trust for those who take action, General Skywalker.” Tarkin has a lot of audacity to talk about action for a man whose main contribution to his own rescue so far has been whining at every step. 

 

“Then let me remind you, we rescued you back there. And I reserve my trust for those who understand gratitude, Captain Tarkin.” Anakin keeps walking down the tunnels before he gives into the temptation to shove Tarkin into lava. 

 


 

Rex is acting strange. 

 

After they enter the tunnels, Rex stays towards the back of the pack, completely silent. It’s so completely uncharacteristic of Rex on a mission that Fives scans the crowd of vode, trying to figure out if Rex swapped armor with someone else. After confirming that the Rex behind them is not an impostor, Fives exchanges a look with Echo, and the two of them fall into step besides him. 

 

“Captain, I hope this isn’t your attempt to take rearguard—which Kix officially banned you from, by the way,” Fives jokes over private comm. Even as he says it, his eyes dart anxiously over his Captain, trying to make sure none of the armor has been shifted to hide blaster wounds again. 

 

Rex shakes his head, and continues walking. Fives exchanges another concerned glance with Echo. 

 

“Captain,” Echo tries. “Is everything alright? Are your hands bothering you?” 

 

Rex shakes his head again, “‘m fine,” he grunts out through clenched teeth. 

 

“Clearly not, and your ori’vod is also starting to notice,” Echo points out. Fives looks ahead and realizes that Commander Bly is staring back at them, head tilted in the universal vode sign of concern. “If you don’t want a party back here, sir, now might be a good time to start talking.” Fives has to admire his twin’s boldness. 

 

“It’s nothing important,” Rex insists. “I just need to get over myself.” 

 

“That’s not a real answer, sir,” Echo presses. “Something is clearly bothering you, and Fives and I want to help, if you will let us.” 

 

Rex sighs deeply, and Fives can see the moment his Captain gives in. “One of Piell’s officers was one of my SL’s on Kamino, that’s all. We… didn’t really get along.” 

 

Knowing Rex, ‘didn’t really get along,’ is a massive understatement. “Which one?” Fives tries to keep his voice casual. 

 

“No,” Rex says immediately. “I’m fine. It’s in the past.” 

 

Fives pouts, offended that Rex immediately (correctly) assumed Fives was going to deck the vod. “I’ll keep my hands to myself, I just want to know who to be on the look out for.” So that Fives can deck him after they get out of here. Maybe he can even do some intel gathering so he knows whether to pull his punches or not.

 

Rex clearly doesn’t buy his excuse. However, Commander Bly has decided it's time to join the party, slowing his steps until they catch up to him. Fives smirks as Rex curses his “overprotective ori’vod and meddling vod’ika" under his breath.

 


 

“Everything ok back here, Rex?” 

 

“All clear,” Rex reports sullenly. Bly tuts in disappointment. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but his vod’ika seems… subdued. So Bly decides to lighten the mood. 

 

“That Captain Tarkin is a real piece of work,” Bly complains. “He saw the three of you back here and started going on a rant about discipline and efficiency. Then his Lieutenant—also a piece of work, mind you— joined in and started bragging about how his squad—dirt squad or whatever—graduated second in their class on Kamino. I mean, who even cares about that, right Rex?” 

 

Rex startles at the question, and takes slightly longer to answer than he should. Distracted, Bly observes with concern. “You’re only saying that because Shebse Squad graduated first among the command class,” Rex points out, voice flat. If he was hoping to make Bly less worried with that response, it did not work. 

 

“We finished dead last!” Rex’s ARC chips in. “Just one point above maintenance duty.” 

 

Rex freezes, eyes scanning over the lake of lava. Bly does the same, but there’s nothing he can detect with his eyes or his scanners that should cause alarm. 

 

Then Rex fires one perfect shot right through the central servos of a probe droid that Bly hadn’t even seen. At the sound of blaster fire, the rest of the group turns just as the probe droid falls into the lava, sparking and twitching. Anakin gives a big thumbs up, saying something to Tarkin that has the natborn officer rolling his eyes and undoubtedly making a snide comment. 

 

“Come on. We need to hurry,” Rex keeps walking as if nothing happened. 

 

“What the kark?”

 


 

Cody watches, frozen, as Stub’s blood and entrails pool along the steel of the security doors. His hands are still outstretched, vainly hoping that someone will pull him up in time. Cody’s hands are still around his wrist, and he has to focus on prying away every single finger that was too slow. 

 

In this war, Cody has seen many deaths, some even more gruesome than this. But Stub’s blood is on his boots, and he feels unease bloom deep in his core. It claws up his spine from his stomach, lodging deep in his throat.  

 

Things had been going well. Perhaps Cody got careless. 

 

Master Piell cuts a hole down to them, the metal clanking loudly as it falls just short of him. Cody doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t let himself look away from the mess on his boots. Stub’s hand, nearly extended around his ankle. 

 

“We lost one,” Piell reports to Kenobi. Cody hears him distantly. The words are impersonal, factual. And Cody knows he will have to move from this place, will have to leave Stub’s body behind, always reaching for a hand that won’t save him in time. 

 

“Commander,” Longshot’s hand is on his shoulder. Only then does Cody find the strength to pry his eyes away. With a shuddering breath, he takes the first bloody step. 

 

“We need to keep moving,” he says firmly. The others nod, lining up so Master Piell can haul them up through the hole in the security doors. Cody goes last, taking one last look at Stub’s corpse. 

 

The dread in his stomach persists, and Cody has a sinking suspicion that their string of good luck has come to an end. 

Notes:

Rex: what if my hands never heal? What if I become useless, and this is my punishment for touching the Conduit of Mortis?
Kix: it has been two weeks since you stopped actively dying. Give it a moment.

Hardcase: come on Cap, I'm sorry I destroyed the kitchen last time. But its all fixed now, surely we can--
Rex: some sins can never be forgiven

Things Kenobi will do for tea
-eat moldy, decade old teabag: yes
-murder Yoda, founder of his lineage and Grandmaster of the Jedi Order: yes
-fight Commander Cody: no

Bly: wait, I'm not supposed to be here
Carbon Freezing Operator: I wasn't asking

Bly: wow, this mission is actually going pretty smoothly so far. Maybe the 501st and 212th joint missions aren't as bad as I thought
Rex and Cody: holy shit our plans are actually holding together longer than a piece of wet flimsi. I wasn't aware this was possible.

Bly: wow I can't believe I didn't get shot standing fully exposed in the hallway
Rex: *subtly bending the shots around his ori'vod* just drop the Jedi idiot

Tarkin: *exists*
everyone else collectively: I've only known Tarkin for one (1) minute, but if anything happened to him I would celebrate profusely

You know it's the start of a new arc when Rex falls off a cliff. Practically tradition at this point.

Some of you might also be wondering why Fox didn't just text Rex to tell him what's up. My reasoning is that Fox absolutely knows that their comms and messages are monitored, so instead of practically declaring in writing that he was eavesdropping on the Chancellor's meeting, he was trying to get either Rex or Cody to meet him in person.

As for why Anakin didn't tell Rex, he got distracted during his heart to heart, then forgot about it in the rush of getting everything planned.

Rex burning the loaf of bread was also a reminder of why he started baking in the first place--to have a safe space to fail where no one would die. It's his way of trying to reconcile his feelings of helplessness when faced with Echo's impending death. Good thing Anakin was there to pile on even more responsibility by asking Rex to co-parent his moral compass.

The carbon-freezing operator 100% thought Bly was part of the 212th. Frankly, he was not paid to care about slightly different shades of yellow.

Also, since it's been several hundred thousand words since it was brought up/relevant, Staunch is the SL from Grit Squad (Clover and Luk'ie's original squad). Aka he's the guy who got pissy Rex beat him in a spar, signed them up for sims that he knew would continue to aggravate Rex's injured shoulder, and then reassigned him after only one week knowing, the Kaminoans would either punish him or decommission him. As far as he knows, '67 is dead because of him, and he's proud of it.

Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it (once I got my shit together, of course). Your support and patience is appreciated, and I'm glad so many of you see this story as something worth sticking with. Fingers crossed that I will have more time to write regularly, and will update faster now that I have mostly figured out where I am going with this arc.

At some point, I am planning to go through the whole series to fix all the little typos that somehow survived the extensive editing process, so if there are any particularly heinous ones that have bugged you, feel free to let me know.

As always, your comments and kudos give me life! Take care of yourselves, and drink a tall glass of water :)

Chapter 11: among the wreck

Summary:

In which everything starts going very wrong very quickly.

Or, the flies wander deeper into the spider’s web. There’s no guarantee any of them will make it out alive.

Or, a shuttle. The wreckage. A red string of fate, starting to fray.

Notes:

I bet none of you in your wildest dreams imagined I would turn around and update this story so quickly after taking 2 years to update 2 chapters, but here we are! It's been a long time since I have been able to write this much this quickly, so I'm enjoying it while it lasts.

As a general warning, you might want to keep some tissues nearby. I cried several times writing this chapter, if that is any indication for what is coming next.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Dooku is in a sour mood. He has been waiting on this half-wit of a warden for several minutes. 

“Count Dooku, my lord. How unexpected.” 

What a droll greeting. Dooku doesn’t bother to spare Sobeck a glance, inspecting his fingernails instead. The specks of dirt under them is certainly more interesting than the creature before him. “You may cease the propriety, Commander Sobeck. I understand there is a problem with the Jedi prisoner.”

Sobeck twitches. “An incursion team attempted a rescue, but the situation is taken care of.” The Warden’s answer is carefully worded, but Dooku can see through it immediately. 

Dooku ignores his claim. “Are you in possession of the information the prisoner is carrying?” 

Sobeck scowls. “Not…yet. But we will soon have it.” The Warden immediately strikes him as a man who relies on cruelty rather than cleverness to achieve his goals. In other words, a fool. Dooku doesn’t have patience for a man only interested in saving face. Even a creature of Sobeck’s meagre talents should have been able to capture the infiltration team his master had devised by now. When Dooku had seen the roster, he had been impressed. Anakin and Kenobi, unsuited for infiltration. No scouts, no medics, only one splicer, and Skywalker’s Captain who is supposedly already injured. The fact that Sobeck has not managed to recapture this lot tells Dooku all he needs to know about the competence of the Phindian before him.  

“You are aware that this information will tip the scale of the war to the side that controls it. Perhaps this is a matter that requires my presence,” Dooku threatens, watching carefully as Sobeck’s eye twitches again, hands curling into fists. 

“No my lord.”

“Find them, Commander,” Dooku warns. “Get the information, then kill them all.”


Ahsoka is starting to regret coming along. Not that she’s brave enough to admit that to Skyguy. 

“I’m beginning to admire the design of this fortress,” Tarkin says, his voice pitched like a scholar beyond reproach. “It’s rather formidable to evade.” Ahsoka wasn’t aware Tarkin was contributing to the work of evading the fortress. If anything, with the amount of complaining Tarkin has done, Ahsoka would’ve thought Tarkin was rooting for the fortress to win. 

Ahsoka wrinkles her nose. “How can you admire such a horrible place?”

“Ah! You reveal your shortsightedness. This ordeal only demonstrates how effective facilities like the Citadel are,” Tarkin lectures like some of the worst teachers at the Temple. The ones mostly interested in hearing themselves talk. She’s starting to get the feeling that Tarkin likes to contradict everyone just to feel clever. No wonder Master Piell seems to hold some distaste for him. 

“It’s a pity it ended in Separatist hands, and not ours,” Tarkin continues. Ahsoka wouldn’t want this thing even if it was wrapped in a bow and stuffed to the brim with credits and a brand new speeder.

“He has a point,” Tarkin’s lieutenant chimes in. Ahsoka throws him the most disgusted look she is capable of. It’s hard to tell with the unfamiliar Force signature and helmet, but Ahsoka likes to imagine that he’s at least a little chastened. 

“Alright Snips, I need you to lead the group,” Anakin approaches her from behind. “Keep following the tunnel. I’ll catch up.” 

“Hey! Where are you going?” Ahsoka does not want to deal with Tarkin and his mini-me all by herself. 

“Obi-wan’s not here, so someone has to protect our flank.”

“You just want a break from Tarkin,” Ahsoka grumbles. Anakin gives her a wink and a thumbs up and then heads off on his self-appointed quest. 

“I guess it’s a good thing I came along after all,” Ahsoka murmurs to herself.


“We’ve received a coded transmission,” Plo Koon reports to Masters Tiin and Windu. “Apparently they’ve split up into two groups.” 

Windu curses softly under his breath. 

“The rendezvous points are the landing field behind the tower, where R2 will pick up Obi-wan Kenobi, and the pipeline exit, where they will find Anakin Skywalker.”

There is inherent risk in splitting up, which is why it was ultimately decided against in the original plan. Plo Koon trusts Obi-wan had a good reason for doing so now, but the lingering sense of unease will not let up. His attempts to look into The Force are all met with a mass of writhing black threads. They suffocate the colorful threads that dive into the center of the tangle, and Plo cannot see if any of them make it to the other side of the knot. 

“And what if things don’t go according to plan?” Windu asks, with a tone of voice that expects failure as the most likely outcome. Mace Windu, Plo Koon notes, is a man of little faith when it comes to Skywalker’s plans holding together. 

Smart man. 

“Then we would have to send an entire fleet to get them out of there.” With a press of a button, Plo Koon directs Commander Wolffe to start preparing the Wolfpack for deployment. Even if he has (perhaps delusional) faith in Kenobi and Skywalker surviving and bringing Master Piell with them, experience and instinct both tell Plo Koon to prepare for the worst. 

He forgets why he volunteered the Wolfpack to be the extraction team. Perhaps because Wolffe had managed to convince him, despite his better judgement. 

Windu, seeing the orders sent out from over Plo Koon’s shoulder, gives a long suffering sigh, pulls out a bottle of pills, and dumps half of them into his hand before swallowing them dry. 


“I am concerned that the Jedi have elected this… child to lead the group,” Tarkin sniffs. Ahead of them, Rex sees Ahsoka’s shoulders tense. Before he does something he will regret, Rex clenches his hands into fists, the sting and ache of torn skin anchoring him. In the safety of his muted bucket, he takes several deep breaths, then cautiously un-mutes himself. 

“I’ve served with Commander Tano many times,” Rex starts diplomatically. “I trust her, Captain.” He keeps his tone firm, absolute. 

Tarkin somehow takes offense at Rex's words, if the sneer he makes is any indication. “Your trust bears no weight on my opinion, Captain. You speak boldly, for one whose presence adds no clear value.” Tarkin gives a pointed glance at Rex’s trembling hands. “The Jedi are nothing but incompetent fools playing at being Generals. The fact that they sent a child and a crippled clone to rescue us is only further proof. Though I suppose you could be useful as something for the droids to aim at.” Rex freezes. In that moment, all he can see is the dead eyes of the Kaminoans as they debated his right to live in front of him. 

“You’ll find that Captain Rex has done plenty for this mission’s success, as has Commander Tano,” Fives announces. His vod’ika’s voice snaps Rex right back into his body as adrenaline rushes through him. 

“Stand down, Fives,” Rex warns. 

Fives pretends not to hear him. “In fact, I believe the only one who has not contributed anything of value to the rescue effort is—” 

“Fives!” Rex barks. “Stand down!” Fives is still bristling, but he listens. 

Tarkin sneers, eyes glinting. “Your men lack discipline, Captain. Especially when addressing their betters. Perhaps they learned that from you.” Fives scoffs, but to his credit makes no move to do anything else. Rex signals him to take rearguard for a bit, and Fives stalks back towards Echo. 

“Reminds me of one of my old squad-mates on Kamino— a damn mutie who didn’t know his place.” Staunch remarks. Rex is certain he has forgotten how to breathe. Echo and Fives bristle, immediately connecting the dots. “Acted like he was something special—always strutting around like he thought he was better than the rest of us. Mutie lasted a week in my squad, and I’m happy to say I’m the one who finally got rid of him.”

“Lieutenant,” Echo says, his voice deceptively calm. “You wouldn’t happen to have been the SL of Grit squad, would you?” Rex shakes his head and signals Echo to stand down. 

Oblivious to the danger he’s in, Staunch puffs up his chest. “So you’ve heard of me! I can sign an autograph for you once we’re out of here.” 

“Oh, you’ll get your autograph all right,” Echo says, rearing back his fist. "I hope you're fine with black or blue ink, vod!" 

Rex allows one good punch before stepping in. “That’s enough, Corporal.” 

“But Captain, he—“ 

“Stand. down.” 

“Sir yes sir,” Echo stands down, teeth gritted and shoulders bristling. 

“Captain Rex, control your men, or I will do it for you,” Tarkin huffs. “I should have your ARC trooper court-martialed for assaulting one of my officers.” 

“I will handle this, Captain Tarkin,” Bly interrupts. “Rex, Echo, Fives, with me.” 


The second they are mostly out of sight, Bly switches to private comms. “Explain,” he barks, only just managing to keep the hysteria out of his voice. “I won’t pretend to know how things are done in the 501st, but Rex, you of all vode know better than to antagonize a natborn, so what the haran happened?” Bly almost feels bad for the way Rex winces. But this is serious, and Bly needs Rex and his ARCs to keep their heads down, dammit. 

“It was my fault, Commander,” Fives admits. “Tarkin,” he spits the name like a curse, “made a comment about Tano, and when Cap defended her place on this mission, he started tearing into Rex and saying that the only reason he was brought along was to take a plasma bolt. So I said that Rex has done more for this mission than Tarkin ever could.” 

Bly shakes his head, exasperated. Is this what Rex has to deal with all the time? “You can’t talk to natborns like that, even if it’s true.” 

“So what, we’re just supposed to take it?”

“Yes,” Rex and Bly say simultaneously. Fives huffs and crosses his arms.

“Fives, I can handle Tarkin,” Rex urges. “Just keep your head down and don’t do anything to draw his attention. That’s an order.” 

“Sir yes sir,” Fives mutters. 

“And you,” Bly turns on Echo, “What in the blazes led you to deck that Lieutenant?” 

“He was one of Rex’s SL’s on Kamino,” Echo reports. “He was bragging about how he got rid of the “mutie” assigned to his squad after only a week.” Bly feels cold rage settle in his bones. A short assignment like that would be guaranteed time on the Post. 

“It’s in the past,” Rex says firmly, leaving no room for argument. “Besides, I might not have met the Shebse if it weren't for him.” Bly distinctly remembers the half-dead state Rex was in when they found him. Remembers the shock of seeing his torn up, burned, and badly infected back, and the way Rex had panicked when they stole bacta from medical to treat it because he wasn’t allowed medical aid. Suddenly, Echo’s actions don’t seem quite so unreasonable. 

“Regardless of the reason why, you still assaulted an officer, Corporal. It’s going to be hard to convince Tarkin to drop charges if he wishes to court-martial.” Bly sighs. “For now, I will recommend a temporary demotion for Echo to specialist, and a full rotation in solitary lock-up for Fives, both to be carried out post-mission, with the understanding that either Skywalker or Kenobi can choose to adjust punishment as they see fit.” 

Echo and Fives salute, “Thank you, sir.” 

“Don’t thank me yet,” Bly warns. “Dismissed.” When Rex moves to follow his ARCs Bly grabs his arm. 

“Are you actually okay, Rex’ika?” Even with the buckets, Bly can tell that Rex rolls his eyes. 

“I’m fine, you big mother-nuna. I swear, you’re worse than Ponds.” Rex deflects. Bly crosses his arms, unconvinced. 

Rex deflates. “I will be fine. Not like I can do anything about it anyway.” Bly hates that he’s right. 

“You have some good men, Rex,” Bly compliments. He’s not sure his own men would defend him against a natborn the way Echo and Fives did for Rex, though it’s a test he thankfully hasn’t needed to worry about. 

“The best,” Rex agrees, watching Fives and Echo rejoin the others and salute to Tarkin and Staunch, offering formal apologies. “Though sometimes I worry they are trying to give me a heart attack.”

“You’re the one who trained them, vod’ika,” Bly reminds him. “Though I would use the term “trained” sparingly. They act just like you did when you were still a rabid little gremlin with lots of teeth and anger issues.” Bly double checks to make sure they are alone and on the private comms, that Rex is the only one who will hear what he is about to say. “Speaking of which, Fox wanted me to deliver a message to you,” Bly starts. “He looked pretty worried. It’s why I was caught up in this whole mess in the first place.”

Rex scoffs. “If it was so important, why couldn’t he tell me himself? Don’t tell me he’s too busy to send a comm.” 

Bly feels something twist in his stomach. “He did try to message you, Rex’ika, more than once, but couldn’t get in contact with you or Cody. You were the very first thing he asked about when we ran into each other.” 

Rex tilts his head, surprised. “He’d risk his reputation like that?”

Bly sighs. For all Fox claims he “never agreed to adopt the ankle-biter,” he’s the first to lend a hand or keep an eye and ear open when Rex is on Coruscant. Rex for his part insists he never asked Fox to adopt him, but he’s always the first to volunteer himself or his men to bolster the Guard’s patrols when they are short-handed. It’s almost as if the two of them are locked in a duel, and the first one to show emotional vulnerability (or Maker forbid, verbally demonstrate actual care and consideration) towards the other automatically loses. Bly isn’t sure who they are even trying to fool at this point.  

“Just because Fox pretends not to care doesn’t make it true,” Bly reminds him. 

“Wrong, I’m pretty sure Fox stashed his emotions somewhere on Kamino so he would have more room for the stick shoved up his—“ 

Bly grabs Rex’s shoulders, shaking him. “Dammit Rex, Fox is trying to help you! The Chancellor has his eyes on you, so keep your di’kutla head down,” Bly is going to shoot someone if Rex already knew and Bly is out here risking his shebs for nothing. It’s going to be Rex if he knows and is still pulling this osik. 

Rex stiffens, and Bly imagines he has gone completely pale under the helmet. “What?” He chokes out. So he didn’t know. Bly isn’t sure if he’s relieved or not. 

Words fall out of his mouth in a rush. “Fox overheard the Chancellor talking about you with Skywalker. He kept bringing up your recent medical leaves, and seemed concerned that you weren’t keeping up with the 501st—which we all know is bantha-osik, by the way—but for some reason he wants you reassigned to Kamino, and he’s using your medical record to do it.” Rex has gone completely still, and Bly sincerely hopes his vod’ika isn’t having a panic attack under his bucket right now. “Obviously Skywalker must have vouched for you, but even he can’t do anything if the Chancellor decides to reassign you.” The air is humming with static, and Bly realizes Rex is trembling. “Just, for once in your life, keep your head down,” Bly pleads. “Don’t be a martyr, don’t call attention to yourself. Don’t do anything needlessly risky.” 

“Uh, sirs?” Fives has made his way back to them, and Bly sincerely hopes it isn’t because someone else has managed to piss off Tarkin. “We’ve reached a dead end.” 


Sobeck is reviewing the security tapes when he gets the report from his tactical droid. “We have captured the shuttle that infiltrated our defenses,” it states. 

“Good,” Sobeck steeples his fingers. “Guard the shuttle, and we’ll lure the Jedi into a trap.” Soon, he will have something impressive to report to Dooku. The Nexus Route Coordinates will go nicely with the heads of all the Jedi who have entered his prison. Perhaps, if he does his job well enough, Dooku will even let him keep them as trophies. 


Rex makes his way to the front of the pack. “What seems to be the problem here?” 

 

Ahsoka gives him a guilty look. “Dead end.” Rex isn’t sure why she hasn’t moved onto the next stage of the plan, but the last thing he’s going to do is question her in front of Tarkin. The man looks just about ready to start criticizing all of them again. 

 

“Alright. Charger, Fives, set the charges. There should be more tunnels on the other side of the wall here, so get ready to bust through.” Charger slips the backpack off his shoulders, working with Fives to space them out along the rock.  

 

“We’re going to have to work quickly Captain, we’ve got droids incoming,” Echo reports. Rex presses himself into the wall behind Echo’s shoulder as the first plasma bolts whizz by. 

 

Tarkin immediately goes for the largest spot of cover. 

 

“How’d they get here so fast?” Bly curses as he takes position on the opposite wall. Ahsoka takes a guard position, deflecting shots with her lightsaber. There is almost no cover along the walls, and a stray bolt would kill any of their rescued prisoners. 

 

Where’s the General when they need him? Rex reaches into his Force Bond, trying to signal Skywalker. The General drops down, slicing two SBDs in half. “What happened? Why didn’t you blow the wall? That part of the plan was your job!” Commando droids with ray shields descend from the steep cavern walls, quickly closing off their exit. Echo fires off some experimental shots, but they are blocked by the ray shields. 

 

“We’re working on it!” Ahsoka snaps. “I thought watching our flank was your job!” The Jedi are slowly losing ground to the droids. Rex hisses as a plasma bolt slips past their defenses, close enough to give his shoulder plate a new line of carbon scoring. 

 

“Boys, get that wall down yesterday!” Rex barks. He actually wishes Hardcase was here—no one has a better grasp on demolitions. That wall would have been down in less than a minute. 

 

“Almost there Cap!” Fives announces. Rex takes a moment to slip the backpack off his shoulders and dig through it for charges of his own and grins—speaking of good old Hardcase, the Lieutenant made sure to pack the 501st essentials. With a twist of his wrist combination droid poppers and charges are rolling underneath the shields, magnetizing to the central commando droid’s feet. 

 

“Down!” Rex calls. They dive as the electric charge of droid poppers sizzles, frying the droids and their gear. The next moment, the poppers explode, kicking up a cloud of rock and dust that creates a perfect smoke cover. 

 

“Clear!” Charger calls. The next moment, the wall explodes, sending another wave of rock debris and dust over their heads. As they slowly pick their way to their feet, Rex hides a grin at the way Tarkin’s hair is slightly singed. 

 


 

Cody has a bad feeling, looking at the shuttle. A sense of dread that burrows deep in his gut. He doesn’t want to go any closer than he already is. “The shuttle’s there, but there’s no sign of R2,” Cody reports. He might not always get along with Skywalker, but Skywalker’s droid is always reliable. R2 wouldn’t just wander off and leave the shuttle unguarded unless the droid had a good reason. 

 

“Something might have happened,” Kenobi agrees. “We’ll have to make our way around to the other side and get a different view. This could be a trap.” 

 

Cody watches the ascension cable carefully as Kenobi rappels down, Charger’s near-death all too present in the forefront of his mind. He’s more on-edge than usual, jumping at shadows. Expecting the other foot to drop spectacularly. He needs to reign it in, before his anxiety becomes a distraction. Alpha-17 taught him better than this. 

 

As they descend onto the landing platform, the hairs rise on the back of Cody’s neck. 

 

“Anakin,” Obi-wan says, the comm up to his mouth. 

 

The voice that responds is not General Skywalker. “I must commend you on your escape tactics, but in the end, it was easy to predict your every move.” Hidden turrets activate and train their blasters on them. Droids drop from the ceiling and enter through the doorway. Within seconds, they are completely surrounded. 

 

Obi-wan frowns and crosses his arms, not making any move to fight his way out of this, choosing to look disappointed instead. An obvious trap, and they strolled in like cadets who have never touched a blaster. From the open comm link, Cody can hear the Warden’s voice cackling. When they get out of this, Cody is never going to hear the end of it from Rex and Bly. 

 


 

Only the 501st would be insane enough to use the inside of a fuel line as an escape route. Bly doesn’t even know why he’s surprised. It’s the kind of stupid that is almost genius, mostly because no one would be dumb enough to try it. The smell is… headache inducing. Rex makes the slightest flinch when the gas fumes reach him. 

 

For the first time, Tarkin doesn’t complain, too busy trying not to gag. 

 

They are going to have to move quickly, unless they want to risk fuel poisoning. “Let’s go! Everybody in!” Skywalker orders. “Don’t use your lights, and make sure your weapons are locked. The slightest electronic pulse could ignite this whole tube.” Bly double checks his gear, watching his brothers do the same.

 

“I hope somebody tells the droids that,” Tarkin sniffs as he enters the tube, his lieutenant dutifully on his heels. Bly rolls his eyes. 

 

“Cap, are you sure you’re good to climb?” Echo asks softly, once he’s sure Tarkin and his mini-me won’t hear them. With all the chaos, Bly had almost forgotten Rex’s hands were injured. 

 

“I’ll be fine, Echo,” Rex replies. Bly shakes his head. 

 

“We’re not risking it, Rex. Fives, take the pack. Echo, use the ascension cables to strap him to my back.” 

 

“I can climb,” Rex insists as Fives dutifully strips the pack from his shoulders. Echo digs around to find the extra cables. 

 

“We don’t have time to argue this,” Bly says. “We’re not risking making your hands worse. Now get on my back, Menace’ika.” 

 


 

Sobeck grins when the Jedi and their men are marched in at blaster point. “Welcome back,” he crows to Piell. “I hope you enjoyed the tour of our facilities—I’m sure they will feel like home soon.” 

 

“I must say, you’re not at all what I pictured,” Kenobi comments. “For someone with such a soft voice.” Sobeck doesn’t rise to the taunt, instead rounding on Piell. Having the Jedi back means nothing if he can’t give Dooku the Nexus Route coordinates. He had been hoping to take his time torturing the information out of the Jedi, but time is running out for Sobeck to get the results he needs. 

 

“I want your half of the information,” Sobeck orders, crouching low into Piell’s face. “Give it to me now, or I will start executing your men.” The Jedi’s eyes harden. 

 

“This is war, Sobeck,” Piell starts stiffly. “We’re all prepared to die to protect that intel.” Sobeck feels his mouth split in a grin. He had been hoping the Jedi would say that. 

 

“Really?” He grabs a blaster from one of his commando droids, leveling it at the nearest clone. The prisoner flinches back and gasps, and the fear in his movements makes excitement race through Sobeck’s veins. He feels nothing but pleasure as he pulls the trigger, the clone powerless to defend itself as he shoots it cleanly in the skull. Sobeck only just stops himself from firing a second shot into the smoking corpse. 

 

The murderous looks Kenobi and Piell give him is positively delicious. He raises the blaster to another clone’s face. The Jedi might act tough, but he knows helplessness is their greatest weakness. They will break, all to spare the life of a worthless clone. 

 

“Sir, we have located the other group,” his tactical droid interrupts. “And our droids are closing in on them.” 

 

Sobeck huffs, tossing the blaster back to the droid. “Your Jedi resolve only delays the inevitable,” he smirks. “Take them to interrogation. Torture them. Slowly.” He follows the tactical droid to the command console, watching as the Jedi and their clones are marched back out of the room. Yes, Sobeck quite likes the idea of watching them fall apart in his hands. 

 

Kenobi won’t have anything witty to say when his commander is slowly electrocuted in front of him. 

 


 

Kenobi will admit he’s quite relieved when their droid escort is intercepted by R2 and his droids. 

 

His arms were beginning to ache from the way he’s holding his cuffed hands behind his head. 

 

“Good to see you R2, I wondered where you’ve been.” Anakin’s little droid beeps shrilly, cussing him out in binary for being stupid enough to get captured. Kenobi grimaces. It certainly hadn’t been his most brilliant of moments. He should have known Sobeck was monitoring their communications. 

 

“The commander is pleased to see you as well sir, but would like to return to the shuttle as soon as possible,” one of R2’s droids tries to diplomatically translate. 

 

“Yes, I couldn’t agree more.” Kenobi doesn’t want to think about how difficult retrieving the shuttle is going to be. There’s no doubt Sobeck has it locked down. This is going to put them behind schedule. 

 

“What about General Skywalker, sir?” Cody asks. Kenobi knows his Commander is really asking about Rex, Bly, and the other men with them. 

 

Hopefully, Anakin remembers what they discussed. “Not to worry. He’ll switch to plan ‘B’.” His words are more confident than he feels. Since they’ve split up, things have not been going well. Kenobi hates to think Tarkin might have been right about sticking together. 

 

Hopefully, Anakin is having an easier time of it than they are. 

 


 

Bly grunts as he reaches up for the next handhold. His shoulders ache from the strain on his extended arms combined with Rex’s weight pulling him backwards. Despite his helmet’s filters, he’s getting a terrible headache from the gas fumes, the added exertion making him dizzy. His next breath wheezes slightly. 

 

Perhaps this was a bad idea. 

 

“You still got him, Commander?” Echo checks in. The ARC is climbing under them, keeping a careful eye on their progress. As attentive as he is, Bly doesn’t want to have to test Echo’s catching reflexes a second time. 

 

“Still got him,” Bly confirms, squinting into the fuzzy darkness when his hand misses the next rung. He doesn’t have a lot of room to look up, which makes finding the rungs difficult. 

 

“How about you, Cap? Doing okay?” Rex grunts an affirmative, which breaks off into a wheezing cough. Bly winces in sympathy. Ponds had mentioned that Rex’s lungs were in rough shape after Malastare, and a second round of fuel poisoning can’t be doing him any favors. Bly wonders why the Kaminoans even bothered putting filters in their helmets if they never actually do their job. 

 

The fuel line seems to extend into the darkness forever. Bly has no sense of how long they have been climbing, or of how much further they need to go. The uncertainty puts him on edge. They could be discovered at any second, and a single blaster bolt or accidental spark is all it would take to ensure a painful, fiery death. And that’s if they don’t straight up die from fuel poisoning before they get to the end of the pipeline. Bly hadn’t thought anything could be worse than the free climb at the start of this mission, but he’s beginning to reconsider. 

 

The 501st never can do things the easy way, can they? 

 

He misses the next rung again, cursing as he feels Rex convulse on his back with a new round of coughs. He needs to get his vod’ika out of here, and quickly. He shakes his head, trying to will the black splotches away from his vision, but all it does is make his headache spike. His limbs are starting to weaken and go numb with fatigue and oxygen deprivation. Bly grits his teeth and finally wraps his fingers around the next rung, and he shakes with the effort of dragging himself up again.

 

“Bly, let me… climb, for a bit,” Rex requests, sensing the strain in his movements. “You don’t… seem good.”

 

Bly scoffs. “You don’t…sound too hot yourself, Rex’ika. Quit tryna… be a martyr for a few minutes and let your ori’vod… handle this.” Rex sighs, but doesn’t argue or try to cut himself free, so Bly choses to take that as a win, rather than a sign that Rex is feeling even worse than he’s letting on. 

 

Warmth burns through his muscles, bringing a boost of energy almost like a second wind. Or perhaps his brain is so fuel poisoned by this point he is becoming delusional. Either way, the climbing starts going a bit faster, and Bly can breathe a bit easier, feeling less like he is going to black out. Rex rests his helmeted head against Bly’s back, limbs slowly going slack. 

 

“You falling asleep back there, Rex’ika?” Bly calls out after a few minutes. 

 

“No, just… thinking,” Rex responds. 

 

“I can see the exit!” Fives calls down. “We’re almost out!” 

 

“Sounds like you’ll have to save your nap for next time, Rex’ika,” Bly teases. 

 

“Just… focus on climbing.” 

 


 

Unfortunately, the end of the ladder does not mean the end of the gas fumes. Tarkin gives Rex a scathing look as he and Bly are hauled out of the main fuel line, but curiously the Captain does not make his usual scornful comment. Rex wonders if Tarkin simply isn’t brave enough to criticize him in front of Skywalker.

 

Rex staggers slightly when his feet are reunited with the ground, overcome by a wave of lightheadedness that washes his vision black and white. He coughs, lungs aching and burning in a way that reminds him painfully of Malastare. Kix had warned him that his lungs, already weakened from the Blue Shadow Virus, would likely be extra sensitive to irritants or viruses after being so badly fuel poisoned. Rex wishes the medic could have been wrong for once in his life, but unfortunately that is not the case. No one else seems to be struggling with the fumes as badly as he is, and Rex grits his teeth at the prospect of one more weakness he needs to make up for. He mutes his bucket to hide the rasping coughs as they continue to move through the fuel line. 

 

His hands sting terribly as they walk, and Rex is almost certain they are bleeding again. But Bly is walking and breathing better, so Rex can’t make himself regret using The Force to heal him, even if it sapped a fair bit of energy. Another round of coughs nearly double him over, but Fives snags his bicep and rights him. 

 

“Are you holding up all right, Cap?” Rex is getting tired of this question. 

 

“I’m fine, Fives,” he snaps, shaking off his vod’ika’s hand. “I’m not the one who had to climb several klicks of ladder in a fuel line.” The fact that he feels so miserable even after getting a free ride aggravates him. 

 

“Do you trust us, Rex?” The question catches him off guard. 

 

“Of course I do!”

 

“Then act like it. Stop trying to lie to my face. You’re clearly hurting, but won’t tell us how to help you.” 

 

“I don’t need your help,” Rex bristles. “I can handle this!” 

 

“The kark you can! You’re running yourself into the ground to keep up! What happens when you push yourself too far?” 

 

“I’ll do what I have to.” The Chancellor is watching him. Rex has to pull his own weight, show that he belongs in the 501st. 

 

Fives groans. “Why is it so hard for you to accept help? You say you trust us, but then run off and try to do everything on your own! This is Valtameri all over again— I don’t want to watch you push yourself to collapse when there’s something we could have done to prevent it. Resting or accepting help when you’re healing is not weakness. I thought we discussed this.” 

 

“This is nothing like Valtameri!” Rex protests. 

 

“A healthy vod doesn’t nearly fall over while walking.” Rex’s arguments die in his throat. 

 

“You don’t need to carry everything yourself,” Fives pleads. “You don’t need to be a shield between us and danger. We’re soldiers, Rex. You need to trust us to do our jobs. Trust us to support you. We’re vode an, aren’t we?” 

 

“There’s nothing you can do about it.” 

 

“Maybe not, but it would certainly be a whole lot of help to know what I need to look out for, rather than going in blind.” 

 

Rex sighs, throat and lungs burning at the motion. “Lungs aren’t handling the gas fumes well, that’s all,” he quietly admits. 

 

“See, was that so hard, sir?” Fives hums and removes his helmet. “Here.” 

 

“What? no—“ Rex breaks into more coughs. 

 

“My lungs haven't been fuel-poisoned to osik and back, and my bucket has upgraded filters. ARC privilege and all that. They should actually help.” 

 

“I can’t just—“ 

 

“For kark’s sake Cap, just take the bucket. You aren’t proving anything by stubbornly asphyxiating. I’m not putting it back on until you at least try it.” 

 

Reluctantly, Rex trades buckets. Immediately he can feel the difference. “Thanks, Fives.” 

 

“Anytime.” 

 

Rex pretends not to notice the thumbs up Fives gives Echo. The Domino twins really are going to be the death of him. 

 


 

Anakin is starting to regret the fuel line plan. Just a bit. 

 

He hadn’t thought that the gas line would be so bad, especially after being fuel-bombed on Malastare. The vapors here aren’t nearly so concentrated, but he can still feel his throat starting to burn and his skin itch with irritation. The gas fumes smell terrible, and the general consensus is that everyone has a massive headache, which in turn is making people irritable. 

 

“How much longer are we going to wander through this tunnel in the dark?” Tarkin whines. Anakin clenches his hands to fists and takes a deep breath. 

 

“Captain Tarkin, haven’t you learned to trust me by now?” 

 

You may have earned my trust, General Skywalker, but my faith in your comrades is still lacking.” Anakin rolls his eyes. He doesn’t particularly care if he has Tarkin’s trust, but the lack of faith in his men is insulting. 

 

“You still lack faith in the 501st?”

 

“Does that surprise you? You are accompanied by a child and a clone that can’t use its hands. Your men lack even the most basic of discipline. I have seen nothing of the 501st that makes them worthy of their reputation.” 

 

Anakin has heard those lines since the 501st was formed. Even if he wants to deck Tarkin right now and dump him down the fuel line, all he does is smile. Tarkin looks taken aback by the unexpected reaction. “You forget your place, Captain Tarkin. My men—my Captain and my Padawan especially—are the very reason you aren’t still rotting in your cell. What you consider a lack of discipline is what I consider valuable tactical input, which is exactly what has earned the 501st its reputation as the most effective front-line battalion in the GAR.” 

 

Tarkin scoffs. “You think too highly of clones. They are tools, meant to be used as their commanders see fit. That’s what makes the Jedi ineffective—the Jedi Code prevents them from going far enough to achieve victory, and makes them soft enough that they aren’t willing to make necessary sacrifices. That’s the problem with having peacekeepers fight.” Tarkin pauses, as if debating whether or not he has gone far enough. “Have I offended you?”

 

“I also used to believe that we sometimes fall short of victory because of our methods,” Anakin admits. If not for Mortis, he might still be thinking like Tarkin, he notes with disgust. He’s spent a lot of time reevaluating his position on the War—and on the Republic—in the last few weeks. Maybe the Republic is already broken—and in its current form, not worth saving—but perhaps something better can also be built from the foundations. 

 

“At last, we agree on something.”

 

Anakin shakes his head. “You misunderstand me, Tarkin. “I have come to realize that the Jedi are not just fighting to win a war, but to save a broken Republic. The planets and the people we fight, we do so in the hopes of having them return to our side. To do that, we need to offer healing, and reconciliation. What message does it send when we bomb their cities, or burn their crops? When we fight resistance to our cause with total war, it tells them that the Republic they knew is already dead, and that they were right to separate. We might win the war through ruthlessness, but we won’t save the Republic.” 

 

Tarkin screws up his face, as if swallowing a mud worm for the first time. “I must admit that you disappoint me, General. I had hoped you of all people would understand that greater idealism can’t win a war, only greater resolve.”

 

Anakin picks up his pace, falling out of step with Tarkin. “Well then you better hope, Captain Tarkin, that the Republic has both.” 

 


 

“I think I’ve found a way out!” Ahsoka announces. She’s spent her time scouting on top of the pipeline (avoiding being dragged into the uncomfortable conversation her Master was having with Tarkin) and keeping an eye on the men. At one point Fives had switched helmets with Rexter, and she watches them switch back at her announcement. 

 

Ahsoka perches carefully on the ladder, opening the external maintenance hatch just enough to peer through it and get a sense of her surroundings. 

 

“What do you see, Snips?” 

 

“The coast is clear,” she reports. Still, she can’t get over the feeling that something isn’t quite right. 

 

“Any sign of Obi-wan and the shuttle?” Perhaps that’s what has her stomach twisting with unease. Either Obi-wan is late, or maybe this isn’t the correct pipeline exit. Either way, Ahsoka wants out of the pipeline. 

 

“No, I don’t see him or R2 anywhere” Ahsoka starts to pull herself out of the pipeline when blasters are lowered into her face. With a curse she ignites her lightsaber, slicing the droids in half before they can fire. They must have hidden behind the hatch, where the door would block her view of them. 

 

Chances are, the Warden had known exactly where they were hiding. Which means they crawled through the pipeline for nothing. They can’t afford a fight next to the open pipeline, which means they have to move quickly. 

 

More droids are already converging on their position. The whole area could be swarming with droids, and it will only be a matter of time before they are overwhelmed. “We need to move, quickly!” 

 

“There could be a whole battalion of droids up there!” Tarkin protests.

 

“Better than hiding in a fuel line,” her Master retorts, already pulling himself up. The two of them guard the hatch as the rest file out of the pipeline, making a sprint for cover. Ahsoka leaps down to cover Echo’s back as he dashes for some rocky outcropping. 

 

Skyguy joins her a moment later, plasma blasts scorching the air around them. As they round the corner themselves, Ahsoka almost runs into Tarkin, who is hovering right at the corner. “The plan’s been compromised! The shuttle’s not coming!” Ahsoka rolls her eyes. 

 

“Throw me a charge!” Her Master orders. Rex already has one in hand, gently lobbing it to the General before ordering the others to take cover against the rock, taking position in front of the men who don’t have armor. It’s times like these where Ahsoka thinks Rexter knows her Master a little too well. 

 

Skyguy chucks the charge into the pipeline hatch, slamming it shut with The Force. The whole pipeline explodes a moment later, a wave of intense heat and shrapnel raining over them. The noise makes her headache spike, a large crab droid landing a foot in front of her. 

 

“Let’s go, time for plan B,” Skyguy casually strolls up to them. Show off. 

 

“There’s a plan B?” Tarkin looks sick considering it. 

 

“There’s always a backup plan,” her Master lies, climbing over the remains of the crab droid. Ahsoka meets Rexter’s eyes, shaking her head in disbelief. “We’ll meet R2 at Obi-wan’s position.” 

 


 

“Based on their recent position, we believe they are traveling along this cave system,” the tactical droid intones. Sobeck frowns as he studies the map. He already has several divisions of droids patrolling that area, but the caves are a complex maze, difficult to navigate; so far, the Jedi have been using them to their advantage. He needs to lure them out of the caves if he is going to have a chance at properly capturing the fugitives.  

 

“Uhh sir, the prisoners did not make it to the interrogation level.” Sobeck’s eye twitches. Can't the droids do a single thing properly?

 

“What. Did. You. Just. Say?” The droid flinches back, and Sobeck briefly considers tearing off its head. He can’t afford any mistakes. Dooku will be expecting the information soon, and Sobeck shudders to think of what might happen if he doesn’t have it. 

 

“Um, we think they might have—“ Sobeck doesn’t have time for flimsy excuses. He grabs the droid’s head and tears it off, gears and circuits sparking. All the other droids in the command center take a step backward. 

 

“Sir, Count Dooku commands you to contact him immediately.”

 

Sobeck’s eye twitches again, tempted to tear his strategy droid’s head off as well. He can’t afford a call with Dooku right now, not when he has nothing to present. Not when all the progress he has made is unraveling at his feet. He studies the map, watching as a section of the fuel pipeline flares red, a section near the airfield. Ah, so that’s where the Jedi were. He almost admires the audacity of hiding in a fuel line. 

 

While it might have worked for a time, the Jedi cannot hide forever, not when they have already shown their hand. The Jedi were always going to make a break for the airfield, the only way to leave the prison. 

 

And then, like the twining of spider’s silk, a new web is formed into an unescapable net. 

 

The airfield is one of the most fortified places in the entire prison. This is his greatest chance to capture all the Jedi and their dogs, to ensure the means of prying the Nexus Route coordinates out of Piell. And all Sobeck has to do is let them think they are succeeding.

 

Sobeck knows the Jedi, knows their weaknesses. They are creatures used to being powerful, standing above mere unblessed lifeforms. It won’t take much to twist that easy confidence, the arrogance that they are smarter, and stronger, and fast enough to escape all his tricks. How beautiful it will be when Sobeck is the one to break them, one after the other. 

 

“Inform Count Dooku that I am unreachable,” he orders. “Send all units to the airfield. It’s their only possible way of escape.” Even Dooku won’t be able to complain when he offers him Skywalker and Kenobi’s heads, along with the Togruta brat. When Piell is blind and broken at his feet, information bleeding from his mouth, a prayer for mercy that will never be granted. When the clones have been slaughtered like the dogs they are, and that human captain is a pawn to be ransomed or executed before the Republic. 

 

This will be the day that Osi Sobeck makes his mark on history as the Hero who won the Clone Wars. 

 


 

Wolffe has never seen his General meditate this much in his life, and that is a very high bar for Plo Koon to be vaulting. 

 

Wolffe isn’t panicking. That would imply he lacks faith in his siblings to keep themselves safe, and the Wolfpack to get them out when they inevitably choose to be di’kuts instead. He’s just… tense. And snappy. Enough that even Boost and Sinker are starting to give him odd looks. 

 

And if his one organic eye happens to be twitching, that’s just between him and his bucket. 

 

“Both Skywalker and Kenobi have missed the most recent check in,” Plo Koon notes, a deep furrow in his brow. Wolffe hums acknowledgment and goes back to Not Panicking. Rolls his shoulders, takes a deep breath…

 

And tries not to think about how horribly things might be going wrong right now, with the disaster triplets all on one mission together. There’s a reason Rex and Bly are not paired together on missions, and Cody being there is only adding fuel to the metaphorical bonfire. For all that Cody likes to claim that he’s the responsible one, he’s lost his objectivity since being assigned to General Kenobi, and with it any basis for what is considered reasonable and sane behavior. His ori’vod’s War on Tea is proof enough. 

 

Wolffe better still have all three brothers by the time he gets there, otherwise he’s going to have the General teach him how to meditate so he can strangle them in the afterlife. 

 


 

There is a tightness in Cody’s spine as they are escorted out into the open, seeing the manned turrets surrounding the airfield and knowing just how quickly they will be gunned down if this ruse does not work. 

 

If any of his brothers saw this, they would kill him before the droids had a chance. 

 

The droids guarding their shuttle are quickly alerted by the approaching group. They level their blasters, and Cody has to hold back an instinctual flinch at the motion. B-1 droids might not be the sharpest tools off the industrial belt, but they will get suspicious at nervous behavior. 

 

“Where are you going with these prisoners?” 

 

R2’s 2IC steps forward. “We’re transferring them aboard the shuttle from Citadel to Point Tarron.” 

 

“Point Tarron? There’s no outposts there!” Cody knew they should have gone with a real prison location.

 

“Uhhhhh, it’s new. We have orders. We’re coming aboard.” Miraculously, the excuse somehow works, and the droids let them pass. For a brief moment, Cody lets himself take a deep breath. And then the next second, he hears the buzz of the droid’s comm unit, a beeping pattern that indicates an urgent transmission.  

 

“ Wait.” The droid blocks their loading with his blaster. 

 

“The prisoners are escaping with reprogrammed battle droids. Let no one aboard that shuttle.” Well, Cody supposes he should be thankful the ruse lasted as long as it did. His General smirks as he slashes through the closest guard. The turrets immediately begin firing upon them, and they are forced to run past the shuttle to find cover instead. 

 

More droids pile onto the landing platform, meant to chase them into range of the turrets. If they can’t get the angle on those droids, they are going to be pushed into the open. 

 

A perfect shot arches across the airfield, taking out the droid manning the turret trained on Cody’s position. Without looking, he knows the shot belongs to Rex. The 501st races onto the field, quickly folding in alongside the 212th. Cody risks darting across the open to join the Generals where they are convening, knowing Rex and Bly will be laying down cover fire. 

 

“Sorry I’m late,” Skywalker grumbles. 

 

“How nice of you to join us!” Kenobi quips. Cody wishes his General could take their impending deaths a little more seriously. 

 

“The ship is surrounded!” Ahsoka reports—truly a masterclass demonstration of the 501st’s observation skills. 

 

“We need to launch a full forward assault and take that vessel!” Tarkin demands. Cody rolls his eyes. Tarkin can try a full forward assault if he wants, but he won’t find many men to join him. With the amount of firepower being aimed at them, they wouldn’t make it ten steps towards the shuttle. 

 

Kenobi thankfully interrupt's Tarkin's plans to get them all killed or stranded. “We may have a bigger problem—those turrets. If we don’t take them out, they will use them to destroy the shuttle and prevent our escape,” he points out.  

 

“Which is precisely why we should get aboard that shuttle and use the weapons systems to decimate those droids,” Tarkin presses. 

 

“Any push for the shuttle will lead to the droids destroying it. We want their fire aimed at us, not our transportation,” Bly counters. 

 

“Whatever we’re going to do, we better do it fast,” Skywalker announces, gesturing to the droids now incoming on STAPs. Cody dives for cover as the ground explodes around them. 

 


 

Rex lets the Jetiise focus on the STAPs, instead focusing on the turrets. Cody and Bly are with him as he circles the shadowed edges of the airfield. He needs to be careful with his shots, avoid drawing the droid’s attention so that he can move unhindered. 

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a wave of commando droids with those karking ray-shields enter the field. 

 

“Cody, charges!” He feels his ori’vod open the pack and dig out some charges as he carefully takes aim at one of the commando droids from the flank before it can spread too far out from the formation. 

 

Cody hums his appreciation. “Hardcase Specials? I swear you get all the best toys, Rex-old-boy.”

 

“What’s a Hardcase Special?” Bly asks. Rex grins as Cody hands him one of the modified charges. He lobs it into the middle of the group of droids, the droid popper frying them before the explosion scraps them. Bly whistles in appreciation. 

 

Unfortunately, the droids trace the trajectory of the charge back to their hiding spot, the turrets they aimed to take out now concentrating fire on their position. They dive for cover, but the crates won’t last long against a weapon capable of taking down ships. 

 

“We’ve got to draw fire away from the Captain!” Echo calls.

 

“Echo!” Fives yells into the comms. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Echo pick up a ray-shield from the ground, making his way out into the open, feinting for the shuttle to draw the droid’s fire. 

 

A black hole opens in his stomach.

 

Rex breaks cover, ignoring the plasma bolts scorching the air around him. Ignoring the screams of Cody and Bly behind him. All he can see is Echo. All that matters is that he makes it in time. He extends his hands, drawing The Force like a swelling tide, prepared to push Echo towards safety. His palms burn like fire, eyes locking with Echo’s—

 

—And two bodies collide with his back, tackling him to the ground. 

 

The shuttle explodes. 

 


 

Rex wails when the shuttle explodes, and it is the most horrible sound Bly has ever heard. His vod’ika writhes under him, still trying to crawl towards the wreckage, even with the weight of Cody and Bly on top of him. His hands are bleeding again, smearing streaks across the platform that glisten in the flickering light of the fire. The heat is intense, making Bly’s eyes water. He can’t make himself look away from the charred helmet still smoking in the wreckage.

 

“Let me go!” Rex screeches. “Let me go to him!” 

 

“Echo’s dead, Rex!” Cody yells back. Rex finally stills underneath them, lungs hitching with sobs. “Echo’s dead,” Cody repeats, his own voice tinged with grief. “But we still need to get out of here. So get on your feet, and start moving.” The turrets are still firing on their position. It’s only a matter of time before the droids are successful in hitting them, and then Echo’s sacrifice would have been for nothing. Across the field, Obi-wan calls the retreat. 

 

Together they haul Rex to his feet, dragging him away from the wreckage. “I could have saved him,” Rex whispers. “Why didn’t you let me save him?” Bly knows it’s Rex’s grief talking, but it still opens a pit in his stomach. 

 

Bly and Cody chose Rex, and Echo paid for it. Even if Rex hates him for it, even if it is selfish, it’s a price Bly will pay gladly. Over and over again, he will pay it if it means Rex gets to come home. 

 


 

Echo has lived this pain before. 

 

As he lays in the burning wreckage, lungs heaving, limbs burning, he is stricken by the familiarity of it all. The agony of his limbs is so great he can hardly think, tears carving their way through the ash and smoke clinging to his face. 

 

All he can taste is apples, and that makes him cry even harder. 

 

That beautiful garden he planned will only ever be a dream. He’s going to die here, and all his promises with him. Maybe Rex will grow an apple tree for him, and Fives will write stories from the shade of its branches. He has to hope that his brothers will remember him, that they will see the end of the War for him. 

 

It’s a price Echo would be more than happy to pay. In a way he’s glad—out of all the ways he could have died, he went down protecting his Captain. He hopes Rex will forgive him for it. 

 

One last time, with his last bit of strength, Echo places his hand over the handprint on his armor. He closes his eyes, remembering the day Captain Rex saved his life. He can picture the moment clearly, feel Rex’s hand pressing Eel’s blood onto his chest, marking him as his own. Giving Echo the courage to fight a little longer. Warmth rushes through him, washing away the edges of pain. 

 

He never thought he would die alone. A fresh wave of tears wash over his cheeks. He doesn’t want to die. The helplessness is terrifying. But this is not something Echo can fight, outrun, or outsmart. 

 

It will be nice to see Hevy, Cutup, and Droidbait again.

 

As Echo’s consciousness starts to fade, he feels the press of a metal boot. 

 

“Sir! This one’s still alive!” 

 


 

Fives does not remember the retreat. 

 

His whole body is numb, and he can’t feel his legs moving, even though the Commander’s hand is on his wrist, tugging him forward. Rex’s wail is still ringing in his ears, the taste of ashes on his tongue. All he can see is the flames of the shuttle’s wreckage, even though the heat from it is long gone. 

 

Echo had told him, back when he had felt himself get shot, that he had felt his limbs get torn off. He wonders if his brother was awake enough to feel it, if he was aware in his final moments. If he had known in that moment that he was running to his death, and had done so anyway. Tears slip from his eyes, hidden in his bucket. Fives should have run after him. If he couldn’t have saved Echo, at least he would have gone with him. 

 

He wants to be angry at Echo, wants to hate him for running towards the shuttle. But he had done so to save the Captain’s life, and Fives knows he would have done the same in a heartbeat. Rex gave them everything. Their lives seem like such an insignificant price to pay in comparison. 

 

He remembers his own words to Rex only an hour before, and wants to laugh at the irony of them. You don’t need to be a shield between us and danger. Trust us to do our jobs. Trust us to support you. Deep down, despite his words, he still expected Rex to always save them. To leap out of nowhere to catch them like he did for Charger. To walk through fire and have a plan to save them all like on Rishi. 

 

Fives, despite telling Rex to stop carrying so much on his own, had been adding more weight without realizing it. And at the moment of reckoning, Fives had expected Rex to save Echo, even when he was right there. Fives is the reason his twin is dead. His cowardice is the the reason he is the last Domino standing. 

 

Rex’s hand wraps around his, damp with blood, and together they pull each other forward. 

 


 

Skywalker and Kenobi have missed two check-ins now. Any moment, they are due for their third. If they don’t show up, Plo Koon is going to send in the Wolfpack, regardless of whether the Republic fleet is ready to challenge the blockade. 

 

Thankfully, the holotable beeps as an urgent transmission is received. Plo Koon doesn’t know whether to sigh with relief or anticipation as Obi-wan Kenobi’s hologram appears and seems to be on the run. 

 

“Master Kenobi, what has happened?” 

 

“I’m afraid we’ve had a situation with the shuttle,” Kenobi reports. He can feel Yoda and Windu exchange knowing glances behind him. 

 

Anakin appears on the holotable as well, also running. “By ‘situation', he means ‘big explosion.’ We’re going to need a rescue,” Anakin helpfully clarifies. 

 

“It will be done,” Plo Koon assures them, “I’m sending our cruisers now.” He thanks his foresight in sending Wolffe ahead with the Wolfpack. Of already having Masters Tiin and Gallia gather their cruisers on standby.

 

“Pay up, old frog,” Windu demands of Yoda. “I knew Skywalker would find a way to blow up the shuttle.” 

 

With a huff, Yoda pulls several packets of tea out of his robes, Lavender Chamomile if Plo Koon had to guess. “A graceful winner, you are not, Master Windu,” Yoda grumbles.

 


 

By the time they finally find a hiding spot to regroup, Fives and Rex seem almost back to normal—or at least, able to put the mission above their grief. Cody watches his vod’ika send several of his men to secure the perimeter of the cavern they are hiding in, Fives taking a sentinel position at the mouth through which they entered. 

 

After Rex double-checks the perimeter, Cody pulls him aside to re-bandage his hands. The work is done quickly and silently, mostly because there is nothing Cody can say that will make Echo’s death better. He won’t apologize for his actions either, so awkward silence it is.

 

“We’ll need to hold out until the Council sends a ship,” Obi-wan reports. 

 

“Not a problem,” Piell says. “We’ve beat them once, we’ll beat them again.” The Jedi is much more confident than Cody is. As much as he hates to admit it, the Warden has backed them into a corner twice. Now that their means of entry are known, and their means of escape are cut off, they have to avoid capture at all cost. 

 

“This landscape is almost impossible to cross,” Bly points out, gesturing to the land around them. “How are we going to get to the rendezvous point?” 

 

“That is the trap of the Citadel,” Kenobi admits. “It was designed so that it would be almost impossible for fugitives to get off the surface, even if they escaped the tower.”

 

“How lucky we aren’t just any fugitives,” Skywalker announces, but even Cody can see that it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

 

The destruction of the shuttle weighs heavy on all of them. 

 

“I hope you’re right,” Piell says quietly, and Cody realizes that even General Piell is less confident than he is pretending to be. The Jedi are not confident in this change of plan at all. 

 

There’s a significant possibility they are all going to die here, Cody realizes. Unless Wolffe is miraculously able to bust through the blockade to reach them, it is only a matter of time before they are killed or captured. And Cody has a feeling that all of them are planning to fight to the death. 

 


 

The active lava tubes they are creeping through are a death trap. Bly winces as he takes a step, only to feel the stone crumble and start to sink into the lake of lava running just underneath his feet. The heat is nearly unbearable, making him dizzy, and Bly would kill for some water right now. 

 

“We’re clear!” Rex reports, stowing away his DC-17s. Bly knows he wouldn’t do that unless he was absolutely certain droids weren’t on their trail. Rex has the best instincts in their batch by far, so Bly trusts him, but even with his vod’ika’s confidence, Bly is tense and waiting for plasma to start raining down on them. 

 

This whole mission has made him twitchy. He never wants to go on a joint mission with the 501st or 212th again.

 

“What’s our next move?” Tano asks. 

 

“We’re going to have to fight our way off this rock,” Skywalker replies. Bly hates that plan. They are both outnumbered and outgunned. There is no way they can risk a direct confrontation right now. 

 

“Contact the Council,” Obi-wan orders. “See when they plan to rescue us.” Bly notices Rex subtly re-draw his pistols. He tightens his own grip on his blaster, scanning the caves anxiously. 

 

“I’ll handle it,” Piell turns to R2, who pulls up a projection of General Windu. 

 

“Master Piell, it is good to see you alive, old friend,” Windu greets. Even through the hologram, Bly can tell that tears are slowly dripping from the man’s eye ducts, and his right eye is half-squinted. 

 

“Likewise, Master Windu. Our escape route has been compromised, and there are several squads of droids closing in on us,” Bly notices Rex creeping towards the back of the group, and goes to join him. Cody and Fives are quick to follow. 

 

“When can we expect your arrival?” Bly keeps an ear open on the transmission, even as he catches signs of the next wave of droids closing in. 

 

“Master Plo is already en-route,” Windu assures them. 

 

“Gunships will arrive to evacuate you and your men,” Yoda adds. “But delay, you should not. Only a small window of opportunity, we shall have. This island, your rendezvous point will be.” Bly risks a quick glance at the map on the holo-projector. He does not like how… open the rendezvous point is, though he supposes there are few good places on this planet for gunships to land. 

 

“May the Force be with you,” Windu signs off. 

 

Rex fires a shot at the commando droids approaching on their flank. Bly flinches, not having noticed their arrival. Him and Cody are quick to take out the rest of the squad, one of the droids slipping into the lava and immediately melting. 

 

As they retreat, Rex hands Fives a large charge. Bly hadn’t even noticed him grab it out of his pack. “Hardcase extra-large special,” his vod’ika warns. “Get clear quick.” Fives nods and arms the bomb, launching it into the largest concentration of crab droids and then running like a madman to get clear, leaping over a large gap in the rock. Part of the cavern collapses, throwing up a large cloud of dust and getting most of the droids immediately behind them off their tail. Even with the extra distance, Bly watches as the explosion throws Fives onto his face, Rex there to haul him back up. The two have been hovering extra close to each other since Echo died—not that Bly can blame them. 

 

As the dust settles, Bly is grateful that the whole squadron of droids seem to have been taken care of. Bly really needs to find himself a Hardcase. Or bribe him to make something for the 327th. 

 

“No doubt there’s more on the way,” Kenobi notes. They still have a lot of ground to cover before the rendezvous point, and the next stretch will be out in the open. Bly makes sure he sticks close to Rex. Kid is like a walking droid detector. 

 


 

“Count Dooku, my Lord,” Sobeck stutters. 

 

Dooku is not impressed. “Commander Sobeck, you’ve been avoiding my transmissions.” 

 

“My deepest apologies,” Sobeck grovels. “I was hoping to surprise you with good news,” the Warden only briefly manages eye contact, the incompetent fool doubtlessly trying to hide the fact that he has done nothing of importance since Dooku’s last transmission.

 

“Good news would indeed be a surprise,” Dooku sneers. “Have the prisoners been captured?” With the amount of resources the Citadel has, the Warden should have at least managed that much. 

 

“Not yet, my lord,” Sobeck admits shamefully. “But we’ve located their position, and my droids are moving in now.” A pitiful assurance, Dooku notes. 

 

“I need not remind you that the prisoners are carrying secret hyperspace coordinates into the Core Systems of the Republic and our Separatist home worlds,” Dooku snarls, impatient. “This information will allow us to launch a surprise attack on Coruscant, striking a crippling blow to the Republic and the Jedi!” His Master has carefully planned every step in order to retrieve this information, and the incompetence of this Warden is delaying his next move. 

 

“Yes, my lord,” Sobeck says. “I will see to it that they are soon back in our possession.” 

 

“You should know, Commander, right now your honesty is the only thing keeping you alive.” Dooku ends the transmission, calling to his guards to prepare his ship. 

 

He decides it is time he handles these matters… personally. 

 


 

The next wave of droids is on them quickly. Rex curses as a crab droid arrives at their flank. He fires off several shots, hands stinging terribly and throwing off his aim. It takes longer than it should to bring the clanker down, and by then a large squadron of droids appear at their backs. 

 

“They’re boxing us in!” Ahsoka realizes. 

 

“Lock in your cables!” The Generals fire two grappling lines into the top of the cliff face, and Rex feels himself pale. 

 

He really, really hates heights when Skywalker is involved. 

 

“R2, we need your droids to hold off the enemy as long as possible,” Skywalker orders. R2 curses shrilly, tells the General he better be getting new ones after this, then sadly relays the orders to his minions. 

 

“Good, everyone follow me,” Skywalker grabs a protesting Tarkin, while Kenobi grabs Staunch. Rex guards the cables, making sure they hold firm while the Generals descend. Piell and Ahsoka hold the line with the rest of the clones, Cody jumping on top of a crab droid to better shoot through the central processor. Show off. 

 

R2’s droids begin their last stand, charging into the wave of droids. Despite their valor, Rex doesn’t have a lot of faith that they will last long. He gives them a minute, tops. 

 

“Let’s go, Rex,” Cody slings Rex onto his back before he can protest, securing his line and leaping off the cliff face all in the same motion. Rex wraps his arms and legs tightly around his Ori’vod, only just managing to avoid screaming. 

 

And Cody was giving him osik about diving off cliffs without warning. 

 

They move quickly, starting to catch up to some of the groups that began rappelling. Little One, The Force nudges a warning, and the next second, he hears the sound of a grapple line snapping. 

 

Bly screams. 

 

Without thinking, Rex extends his hands, desperate to slow Bly’s fall. As his Ori’vod rushes past with one of Piell’s officers, Rex pulls the grapple line towards him, grasping it tightly. The line burns in his hands, tearing through his gloves and biting into his raw skin before coming to a jarring stop. Rex screeches in pain, but doesn’t let go. To his horror, the line is already slipping through his bloody hands. 

 

Bly is going to fall. Rex can’t lose another brother. 

 

“Rex!” Cody yells, their own grapple line straining to hold all their weight. Cody wraps his hands around their line, trying to keep them attached to it. “Hold on!” 

 

“What do you… think I’m doing?” Rex pants, desperately adjusting his failing grip on the line. He tries to draw on The Force, but his thoughts are starting to haze, and in his stupor, his shields drop completely. 

 

The pain is so overwhelming he blacks out. 

 

When he comes to, his hands are empty.

 


 

Anakin is relieved when his feet finally touch the ground and he can let Tarkin off his back. The Captain makes a dash for the new cave tunnel, ducking inside. Obi-wan joins him a moment later, letting his own passenger off his back. 

 

“Hurry! Hurry!,” Anakin calls up. He knows that R2’s droids wouldn’t have held off the incoming wave for long, and soon they are about to be in a very vulnerable position. The next group is getting their boots on the ground, and Anakin gestures towards the mouth of the cave. 

 

There’s a screech of pain in The Force, followed by utter terror. Then Rex’s shields drop. 

 

Anakin panics. 

 

“Obi-wan! Catch them!” The two of them extend their hands, wrapping The Force around the clones rapidly falling towards the ground. Commander Bly is screaming, arms uselessly flailing as he pinwheels through the air. Together, they slow his descent, gently setting him and Piell’s officer on the ground. 

 

Bly tears off his helmet, heaving up the contents of his stomach. Obi-wan awkwardly pats him on the back. “There there,” he says. “You’re alright, Commander.” 

 

“Thanks for the catch, Generals,” Bly finally rasps out. 

 

“No need to thank us, Commander. I’m quite sure Aayla would skin us alive if anything were to happen to you,” Obi-wan admits. Anakin wholeheartedly agrees with that sentiment. Aayla is terrifying when she is angry. 

 

“Bly!” Cody and Rex finally make it to the ground, and Anakin notices the new holes torn through his Captain’s gloves. Rex’s mental shields are still fluctuating, so Anakin wraps his own around the Captain’s, just in case. 

 

Kix is going to kill him when this is over.

 

Bly and Cody sling Rex’s arms over their shoulders, and Anakin realizes just how badly his Captain is shaking. Commander Bly whispers assurances as they drag his Captain to the cave opening. Fives is the last clone to the ground, followed quickly by Ahsoka and Master Piell. Together, the four Jedi cover the men as they make their dash towards the cave entrance.  

 

Anakin tries to ignore the contemplative look Piell gives him once they’ve made it to cover. 

 


 

The logistics of attacking a facility like the Citadel is a nightmare, to say the least. All to get one gunship past the blockade. Wolffe doesn’t ask for favors often, but when he does they are certainly not minor things. Still, Plo Koon will likely be long dead and cold before he ever says no to his Commander. 

 

“Master Tiin, you should be leading the fighter attack,” Plo Koon advises. “Once you punch a hole through their defenses, I will lead the gunship down to the surface and extract the team.” 

 

Master Tiin looks uncertain. “Depending on the size of their force,” he starts. “I don’t know how much time we can buy you.” 

 

“You will do your best, I’m sure,” Plo Koon says firmly. This is the only plan that has a chance of working. They need to move quickly and forcefully—the longer they take to breach the blockade, the greater chance that Skywalker, Kenobi, and their men will be overrun by the Citadel’s forces. 

 

“If the team isn’t at the extraction point when you arrive, you may be forced to leave them—or put us all at risk.” Master Gallia points out carefully.

 

“I’m afraid Master Gallia is right,” Master Tiin agrees. Plo Koon appreciates the risk these two are taking to help him—he does. But their lack of faith in what The Force is saying is also disturbing. How many Jedi have stopped looking to The Force for guidance? How many have slowly allowed themselves to become blind and deaf and stagnant in their gifts?

 

“They’ll be there,” Plo Koon assures them. Of that he has no doubt. He has seen as much through the Force. The only question is how many will still be alive by the time they get there. 

 


 

Sobeck’s eye hasn’t stopped twitching since Dooku’s last transmission. He needs to do something big. Something to locate and capture the Jedi quickly. 

 

“The prisoners have evaded us long enough,” Sobeck declares. “Bring out the anoobas! Use them for tracking only!” The Jedi may be able to evade droids, but not these beasts, trained specifically to hunt Jedi. To track them by their strange blood. 

 

The anoobas release a high pitched howl, racing off into dark shadows of the rock. Sobeck has never had to resort to their use before, and he is a taking a risk in doing so—anoobas are known for killing their marks—but he cannot afford to test Dooku’s patience any longer. 

 

“Contact me as soon as the fugitives have been located,” he snarls. The moment they are, he will set out to meet them personally. 

 


 

“What if your Jedi friends are not there when we arrive?” Tarkin asks. 

 

“Keep moving and you won’t have to worry about that, Tarkin!” Piell snaps, no longer trying to hide his impatience at his Captain’s behavior. Ahsoka rolls her eyes. Tarkin really does complain like he has times scheduled in a planner. She can’t remember ever working with someone so insufferable, though Rex has shared stories of Chairman Cho and the Dugs. She hopes she’ll never have to see Tarkin again after this. 

 

“Why did Master Piell have to share half the intel with that guy?” She asks her Master. “It’s like he’s not even grateful we rescued him. We’ve gotten this far and he still acts like we’re going to ask him to jump into lava!” 

 

“Captain Tarkin feels the Jedi should be…relieved from the burden of leading the War effort,” Skyguy explains. 

 

She wrinkles her nose. “That’s ridiculous.” 

 

“Maybe, but we aren’t soldiers,” her Master reminds her. “We’re peacekeepers.” 

 

“But that’s what Rexter and his brothers are for?” Rex has taught her lots about military organization and strategy. 

 

Skyguy clears his throat. “Tarkin believes the Jedi Code prevents us from going far enough to achieve victory,” he clarifies.

 

“A rather simple point of view,” Obi-wan observes. Tarkin makes an offended squawk behind them. He is ignored. 

 

“Either way, he’s a good Captain,” Tarkin’s kiss ass lieutenant—Stench or whatever—argues. He is also ignored, even by Tarkin. 

 

A loud, piercing howl cuts through the air. If Ahsoka had hair, she imagines it would be standing straight. “Did you hear that?” The pitch is high enough that Ahsoka isn’t sure whether the other’s ears would pick it up. 

 

“Yes.” Piell says simply. “We’re going to have company.” 

 


 

“You know, it’s not the wisest move to argue with Master Piell,” Anakin mentions. He’s a bit confused by the way Piell and Tarkin interact—like they hate each other. Anakin could never imagine doing the same with Obi-wan or Rex. They sometimes disagree strategically, sure, but they don’t constantly make comments or orders to undermine each other. “It’s certainly not a good career move.” Or good for morale. 

 

“General Skywalker,” Tarkin lectures. “I stand by my principles, no matter what. Besides, I needn’t worry about my career. I’ve fallen into favor with the Chancellor. He shall support me.” 

 

“Oh?” Anakin has never heard the Chancellor mention Tarkin once. “I happen to know the Chancellor quite well, myself.” And knowing the Chancellor, Anakin isn’t sure what he would like about Tarkin. 

 

“Oh, really?” Tarkin almost sounds impressed. 

 

“Really.” After this mission, Anakin is struggling to admire the Chancellor the way he used to. Perhaps Obi-wan was right about politicians only being able to see agendas. 

 

“Let’s keep moving,” Obi-wan unsubtly tries to change the topic of conversation. “If we’re not at the rendezvous at the exact same time, we’ll miss our window.” Another piercing shriek cuts through the air. 

 

“Those creatures are gaining,” Fives warns. 

 

“If those creatures have caught our scent, they’ll lead the droids right to us,” Piell says. 

 

Anakin grimaces. He had been hoping to avoid whatever was making those terrible sounds. “We’re going to have to deal with them,” he decides. Perhaps a small group can confront them while the rest continue to head towards the extraction point. 

 

“What about using this cave to surprise them?” Ahsoka suggests. 

 

“If we can get them to pass by, we can attack them from behind,” Piell agrees. “But we need a distraction.” 

 

“Leave that to me,” distractions are Anakin’s specialty. Obi-wan clears his throat, pointedly crossing his arms and leveling him with a look. “And Obi-wan of course,” Anakin adds. The two of them should be able to handle any creatures that arrive. 

 

“Let me join you, sirs,” Cody entreats. Longshot hands the Commander a rifle. “Someone has to watch your backs.” 

 

Obi-wan nods in approval. “So long as you stay out of sight, Commander, your help would be appreciated.” 

 

“Okay, the rest of you, follow me, Piell orders.” Anakin doesn’t let himself watch them leave. He and Obi-wan are going to have to move quickly if they want to find a good place to confront these beasts. 

 


 

Cody takes careful aim through the scope of his rifle as the beasts approach. Whatever the creatures are, they are fast, and the dark color of their coats allow them to blend into the dark volcanic rock. 

 

The first shot sears right through the skull of the lead creature. The rest of the pack quickly surround the Generals, trying to leap onto them. Cody snipes another as it goes to claw at Kenobi’s back. 

 

A squad of droids arrive as the Generals continue to tangle with the pack of beasts. Interestingly enough, the creatures have shown no interest in him at all, focusing solely on the Jedi. Because of this, Cody trusts the Generals to keep the creatures occupied while he focuses on the droids and their STAPs. He shoots two of them down before the droids close in on his position, and Cody is forced to dive from his perch, making his way down to where the Generals are still fighting the creatures. 

 

He hopes Bly and Rex are having better luck. 

 


 

Rex is starting to really hate crab droids. They are ambushed just as they are reaching the caves, Fives’ shout of warning enough to turn his focus to the droid cornering Staunch. Rex takes the thing down before it can kill his old squamate, and Piell has the next one in pieces before Rex has even turned around. Even then, it is clear that they will soon be overwhelmed by the droids. They need to destroy the droids quickly if they want to evade whatever beasts are on their tail. 

 

“Keep going!” Piell orders. “Ahsoka and I will take care of the droids.” Rex signals Fives to take the lead, falling into rearguard with Bly. 

 

“Captain—“ Fives starts to protest. 

 

“Just keep moving!” Rex barks. As far as he can tell, Kenobi and Skywalker should be just ahead of them, and Rex will feel much better once they have rejoined as a group. At the very least, he will feel better having eyes on Cody. 

 

Sure enough, they rejoin with Kenobi and Skywalker, facing off against a combination of commando droids on STAPs and vicious dog-like creatures. Several of the beasts perk up, tilting their heads at him as he arrives, and one immediately tries to pounce in his blind spot. Rex levels a plasma bolt point-blank into it’s skull, the weight of the dead creature pulling him to the ground. Rex grunts as he rolls out from under the carcass, already having to duck another of the creatures, firing a shot into its back. The creature yelps, but quickly gets up to try again. Rex fires more shots, aiming for its head. After three attempts, the thing finally collapses, dead. 

 

As he scans the battlefield, he realizes that the creatures are mostly focused on the Generals. They are targeting Jedi, he realizes. The Jedi, and Rex himself. Force users, then. As another one tries its luck with him, Rex notices a pack of the creatures slinking off into the shadows, heading towards where Ahsoka and Piell are still holding off the crab droids. 

 

Rex runs after them, hoping to cut off the pack before they are able to sneak up on the distracted Jetiise. 

 

He desperately hopes he can make it in time. 

 


 

Bly is going to kill Rex. 

 

It’s only by chance that he spots his vod’ika sprinting off the battle field after a pack of anoobas, without so much as a word to communicate his movements. Without backup. 

 

Bly swears they raised the kid better than that. 

 

“Rex is doubling back towards Tano,” he relates to Cody in between rounds of cursing. “I’m going after him.” With that, he gives chase after the di’kut before he gets himself killed. Bly doesn’t think he’s ever run so fast in his life, and out of their batch he’s second only to Fox when it comes to speed. 

 

Right now he could be the fastest vod in the GAR and it still doesn’t feel like Bly can get there quick enough. 

 

Rex and Ahsoka are already engaged with the pack, but Bly arrives just in time to watch an anooba pounce on General Piell while he’s distracted with the last of the crab droids. “Master Piell!” Ahsoka cries, turning to watch in horror as the Jetii wrestles with the creature. Another anooba leaps at her, planning to attack while she’s distracted. 

 

Rex extends his hands with a yell, and the anooba’s motion is halted in the air. The creature yelps as it is thrown into a stalagmite. 

 

Bly stares in shock, not quite comprehending what he’s seeing. 

 

Ahsoka tosses Rex a lightsaber and goes to defend General Piell while Rex handles the rest of the creatures. Rex’s comfort with the weapon is apparent, slicing off an anooba’s head with a deft twirl of the Commander’s lightsaber. He quickly cuts through the rest of the pack in graceful, fluid movements, easily switching between saber and blaster. Bly has never seen anything like that, not even from the Jedi. 

 

The anooba Rex launched into the stalagmite staggers back to its feet, preparing to leap at Rex’s unprotected back. Bly finally snaps out of his shock, firing a shot at the creature’s head. Rex turns towards him and freezes. 

 

“Are you karking kidding me?!” 

 

“Bly, please—“

 

“When were you going to tell us about this!” 

 

Rex winces. “I wasn’t.” 

 

Bly wonders if Cody will mind if Rex returns slightly strangled. “This is not the kind of secret you try to hide from us, Rex’ika.” 

 

“Knowing puts you at risk,” Rex challenges. 

 

“I don’t care! We can’t help you in the field if we don’t know what you can do!” Bly clenches his fists. “You were trying to push Echo out of the way, and Cody and I stopped you!” Rex flinches, and Bly’s anger dies. “Does Cody know about this?” 

 

Rex shakes his head. “He doesn’t know, and it’s going to stay that way."

 

“Bantha-osik! He’s your ori’vod and your superior officer! He deserves to know!” 

 

“It’s not a risk I’m willing to take! It’s bad enough that you know. If the Kaminoans find out about this…“ Rex shudders. “You don’t have any idea what the Kaminoans are capable of.”  Bly has a pretty good clue, but he’s not about to challenge Rex’s authority on that. 

 

“Who else already knows about this?” 

 

“The Generals, Commander Tano, some of my most trusted men, and Ponds.” No wonder Ponds has also been acting weird recently. He hates keeping secrets. 

 

“You’re telling me Kenobi knows but Cody doesn’t? Rex, I’m sorry, but you cannot hide this from him. I know you think you’re protecting him, but you and I both know he’s going to find out eventually, and it’s best if he hears it from you.” 

 

“I’ll… I’ll think about it.” 

 

“I’m giving you one month to ‘think about it,’ and then I’m telling Cody myself.” 

 


 

Piell knows he is dying. He had known as soon as the anooba’s jaws latched onto his throat, the tusk on it’s chin sliding against his ribs. 

 

“I have to get help!” Ahsoka’s hands hover anxiously over the gory wounds, young voice high with anxiety. It’s not a sight he’d normally like someone so young to see, but it’s not like Even Piell has a choice. 

 

“No,” Piell tells her firmly. “Don’t leave. Listen to me carefully child. The information, I need you to deliver it back to the Council, along with a warning.” Piell will never find the answer to who leaked their mission to the Separatists in the first place. He’ll never get justice for the hundreds of men who died defending The Detriment, but he can warn the Council that someone is leaking information. If they can find the mole, then someday the deaths of his men might be avenged. 

 

“I should get Anakin or Obi-wan,” Ahsoka deflects. “They need to hear this.” 

 

“No. You must listen,” Piell insists. He’s starting to choke on the blood pooling in his throat. He doesn’t have much time left. 

 

“I wasn’t supposed to be on this assignment,” Ahsoka admits tearfully. “I lied just so I could be a part of the mission.” Piell had figured as much. The Citadel is not a place for Padawans, even ones as skilled as Ahsoka Tano. 

 

“Whether you were meant to be on this mission or not, you are now the most important part of it,” Piell tells her bluntly. "Remember this… and see to it that the information I’m about to give you is revealed to no one but the Jedi Council.” Piell doesn’t trust Palpatine to use the information wisely, not one bit. 

 

Ahsoka leans in, and Piell tells her everything.  

 


 

“Sir, the anoobas have located the fugitives along the northern shore,” a droid reports. 

 

Finally. 

 

“Squad, come with me! I will deal with this personally.” 

 


 

“So much for the hunting party,” Commander Cody notes as he shoots down the last of the droids. 

 

“There are more squads on their way,” Tarkin sniffs, allergic to celebrating as usual. 

 

As he scans the scrap of the battlefield, Fives realizes he hasn’t seen his Captain in awhile. “Where’s Captain Rex?” If he died taking rearguard like a karking martyr, Fives will never forgive him. 

 

Before he can spiral into panic, Cody answers. “Rex and Bly went to back-up Tano and Piell. They should be back soon.” 

 

“Oh no,” Kenobi rushes from his scouting point towards a figure emerging from the fog. Fives squints, struggling to parse out the figure even with his scopes. As they get closer, he can finally identify Commander Tano, carrying General Piell over her shoulder. Rex and Commander Bly trail after her. 

 

Even without scanning, Fives knows the General is dead. 

 

Tano carries the body to General Skywalker, who takes it from her gently. “He died honorably,” she whispers. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save him.” Tears start streaming down her cheeks. 

 

“You did the best you could, Snips,” Skywalker comforts her. 

 

“What about the information?” Tarkin asks. There’s no emotion in his eyes as he stares at his dead commanding officer. 

 

“I have it,” Tano confirms. “He told me just before he died.”

 

“Then our mission isn’t over yet,” Kenobi says. “We have a duty to get out of here.” 

 

“What about Master Piell?” Tano asks. “What do we do with his body?” 

 

“We can’t take him with us,” Skywalker responds. “We’ll have to destroy it.” 

 

“It won’t be a proper pyre, but we can use the lava,” Kenobi adds. “We don’t have much time, but we can use this moment to honor him.” 

 

Fives watches as the Jedi gently lift the body, reverently setting it in the river of lava. It’s more of a funeral than Echo had, and Fives wishes he had something of his twin’s to burn so that he could honor his brother as well.

 

Rex places a hand on Fives’ shoulder, and he bursts into tears and ugly sobs, angry that Echo’s funeral pyre had been the wreckage he died in. Angry that Echo’s death is no different than the death of millions of clones—their sacrifices forgotten and unmourned, their graves the ground they died on. 

 


 

“There have not been battles like these since the days of the old Republic,” Master Tiin says as his fighter coasts into position to approach the blockade around Lola Sayu. 

 

“Indeed. Good hunting,” Plo Koon prays for him. The gunship is empty, save for the pilot, Wolffe, Boost, and Plo Koon himself. He fears nothing else would be able to slip past. 

 

The X-wings take protective position behind, prepared to lay down cover fire and clear a path for them as they approach the blockade. The Separatist formation before them is certainly imposing, several Frigates defending the central command post. 

 

Plo Koon looks again into The Force, finding that the red thread has snapped. Next to him, Wolffe is stiffly clinging to the handles, trying to hide his fear at what they might find when they arrive. Plo finds he shares the same anxiety. 

 

He decides one more prayer for Master Tiin’s success won’t hurt. 

 


 

They are moving quickly as they approach the rendezvous point. Since Piell’s death, they haven’t seen so much as a probe droid. Cody senses that the Warden is planning something big, possibly mustering everything he can throw at them. If the Warden attacks them here, they won’t be able to retreat without risk of missing the extraction window. 

 

He secures a cable over the river of lava, Skywalker doing the same next to him. Cody goes first, Tarkin taking the other cable. The lava is unbearably hot, and Cody can feel sweat dripping all over. He locks his back foot over the cable, but it won’t do much if he loses his balance. The going is slow, crawling on top of the cable, and Cody fears that the line will tear out at any moment. If the Warden attacks them here, anyone on the cables will be extremely vulnerable. They need a faster way to do this, but Cody can’t think of how. 

 

Cody breathes a deep sigh of relief when he’s able to put his feet on solid rock again. He helps Tarkin up onto the island, Bly and Tano quickly crawling onto the cables. Across the lava, he can see Skywalker and Rex arguing. 

 

When Bly and Tano are only halfway across, he catches movement on his HUD. The droids are here.  

 

“Incoming!” He warns, pointing at the STAPs flying in. The Warden is among the commando droids. 

 

Tano makes it across the cable in record time, quickly pulling Bly up onto the rock. “Start launching them, Skyguy!” She orders into the comms. Cody shakes his head, able to guess what Skywalker and his vod’ika were arguing about. 

 

“Sending Rex, be prepared to catch!” Skywalker gleefully launches Rex across the river of lava as the first plasma bolts start to soar through the air. Tano catches him smoothly and quickly sets him on his feet. 

 

“I would have preferred the cable,” Rex tells her shortly. Tano laughs. Bly shakes his head in disbelief. “Rex secure! Next!” 

 

“Sending Fives!” Fives lets out a scream as he is also Force-hauled through the air. “This is much funnier when it’s just Rex who has to do it.” the ARC mutters. The Jedi work quickly to throw the rest of the men across until only Kenobi and Skywalker are on the other side. They race across the cables like it’s nothing, and then Kenobi immediately picks out an STAP to leap onto. Not to be outdone, Skywalker joins him. Cody rolls his eyes. 

 

“I’m sorry I ever made fun of you for complaining about your missions,” Bly tells him between shots. “I’m a learned man now.” 

 

Fives and Rex are nearly back to back, and Cody feels a pang of grief when he notices they have left open a position for a third man. The Warden swoops down, aiming for the gap in their formation. Fives is quicker, shooting down the Phindian’s STAP. 

 

Tarkin approaches the Warden with a confidence he has lacked the entire mission, leveling his blaster at the Warden’s head with a sneer. That confidence does not last long. The Phindian moves quickly, Tarkin’s shot glancing off his back as he pounces on the natborn with a snarl, smacking away the blaster and wrapping his hands around the Captain’s throat. Cody winces at the pained grunt Tarkin makes as he’s slammed against the ground. 

 

“If I can’t have the information, it will die with you!” The Warden declares, raising Tarkin above his head and preparing to throw him into the lava.

 

“Captain!” Ahsoka yanks Tarkin away with The Force, and Cody watches in horror as Rex charges forward, tackling the Warden and tumbling out of sight. There’s a loud, pained scream. 

 

“Rex!” He races to the edge of the island, finding Rex precariously clinging to one of the large rocky spikes jutting out from the island. Despite already being half swallowed by the river of lava, the Warden is stubbornly clawing to Rex’s legs, either trying to pull himself up or take the Captain down with him. Rex kicks at the Warden, trying to free himself, but it only worsens his grip on the spike. 

 

Cody doesn’t hesitate any longer, shooting the Warden directly between the eyes. The Phindian’s eyes seem to bug out even further, grip slackening as he slowly sinks into the lava. Good riddance. 

 

“Cody!” Rex gasps, “I can’t—Cody!” He quickly crawls out on the spike, securing his grip on Rex’s arms before slowly hauling his vod’ika up and away from the lava. 

 

“I thought we already agreed you were done diving off of cliffs without warning today, Menace’ika.”  

 

Rex’s reply is cut off by the arrival of the gunship. And the arrival of even more karking crab droids. If this is the last time Cody has to deal with those clankers he will die a happy vod. As it is, the doors of the gunship open, and Cody has never been so glad to see Wolffe in his life. Bly is quick to cover them as they make the dash to safety, and then Cody makes sure they haul Rex up first before scrambling up into the ship himself. It’s a tight fit with all of them, but the doors shut as soon as Skywalker is in, and Cody finally lets himself relax, confident that the Wolfpack will get them the rest of the way home. 

 

Rex gingerly reaches towards the handles. Cody uses his free hand to smack it away, and then pulls Rex closer to himself. “Don’t even think about it, Menace’ika.” 

 


 

The trip back to Coruscant is quiet, everyone absorbing the fact that they are not dead, and mourning the men who are. Ahsoka keeps looking between Rex and Fives, her heart twisting when she realizes she keeps expecting Echo to be there as well. Part of her can’t quite believe he’s gone. 

 

The high members of the Jedi Council are all there to greet them when they arrive. “Of Master Piell’s loss, we are sorry to hear,” Yoda laments. 

 

“He will be missed,” Mace Windu agrees. 

 

“Because of his great sacrifice, we now have the Nexus Route coordinates,” Plo reports. 

 

“Captain Tarkin and Ahsoka have each memorized half,” Obi-wan clarifies. 

 

“Debrief them both, we must,” Ahsoka prepares to follow Master Yoda when Tarkin objects. 

 

“With all due respect, Master Jedi,”—meaning none, in Tarkin’s book— “I was instructed by Chancellor Palpatine to bring the intel directly to him for debriefing.” Ahsoka feels a stone in her gut.

 

“I promised Master Piell that I would deliver it only to the Council, and that’s what I’ll do.” 

 

Yoda seems to consider the problem before them. “Hmm. Personally meet with the Chancellor, I will. Decide what is best to do, we shall.” As Master Yoda leaves, Skyguy turns to Master Plo. 

 

“Master Plo, there’s something we want to ask you,” he starts. Ahsoka tries to sneak away with Master Yoda. “Did you assign Ahsoka to the mission?” She does her best to look innocent as she turns and looks between her Master and Plo. Just when she’s about to come clean, to defend her choice, Master Plo speaks up. 

 

“It appears I did,” Kenobi and Skywalker share looks, unconvinced. Master Plo gestures for her to come with him so they can properly debrief, and Ahsoka does so, grateful to avoid further questioning by her Master. 

 

At least, she's grateful until Master Plo starts lecturing her to Mandalore and back about properly communicating plans with trusted adults. 

 


 

“A job well done, General Skywalker,” Tarkin extends a hand, and Anakin isn’t quite sure what to do with it. He wasn’t aware Tarkin was capable of giving compliments. Cautiously, Anakin shakes his hand, still wary that the Captain might try to bite him. Or something. 

 

“I hope you have a better appreciation for the 501st’s way of doing things,” Anakin says pointedly. “At the very least, I hope you have thanked my Captain and my Padawan for saving your life.” 

 

Tarkin pauses, an expression just short of disgust on his face. “I suppose I can inform the Chancellor of their valor, as part of my debrief,” he relents, seemingly ill at the prospect of thanking the people who saved his life directly to their faces.

 

Anakin watches the Captain embark on the shuttle, hoping Tarkin is a man of his word. If the Chancellor reassigns Rex, even after everything he’s done, Anakin is going to set Palpatine’s desk on fire. 

 


 

“Where’s Rex?” Wolffe looks around, trying to spot his vod’ika. He did not go through all this effort saving his vode’s shebs just to be ignored. 

 

“Cody dragged him off to the medics,” Bly answers. “His hands were in pretty rough shape.” 

 

“Speaking of rough,” Wolffe throws in. “You should probably find your General, vod. She was not happy you were accidentally commandeered for this mission. None of us are quite sure how you managed it, either, though Fox was pretty twitchy when we told him the news.” 

 

Bly pales. “Yeah, I uh, I better go do that.” 

 


 

Rex winces as he gingerly shows Kix his hands. The only reason he hasn’t bolted for the door is because Cody is standing there with his arms crossed, and he knows he is not winning that fight. 

 

“Did you even try to avoid using your hands?!” The medic shrieks. “Is this cable burn?!” 

 

“No?” Rex lies. 

 

“Yes,” Cody confirms. Rex throws him a betrayed look. 

 

“Rex, your gloves are melted from the friction. I’m scared to find out what it did to your hands.” Kix scrounges around for a pair of medical scissors. 

 

“He also spent a considerable amount of time in a fuel line,” Cody reports. Bly must have snitched. Traitor.

 

“Anything else I should know about?” The medic hisses icily. 

 

“No,” Rex insists, daring Cody to say anything. 

 

Rex should have known Cody has never turned down a dare in his life. “He was dangling directly over lava for a bit there. Maybe check if the armor around his legs melted,” his ori’vod suggests. 

 

Kix throws up his hands in resignation. “I give up, actually. This is Coric’s problem now.” 

 


 

When Fives enters the barracks alone, everyone falls silent, observing his red-rimmed eyes and pale face crumpling with grief. Jesse doesn’t need to ask to know what happened. 

 

Echo’s absence says everything, burning a hole in the room. 

 

Fives marches to his bunk without a word and crawls in, curling up to face the wall.

 


 

Obi-wan looks up from his report when he hears a knock on the door. 

 

“Come in!” He calls, absently scratching under his eye to check for dried tears. To his surprise, Cody enters, carrying two steaming cups of tea. Obi-wan tenses, sensing a trap. Even from across the room, he can tell it’s Corellian Spice. 

 

His favorite. 

 

Cody lifts the cup of tea. “For a job well done,” he explains. 

 

“Does this mean I’m no longer grounded?” He levels his Commander with his most hopeful Porg eyes.  

 

“Just drink your tea, General.” 

 


 

When Dooku arrives at the Citadel, Sobeck is not there to greet him. He strides through the prison as calmly as he can, noting the silence surrounding the facility. He does not see even a single droid on his way to the command center. When he sees the mess on the monitors, it becomes very apparent what happened: the prisoners escaped, and with them the information. He slashes several consoles in half. 

 

There’s no sign of Sobeck anywhere, and Dooku doesn’t need much to conclude he is dead. Whatever fate the Phindian faced was a kind one—much kinder than what Dooku would have done to him if he was still alive. 

 

One of the monitor screens switches its camera to the medical bay, and there Dooku can see a single injured clone hooked up to several monitors and weakly struggling. Dooku rolls his eyes, annoyed that the Warden saw fit to preserve the life of one useless clone. He decides to put the pathetic thing it out of its misery.

 

When he gets to the medical bay, Dooku takes a better look at the struggling clone. The shoulder pauldron and Kama denote status, but it’s not Skywalker’s Captain, he knows that much. Specialized training perhaps, or an officer of some specialty. The clone screams raggedly, thrashing and panting against the restraints strapping it to the surgical table. On its chest plate is a bloody handprint, flaring with pulses of light. 

 

Dooku halts. Studies the clone again closely. When the clone opens its mouth to scream again, he can see a clear emittance of light pulse from the bloody handprint. The clone has several severe burns across its body, mostly concentrated on the right side. But around the edges of those burns is red, freshly healed skin. 

 

There’s no mistaking it: this is a Jedi’s blood. A powerful one, if it is able to turn blood itself into such a strong healing artifact. Dooku scrapes off a sample with a scalpel, running it in an analysis machine. He should be able to quickly narrow down whose blood it is once he determines the origins. The machine finishes its analysis quickly: genetically modified human blood. 

 

The result takes Dooku completely by surprise, having expected Skywalker, or perhaps Piell. As far as he is aware, Kenobi does not have a gift for healing, but even his blood would have made more sense than what he’s seeing. Using the scalpel, he takes a sample of the injured clone’s blood and compares the two. The results are a near match, but not 100%. A clone’s blood then, but not the clone in front of him. He considers this information carefully. 

 

His Master had complained of a bright flare in The Force several weeks ago, a new presence strong enough to compare with Skywalker. Perhaps this blood can reveal some answers, if not the clone it is bound to. 

 

He grabs a syringe, injecting a painkiller before the clone completely destroys its voice with its screams. Within a minute, the creature’s tension eases, screams fading to pained groans. 

 

“ ‘ix?” It slurs. Its eyes slowly open and focus on Dooku, only to renew its useless struggles against the restraints. 

 

“This blood on your armor is very… unique,” Dooku begins, leaning in closer. “You are going to tell me exactly who it belongs to.” The clone thrashes and shakes its head, clearly terrified out of its mind. 

 

“Very well. I had hoped you tired of pain, but I am not opposed to doing this the hard way.” Dooku presses his hand against the clone’s forehead, reaching into The Force and slowly adding pressure like a fracturing bone. 

 

It doesn’t take long for the screams to resume.  

Notes:

Dooku: why couldn't Sobeck capture the infiltration team when they are so mismatched and incompetent?
*The Jedi Council, whenever they see a problem they do not want to solve*: let's just throw Kenobi and Skywalker at it and see what happens.

Bly: everything will be fine as long as Rex keeps his head down
Rex: defends Ahsoka from Tarkin
Tarkin: *says something mean*
Fives: cowabunga it is
Echo: that's my cue *also starts swinging*
Bly: ABORT ABORT ABORT holy shit what is WRONG with you people

Hardcase: the Captain is REALLY mad at me. What can I do to make it up to him?
Hardcase: *shoves only the BEST explosives into Rex's pack*

Captain Tarkin: greater idealism can't win a war, only greater resolve
me, a student of history: Tarkin's going to be really upset when he learns that the real factor to determine the victor in warfare is usually money

Ahsoka: dang, the Warden must have anticipated that we would use the fuel line
Sobeck: they were actually INSIDE the fuel line??

Bly: you have The Force? and you haven't told Cody yet??
Rex: yes, and I plan to keep it that way
Bly: you better say sike right now

Super cool fact! This chapter officially makes this story 501 pages on my master doc, something I couldn't have planned more perfectly if I tried.

Watching the Citadel as I wrote, I was kinda surprised that none of the clones told Ahsoka the plan to blow up the wall when they got to the dead end. Surely Rex wasn't carrying the backpack full of explosives just for funsies, and I like to imagine Skywalker at the very least told him the basic outline of the plan.

I know the whole point of Tarkin appearing in this arc was to highlight Anakin's similar way of thinking, and to foreshadow their working together under the empire, but consider: I make Tarkin insufferable and kind of a coward, and instead use him to demonstrate Anakin's character development.

If you can't tell, I watched Bly trip once on Maridun (during Defenders of Peace) and made that kind of bad luck/clumsiness half of his personality. He's trying his best, but being around Rex just amplifies his disaster tendencies. Also, I always hated when the two clones fell off the cliff for like three business days and Skywalker and Kenobi just let them die.

Before you come at me with pitchforks, I do want to say that I spent a long time thinking about whether or not to go through with Echo's "death." In my original plans, Echo was going to be carried out on Rex's or Fives' back, but the closer I got to the Citadel arc, the more I realized it made more sense to go through with Echo being left on Lola Sayu, and I could do more with the story that way. I didn't make the final decision until I wrote the scene with Echo and Rex discussing Echo's plans for after the war (back in chapter 10). That said, be comforted! Echo will be back with the 501st much sooner than in canon :) He will in fact get to grow his massive garden someday.

Next up, we have some interlude, and then the Padawan Lost Arc is up next, and I already have many, many fun plans for that arc :) :) :)

As always, thank you all for your lovely kudos and comments! It makes my day to know that so many of you are invested in this journey with me :) Take care of yourselves, and drink a nice tall glass of water, or get yourself a treat :)

Notes:

Spiderman: with great power comes great responsibility.
Rex: with bullshit space wizard powers comes even more bullshit wizard luck.

Balaam is a Biblical name, and means "the Ancient of the People" and "the Destruction of the People" I thought it was more than fitting for the Zillo beast.

Also, I hope you guys are as excited about the return of Clover and Luk'ie as I am--if you don't remember, they were introduced in chapter 3 of I Gave You All (a long time ago, I know) and they are the two clones from Grit Squad that were in the Med Bay with Rex after that disastrous sim--Clover fell off the wall and hurt his knee, and Luk'ie got shot in the back with a training blaster.

As always, I appreciate your comments and kudos. It always brings a smile to my face to know that other people are as excited and invested in this story as I am :) Thank you so much for taking the time to read and share in the story :)

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