Star Wars and its images are © George Lucas and Disney. Please note this story contains conjecture regarding the upcoming Star Wars: Rebels series; some aspects of the series' characters are mentioned within and could be considered spoilers.
"Everything and everyone has a place to be, Echo. It's just a matter of how they get there and when."
―Nadège Richards, Burning Bridges
He caught sight of the boy down a dusty side street, a flash of blue and black in the hazy light of the setting sun.
—a scraggly thing in an orange strat-suit, young but no longer a child, as rough and rangy as a Versciidian wild-tooka—
—swarthy skin, a mop of black hair, an easy, almost feline confidence in the way he carried himself, even at that awkward range between child and man—and his face, an all too familiar—if slightly distorted—mirror image of Rex's own, down to the heavy brow and determined line for a mouth, that rough-cut block of a nose…
The shock stopped Rex in the middle of the market. Only a curious glance from a passerby jolted him forward again, and he belatedly realized he'd straightened.
Kriff it, he cursed himself. He couldn't afford to attract attention.
"Fek off," he spat at the man who'd noticed him.
The old trader, affronted, spat in return—literally—down at Rex's old and much-abused boots before continuing on his way toward a suluk-stall.
Rex, for his part, hunched his shoulders back down into the folds of his jacket, the musty-sweet stench of liquor and stale sweat settling around him like a cloak. As he'd learned over the past fourteen years, a vagrant drunk was largely ignored throughout the galaxy—sometimes, with a little encouragement.
A casual change in route, a nearby cantina's flashing sign catching his eye and his aimless shamble, only to slip into the lengthening shadows of the low-slung building, down the alleyway to back-track along the next road…
But by the time he reached the side street, the boy had disappeared, either between the tangled slabs of broken duracrete that pockmarked the area, or back closer to the market and the ramshackle neighborhoods beyond. He doubted anyone would venture past the town's borders; Lothal had its share of large, opportunistic predators (sentient or not) and nightfall was approaching, as quickly as the dark line of storms to the east.
Rex hesitated, suddenly—and oddly—unsure.
Had the boy's family found anonymity here, in a backwater ignored by the old war and only recently bothered by the Empire? Would they still be a family—were they ever? Perhaps a mother, alone—or a different man to call father now?
Did the boy even have a family anymore? The Empire had left millions of orphans in its bloody tracks, street urchins and shadows that drifted along the tide of an ever-changing galaxy. But an orphan, even one at the cusp of becoming a man, needed some sort of family.
It wouldn't take long to track him; Lothal was a Rimmer planet, sparsely populated, this town in particular a mere sand-scoured shell of its former self. Finding a face that familiar wouldn't be hard.
...Except for the minor fact that Lothal was currently crawling with Imperials.
Like so many Outer Rim systems, the planet had been promised an influx of wealth and economic prosperity by the Empire—hadn't taken long for that relationship to go down the sarlacc pit, Rex thought with wry twist of his lips—and now, after said wealth and economic prosperity had only centered on a select few, the capital seethed with discontent, a pile of dets set to trigger.
The Empire, of course, had responded with all the subtly of a gundark in a Christophsisian glaspur shop.
The setting sun's harsh light cast deep lines of shadow along the alleyway, and in the haze kicked up by the approaching storms, Rex could smell, faintly, the coming rain, felt a light crackle of electricity. A prickle of intuition curled at the back of his neck; he needed to move out, get to shelter, prep for the night.
Still, he hesitated. If the boy was an orphan...
—that flash of deep blue, half-hidden under the boy's tangled hair—
As always, the watchful gaze of the Empire decided his course.
He heard the oddly amplified and distorted voices of Imperial stormtroopers, and with a reflex born of years living as a wanted man, Rex ducked behind a dumpster and into a crevice between buildings. Wedged between a slab of pre-fab and duracrete, he let his heat signature go cold, masked by the sun-warmed duracrete, old tibanna lines, and his own thermal dampener.
He and his crew had learned the hard way to never underestimate Imperials. Shiny as a Kaminoan's head they may be, the Empire still had a disturbing number of tricks hidden in its massive fist.
A few heartbeats—then the distinctive whir of a standard unit speeder skimming down the street: routine patrol, dull enough that the wets in white didn't even bother to toggle a private channel between their comms.
The captain in him snorted in disgust; the insurgent he'd become mentally scouted escape routes and ideal target points.
The thrumming whistle drew further away, then faded into the small town's constant, low drone of noise. It didn't take much of a jump in reason that the squad had come to shutter the market for the night.
Nothing like a show of military to send most Rimmer traders into hiding.
Rex waited another few minutes, watching the light fade from deep gold to a bloody orange. By the time he slid away from the buildings and shuffled out from behind the dumpster, he was once again nothing more than a drunkard bent for his next drink.
But in the shadow of a cracked and crumbling wall, he hesitated again. A gust of wind scattered bits of detritus and eddies of sand down the narrow street.
He was wasting time.
Still...
"If we fail, then our children and their children will be forced to live under an evil I can't well imagine."
Rex only vaguely remembered saying those words, first to Cut Lawquane, then as a gritty mantra to himself as the old war had become bloodier and bloodier—and then, in the aftermath.
He suppressed a shudder. Some things, a man couldn't imagine—not until faced with them...
Shrugging deeper into his jacket, he forced himself to walk away. If there was a chance of finding the boy, it wasn't now. Not with Imperial activity close by, and his partner on the move from the planet's capital.
For more hours than he cared to count, Rex had spent his nights staring at peeling paint and the dregs of too much cheap alcohol, sifting between tiny farming villages and the occasional market town. Lothal, for all its simplicities as a backwater ag planet, had been as tight-fisted with its secrets as a Geelan over his hoard.
The bits and pieces of intel he'd gleaned hadn't been much to go on, but naturally, the lower the lifeform, the better he'd done. The Empire might've portrayed itself as the grand savior to a corrupt galaxy, but its underside had proven over and over to be blacker and more rotten than the carcass of an Umbaran carrion-worm—even on a tiny, insignificant Rimmer planet.
"Where?" she'd asked, almost a year ago, not long after they and the rest of his team had gone to ground on Endor's moon and the Nalroni Jedi—of course—had shown up.
"Desevro. Ord Mantell. Lothal," the old canid had said, staring up at the night sky. He'd then fixed Rex with a beady eye. "Corellia. Axum. Ixtlar. Kaikielius."
Two Outer Rim planets, one Mid. Four Core worlds. Hells.
"This a fekking astronomy lesson?" Jesse had snapped, always edgy these days, and especially around the Nalroni. Rex didn't blame him; the canid always managed to get under all their skins. "Or are you seriously suggesting we get up close and personal with the Empire in their own playground?"
The Jedi had turned his unnerving stare to Jesse's tattoo, that blazon of the Republic he'd proudly kept. After a moment, Jesse had shifted uncomfortably, then left for the ship, muttering a few choice words as he went.
"Three days, and I'll be ready," she'd said. Rex had recognized the determined set of her jaw, the steely intensity of her eyes as the light from their campfire flickered across her face. She would go, regardless if anyone had her six.
Over the next few days, in the remote safety of the moon's mist-shrouded and densely wooded mountains, she'd plotted routes and packed supplies into her old shuttle.
His brothers had attempted to dissuade her. "Is he trying to get you killed?" Coric had asked, casting a dark look out the open hangar doors.
Rex knew better.
When she'd left the Fury to seek further council from the canid, Rex had finally told his brothers what he'd found, down in the bowels of Coruscant, far beneath the old Jedi Temple. Most simply stared, eerily silent, the implications settling in slowly. Coric had stormed from the hanger, revolted, to disappear into the surrounding trees; another brother had rubbed viciously at the sides of his head, and Rex had to turn away. Some of them bore worse scars than others.
Despite the screaming of his own (well-honed) survival instincts, Rex had ignored her entreaties to stay with his brothers and silenced her further protests with a kiss. "You're with me, and I'm with you, remember?"
"Thank you," she'd murmured against his mouth, and they hadn't bothered with words for some time after that.
In the weeks after, he had helped, offered advice and himself as a co-pilot, and—when Chopper had pointed out during a rare comm just how lacking their surveillance was regarding that division of the Empire's movements—he'd taken to the bars, cantinas, and back alleys himself. At those levels, rumors had an uncanny way of ringing true.
The five younglings they'd found—ranging in ages from a sullen and embittered eleven year old to a half dead infant, thrown like garbage into one of Axum's industrial compounds—had all been Force-sensitive. Each had been abandoned by their family, either to the streets or to orphan halls. Each successfully delivered to the relative safety of Alderaan, and from there, deeper into hiding among the Altisians.
At Ixtlar, they were too late. Flames had roared through the night, oily smoke casting a thick haze across an entire residential block. No attempt had been made to douse the blaze; only contain it. Dazed civilians had gathered amidst the long shadows cast by stormtroopers, who'd stood as an unyielding wall between the fire and a stunned—and morbidly curious—city.
"Tibanna line, they're saying," he'd muttered to her as they crouched on a rooftop, watching.
She had stared at the flames for several long minutes, an unnatural stillness surrounding her that he'd long grown accustomed to. "No." With a bare shake of her head, she added, "Not dead, either."
When she abruptly motioned for them to move out, he was glad.
The imprint of that familiar armor, black against the fiery light, had burned in his dreams long after they'd left Ixtlar.
By the time they'd reached Lothal, he had wanted to abort. Fatigue rolled off them both, her eyes strained and bloodshot from piloting the shuttle; hyperspace activity was closely monitored near every Empire-held system, and each jump had to be perfectly timed against a freighter's shadow. From one arm of the galaxy to the other and back again, by way of the Core…
It was suicidal for a Force-sensitive; impossible for anyone else.
"Please, Rex," she'd pleaded, and that alone had been enough for him. "There's something—someone—there. What they're doing to these younglings—I can't live with that and not try."
That had been over two standard months ago. Her frustration had become palpable as they slowly scouted the larger towns before moving their search into the capital, Lothal's only major city—and not surprisingly, a satellite facility for a military contractor.
TIE-fighters, of course. Because our luck has to be running out, he'd thought darkly.
"He's here." Her montrals had tilted from side to side in a way that reminded him of a Corellian sand panther scenting prey. "It's like ripples on water—but I can't see where it starts. It's just…silence."
They'd split at that point; she had argued that he could move more freely during the day among the almost all-human rural population, and she would continue scouting through urban areas.
"I don't like it." He'd shifted uneasily as she knelt to check her pack, and she had looked up at him, her familiar face just barely outlined in the grudging light of one moon.
"I don't either."
"We're cutting this too close. Ixtlar wasn't chance."
She stood, expertly adjusting the straps of her pack beneath her tattered old cloak. He knew, when traveling, she'd hunch and limp and be utterly removed from the lithe, powerful fem he'd fought beside.
"I want to keep trying."
Rex had sighed and pulled her into his arms. She'd pressed her face against the curve of his neck—he had breathed her in, memorized again the feel of her body against his—and then she was gone, a shadow in the black of night.
Days had become weeks, and then another month.
Their communiques had been little more than junk data tagged to Imperial logs, inconsequential blips carried along daily streams that had little to offer Rex than her lat/long coordinates—and acknowledgement that she was still alive.
Something tight and hard had settled in his gut, a disquiet that he couldn't shake.
If she were discovered…
And some things, a man didn't want to imagine—not until he was forced to face them.
Finally, in the pale light of morning, he had trundled into the small market town by way of a farmer's ground transport and felt a familiar buzz-blip from his comm. The endex code had rattled through, and as he had thanked all minor and major deities on several hundred worlds, he risked a quick response.
Tonight.
The sun slipped beyond the rolling horizon as Rex ducked into the dilapidated shack he'd scouted out earlier that day. The little building was a neglected, battered hovel, with slabs of gray pre-fab fitted against the more common sand-and-plaster. Like most things on Lothal, it mixed what could be stolen from off-worlders with a hodge-podge of traditional materials.
Propped up in the shadow of a stone cairn, the hut disappeared easily among dozens of other migrant-worker shacks that had sprouted like dungweeds along this stretch of the town. All were abandoned; the seasonal niscik crop the locals relied on had dropped like a pit-vacuum on the galaxy-wide market.
Yet another reason Lothal seethed with discontent.
"Not my problem," he reminded himself as he reflexively checked his blasters and gear.
It would be several hours before the pickup and he knew leaving atmo would be tricky. He needed to rest, to be as alert as possible—
But even as wave of fatigue as leaden and heavy as a gravity well washed over him, Rex irritably scrubbed at his face and scraggly beard and grimaced at the feel of grit and grime beneath his fingers, unable to shake that jarring sense of restlessness.
How many of his brothers' children were scattered across the galaxy? How many Cut Lawquanes—fathers, families—tucked away on farms and forgotten moons? How many more teams like Rex's own—ex-troopers fighting on their own terms, brothers and comrades by choice—free—free to be men—
Hells, he'd known his brothers had lovers—even unofficially approved of the affairs he'd known about—or even those rare, actual relationships. They'd all been grown men, biologically, when they shipped out from Kamino—and now, old men, if they hadn't been lucky enough to gain access to the gene therapy. To expect soldiers born and bred for the horrors of war to also be as chaste and innocent as a fresh snowfall on Hoth…
Rex snorted. Yeah, right.
But an actual flesh-and-blood remnant of his brothers—proof of other families—that was something entirely different.
As much as he wanted to get away from Lothal, he also wanted to make sure the boy had someone to look out for him...
A distant cry—avian, he automatically identified—stirred him from his thoughts. Fek. Now was not the time get as sloppy as a Weequay with a nikspis-habit.
He slipped back out and scouted down the derelict road as the shadows deepened—but as before, there wasn't a sentient who would bother with this part of the town. The silence jarred against his intuition, set his teeth on edge.
Even as he quickly crept back into the shack and made good use of the old sonic utility-sink to scrub the majority of grime from his hands, face, and neck, he wondered if he should risk a quick ping, just something…
…and then felt the faint brush of air across his neck—movement, behind—
The deecee was in his hand and his body turned to aim before conscious thought—then, just as quickly, he'd holstered the blaster and crossed the room to bury a slim brown shadow in his arms.
"Ahsoka."
Her faint laugh against his jaw uncurled the knot of tension in his belly.
"I'm early."
"I'm not complaining."
She was there—whole, unscathed, as familiar as his old deecees. He shouldn't have been surprised she'd sneak up on him; she no longer called herself Jedi, but she was no less one.
"Anything?"
He felt her almost imperceptible droop, the way she leaned against him, and tightened his hold.
"No."
He pressed her closer, knowing words wouldn't be adequate.
The silence stretched for another moment—his nostrils flared at the scent of sun-warmed leather, the acrid taint of burnt chemicals, and her own, faint, spicy musk—before he pulled back. Tension and a weary resignation lined her eyes.
"It's okay." Her voice was suddenly hoarse, and his fingers cupped the smooth line of her jaw.
"No."
She managed a wan smile and a helpless shrug. "No. But if he's able to hide this well... I think he'll be okay."
He didn't respond, and in the silence, her gaze travelled over him in turn, gloved hands reaching up to brush across his temples and into the rough, gray-streaked length of his hair.
"Recharge," he offered, "and try again?"
Her smile turned genuine and grateful and her fingers moved to trace his lips. "Good plan, Captain."
He snorted at that and shook his head, but didn't say anything, content for a moment simply to look at her.
She'd long taken to covering every inch of skin with worn leather and heavy, washed-out fabrics, her curves fading beneath a simple cloak and rough clothes, her hands and arms beneath practical gloves and bracers. Her only concession had been an elegantly tooled leather body-tracer, slung across her hips and diagonally across one shoulder, although even that was typically hidden under the utilitarian straps of her holsters.
A constant patina of mottled paint carefully buried her vivid markings; it hadn't taken long for her to realize humans looked past unremarkable shades of brown, and even though she was obviously non-human, he'd witnessed an official's eyes slide over her and on to the next sentient without even pausing.
Her montrals and lekku were kept wrapped and covered, and her eyes, that brilliant blue, had been dulled by ocularmetics.
He knew the once-familiar akul-tooth headdress was tucked in a small compartment beneath their bunk, along with two other items from her past life—rarely used, never mentioned.
"Rex?"
His name was a hesitant whisper, and he realized he'd been staring long enough to concern her.
Gods, he'd missed her. The realization was almost painfully brutal.
The sudden, intense need to see her—the truth of her, skin as vibrantly orange as the dust-seared sunset, her montrals and lekku vividly blue and white as Alderaan's cloud-streaked skies—shot through him, and his hands shook slightly as he rubbed at the paint over her markings.
Then her leather-clad fingers slipped through his own, and she lifted her mouth to his.
She tasted of ration bars and electrolyte mix and sun-heated turu-grass and distinctly Ahsoka, and although the tension in his gut had left, in its place bloomed something achingly hot.
He pulled away with a ragged breath only to fit her fully against him, her body burning with familiarity through the bulk of his own rough clothes.
"We should go," he said. The burled fabric covering her montrals was rough against his mouth, and he focused on that. Now wasn't the time to get distracted.
But she simply tilted her head back, the corners of her lips twitching in a mischievous smile, a flicker of answering fire in her eyes.
"We have time." He eyed her dubiously, and she chuckled. "The storm will cover our electronic signature."
"...or plow us into a field."
Her smile turned sly as she tugged him back, through the rough-carved doorway and into the shadowed hole of the hut's tiny bedroom.
"'Soka, there are troopers on patrol here—we can't stay—"
"Not anymore." At his questioning look, she went on, "There was a...disturbance at the TIE factory."
"Ahsoka."
She grinned, and he caught a glimpse of the much-younger Togruta she'd been. "It wasn't me. I sliced into their comms—" His eyebrows shot up at that, and she rolled her eyes. They'd had a hard time keeping ahead of the Empire's comm encryptions; it was risky (and for some, deadly) to try. But Ahsoka…was Ahsoka. "—to make sure we'd have a decent window. There was a lot of chatter."
"Even more of a reason to get out of here. We don't need to be anywhere that's attracting attention."
"The day I can't outfly those boys is the day I should be shot down."
He instantly recalled a blinding flash of light—and his own horror—and pulled her roughly against him.
A moment of stiff surprise before her gloved fingers touched his neck, and then she pressed a kiss against his pulse. "Sorry, Rex."
As his hold relaxed, she brushed lightly against the scraggly growth of his beard; he hadn't shaved in weeks, and although he hated the whole crinkly, itchy mass of it, she still found all things hair fascinating.
Or, he thought she did—but she suddenly wrinkled her nose in distaste.
"There are a lot of people who really aren't happy after the latest election."
Ah. "Mmm. Muhn?" The name brought to mind a rodent-like Human with watery eyes, narrow face, and a straining paunch. Considering the disgust (or just downright hatred) most of the bar-goers had expressed at every vid-screen image of the man, in cantinas all over Lothal … Rex hadn't been surprised by rumors of a rigged election.
Although actual dissident action was an entirely different kettle of Bovan bloat-fish.
Ahsoka nodded absently; her focus had drifted lower to pluck at the catches on his shirt—and then at the thin layer of armor underneath.
He caught her wrists and rubbed his thumbs across the metal greaves on her bracers.
"'Soka."
"Losing faith now?" she asked, her sly smile making a return as she wriggled free of his grasp. She slid his jacket from his shoulders and followed the lines of his holsters, trailing slowly down to his waist. His eyes closed briefly when her fingers worked through layers of fabric and light armor to touch the muscles of his abdomen.
"Never."
"Then trust me."
He gently kissed the smooth line of her cheekbone. "I always have."
Her hands stilled as she met his thoughtful gaze; he recognized the brief flicker of an enduring grief he knew intimately, himself. Some wounds would never heal—but at least they could ease each other's burden.
"Thank you, Rex."
Rather than answer, he bent his head to touch her lips with his own, a warm, familiar kiss that quickly deepened, hardened, heated.
The dirt-brown cloak covering her montrals was the first to go, then the equally ugly wrappings of her lekku. She breathed a soft, feminine sound against his mouth as his hands drew a familiar path along her stripes, and he nearly groaned as she pressed herself closer.
"I missed you," she murmured, and then her tongue and teeth were warm against his throat and collarbone and his hands had found the soft skin beneath her tunic.
Sometimes, we only have now, she'd said, years ago.
He did need her—now.
A moment to set their thermal dampeners against the room's walls—and then they methodically pulled off cloak, holsters, gloves, clothes—making use of the well-worn mass of fabric as a pallet beneath their bodies—his mouth on her skin, trailing over her montrals, down the hollow along her torso, then lower—her fingers tracing an answering fire across his chest and shoulders.
Dusky light deepened to the dark indigo of twilight as she arched above him, her lekku full and heavy against her gentle curves, his hands sliding across smooth lines of her hips, over the flat plane of her stomach. She watched him, her eyes a shadowed grey in the darkening night. He didn't need words; she didn't either.
His gaze dropped as he hesitantly stroked the pads of his fingers across her abdomen. Some things, they'd never spoken of.
Had she ever thought of a future beyond her cautious, deadly dance beneath the Empire's vigilance?
Had he, really?
No.
But he knew his brothers had never simply been sabacc cards scattered across a table—known maybe since Saleucami—or that they were more than pawns in someone else's gambit—like Umbara…and then Knightfall.
His brothers had loved and lived beyond the grey durasteel of their fallen Republic's warships, had known the touch of desire from another's hand, and neither the Empire nor time could destroy that imprint. They'd been slaughtered—perhaps not as systematically as the Jedi, but just as ruthlessly—wielded as a bloody, disposable tool of first an uncaring Republic, then a despotic Emperor.
Despite everything, they'd left something of themselves.
"Rex."
Her gentle whisper against his ear woke him.
With a start, he realized he'd fallen asleep. The air was heavy and still, laden with the smell of ozone and rain; a flicker of lightning filled the room with stark white, surrounded Ahsoka in a bright halo—then an answering rumble shook the walls. She was already dressed, ultraviolet-pulsar in-hand and ready to erase all signs of their passage through the hut.
But after he'd pulled on his clothes, and as she moved to the door, Rex touched her lightly on the shoulder.
"Wait, 'Soka."
She instantly froze, as trusting of his instincts as he was of hers.
"I saw—a youngling today…" He trailed off, suddenly unsure.
What if it was just coincidence? He'd only caught a glimpse of the boy, after all—
"Did you think it was him?" she asked, her whole body tense with hope.
At the shake of his head, she visibly deflated. But only a breath later, her quizzical eyes were studying him. "Then..."
Rex scrubbed at his beard ruefully and took a moment to reset the dampeners he'd unhooked from the walls, clipping one to his belt and setting hers onto the leather tracer at her waist. He needed to tell her, regardless. Even if he knew her immediate reaction—and the simple fact that they couldn't.
"Rex?" she asked softly.
"I think he was a brother's son."
Her eyes widened. "Here? When?"
"Just a couple hours ago."
"You mean, here, here?" Incredulity raised her voice, and he pointedly brushed his thumb across her lips. She eyed him irritably before batting his hand away. "In this town?"
He nodded, then quickly caught her arm as she turned to the door. "No, Ahsoka."
"Rex, this is family—"
"And we're wanted fugitives. 500 Galactica price on our heads."
She still hesitated. He recognized the look in her eyes, and added, carefully, "We're not exactly the house guests most good citizens want around."
He didn't mention that the Empire would likely send someone sniffing through Lothal after action against an Imperial factory, if that particular division wasn't already streaming through hyperspace toward the system. She knew, as well, but would simply brush it off.
Rex couldn't. The thought of an Inquisitor—here—sent a chill tendril of apprehension ghosting down his spine.
They needed to get off-planet and far away.
"Recharge, then try again," she finally said, repeating his earlier words.
He sighed, but nodded. She studied him for a moment, chewing her lip thoughtfully, but under his steady gaze, she nodded, too, and turned to lead the way.
In the time it took for them to reach the old shuttle—a dark curve against another stone cairn—the winds had picked up again, buffeting their clothes and whipping the tall, silvery grass against their legs. Thunder rumbled and cracked after each bright flicker, almost as an afterthought of sound over the dry rustle of undulating grass. Rex glanced around them, knew Ahsoka was listening intently in a way no human or non-Force user could. Now was not the time for surprises.
Ahsoka had barely crossed the shuttle's threshold before her hands were skimming over system panels, prepping for flight.
He ducked in behind her and slid into the co-pilot's seat. "What happened to 'we had time'?"
She flashed an arch look at him, her hands never slowing. "You weren't complaining."
He chuckled as he checked his own standard list, but as the repulsers hummed and he felt the trembling force of atmospheric winds, he couldn't stop a glance down through the viewport. The town was quiet, shrouded in darkness except for two rival cantinas, their glaring lights like multi-faceted eyes in the sea of black.
At the nav, Ahsoka paused, her smooth brow crinkling. "Rex, are you sure about this?"
Rex hesitated before answering, then jerked his head in an affirmative. The winds rocked their shuttle impatiently. "Yes."
Her hand slipped over his—and then, to his surprise, she offered a compromise. "There are others nearby—some old contacts." When his eyes snapped to hers, she added, "Who we can trust. And can keep an eye out for him and his family."
His brow furrowed, thoroughly nonplussed. "Who would be here?"
"It's Hera Syndulla, Chopper's old friend." Her lips twitched and her eyes gleamed in the low light cast by the shuttle's nav system. "And I'm sure they have their reasons."
Rex thought quickly, struggling to put a face to an elusive name. "Twi'lek?"
"And a shabla good pilot."
With a jerk of his head, Rex made his decision and prepped a quick protocol, his hands skimming over comms. "I know Chopper's sig. If she's an old friend, she'll recognize it." He cast a sidelong glance at her as the shuttle bucked beneath them. "…A little recon on the side?"
The look she gave him was well-practiced innocence.
Rex snorted. "You were busy in the capital."
She chuckled—then quickly gripped the nav panel as the shuttle lurched. "I made a few inquiries when I could. There are a lot of unhappy people." She shrugged as she fought to keep them steady. "We can't sneak around forever."
He suppressed a sigh and suddenly felt much, much older. "When this is all over, I'm retiring to a farm." He refused to give voice to the implicit If.
At her burst of laughter, he felt his mouth curve into a wry smile. "What?"
"I'll sharpen my pitchfork, then."
"That's a sight I'd like to see."
She fought—and lost—against another round of laughter (and he was again reminded of a much younger padawan, from too long ago), even as she guided the shuttle higher, cresting over a wash of lightning-threaded clouds.
Beyond the storm, the horizon stretched dark and unmarred by the masses of buildings and stratos-towers of so many other worlds. Little towns lay scattered like winking jewels, a pale imitation of the galaxy overhead.
"But for now...home?" she asked, her laughter gone. He realized she'd been watching him.
"I need you as the last line of defense for my family," a brother and father had once said.
The fight was coming, whether they were ready or not. If the children he'd fought for would have any future, he couldn't stop now; his path had been set a long time before—possibly when he'd met Cut and his family, possibly when a slip of a padawan had stepped off a transport on Christophsis. "Let's go home."
"Until it's time," she murmured.
"Until it's time."
And the shuttle, with a purr of release, lifted even higher, pushed by the angry winds of the coming storm.
-
Fin.
(A/N: Written just 'cause I needed something hopeful after Fives' S6 arc, and because Ezra looks like a cute lil' clone offspring. Hey, a girl can play with ideas, regardless, although I did try to keep it extremely vague. Edited/Rewritten on 4/10/14. Shame on me for not letting the story simmer a couple of weeks before posting; it wasn't nearly done.)