For those of you who haven't read The Clone Wars: No Prisoners, this story will probably still make sense but I'm going to clarify anyway. In the book, Rex gets a new handful of clones straight outta Kamino and struggles to train them and deal with them and get them to open up. He takes a specific liking to Ince, who made himself known as the "funny man" of the group.
I decided to write this story because, while watching the Clone Wars the other day, I was all of a sudden struck by how meaningless the clones' lives are portrayed as. They're dying left and right and no one really seems to care…People do care, it's just that this aspect never gets any face time. So I decided to give it some.
Brother
Rex pinches the bottle cap in between his thumb and his pointer finger, giving it a spin and then releasing it. It twists in a wild circle, the rough, translucent edges blurring as he stares into it. He takes an audibly deep breath and then lets it out, his chest shaking as it rises and falls. He can hear the sound of Ahsoka's lips opening as she tries to say something, but words fail her and she just snaps her mouth shut again. Rex continues to stare at the bottle cap, not daring to look at her.
"Rex," Ahsoka says eventually, her voice soft, compassionate, even pitying. Her tone surprises him, makes his want to cringe, to heave. No one has ever talked to him like that before.
Like he's something to pity.
Rex stops the cap with his hand. It scrapes violently against the table before everything falls silent. Ahsoka squirms in the uncomfortable chair beneath her, wiping ineffectually at the dried specks of blood on her clothes. Rex simply leans back, letting his head fall against the cool durasteel wall, closing his eyes.
He wants to wake up. He needs to wake up. This nightmare – this war, that battle, those dying soldiers - never seems to end. It just keeps dragging on at a grueling pace, and that thought alone makes his fingers twitch in frustration. Everything looks real, feels real. The scratchy feel of dried sweat against his skin, the gentle patting of his companion's finger against her leg, the headache that's clawing at his eyes – this is all real. It's all too damn real.
"I'm sorry, Rex," Ahsoka finally says. He can feel her gaze on him, waiting for a response. Rex blinks, then continues gazing at the eerily still bottle cap.
She sighs, takes a sip of the water that the Healers had provided. It's quiet again. All he can hear is the muffled voices of the healers in the next room, the light tap of feet on the deckplates, the soft pur of machines.
The machines that are probably keeping Ince alive.
Somewhere, embedded between the tangle of healers and nurses and probing medical instruments, one of his most recent additions to the 501st, Ince, is lying on a medical bed with sheets that are probably stained red. He's probably swatting at the medics who are trying to save his life, probably wondering why his luck is so bad, why he - out of everyone – got shot.
No one knows if he'll walk out of that room with a witty remark on his tongue, or whether he'll be draped in a white sheet pushed out by two cold, unfeeling droids.
Rex knows he should want to go back to JanFathal and give those clanker bastards what they deserve – but he can't feel anything. He clings to the hope that this is all just a bad dream, that in just a few moments he'll wake up in his bunk, surrounded by his squad, all of whom are laughing and joking and alive. Reality clings to him like a thread, keeping his eyes open and his heart beating and his lungs pumping oxygen.
The air in the waiting room is cool, even though Rex still has his full armor on. He wraps one arm around his waist to trap the warmth there. Maybe, on a subconscious level, it's to hold himself together, too.
"He's just a Shiny," Ahsoka remarks, staring at him with those blue eyes that somehow managed to lose their light.
"Eight days out of Kamino," Rex croaks, his throat dry and scratchy. Like he'd been yelling.
Except he has no recollection of yelling.
In fact, he can't remember much of anything. He remembers their mission objective, remembers briefing his team, remembers being worried about how the new clones would adjust to Torrent Company. He remembers a firefight, but the details are lost; he only recalls seeing Ince get shot, watching him double over, imagining the grim look that must have been twisted on his face. Too young – Ince was too young, too green, too ignorant of battle…and keeping him safe was Rex's job.
Someone suddenly clears their throat, someone new, and Rex's head snaps up.
"Captain Rex?" It's a soft, liquid, female voice. It's a voice he's heard before. The same one that ordered him to wait outside. Rex knows what she's going to say, and he immediately stiffens. Ahsoka sucks in a breath, her gaze combining with the Healer's and plowing into Rex, watching him, judging him.
Rex hears the words she says, but it takes a moment to register them.
"We did what we could, but I'm sorry – he's dead." Rex stares at her as she frowns and walks away, wondering just how many times she's had to repeat that line to devastated troopers.
Ahsoka stands and touches his shoulder, a sympathetic look on her soft face. He wants to tell her that he's glad she's here, he's glad she's with him. But she's his commanding officer, and he's a soldier. He wants to tell her that he sometimes wishes he wasn't a clone, that he didn't have to fight in a war that isn't his own – but he's a soldier.
Sometimes – some dark, horrible, lurid times – he wishes he wasn't a soldier.
But the harsh reality always claws its way through his doubts, reminding him that he is a soldier. He was bred to serve the Republic, he will do his duty and follow orders without question, and he won't abandon his comrades.
Because it's his responsibility.
So he'll push harder, shoot faster, and resolve to never let down any of his brothers again.