His arms were numb, his knuckles bruised, his nose dripping with blood, but Anakin Skywalker couldn't feel a thing. Every swing of his lightsaber felled more clones, yet they continued forward, a mass of metal and flesh. The Force was completely absent around them; from them, Anakin felt no anger, no hatred, not even a tinge of fear. It was like they didn't exist.
But they were there, breathing and marching and killing. Blaster bolts, branded bright blue for the Republic, burned through everything without discrimination: tall white columns, precious rugs, even priceless works of art displayed in the temple for millennia. And of course, they burned through the Jedi themselves. Young, old, teacher, learner, scholar, warrior- all of them sported identical burns over their hearts. Clone precision at its finest.
A clone trooper, his armor unblemished, aimed his blaster at Anakin, only for the Jedi to throw him across the corridor and into a pillar. The other clones continued marching forward, firing rapidly, their former general easily batting it back towards them. Most of the Jedi, if they even defended themselves, managed to kill one or two troopers. Skywalker had already killed twenty.
Still, Anakin's furrowed brow held no anger- already a rare occurrence when it came to battle. He focused instead on the family waiting for him. Each shot deflected was a prayer for Padmé and the baby she carried within her. He would anything for his family. He would be there when Padmé gave birth. He would be there to meet his child. He would-
He would die there, sprawled across the floor of the Jedi temple. He would be too slow to deflect the blaster bolt hurtling towards him. He would raise his lightsaber a second too late. He would crumple to the ground as the shot pierced his heart.
His last thought would be of Padmé.