Rex is used to suits barking orders. Status report. Update. Sit-Rep. Prola, talk to me . What the hell are you doing ?
That last one is never a question so much as it is a warning. He knows he's got a reputation for being difficult- 'problems with authority figures' and 'a history of crossing the line' everyone likes to say- and that's only slightly less problematic than his reputation for 'taking unnecessary risks'.
By now, Rex is used to the way his name sounds in other people's mouths, like they're spitting out something sour. The members of his team put up with him because of Rex's father, or because they like Will even if they don't like him. Will told him that his application even had a small note attached to it that just read: No one's a better shot. Sorry about his personality.
Rex likes to think he's changed since Will took him under his non proverbial wing. But that would be a lie.
He knows better than to press for information in a secured location, so he keeps quiet and falls in step with Will. He's so tired his eyes ache, a dull throb that's a little alleviated when he lets his eyelids slip closed during the flight. He feels like there are grains of sand stuck behind his eyes, scratching at the delicate skin every time he focuses on anything. The whole team is exhausted. Even Will is tired and dark under the eyes, and he doesn't need half as much sleep as the rest of them.
He'd anticipated having to get back to base, or home, but in less than ten minutes of being 'rescued', he's on a helicopter en route to where a troop transport is already waiting to take them in. They can't seem to catch a break. Fighting isn't the only thing they know but, it seems like the only thing they can do is to go from one battle to the next. Rex just itches to run to the on-site armory to grab his rifle.
Then he actually is in one of those armories that's every teenage boy's wet dream; a wall-to-wall glass enclosure full of guns and vests, rows and rows of them. And damn if it isn't some of the best weapon porn Rex's ever seen in the whole of his internet search history.
"Uh," he says, "holy shit."
"Never seen an armor cache before?" Will asks.
"Of course I have," Rex says, then shakes his head as if to shake off the starstruck expression on his face. "Just not that many- that's all."
Noticing where Rex's eyes land, Will smiles. "These you already know. You might like the ones to the right though."
A grin splits Rex's face in half. "Aw yeah. Very, very nice."
In between all the gun polishing he's doing in low fluorescent lighting, he's also starting to think, hey, he did get to find a new alien life form. He's happy to leave all the political stuff to someone else.
It doesn't matter to him anyway. He's here to eliminate a target -if the suits in charge can finally figure out who it is they're actually fighting. The aliens all seem larger than life, even without all the hype around them, and Rex can't help but wonder if it's going to be a let down when he finally meets one.
He is running a dirty rag down the length of another Sig, the room so quiet he can hear the guy next to him breathing. He scrubs the lenses on the sights before taking a peek through them, watching as Agent Simmons ducks right into his field of vision.
"I knew a Prola," he says.
"My father."
"He was in the infantry. Always talked about a kid he had at home. Axel? Anthony? Wait - Alexander."
"It's Rex."
His mum came up with that, sometime after he was born. Rex likes to think it's because she regrets letting his dad give him such an impossible to write name. His dad used to tell her to cut it out whenever he heard it. His full name is Alexander Prola, but nobody really calls him that.
"Well, Rex , your name's been around a lot lately, and not in the good way," Simmons drawls.
Rex can't help the amused snort. He really can't. It sounds cavernous in the large room.
"Think that's funny? You may be a little carbon copy of your daddy, but if I feel you're being a pain in my ass, I will drop you off on the side of the road, possibly from a moving vehicle, and I will not look back."
Rex puts the gun down calmly and sets it on the table before him. "Sir."
"The only thing I wanna hear from you is 'yes, sir'. Am I making myself clear?"
He knows a losing battle when he sees one. He might not have gone to college, or be able to write his own name most of the time, but he isn't stupid.
"Yes, sir," he says.
Rex is really starting to wonder if they shouldn't just get the hell out of here and let the suits figure things out on their own.
"I can't believe we signed up to fight alien robots," he says as Will climbs in beside him in the truck and buckles up.
"I know you'd be first in line," Will says back. He's exhibiting an alarming degree of nonchalance, given the subject matter.
"Damn right," Rex mutters.
It's like the stuff out of the comic books he used to read as a child; aliens, soldiers, battles, BAFF SLAM KAPOW!, with lots of pictures and big, bold printed letters. It's the sort of thing he would have killed to have been in when he was a kid: when he was eight or nine, if he could've, he would have lived inside his comic books. He still keeps a stash under his mattress, hiding it like it's a truly life-ruining porn collection.
There's not enough time for them to even watch tumbleweeds blow by before they're already right in the middle of the battleground. By the time panic well and truly breaks out, there are shouts of surprise, a few screams, but mainly people are working at getting out of the way.
Before they get out of the armored truck, Will claps a hand on Rex's shoulder and squeezes, just for a moment.
"Okay, kid, this is it. No heroics and no quippage until this is over, alright?"
There's no answering confirmation on Rex's part, but Will knows him and he knows Rex has a certain fondness for disregarding instructions.
"I need to be able to trust that you move when I need you to. You listen to me, alright? There's a world of hurt coming your way if you don't, understand?"
Rex laughs, because everything's a joke to him. School, his family, even joining the army. "Aw, Will, you're going to make me think I'm special. What's everyone going to think?"
"You are special," Will says, and the conviction in his voice is a little overwhelming.
Rex thinks there's something to admire in his almost calm. It definitely goes a long way towards keeping everyone together when the shit hits the proverbial fan, as it always does, sooner or later. Will is exactly the kind of guy who should be commanding missions. This could be the start of any other mission, he thinks, except the mission's already gone to hell.
"I need eyes up high. With a gun. Rex -"
"On it."
It galls a lot of the members of his team that Rex is as good as he is. It makes it hard for them to suggest getting rid of him.
There are at least two dozen soldiers on the ground, including the kid and his girlfriend; Rex thinks he's just a skinny bag of bones still in tenth grade of high school, with painful-looking acne blooming across his cheeks beneath the bruises, and way too young to even be here.
So is Rex, but he actually signed up to be here. Later, he will lay awake in his shitty bunk bed and wonder if he doomed himself to an early grave.
For now, he runs.
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He saunters up to Will covered in ash and pretending he's not in pain. He's injured, but it's not his fault.
Will disagrees.
"The next time a building is on fire, what are you going to do?" he asks, standing over Rex, looking like the human embodiment of Judgement Day.
"Get off the building?"
"You'll use the stairs. Jesus, getting the shot isn't worth also getting second-degree burns."
"I only needed another ten seconds. I knew I'd make it. If I didn't you would be scraped across the pavement now."
"The building exploded five seconds after you got off! You were on fire for god's sake, Rex."
"Only a little." Rex can't help grinning like an idiot. "I didn't even notice until you tackled me to the ground -"
He almost yelps as his face is suddenly buried into Will's chest, body heat bleeding against Rex's cheeks through the thick canvas jacket he still wears.
"It's just a burn." Rex ducks his head and scratches the back of his neck, looking sheepish. "It doesn't even hurt."
Either the medic is that amazing, or Rex's stopped noticing the pain. He'd be thrilled, except he knows it probably means it's just the adrenaline and endorphins keeping him from being in agony right now.
"I'm trying to get you to adulthood without so much as a single flatline. You don't have to do every stupid thing."
"I'm twenty-three."
"You look about seventeen," Epps says, leaning around Will to look at him.
"Thanks. I moisturize," Rex says, deadpan.
Epps snorts. Rex reflexively tries to flip him off, except it hurts, so all he manages is a dismissive wave with his other hand.
He hasn't heard any official numbers yet in the aftermath of the battle, but he's going to go out on a limb and say that - if Will's face is any indication - they all made it out a little worse for wear.
The kid looks like he's in the middle of every boy's dream where he saved the world and got the girl. At least, that's the dream for most teenage boys, isn't it That's what the basic happy ending comes down to anyway, according to Hollywood: the glory and the girl .
Rex thinks that this isn't his kind of movie: it's more like a movie where Rex doesn't get around to watching Aliens until after he realizes he's living it. His is the kind of movie where he knows he gets none of the glory because being a soldier means he can't go home and tell his family that he's just saved the fucking world, and you're welcome .
He's definitely not going to be home anytime soon, because he's about to pass out on the medical stretcher, completely exhausted and with his arm all bandaged up.
He does, however, talk to an alien robot, which is pretty much right out of a movie already. It's also something he never imagined he'd get to tick off his bucket list.
He wonders if he's actually supposed to think that Bumblebee is as friendly and harmless as your average Golden Retriever. The doorwings high on his back even flap like dog ears when he laughs.
Jesus , Rex thinks. He is like an oversized dog, because when he glances over, the yellow bot is on all fours now and getting pet by the kid and his girlfriend.
"Let me take a look," the Medic says, leaning over him, and Rex goes completely still.
"I already got checked out," he says.
The look he gets back is patient but highly skeptical.
"Let me see," the Medic says, with a reflexive prissiness that Rex finds a little charming.
He he puts a hand under Rex's arm, right under the elbow, and lifts it up and studies the blood already showing straight through the bandages.
"How did you manage to get off that building in one piece?"
"Quickly," Rex tells him. Says it right to his face, without even a single hint of shame.
"I like this one."
Ironhide. Rex actually managed to remember his name.
"A little crazy, for a human."
"Crazy always," Rex tosses back, with another showy smile. You jump off one five story building without a backup plan (or a harness, or backup for that matter) and suddenly you're being labeled 'crazy'.
There's nothing especially self-effacing about their body language, but there's a tilt to Ironhide's mouth that seems like he's holding back a laugh. Rex can see old battle scars traced across his body. Long thin lines across his forearms, a line above his eye, probably a souvenir from what might have been a hell of a knife fight.
Rex kind of wishes he could have seen it.
"So. I hear you like guns."
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When Rex gets to go home - if he ever gets to go home - he'll never complain about sharing a bathroom again.
For now, sharing a room with two other guys is hell- Epps is always yelling at him for leaving his dirty laundry on his bed, saying he is trying to teach Rex an example about how to clean up his own mess, and there's never enough space or privacy, and Rex's been caught singing the Beach Boys in the shower by Will three times before the week is even out.
When they finally upgrade him from 'suspected security risk' to 'N.E.S.T.', another suit gives him a tour around the base. After walking them through a building that's big enough to make Rex's head spin- identical hallway after identical hallway, which means he never gets anywhere on time, or he gets lost trying to get to the showers- the suit sits Rex down in his office and goes over the forms he'll need to read.
Rex doesn't know when he agreed to be a member of NEST. He's probably supposed to be grateful that he gets considered at all. Unnecessary notes in personal files are frowned upon all over, and NEST especially takes a pretty grim stance on them.
"The only thing I'd better be hearing about you for the foreseeable future is that you are a goddamn pleasure to work with all around. Am I making myself clear, Prola?"
"Yes sir."
Rex didn't expect a warm welcome. He's still caught off guard by the open hostility.
"When do I get to go see my family?"
"Regulations require that you stay on base for now," the suit tells him.
Rex had been starting to get the impression that he'd be staying on base through the rest of his natural life, so 'for now', in comparison, sounds almost reasonable.
"Pending clearance from medical, you'll be cleared for fieldwork in three days."
"Medical?" he asks.
The look the suit gives him is deliberately impatient.
"Jesus, it's just a burn. I probably shouldn't be on any of the time-sensitive missions, so maybe swap someone in for me for those -"
The look the suit gives him now is the same way someone looks at an investment they're already starting to reconsider.
Well, it's not Rex's fault if NEST made a bad trade with him. And it's not like his personal file didn't warn them what a shitshow Rex is.
"You'll fill out a report after every mission. If the mission objective was not achieved, you'll need to fill out an extra report. To requisition gear or any personal items you'll also need to fill out a form- you can pick those up from your Commanding Officer. Do you have any questions?"
"No," Rex says, staring at the pile of papers in his lap. A sick gush of panic goes through his body. "Uh- do I really have to fill out papers every time I need new deodorant?"
"It's standard procedure," the suit says in a no-nonsense voice Rex is already learning to hate.
He stares at the duffel bag at his feet: it's mostly empty, the only stuff in it are clothes that NEST has given him and his one set of normal civvies. There's also a letter to Zach which is almost finished, explaining why he can't come home for a while. He'd been about to post it when he realized that he managed to misspell both 'visit' and 'weekend', and that's just the first line.
The twinges his arm sends now as he picks up the papers are mostly caused by how tightly he's gripping them.
He can't fill out any of the forms. Will would've filled them out for him, probably, except he got dragged into briefings and meetings immediately and left before Rex even woke up from his painkiller-induced nap.
Rex wasn't part of any meetings. In the end, NEST is probably more than he ever could've hoped for. He's got no right to be angry about the paperwork, even if he worked damn hard, for years, to hide from it. The army had been a stickler for properly written field reports, much like these people are sticklers for just about everything else.
Rex just couldn't care less about writing the same mission report as every member of his team.
Jesus, his own teammates barely tolerated him in the army. He's not going to be able to set foot into the mess hall for days .
He grabs the stack of papers and manages not to slam the door on his way out. He half-expects to be met by more suits outside: he's not technically under anybody's command yet, he's been traded, or promoted, not put into custody.
He's surprised when he doesn't meet anybody on his way outside. His boots clatter a little in the empty hallways. He doesn't know if he's making noise to avoid running into anyone or if he's actually annoyed enough to not care if he gets written up for noise disturbances. He catches a couple of confused looks from fellow early-risers, a few wide-eyed stares, but it's hard to tell if anyone actually recognizes him or if it's just the burn marks turning heads. Most people associate Rex with his cigarettes. He's lucky like that.
As he steps into the hangar, he's staring at the papers in his hands, the words on them eluding him in a way no target ever has. There's paperwork that he's supposed to fill out to get leave and even to get his paychecks released. There's even a form with tiny boxes for each letter. He stares at each word broken into its component parts, but the meaning gets lost. Some of these words he's learnt to recognize, so he knows them, he doesn't know why he keeps screwing it up.
Rex stares. And then, because he's got fuck-all else to do until Will gets back, he settles down on a fold-out chair and takes out a pen. He isn't going to pretend that he knows what he is trying to do.
'Req-ui-si-tion', he reads at the topmost corner, trying to break up the word, already annoyed at the long string of words that comes after.
It's not hard. It's not rocket science . You can do this .
Except it is: he crosses out his name three times and erases it so hard that it tears the paper. His handwriting looks like a five year old's. It looks ridiculous. Uneven and scratchy, just like the Rex in fourth grade who wasted everybody's time with stupid spelling mistakes like 'teecher' instead of 'teacher'.
None of it makes any sense to him; 'Qualification', which has three 'i's in it when, really, there's no fucking reason to have so many of them. And who is he kidding, he's just trying to prolong the inevitable. He hasn't read the handbook ( heh ), but he's pretty sure that 'highschool level reading skills' are a requirement even here.
" Fuck ," he says, and kicks the door of the vehicle next to him as the last shred of his self-control gives way - which also just happens to be not a military vehicle.
The truck audibly growls, the engine revving loudly, pissed off , probably, but when Rex says 'wait', he pauses.
There's a brief, distinctly unimpressed pause, and then Rex says, "Well," trying for a laugh but making sure to talk slowly, afraid the words might get mixed up in his mouth, "this is awkward."
All he knows about Prime is his name: as far as he can tell the guy's first name is 'Leader' with a capital 'L'.
' Will's impressed with him, and you know nobody impresses Will, so you know he's something else ,' Epps had said during lunch, and Rex had been all ears. That's when the speculations really started, everyone throwing their bits and pieces of gossip into one messy pile while they ate their food. Far as Rex could tell, none of their theories had been as far-fetched as he used to think less than a week ago. Ironhide is rumored to be a top-notch marksman, and Rex had scoffed a little at the suggestion that he might have real competition. He'll believe it when he sees it.
Sometimes, when he can't fight the fight he knows he's losing, he starts a new one. It saves time.
Except he's just given another person a reason to question Rex's value as a member of this team. Which is a hell of a first meeting, and probably another sticky note in Rex's file.
"You seemed... agitated. Is everything alright?"
Rex realizes, a solid ten seconds too late, that Prime is trying to be delicate with him. And that he's confronted with a 28 feet tall robot now and that he's unarmed.
He huffs out an eloquent breath and smiles a crooked who me? sort of smile.
"I'm really trying to get kicked out of the club early," he says, running a hand through his hair so Prime can get the full effect of his grin.
There's a question forming on Prime's face, an assessment he's working his way towards. He gives Rex a long, evaluating look. Rex doesn't fidget, doesn't drop his eyes.
He might, temporarily, forget about the mechanics of breathing.
His red hair is messy, cut cheap and fast and possibly by himself while in a moving truck, and his clothes are worn and bordering on ridiculous. He's standing there, pen in hand, wearing torn jeans, secondhand boots, and a dark green hoodie, and Rex tries not to look ashamed about any of it.
"I'm sorry," he says, and, once he's said it, he realizes how much he means it.
After a tense, drawn-out moment, Prime nods. "There's no harm done."
Of course. Prime's at least 10 tons. If he wanted to, he could smash Rex's head between his palms like an overripe melon, and Rex really wishes you could get that image out of his head.
"What is your name, soldier?"
"Rex," he says simply, as if that is answer enough.
Prime's vocalizer makes a low-pitched noise as he lowers himself onto one knee.
"As far as my database can find, there is no record with that name."
Despite Prime's intimidating demeanor, a grin spreads across Rex's freckled face.
He tips his head back. "You pulled the records on me? That's cute."
He feels very validated by the series of highly skeptical looks that statement provokes.
"You can tell me your first name, if you do not want to tell me your last name."
"You want a complete employment history too?" Rex counters.
He doesn't smile. It's more of a struggle than it should be.
He stashes the papers in his bag with the rest of his belongings, or lack thereof.
"Alexander."
He thinks about lying. He's lied to everyone else since he joined the army. But, in the moment, it doesn't seem like a high price. And it'll be nice, he thinks, to have someone call him by his name and not have it sound like it's something to be spit out rather than swallowed.
It's also a professional courtesy, he thinks. He knows Prime could've just asked somebody to declassify Rex's files. Probably could've done it himself without even being picked up by NEST's security systems. And, even being fresh from fucking nowhere in space, Rex bets Prime's clearance level is already higher than his.
"I'm Alexander."
"Alexander," Prime repeats, tipping his head to the side. "It is an honor to meet you."
"Bullshit," Rex says, but it makes him smile.