As 38 got home, he heard music. Harsh, militaristic music. Mandalorian lyrics. "Vode an".
As he cleared his house with his Blas-tech DC-15s pistol, a relic from the Geonosian war, he realized that he was simply having an auditory flashback.
Flashbacks of his inception. His training. His graduation. The war. Sev.
He fell to his knees, sobbing. As Master Yoda had given the order to leave, 38 had looked through his scope, and caught a glimpse of Sev, broken and bloody, but alive. Reaching out for the ship. His helmet was missing. 38 had never forgotten the look in his eyes.
It haunted him in his sleep. A look of hopelessness, a feeling no brother of his should ever have to feel.
38 hadn't slept for days. The memories were getting worse. He felt worse every day. He was approaching the end of his life, he could feel it.
Cellular degeneration racked his body with pain some nights. He would never feel better. Things would only get worse.
He flipped the safety of his pistol off, and pressed the muzzle against the side of his head. Along with his helmet, it was one of the only things from his past the new Empire would allow him to keep, from his service days.
The rest of the suit they kept for new commandos, even though it had been custom-tooled for 38, and 38 alone. It had been made from the finest of materials, by Mandalorian engineers, it wasn't the recycled junk the rest of the Clone Troopers had worn.
It had felt like a second skin, he barely realized he was wearing it, most of the time.
He prepared to pull the trigger, an undignified end for a highly-ranked soldier.
After what felt like ages, he finally relaxed and let his gun-arm drop to his side. He couldn't do it.
He couldn't self-terminate.
Why?
He had killed thousands in his service, what was one more death by his hand?
He wasn't even a real person, he was an expendable asset, that had been used up and thrown away.
He was bred to kill, and to embrace death, to expect it at any time.
But he couldn't do it. He couldn't pull that trigger.
Why not?
What was wrong with him?
He laid down, crying himself to sleep.