Dear Reader, Thank you for reviewing the last chapter, MsCT-782, The Unnamed Guest, Guest, Rohirrim Girl, and Sued 13. It means a lot to me. Yes, the last chapter was a bit rough, and this one is rougher. In fact, there is a moment in this chapter that verges on grotesque, but fear not – there are lines I won't cross when it comes to the clones! In response to The Unnamed Guest's question about the rate of my chapter postings, yes, things should pick up again. I would say weekly or every two weeks, tops. The ARC training segment has about 4-5 more chapters. Then it's back to the main storyline of Anakin and Rex. Cheers and happy reading! CS
Chapter 74 Interrogation
"Have you reached your breaking point?"
Breaking Point
Justin Hayward and John Lodge
Commander Cody looked out from his cover among the bushes and scanned the area around the crossroads for any signs of movement. It was just getting light and the rain that had fallen all night had turned to a drizzle. He considered going out for a better look, but something in the back of his mind told him that was only looking for trouble.
It was the morning of day four of the exercise, and Cody did not want to risk getting caught and spending even one day in the compound. He had spent enough days as a prisoner on previous E&E exercises to know that it was something he could definitely live without.
He and his one remaining companion, CT-2876, the Shinie from his own Bravo Squad, had arrived at the rendez-vous yesterday afternoon after a rough-and-tumble flight through the forest with the aggressors hot on their heels. CT-1789 had become separated from them at that time and they'd not seen him since. Cody and 2876 had managed to elude the pursuers at a river where Cody put some of his battlefield experience to use to make a concealed crossing among the reed beds. Arriving at the rendez-vous, they found no one else had made it yet. They had seen the enemy make a few cursory sweeps of the area, but none of the cadre had checked the woods on the far side of the crossroads with any thoroughness. Perhaps it was because they refused to believe that anyone could have made it past them, and so they were still directing their search towards the nearside.
Like most every clone who went through the various E&E training courses, Cody had been captured every time. He'd never made it all the way to the safe zone, and although he was there now, he did not enjoy a very pronounced feeling of security. The manner in which the aggressors were prowling the area made him feel as if he and 2876 might not be granted success even though they had earned it; and so he was wary of announcing their presence.
And so, after surveying the crossroads and the patrolling aggressors for ten minutes, he drew back into the deeper woods with his Shinie.
"I still didn't see any of the others," he announced quietly.
"Do you think we're the only ones left, Commander?"
"It looks that way, doesn't it?"
"So, what do we do? Do we just wait?"
"Normally, I would think we would just show ourselves to the cadre. This is supposed to be the safe zone, meaning the exercise is over for us," Cody replied. "But I don't trust them."
"Don't trust them?"
"I don't trust them not to take us and throw us in the prison camp, even though we're supposed to be safe." A pause. "These guys have a reputation to uphold, and they're not going to be very happy if someone gets past them."
"But there's only one day of the exercise left, Commander," 2876 pointed out. "We should definitely be safe after that."
Cody cast a wry grin at the Shinie. "There are no definites here. I'm sure if they want to extend it, they can."
"That's not very fair."
Cody actually laughed. "You weren't expecting this to be fair, were you?"
CT-2876 colored a bit then asked, "Do you really think the others have all been captured?"
Cody considered for a moment before answering. Truthfully, the one person he'd expected would make it to the safe zone had been CT-7567. His absence could simply mean he'd not made it yet. Or it could be that he had, in fact, been captured. The commander could not pinpoint why, but somehow he knew it was the latter. Rex would have been at the rendez-vous by now. The only reason he wasn't there was because he'd been caught.
"I think it's highly likely," he replied. "I would have expected Rex to beat us here. The fact that he's not here doesn't bode well."
"A very astute observation, Commander," came a distantly familiar voice from the woods behind Cody.
By the time Cody and 2876 had sprung to their feet and turned towards the direction of the voice, the forest had produced more than a dozen armed men. Stepping out into the open, the owner of the voice showed himself to be Captain Skidz.
"We're in the safe zone, Captain," the commander pointed out.
"And for that reason, we aren't going to treat you too roughly," Skidz replied with mock graciousness.
"You aren't supposed to do anything to us," Cody pointed out, knowing that the argument was already lost. "For us, the exercise is supposed to be over. We made it to the safe zone. That means we're rescued."
"It means nothing, Commander." Skidz gave a small laugh. "Actually, what it means is you only have to spend one day in the prison camp." With these words, he gave a nod and stepped back to allow his team to do their job.
Cody was not going to go down without a fight despite being vastly outnumbered. And neither was CT-2876. Even though the advantage was heavily against them, they managed to inflict a broken wrist and bloodied nose on a couple of the aggressors – injuries for which the two captives paid for many times over. When the melee ended, they were bound and blindfolded and led to a waiting speeder truck.
Cody was about to be loaded into the back, when he heard Skidz's voice, "Ready to join your roommate?"
Cody thought about giving a flippant answer, but a moment's consideration stopped him. He would not give Skidz anything to work with. After all, the exercise was almost over. At least, he hoped it was. He could tolerate anything for one more day.
Rex had never been beaten up before. Even as a batcher growing up among boys identical to himself and getting into the sort of scraps as boys normally do—even clone boys living under highly regimented conditions—he had never been worked over like a punching bag. He had usually emerged with a bruise or two to prove that he had indeed been mixing it up; but he had never taken a beating like this. He had never been driven down and, even after defeat, continued to absorb blow after blow.
For the past two, three, maybe four hours – time had ceased to having any meaning after his first visit to the interrogators—he'd been getting the daylights beaten out of him. Not continually and not with the intent of maiming. It was a systematic tearing down of his resistance, of his will.
His captors would torment him for a period of time, usually until their brutality stopped eliciting a reaction. Then they would simply let him lie wherever he was, wait until the first signs of movement, then resume administering punishment.
Rex had no idea how many men were present, but he knew for certain that his two escorts were part of the team. First Escort appeared to be filling the role of regulator and herd-rider, ensuring none of his entourage got too excited in the execution of their duties. Even so, there was no shortage of enthusiasm. Rex had been kicked, punched, dragged, pounded against the ground and walls, beaten with sticks, but always just short of rendering him unconscious. Between bouts as he lay on the ground, sometimes he would be on the brink of drifting off when ghoulish hands would snatch him back into this world where everything was pain.
That was what he was waiting for now.
A drowsiness had settled in his veins as his mind grew sluggish and nonsensical. Yet one prevailing thought pushed through with clarity. What was happening to his squad mates? Where were they right now? Were they being subjected to the same tortures? How were they holding up?
Were they worried about him?
He stopped dead in the middle of that last thought, surprised to find it in his head. That he was worried about the others seemed only natural. That was who he was. He was the sort of leader who always put the welfare of his men ahead of his own. Not that the others were his men. He wasn't the squad leader. But still, it only made sense that he would be worried about them. However, he had never wondered—not in the 729th or at any time that he could recall—whether or not his men ever worried about him. To even entertain such an egocentric notion smacked of self-involvement.
Didn't it?
Was it wrong of him to wonder if his brothers were worried about him and wondering what had happened to him? Was he selfish to hope that his squad mates cared about him beyond their working relationships? Rex had always enjoyed his reputation as a virtually impenetrable strongman, but he cared about his brothers. He always had. He always would. And he realized at that moment, shivering in the air just before dawn, too weak to move and edging ever closer to total defeat at the hands of his captors, that he wanted his brothers to care about him.
This was not something inculcated into the clones at any point during their upbringing. They were taught to value each other as fighting men, almost as a means to an end. The camaraderie they felt was something learned, not natural. Or . . . perhaps that had always been an undercurrent of something genuine, a bond between men created from the same template; but it had been pushed down and buried beneath the apparent necessity of teaching the clones that their ultimate value lay in their ability to fuel the gears of the war effort.
"It won't be much longer."
It was the voice of First Escort.
It took a long moment for Rex to piece together where he was, to draw himself out of the thoughts that had so surprised and consumed him. When he finally found his voice, he was embarrassed by the frailty but not the words.
"Put me with my squad."
"You'll be with them soon."
"I can't take much more of this." The words rolled out unbidden, without preparation. It was the truth, and Rex was desperate to tell it to someone.
"It's almost over." First Escort was speaking quietly, as if he didn't want to be overheard. "Just give them what they want, Lieutenant. Pretend, if you have to. Lie. They're going to keep on you until you give them what they want."
"I don't know what they want."
"They want to break you. That's all they're interested in."
"They have broken me." A short silence ensued before Rex asked, "What day is it?"
"Don't ask me that. I can't answer that. But trust me, it is almost over."
"Can I have some water?"
"Later. They want you back inside now."
"Back to my cell?"
"Back to interrogation."
A pause, then First Escort's voice rose in a shout. "Let's go!"
Rex cried out anxiously, driven beyond the point of caring whether or not anyone heard him. "Don't take me back in there!"
"Shut up."
"Then—will you stay? Stay in the room this time?"
There was a hesitation, then came the reply, spoken with the dismal sound of defeat. "No . . . I can't. I don't want to."
The approach of other footsteps prevented Rex from speaking again, and even First Escort's words were lost on him as he was lifted off the ground and carried bodily from the court yard.
First Escort was gone.
He had followed his instructions, delivering the prisoner to interrogation, depositing him on the ground, then departing with orders to return when called for – no sooner.
At the sound of the door slamming, Rex knew he was alone with Deep and Sweet again, and he tried to focus his mind on what First Escort had said. It was almost over. He could hold on. He had to. What choice did he have? Maybe he would tell them everything they asked for. What difference did it make, anyway? This was only an exercise. An exercise gone wrong, out-of-hand, out-of-control. Why should he extend the suffering by withholding information under contrived circumstances?
His torturers started on him immediately, repeating the punishments of the past two sessions, apparently delighted that they were equally effective the second time around. They asked no questions, and Rex found himself wishing they would. He would have answered anything after five seconds in the ropes.
Instead, he found himself, an hour after having been brought in, still bound up, his head between his knees, with Deep's foot planted in the middle of his back, trying to force him still lower. There was nothing he could do to stop it, and so he did not even attempt a fight as the world began to fade away, growing hazy and indistinct around the edges. And then, just a breath away from blacking out, the ropes were loosened.
Someone was untying him, freeing his arms. The pressure against his back abated, and he sucked in a deep breath that erupted into a fit of coughing. He could hear Deep, busily engaged in removing the ropes and whistling an unfamiliar tune.
As the last coil of rope came off, Deep stopped whistling. "There now, Lieutenant. Ready for a trip to the table? I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve."
"I'm willing to talk," Rex said right away. What he meant was that he was willing to lie in order to postpone any further punishment.
"Oh, you'll talk, all right," Deep replied, then resumed whistling as he hauled Rex to his feet.
Something in the man's voice, in his glib manner, made Rex shudder. First Escort had said they wanted to break him, but Rex had a feeling that by "break", they weren't aiming for the imparting of a few details of the operation; they were aiming for a show of begging, pleading, hysterics.
"I told you I'll talk," Rex said in a controlled voice. "You don't have to torture me anymore."
"Unfortunately, you've established yourself as a liar, Lieutenant," Sweet said with impeccable calm. "Besides, it's our pleasure to torture you."
Rex was placed face down on top of the table, his arms once again tied together underneath, and his ankles placed in shackles. A few seconds later, something struck the back of his legs with a stinging sensation that brought his head up and around.
"Just a Copian Rasp Reed." Deep's voice accompanied the hollow, whooshing sound made by the shoot as it came down again, this time on Rex's back. "Don't worry. It only hurts for a little while, and the inflammation will go away after a few days." A calculated pause. "Provided I don't break the skin. The Copians have given us such wonderful options. They aren't known as the master torturers for nothing."
Within a minute, Rex's back and legs were on fire. And his tormentors gave no indication of slowing. A fever seemed to have infected them with a lust for inflicting pain, and at last, Rex could bear it no longer. The Code of Conduct. Setting the example of resistance. Death before dishonor. Rubbish. All rubbish. Self-preservation had kicked in, and just as Rex was about to launch into a soliloquy that would have outlined in false detail every facet of the operation, the beating was suspended at the sound of a door opening.
There was silence for a moment, then the unmistakable voice of Captain Skidz. "I see you've been going at him." A pause. "Has he talked?"
"Not yet." This was Sweet.
Rex corralled his strength. "I'll talk," he choked out. "I t-told you . . . I'll . . . "
Another long moment during which Rex had the impression Skidz was moving around the table, examining his prize captive and the handiwork of his torturers. "You've both done a good job. Perhaps here . . . and here . . . a little less force next time. But overall, you've done extremely well."
"I know what I'd like to do." This from Deep, and in the next moment, Rex stiffened in horror as he felt the man's hand run over his buttocks.
Captain Skidz spoke with disdainful humor. "Don't be grotesque. We clones don't do that sort of thing."
"Why not? It's one of the most effective ways of getting a prisoner to talk," Deep replied. "And besides, I thought he was your enemy."
"He's not my enemy," Skidz corrected. "He's my rival. There's a big difference." A pause. "And some things cross the line."
"You don't think all of this has crossed the line?" Sweet questioned, but it was clear he was jesting.
"Just continue on."
Rex then heard Sweet's voice, very soft and right against his ear. "Now, listen to me very carefully, Lieutenant. Where is the rendez-vous?"
Rex did not hesitate. "A bridge over the Satchet. Made of stone. 115 East, 80.2 South."
"How many men did you have with you?"
"Thirty." He gave the number of a regular platoon.
"That's very good, Lieutenant," Sweet said, obviously pleased. "Now . . . where is the rendez-vous?"
Rex was not sure he had heard him correctly. He had just answered that question, hadn't he? Maybe he hadn't. Had the pain driven him to confusion? Either way, he wasn't going to take any chances. "A bridge over the Satchet. Made of—"
The reed cracked across his shoulder blades, drawing a startled gasp.
"Where?" Sweet's voice was still soft and laced with false compassion.
Rex faltered, not knowing what to say. Had they not understood him the first time? Or the second?
Another strike.
"Answer me. Where were you supposed to rendez-vous?"
"A bridge . . . " came the wavering response.
"Which bridge?"
"Over the Satchet, 115 east, 80.2 south."
He was struck again.
"Where were you supposed to rendez-vous?"
"I've told you!" Rex burst out. "I've already told you!"
"Where?"
The same question over and over again. The same answer over and over again. The same punishment. Rex could not understand the interrogator's repeated demand for information which he had already provided. But he continued to give the same reply, which by now had become like a recording in his brain. He had a sense that it did not matter anymore.
CT-755 entered the PI staff office at 1550 hours, ten minutes before the start of his shift. The men were pulling 20-hour shifts with an 8-hour rest cycle, Myotta being on a 28-hour rotation. CT-755 had come off shift that morning , nearly three hours after having delivered his prisoner to the interrogation room. He had been expecting the call to go retrieve the lieutenant before going off shift, but the call had never come. He accepted this with his usual resignation and a degree of convincing himself that his superiors knew what they were doing and that no serious harm would come to Compound 88's most coveted prisoner.
CT-755, nicknamed Denal for reasons no one could recall, was a good soldier in every sense. He was not an ARC trooper, but rather one of the many outstanding clones who augmented the ARC cadre. He took his job seriously. He followed orders well, and even better, displayed striking initiative. He was an obeyer of rules, but he knew when and how to bend them, though he never broke them.
That obedience might have been why he was having difficulty reconciling himself to what he'd been seeing the past few days. The punishment being inflicted not only on this particular prisoner, but on the other members of the squad was clearly out of bounds. Denal had worked as aggressor against hundreds of squads, but he'd not been assigned as an individual escort before, and certainly not for anyone such as the man he was now charged with guarding. His experience with other squads going through the training had certainly included rough-housing, accepted forms of physical and mental coercion, and realistic deprivation. But the PI teams had always operated within certain boundaries. This time was different, and he ascribed it to the animosity Captain Skidz held towards CT-7567, a rivalry of which Skidz made no secret.
He checked in on the duty log and stepped in front of the full-length mirror to check his uniform. It wasn't the armor that the clones usually wore, but rather a material uniform designed especially for the PI teams.
"Hey, Denal, the CO wants the lieutenant back in interrogation at 1630," announced CT-6908, a master sergeant, the senior NCO present who was just coming off duty.
Denal nodded with a frown. "I take it that means they didn't break him."
From a locker on the far side of the room, a corporal replied, "Oh, yes, they did. Me and Pearly just went up and brought him back to his snakepit an hour or so ago. Lieutenant 44 was bragging on about how they made him cry like a finsquit—"
"And talk like a Bongo Sayback," added another soldier standing nearby. "You should have heard the LT. He was ecstatic. Tools was pretty over the top, too."
"It was disgusting," the corporal grumbled with a shake of his head. "After everything they did to him, how could they think he wouldn't talk?"
"I don't understand," Denal said blankly. "If they've already broken him, if he's already told them everything, why do they want him back in inter?"
The corporal shrugged. "For fun, I guess."
"You said he's back in his cell? Down in K-Block?"
"Yeah. When was it we brought him back, Pearly? An hour and a half ago?"
"'Bout that, yeah."
"And the CO wants him back in Inter at 1630. Only two hours respite?" Denal turned towards the master sergeant with a questioning look.
"CO's orders."
Denal scowled.
"Don't go looking for trouble, 755," the master sergeant warned. "We all knew this was going to happen when you captured him. We've been hearing about this guy since the first day he came to ARC training. Don't act like we haven't been waiting to test ourselves against him."
"We knew things were going to be tough on him," Denal corrected. "But this osik that they're pulling was never mentioned. If I had known they were going to do this to him, I wouldn't have brought him in."
"You don't really know what they're doing to him. Just let it go. One more day, and it's over anyway."
"But I do know what they're doing. I've seen it with my own eyes, for fek's sake. And when I tried to say something to Tools about it, I got my head bit off. He has no respect for us clones, and I think he gets off on doing this kind of crap. Why did they ever hire a Gipon as an interrogator anyway? The guy doesn't know when he's going too far, and the captain has given him free reign to do as he pleases . . . and the LT is no better. He didn't think my squad was being rough enough with the prisoner, so he sent another squad to help us-"
"He sent 809's squad," supplied a corporal 611, who had been Denal's sideman through the entire exercise, Second Escort. "They were out in the courtyard with us. We practically had to pull them off 7567. They're a brutal bunch, I can tell you."
"Both of you will be walking on thin ice if you don't watch yourselves," the master sergeant warned. "Captain Skidz won't like what you're saying. He's the one giving the orders. All you have to do is obey them."
"I have been obeying. So has 611," Denal replied heatedly. "But we also have consciences." He turned to 611. "Let's go."
The walk to K-Block took about ten minutes, and neither man spoke much. 611 was a brand new corporal and had only been part of the ARC E&E team for a little over four weeks. He still had not gotten used to roughing up his fellow clones, and the idea of striking an officer . . . he could barely bring himself to do it. But even as a relative newcomer, he had seen right away that this squad was not being handled in the manner of previous squads. He himself had spent almost an hour taking part in the beating of the Shinie who had been used as bait to trap CT-7567. He hadn't thought to question why they had ordered such a thing. He imagined it must be to show the prisoners that no matter how much they suffered in training, it was nothing compared to what could be expected as a true prisoner-of-war. Or perhaps it was just to nullify the cockiness of the ARC trainees.
Denal, for his part, would not pass along to either his peers or his subordinates his dissatisfaction and doubt about what was happening. He had informed his chain-of-command of the reservations he was harboring. That was as far as it went. Now, he would carry out his duties, 611 would see him doing it, and that would be that.
They came to K-Block, passed the guards on duty, and went down into the vast underground tunnel system, now housing the camp prison and isolation cells.
CT-7567's snakepit, as they called it, was at the farthest reach of a dead end corridor, removed from all sounds of existence except for that of the water that dripped year round from the ceiling, turning the well-trod ground into a slick, muddy surface.
Denal and 611 approached, as they had numerous times before. Denal crouched down and untied the rope from the iron grate and held it taut as 611 slide the grate aside. Once 611 had reached in and grabbed one of the lieutenant's arms, Denal released the rope and took hold of the other arm.
The first indication that something was wrong was when there was no crying out or groaning as they lifted him out of the pit. There had always been some kind of vocal expression of pain. This time, not a sound came from the prisoner, whose body was limp and flaccid. They laid him on his back on the ground.
"Lieutenant? Are you awake?" Denal asked, hunkering down and gently slapping Rex's cheek.
"Yes," came the emotionless reply. "My back . . . legs . . . hurt."
The two escorts carefully maneuvered him onto his side. Even in the dim light of the tunnel, they could see the welts, swelling and bruising, occasional patches of broken or crushed skin.
"Fek and all, what did they do him?" 611 said under his breath, his eyes growing wide.
"I don't know," Denal replied. "It looks like a . . . whip or cane. Can you move your legs, Lieutenant?"
"Yes." Rex showed them with a feeble bend at the knee. He was beginning to shudder and tremble. "I—need . . . need help."
"I think he's going into shock," 611 stated.
"Thirsty . . . "
"Go get some water," Denal ordered and 611 was off like a Nubane Hare. Denal made a quick examination of his charge's body, finding more indications of abuse, but receiving no coherent response to his inquiries as to what manner of punishment had caused the injuries. One thing he was certain of: CT-7567 had been severely mishandled, and he was not going to permit it to continue.
611 returned with a plasticeen cup of water, which he held to Rex's lips.
Rex took a tremorous sip, spluttered and choked, then lay unmoving on the ground.
"Come on, I'll take his shoulders," Denal ordered. "You take his legs."
They picked him up and began walking.
"Where are we taking him?"
"To the holding cell."
611 almost stopped walking. "But the CO—"
"I'll handle the CO. I'm not taking him back to interrogation. By the Force, 611, look at him. He's had enough," Denal replied heatedly.
611 hesitated a moment. "We're going to get in big trouble."
"I'll take full responsibility. But I'm not taking him back. This has gone on long enough."
"I wasn't saying I'm not in this, Sergeant," 611 replied. "Because I am. But we are going to get in a lot of trouble."
"Then we get in trouble."
They came to the entrance to the main holding area where a single man stood guard over a dozen large cells, though only one was in use at the moment.
"Bringing another one in," Denal announced, then as the guard reached for the grey prison garb, Denal waved him off.
"You don't want him dressed?" the guard asked, perplexed.
"No." Denal's one-word answer did not bring any further questions, and he could already see that the guard was taking in the damage done to the lieutenant's body.
"He looks bad."
"Yeah."
The guard accompanied them to the cell and unlocked the door.
This was the part Denal was not looking forward to. At the sound of their arrival outside the cell, every eye that wasn't blindfolded turned to see who the new arrival was. The guard opened the door, and Denal and 611 entered with their prisoner.
611 kept his eyes averted, but Denal met each and every one of the accusative, horrified stares of the speechless men. He knew their thoughts. It took only one look for them to see that the lieutenant had been abused far beyond the parameters of the training regimen. And that was what Denal had wanted. It was the reasoning behind his refusal of the clothing. He'd wanted them to see what had been done to CT-7567. He'd wanted to get their ire up, get their blood boiling. On the path he was taking, he would need their backing . . .
He wanted to make this part as quick as possible. He and 611 set their prisoner down on his stomach next to the wall on the far side of the cell and placed the iron cuffs around his ankles, leaving his wrists still bound behind his back and the blindfold still covering his eyes. Then they left, without a word having been spoken.
Immediately upon their departure, Wolffe spoke out. "Rex? Rex? CT-7567?"
Silence.
"Can any of you reach him?"
None of them could.
"Fek . . . what did they do to him?" CT-9218 said in barely a whisper.
"Try—try to toss a shirt over him or something," Wolffe ordered CT-1789 who was closest to him.
CT-1789 did his best, managing to get his shirt at least partly across Rex's back. "He's not breathing too well, Commander," he observed.
"Rex? Rex, can you hear me?" Wolffe persisted.
Still no response.
"He looks really bad, Sir," 1789 stated.
Wolffe grit his teeth. There was nothing he could do except call for help, and how likely was it that any help would be forthcoming?
"Just . . . keep an eye on him," he said at last, feeling utterly useless. "Watch to see if he gets any worse."
"Wait out here," Denal said to CT-611. He then opened the door to the interrogation room, stepped inside and closed it behind him. He had expected to see CT-9144 – or Lieutenant 44, as he was known - and Sergeant First Class Tools, the Gipon who oversaw the torture methods, but finding Captain Skidz also present was a mixture of good and bad fortune.
Skidz looked puzzled. "Sergeant Denal? Where's the prisoner? Did you bring him?"
"He's in the holding cell, Sir," Denal replied.
A moment of bewildered silence followed, then Captain Skidz asked, "What's he doing there? We're not finished with him yet."
"I took him there, Sir."
"What in hell did you do that for?"
Denal unconsciously straightened his stance. He was nearly at attention.
"He's done in, Sir. Completely done in. You're not going to be able to get any more out of him, Sir," he replied.
Skidz scowled while the lieutenant shook his head and Tools flashed a look of warning at Denal that the sergeant was overstepping his bounds.
"I'll be the judge of that," the captain said. "Now, go get him and bring him here."
"Sir," Denal said between clenched teeth. "I saw his legs. I saw his back."
Skidz did not miss a beat. "And?"
"And it's too much, Sir. You're disregarding the safety parameters set by the camp commander. You're being too hard on this one officer, and you could get us all in trouble for it."
Captain Skidz waited a few seconds, then asked, "Are you finished?"
Denal had not expected this reaction. "Yes, Sir," he stammered.
"Then let me tell you a few things, Sergeant," the captain began, coming to stand directly before Denal with only centimeters between them. "Colonel Claw knows what we're doing down here. I brief him every day. I've received permission from him to try out some forms of punishment that have been borderline and are now being considered for inclusion in the regimen. CT-7567 has not been seriously injured. He's just playing on your emotions. Second, I hand-picked you to be a member of my team. I got you promoted early. I sent you to the training necessary to fill this job, which is a sergeant first class position, in case you forgot, Staff Sergeant. You've received two commendations because of me. And now you're going to tell me that you disagree with my decisions? You're going to repay me by disobeying my orders?"
Denal did not know what to say. Could it possibly be true that Colonel Claw knew what forbidden activities were being conducted in 88? Denal considered that maybe he had been taking this whole thing too seriously. Maybe the injuries inflicted on members of this squad were not as bad as they looked. Captain Skidz had always been fair and perhaps a bit over-zealous.
"No, Sir," the sergeant replied. "I just think it's too much for him – for CT-7567."
"Believe me, I was a pod mate with CT-7567. He's a lot stronger than you think," Skidz replied. "He's just putting on a good show to make you feel sorry for him."
Denal did not believe this for an instant. He had heard the captain speak disparagingly of CT-7567 before, but the sergeant had never felt it necessary to say anything. There were a lot of rivalries among the clones. He'd considered this to be just one more. But that opinion had changed.
"I need to know I have your loyalty, Sergeant," Skidz went on. "If you think I'm being unfair, then I really don't want you on the team."
"I don't think you're being unfair, Sir."
The captain smiled and nodded. "Very well. Then you and 611 will accompany me down to the holding cell to retrieve the prisoner."
Denal grimaced. "I don't think that's a good idea, Sir." He went on quickly before he could be accused of disloyalty again. "He's with the rest of his squad now. They've seen him and what's been done to him. To take him out of there would be like throwing fuel on a fire. Even if they only think you're taking him away to torture him again, we'll have a riot on our hands when the exercise is over."
"These are ARC troopers in training, Sergeant," Skidz reminded him. "They are the consummate professionals. They're not going to cause a scene." A pause. "But you bring up an interesting possibility." He turned to the Lieutenant 44 and Sergeant First Class Tools. "In the courtyard, when he heard one of his squad mates being tortured, he became angry and begged us not to hurt the others." He was growing excited with his own words. "Why didn't I think of this before? If he's really the man he wants us to think he is, then he won't be able to bear witnessing the torture of his squad mates. He'll crack and tell us everything."
Denal was stunned. "But I—I thought you'd already broken him, that he's already talked."
"Oh, Sergeant, don't be so naïve. Of course, he broke. Of course, he talked. And it was all lies. Every confession was meant to send us in the wrong direction. We knew that as he was pretending to spill his guts," Skidz replied. "Like I said, you don't need to feel sorry for the man. He can make us all look like fools." He then turned to the lieutenant and Tools. "We're going to take your show on the road, gentlemen. Will you kindly accompany me to the holding cell?"
The lieutenant nodded. Tools smiled, "I'd be delighted, Captain."
"And you," Skidz glanced dismissively at Denal, "You and 611 are coming, too. You can prove your worth to me."
Insult mingled with rage beneath Denal's placid exterior. He was beginning to wonder if being worthy of Captain Skidz was anything to be proud of, yet he followed him out of the interrogation room without voicing another word of protest. At least, if he were present, he might be able to temper whatever was about to transpire.
The shock that registered on 611's face when the sergeant and Captain Skidz emerged together from the interrogation room was nothing compared to his complete amazement when he realized they were heading for the holding cell. He dared asked no questions, and there was no opportunity to even cast a curious glance at his sergeant, whom he could tell was irritated and trying to hide it.
Less than fifteen minutes after having left the holding cell, Denal found himself standing again outside its barred door. CT-611 stood in quiet confusion beside him, and in front of them, peering in between the bars at the prisoners staring back at him, Captain Skidz stood with his hands clasped behind his back, assuming the posture of an officer conducting an inspection. An occasional nod as a measure of satisfaction completed his masquerade and gave him the appearance of a bad actor.
Shortly, they were joined by the Lieutenant 44, Tools, and two other soldiers, also members of the interrogation team. Captain Skidz took the keys from the guard on duty and sent the man away; then he looked at Denal with an expression that told the sergeant he was on trial and expected to prove himself.
"Bring him out."
Denal gave no acknowledgment, but with a glance at 611, the two men entered the cell and approached CT-7567.
In the short time since having been brought to the cell, Rex had drifted up from unconsciousness to a sort of stupor where he had no idea where he was and could scarcely recall that he was part of a training exercise. He could hear voices calling out to him, and he recognized his CT number on an almost instinctive level. The name was less compelling, and he seemed to recall that it was only recently bestowed. Not that he had any desire or intention of following the beckoning voices. He was in such pain, with fever and sickness swirling through his veins, that he distinctly preferred to return to the world of oblivion where none of the suffering could follow him.
Being a fighter, Rex did not consider this course of action to be a sign of weakness. In fact, in his estimation, his fight to return to the mercy of senselessness was the only thing that would preserve his sanity. Or, at the very least, his dignity.
No. No, his dignity was gone.
And he was not interested in anything pulling him back into a reality of agony, the cause and purpose of which he could only fleetingly bring to mind. He was content to sleep through the remainder of whatever was going on. Let someone else be the strongman. Let someone else be the rock.
"What are you doing?"
It took Rex a moment to realize it was his own voice asking the question. There was movement around his ankles. Someone was taking off the cuffs.
"The interrogators have some more questions for you."
First Escort!
And suddenly, Rex was unwillingly drawn back into the world he had so desired to flee, snapped into full consciousness. "They're going to torture me again."
"I—don't know."
"But I already told them—told them—"
"Come on, get up."
"I can't walk," Rex choked out.
"We'll carry you." With these words, his wrists were freed and one arm went over the shoulders of each escort.
They had gone only a few steps when another voice spoke, restrained against the undercurrent of rage. "Can't you take someone else?"
Rex thought he recognized in the inflection, Commander Wolffe's voice. But what was the commander doing here? And where was here? Reality and delusion were becoming intertwined. Everything had gone awry. What man in his right mind would give himself over for torture?
Captain Skidz's voice rose in reply. "Are you volunteering to take his place, Commander?"
"Yes," came the unhesitating response.
"You can take me, too." That voice was definitely CT-5052. The ever-present sneer was always distinctive.
"We're all willing to take his place," Wolffe asserted.
Captain Skidz grinned. They were playing right into his hands.
"No," Rex gurgled, unaware that he was now standing on legs that, seconds earlier had been too weak and too painful to bear his weight. "That's an order – all of you."
Skidz chuckled. "A lieutenant giving orders to a commander? That is entertaining. But unfortunately, you're not in charge here, Lieutenant. And neither is the commander. But I rather like his idea. You don't seem to take much account of your own suffering, but maybe seeing your squad mates being tortured will make you a bit more willing to cooperate." He turned to Denal. "Take off his blindfold."
After two days of being in a non-seeing world, Rex opened his eyes onto the darkness of the prison cell. Both eyes were swollen from the beatings he had taken, and, in fact, he could not open his left eye at all. The light in the underground prison was negligible, but what Rex could make out through his blurred vision was enough to bring the bile up his throat.
His squad mates, bruised and disheveled, all of them chained by their ankles, two still bound and blindfolded, the others staring at him with expressions that Rex could not quite discern. He didn't see Cody among them . . . and it seemed someone else was missing. They were probably being tortured at that very moment.
"Choose one." Captain Skidz voice fell flat in the midst of the smoldering silence.
Rex turned a cold and impassive countenance towards Skidz and said nothing.
"They're your squad mates. Choose one," Skidz repeated.
The tension-filled standoff between the two men ended with Rex staring directly into the challenging eyes of this man whom he'd not seen in months, whom he had hardly spared a thought for since entering active duty, but who had obviously thought about him a great deal.
"I won't."
Skidz shrugged carelessly. "Then I'll choose one for you." He took several steps forward and began looking over the prisoners. At last, he stopped in front of CT-2303, the very same Shinie whom Rex had found in the pit. He nodded to the LT and Tools who hastened over to unchain 2303's ankles and haul him to his feet.
"Yes, I think you'll do very well. " Skidz nodded to Tools, who, with shocking speed, slammed the heel of his hand into 2303's chin, snapping the Shinie's head back and into the wall.
The last tattered threads of Rex's self-control unraveled in that moment. Rage-induced adrenaline overtook rational thought as he broke from the loose hold his two escorts had on him and threw himself at Tools, knocking the Gipon down and hitting him repeatedly before Captain Skidz elbow-locked him around the throat and jerked him off his perch on Tools' chest.
Rex took a step back, reached up with both arms, and threw the captain to the ground with a violence that bordered on maniacal. A blindness obscured his vision, a blindness completely different from that in which he had been imprisoned the past two days. What vicious part of him, always so well-contained and regulated within the limits of civility, was showing its savage face? Fury alone guided his actions. He pummeled the body beneath him, heedless of everything except his own hatred and a vague sense of grief.
No one moved to intervene. No one made a sound. Somehow, it seemed fitting, this fight between two rivals.
From his place by the cell door, Denal watched in fascination as CT-7567, who only minutes earlier, had not even been able to hold his own weight, inflicted revenge on the officer who had ordered the torture of him and his squad mates. There was something surpassing belligerency in this contest. A warlike hostility had taken insidious hold of both men; yet Captain Skidz was no match for CT-7567. The driving powers of vengeance and sheer, unadulterated rage fueled the latter's attack; and within a few minutes, Captain Skidz was shouting for help.
It was Denal, with CT-611 leaping to follow, who first stepped forward. They took hold of Rex's arms and fought to pull him off of their own captain.
"Stop fighting, Lieutenant!" Denal hissed into his prisoner's ear. "Take it easy!"
"You don't touch them!" Rex screamed, only now realizing that he'd been shouting these words for some time. "You don't touch them! They're my soldiers!"
Rex's squad mates looked on in amazement. They could hardly believe this was the same cocky, arrogant, egocentric man they had seen throughout the earlier phases of training. Something about this strange moment of strength and breakdown brought Rex's humanity into view with greater clarity than anything that had gone before.
He wasn't an army unto himself. He did need his brothers. Needed them in a way even he had not recognized. It was a moment none of them would ever forget. And it was a moment they would never see again.
Captain Skidz, wiping the blood from his lip, got to his feet and came to stand in front of Rex. His voice shook as his spoke. "You . . . will never be . . . an ARC trooper."
"I don't fekking care," Rex ground out. "But you'll always be a coward."
Skidz drew back his fist, at which Denal and 611 both released their grip on the prisoner. Before the blow could be delivered, Rex lunged towards Skidz, wrapping his arms around his waist and driving him down. Tools sprang forward, directed a double-fisted blow into Rex's side, knocking him off of the captain; and finishing with an elbow to the back of the head, he dropped Rex like a stone to ground.
Immediately, Denal knelt down beside Rex, made a quick check, then without even trying to conceal his anger, glared up at Tools. "Why did you do that?!" he demanded. "You know that isn't permitted!"
"Don't tell me how to do my job, Staff Sergeant," Tools snarled in return. "You were going to sit there and let him kill the captain."
"He's unconscious!"
Captain Skidz got to his feet and held the back of his hand to his lip. Still bloodied. "Enough of this. Let's go."
As he turned to leave, he heard a voice behind him.
It was Commander Wolffe. "Wait! You can't leave him like that!"
"Be grateful I'm not leaving him in much worse condition," Skidz replied, then he exited the cell, taking his soldiers with him.
NOTE: Yes, Rex is going through the wringer, but if you'll recall, the Rex who arrives at ARC training is not quite the Rex we see in the series. He's a bit more jovial and wild than the Rex of the series. Yet, to my mind, the series-Rex still has a certain degree of easiness and cockiness about him, but we only see it rarely. I wanted to create a scenario that would result in the Rex we see in the series, how he came to be that officer. This is the first step in that process, from my storyline. Of course, once Anakin joins the picture, we see how much he shapes the soldier that Rex becomes. Thanks for indulging my vision!