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Pebbles are still settling on the cracked floor. The explosion shattered two shear walls into pieces, effectively bringing the roof and the better half of the house down. With the electrical wiring no longer functional, most of the lighting comes from the moon shining through the hole in the ceiling, which turns the pile of shadows across from Rex into a grotesque sight: corpses, disfigured and dismembered.
The intact segment of a wall holds his back up. He turns his head to the side, resting it weakly on the cold bricks; the luxurious wallpaper that once decorated this room is completely charred. Though they tried to defend the place, it was a fruitless effort.
Part of his chest plate is bent inwards above his utility belt, lodged like a stone into his side, underneath his ribs. It presses on his liver and diaphragm painfully and doesn’t let his lungs expand properly, keeping his breath superficial and his anxiety on the rise.
For years he trained for this. The final moment.
He just thought death would be quicker.
Other members of his squad lay limp on the floor, a little ways away, buried under the rubble. A puddle of blood marks the outline of their bodies.
Rex squeezes his eyes tight in anguish. With every mission, the numbers of the 212th keep dwindling, and though the Republic brings forth replacements for the dead, the men Rex has stepped into the world with are fewer and fewer. The friends he has made in this unlikely, unfriendly place are slowly, but surely returning one by one to the anonymity of the rolling waves.
Staring at the dead body of his squad leader, Rex loses track of time for a short while. The feeling in his limbs returns bit by bit until the only issue is his chest plate, which has fortunately not pierced through his undersuit yet. The bruising will surely be massive, but manageable if he makes it out alive.
He should get up and check for survivors.
Just as he is about to move, he hears footsteps.
At least two dozen people are rushing outside; beyond the collective stampede of their shoes, there are only faint, muffled cries and hushed whispers streaming through the walls in between them. A mix of fear and relief.
One voice exclaims a word of gratitude, sparking Rex back into motion.
Have reinforcements arrived?
Rex wrestles himself to his knees, fighting through the exhaustion and soreness in his body. Each movement of his arms and legs is graceless and stilted, but they are moving, and he drives his fist into the floor to push himself back up.
More footsteps.
A single person, heading his way.
Gasping, he reaches for his blaster—he has only one left, the second lost sometime during the battle—and grips it tightly in his left hand. A precaution.
He turns to the entrance and waits.
Several large beams and rocks block half of it. A shadow appears on the other side—the silhouette of a man hidden underneath a heavy cloak. He stops there.
General Kenobi?
Rex jolts, heart swelling with hope, but the feeling dies down swiftly when he realizes this man seems much taller than the general. In fact, this man has a different presence altogether. Even with the rocks in the way giving Rex a fragmented view of the newcomer, he is a chilling, foreboding sight—darkness swallows him whole, inviting Rex to stare in abject terror, as closing his eyes would only deepen the void and the fear.
Could it be the Separatist leading the attack? Is this the so-called Invader of the Outer Rim that they have all been warned about?
It’s just a man, Rex realizes. He won’t get in here.
A second later, as though the universe is bent on proving him wrong right away, the obstacles blocking the door frame shake, break apart from each other, and hovering in the air gently, settle to the sides of the entrance.
This is no Jedi, but the powers are most certainly of the same nature.
The man enters—he is most certainly no Jedi Rex has ever seen. Noticing the blood-stained armour of a trooper lying by his feet, he stops, sighs, then crouches beside the cadaver and places his left hand on the trooper’s neck.
Rex holds his breath. Maybe—maybe he’s still…
But the Separatist stands back up, tenser than when he entered, and steps over the body without sparing it another glance. He stops beside the pile of human bodies next, silent, his whole body ramrod straight, full of anger, with only his head bowed down.
He takes out his weapon—a lightsaber—and powers it up, shining its bleeding red light over his victims.
I trained for this too, Rex thinks harshly. I have. I have. I have trained for this.
The words turn into a jumbled mantra inside his head while his hand moves on autopilot, taking aim at the enemy’s back. They were trained against a multitude of enemies back on Kamino to make sure they could handle anyone, including rogue Jedi—you may never know where betrayal comes from, after all. Lucky for Rex that the enemy shares this power.
Unfortunately, the enemy may not be as restricted with their power usage as the Jedi.
The seconds pass while he strains to come to a decision. If he is silent, he may live, but what information has he gathered? There is nothing concrete he could gauge from this individual. By itself, the existence of the Invader has never been in doubt. What will Rex bring back, except his sorry, expendable self?
No.
He is a phenomenal marksman. He has to try and end this before his cover is blown.
Whatever is keeping the man lost in thought, it makes for the greatest window of opportunity any of the troopers are ever going to get, and Rex would be a fool to let it go past.
He takes a moment to aim.
Another moment to calm his shallow breath.
Then,
he pulls the trigger.
Bang!
The recoil sends his shoulder smacking into the wall. There is little strength left in his body to focus on every little thing when most of his attention he is pouring into managing the stabbing pain under his ribs. It’s done, though. There is no way he mis—
—he missed.
Rex hesitates for one split of a second before firing continuously, shot after shot until his blaster overheats and jams entirely.
The man parries effortlessly, swinging his lightsaber with such precision and wrath that the air itself seems thicker and heavier around them. He turns to Rex, revealing a square, harried face. A face you could even call beautiful if there was such a thing as beauty in rage. On his left cheek, close to the sharp angle of his jaw, an angry red line marks the place Rex's first shot grazed him.
He barely flicks his hand and Rex's blaster flies out of his hand, all the way across the room.
With only the moonlight highlighting the outline of his cloak and the lightsaber lighting up his face from the other side, he seems like a spectral being half-fading into the night. He steps heavily, but unhurriedly toward Rex, hands coming in front of him as he does, parting the fabric to reveal a set of violet robes. Red accents outline the inside of his sleeves, briefly distracting Rex from his terrible glare with their poignant, striking shade hidden among the many layers of his outfit.
"Do you think you can take me on, trooper?" the man asks coldly, clenching his fist.
At once, an invisible weight settles around Rex’s throat, on the verge of cutting off his blood supply. His hands fly to his throat, but there is nothing to grasp there, no matter how hard he pulls at the collar of his undersuit. On his helmet screen, the tiny heart by his vitals is beating so fast it almost appears to be still.
"I—I le—I left," Rex gasps, his voice rough and laced with pain, "a… a mark."
The man tilts his head to the side; up-close, he has the eyes of a sleepless man, red-rimmed and exhausted. He touches the area next to his cheek pensively, wincing slightly when his fingers brush over the inflamed edge of the wound.
How could Rex have missed? Could this man have leaned back just in time?
The Jedi do possess great intuition.
Again, Rex wavers in the face of an enemy so similar to the people he is meant to serve and defend.
The pressure around his throat grows, leaving him choking audibly for breath, then it vanishes as suddenly as it appeared.
He heaves and falls backward on the floor.
"You did," says the man. His lips curl slightly with interest—perhaps a hint of amusement—as he looks down at Rex.
The words fall over Rex like a threat. A promise for retaliation: You drew blood. Now it's my turn. However, the man doesn’t try to choke him anymore. Instead, he steps even closer, until his robes fill Rex’s vision and Rex has to tilt his head back to glimpse his face.
(He doesn’t want to, but he will not give the enemy the satisfaction of seeing his head bent down.)
The Separatist is so young. The only blemishes on his face are a larger scar cutting down his temple near his right eye and, courtesy of Rex, a second one, freshly burned by his blaster. If Rex had met this man under any other circumstances, he might have been fooled by his visage and listened to him without knowing any better.
"I’ve killed people for less than that," the Separatist drawls, more to himself than to Rex.
What are you waiting for then? Rex wants to ask, but he cannot bring himself to speak just yet.
Coldness gathers around his body. At first, it is a contained breeze, like standing between two open windows, and then it becomes like ice itself, frozen around him, holding him immobilized.
The man bends down and touches the edge of Rex's helmet, slowly working it over his head. The feel of the Force around Rex is on the verge of suffocating, and as he tries in vain to budge, he discovers there are ways to be claustrophobic even out in the open, even when the eye does not perceive the cage the body is held in.
Comfort comes short-lived in the fresh air caressing his skin, once his helmet is completely removed. Seconds later, it is a layer of unbearable frost.
He exhales shakily.
This is the enemy and the enemy wields powerful forces, but this is just a man.
Just a man.
What is there to be afraid of anymore, when he has done all he could?
Nothing in this situation is under his control.
His eyebrows furrow, his eyes harden, and he looks up at the man with fire in his glare. If he dies here, let it not be a defeat.
There is one sacred, unbroken thing that remains when even hope burns out and that thing is integrity.
As he comes eye to eye with the Separatist, a chill travels down his spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.
The man's yellow irises are visible in full, his eyes wide with intensity and self-assurance as he studies Rex’s face.
A few seconds pass, Rex becoming as mentally unmoved in his newfound conviction as he is physically trapped by the Force.
Then,
the Separatist's expression softens into one of confusion. The eyebrows slant the other way around, going up on his forehead, and his pouting mouth falls slack, lips almost parted in surprise.
"Blonde hair?" he asks.
"What?"
"Just—unexpected," he explains, as though they are having a casual, friendly conversation. "You stand out."
Flustered by the remark, Rex clears his throat and says, "It was going to be blue."
"I like blue." After a slight pause, he adds, "I think I like yellow more. Are you injured?
"What?"
"You are. Stand still."
The Separatist looks intently at his chest plate, then holds out his fingers as though he is pulling a great weight toward himself.
Pressure builds between Rex’s skin and the armour, then the sheet of duraplast snaps back into its original shape, letting him breathe freely.
Rex gasps and coughs, full of relief. The preternatural magic lifts too, letting him catch his breath properly, at his own pace.
"Tell me your name, trooper." The man’s eyes drift to the pauldron decorating Rex’s left shoulder, and he cracks a friendly smile. "ARC trooper."
Rex decidedly does not. Instead, he says, "You are Skywalker."
"And you are…?"
"You are the one wreaking havoc in the Outer Rim—"
"Answer me," Skywalker demands.
"—taking over Hutt space. A bloodbath, trailing from Tatooine to Nal Hutta, and beyond."
"Not all of them have slighted me personally," Skywalker admits haughtily, looking to the side, "but many others have suffered under their hands. I am avenging them tenfold."
"Avenging?" Rex parrots back before he can stop himself. What did the butchered family behind him do to deserve death?
Children lay among the wastes. He doesn’t have to search long for proof: where the moonlight falls brightest, a tiny hand rests limply over the edge of a frilly, colourful piece of clothing.
"They were slavers!" Skywalker exclaims.
"You slaughter innocents!" Rex cries back.
Skywalker breathes out a short, clipped laugh. All the exhaustion in his eyes disappears in an instant, replaced by an energized, manic look that has Rex scrambling backwards, expecting death to follow shortly after.
"Nobody is innocent here! What do you think they would have become in the future? I am dealing with the root of the problem."
"You cannot be the judge of that," Rex argues. "How do you know?"
"What do you know? You’re a pawn of the Republic." He stands back up and folds his arms across his chest languidly. "I am doing this for you too, after all."
Rex looks to the dead bodies of his comrades-in-arms instead of replying.
Skywalker follows his line of sight and clicks his mouth in disgruntlement.
"I am," he insists, "but I am not sparing any of you who take their side. Besides, between the two of us, which one has the living, breathing army, and which the cost-efficient, low-impact droids that do not shed blood whatsoever?"
Rex holds onto his anger as tightly as he can. The inkling of doubt appears on the periphery of his mind, like a tiny voice whispering, Do you remember when your brothers traded their lives trying to capture a Separatist outpost on Ryloth? A brother in exchange for scrap metal. Another brother. And another. What was the point of that?
And another whispers, How many of your batch-mates are still alive, CT-7567?
And another, Isn’t your helmet a little too full of tally marks, CT-7567?
Should he linger any longer on the thought, there will be more and more details resurfacing. Details he noticed on the field, but did not question in full because surely the generals know what they’re doing, right? The Senate knows what it’s doing. They wouldn’t waste their lives for nothing.
While the man calms the thunderous look in his eyes, Rex fights back his growing uncertainty.
The Republic tried that Fett kid and sent him to jail, even though he is the only one left untouched out of them all. From brother to brother, half-whispered rumours reached Rex like a second mourning after the passing of Jango Fett. A veiled obituary for the son that will never be the same.
‘Pawns,’ Skywalker called them, but can Rex dispute such a claim? What is left for the clones, if they are not even citizens of the Republic?
"Then why do they call you the Invader?" Rex asks quietly. His voice sounds alien to him, almost a shock to hear it in the morbid silence between them.
"I do not invade. I liberate," Skywalker insists.
"What I heard is that you keep slaves under your name."
"No! That’s a lie!"
"You kill slavers and take their lands and their possessions, living or not," Rex says.
"I free them," he argues passionately, talking so fast that he almost trips over his words. "I free them and give them sanctuary. They are not slaves anymore."
"It seems to me like they are merely changing one master for another."
"No!" he bellows, hoisting Rex to his feet. "You’re wrong. You—"
After letting out a harrowing breath, Skywalker falls silent for several seconds, staring at him blankly. Then, as if putting on a mask, he closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them, he takes one step backward with utmost dignity.
Confused by this turn of events, Rex takes a step backward too until he is flush against the wall. His knees wobble under him, but they still hold him upright.
He has a knife in his right boot he could use if he finds an opening. All this talk of slavery and the Republic has jumbled his thoughts completely; he struggles to get back on track to his purpose here and to his training and discipline. While half of him visualizes a plan of attack—grabbing the knife and stabbing the man in the gut, with the risk of dying in the process—the other half wonders just what his brothers really mean for the Republic.
No, Rex thinks desperately, no, he can’t be right. He’s killing people.
Was the group of people he heard minutes ago the indentured servants of this house, fleeing to safety? Thanking this man?
He shivers from head to toe.
It wasn’t the Republic regaining control of the area at all.
Skywalker watches him with pity.
Rex’s blood boils at the sight.
"You can’t see it yet, can you?" Skywalker sighs. "Come with me and I’ll show you. There can be peace, freedom, and security in the Outer Rim too, not just in your wretched ‘center of civilization.’"
"There is nothing to see," Rex replies coolly. "Kill me. End this charade."
"I think I will let you live, so you may tell them who I am. You tell the Chancellor every day he seals alliances with worlds like Kamino, it is another day I am closer to sealing his fate with this—" He brandishes his lightsaber, lighting it up right in front of Rex’s face.
Rex grabs onto his wrist at once, keeping the saber away from his face. White spots dance in front of his eyes from the sudden onslaught of light. Once his vision adjusts, he finds Skywalker’s face bathed in red, morbidly alluring, and smacks him away.
"You are so stubborn," Skywalker grumbles. "The Republic is wasting you."
"I would rather be wasted by good than exploited by evil."
"Ser, you are unexpectedly hard to reason with." He powers down his weapon and clips it back to his belt.
"Why are you so stubborn?" Rex snaps. "I’m nobody."
"No, you’re not."
The words flow as they did before, the same passionate denial bordering on delusion, and it fools Rex for a second, but then Skywalker repeats himself with genuine conviction, giving Rex’s shoulders one, good shake, and the message registers in full.
"No, you’re not."
Why is he so invested in this, after killing so many of Rex’s brothers tonight?
"Did my brothers not deserve this same courtesy? Did they not deserve to be asked their names before you sliced them in half?" He pushes Skywalker’s fists away from him.
Skywalker goes backward willingly.
"I had to defend myself. They forced my hand," he confesses. "I would much prefer the Jedi to face me directly, but they are cowards, hiding behind you."
"You would never win against a Jedi. General Kenobi alone would be enough to put an end to your evil."
"Do not underestimate me. I have no fear. In fact," —he advances on Rex again— "the only fear I sense here is yours. You hesitate."
He is so close—Rex may not get a better chance.
With only his experience guiding him, he blindly reaches for the knife and aims it straight to Skywalker’s chest.
Skywalker reacts at once, grabbing it directly by the blade. A loud, high-pitched clank rings out between them, the sound of two metals clashing against each other.
"Not quite what I meant," Skywalker grunts, twisting the blade in his hand—a prosthesis—until Rex cries out in pain and drops the knife to the floor.
(Another weapon out of reach.)
"Think about it, trooper," he whispers in Rex’s ear, filling his senses with the smell of ash. "Not all orders should be followed."
The forces of the universe gather around his neck again, offering no reprieve this time. Rex tries to fight him back, but his vision soon blurs and darkens as the lack of oxygen affects his brain, and Skywalker easily ignores the weak protests of his hands batting against his chest.
Skywalker means it this time.
The last words Rex hears are spoken forlornly—
"I’m giving you the choice they are afraid to offer."
—then darkness takes over.
Rex wakes to dim chatter and bright light. He brings his forearm over his eyes, but instead of duraplast, it is soft fabric touching his brows and the bridge of his nose.
The voices are familiar too.
He sits up, confused.
He's on a makeshift bed in a military tent, dressed down in a simple, medical gown. There are two dozen clones inside, some of them lying unconscious on the other beds, some chatting quietly among each other in small groups.
"Rex!"
Commander Cody himself is here. He walks to his bedside as soon as he notices Rex is awake, glaring intently at him.
Rex hastily sits up to salute the commander, only to gasp at the sudden stabbing pain that cuts through his middle.
"Well done," the commander says gruffly, in great contrast to his expression. "Don’t move so abruptly. You’re injured."
"...thank you, sir," Rex replies gravelly. He has no clue whatever he is being congratulated for, but Commander Cody does not dish out unwarranted praise, so there must be a reason.
The commander nods resolutely then leaves to attend to more pressing matters than Rex.
Another trooper stops by his bed, his head wrapped thoroughly in bandages. The paint on his forehead isn’t visible but this is none other than Fives, fighting down a big smile at the sight of Rex.
"Thank you," Fives says.
"Why are you thanking me? What's going on?" Rex whispers behind his hand.
Fives pats him over the shoulder brightly. "You dug five of us out of the rubble and took us to the outskirts of the town. Must've been exhausting. I heard—" He leans in, grinning from ear to ear like a tooka. "—that they are finally thinking of giving you that promotion."
"A..."
Fives nods eagerly. "Captain Rex—sounds pretty cool, doesn't it, sir?"
Rex stares blankly at him. He did… what?
"You should get some rest, you still look pretty out of it," Fives says. "We can celebrate later."
Offering Rex a tiny salute, Fives too departs, leaving him in partial solitude again. Other troopers are looking his way, nodding respectfully when they make eye contact with Rex, but no one else approaches him in the next couple dozen minutes.
Rex lies back down on the bed, bewildered. The bewilderment is not entirely genuine, as he is starkly aware of what transpired before he lost consciousness. It wasn’t him checking for survivors and it certainly wasn’t him able to repeatedly carry so many of them over long distances. That leaves a single other presence as the culprit, and Rex isn’t sure how he feels about this bit of knowledge.
Thus, he is bewildered.
All that’s left now is to sort out his thoughts and figure out how precisely he is going to phrase his report.
Skywalker zeroed in on his hesitation like a predatory bird, but that isn’t the worst of it. The worst of it is that the alarm Rex feels isn’t related to the enemy, but it is, instead, related to his own brothers.