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Rex would’ve shut down without his training. The screams and cries, the blood, the acrid scent of burnt and melted plastoid, and the even more acrid scent of damaged bodies beneath it was all around him, inescapable. Men sobbed, or held each other as they died, or watched each other die. Some had run off. Others had collapsed to the ground and refused to get up. Rex wished to be one of them, everything in his being telling him to block out the sounds and the sights and the smells, and to curl up amongst the darkness of Umbara, and wait for death to take him.
He even started contemplating the ways in which it would take him—more friendly fire, enemy fire, General Krell and his lightsaber, dehydration, a vicious beast, his own blaster—but someone calling his name pulled him out of the haze falling in upon him.
Panic and horror and deep regret stabbed his gut anew.
What have I done? What have I done?
His thoughts echoed those of the clones around him; at least, the ones who weren’t dead.
His name was called again, and he spun, eyes wide, taking in all the death and gore beneath the dark canopies of the tree-like flora. Their bioluminescence provided some light, but it was a cold, unforgiving light.
Then, he spotted who was calling him. Boil, and he was holding a bloodied clone to his chest. Rex raced over, and upon falling to his knees before them, hands out in a completely helpless gesture, he saw that the injured clone was Waxer. Blood coated his lips red, and black stained his armor.
Oh Force, oh Force, oh Force!
“Waxer, I’m here!” he assured him, gripping the back of his neck in what was a sturdy, brotherly gesture.
“So… sorry, Rex. So sorry.”
“No, this wasn’t your fault, and it wasn’t mine. Ghost Company, Torrent Company… we didn’t know. We—we were ordered to engage the enemy. Told that they were wearing your armor.”
Waxer’s gaze started drifting.
Boil shook him gently, voice a desperate keening as he begged, “Hey, Lieutenant, stay with me! Stay with me!”
“Sorry,” he murmured, tears in his eyes. “Sorry, sorry.”
“Why did you attack us?”
“Orders. Enemy. Sorry, sorry, sorry…”
Rex leaned in close, made it so that he was the only thing in Waxer’s line of vision.
“Waxer, why?”
“Told the enemy killed you. Took your… armor.”
He groaned, which turned into a choked, shuddering cough. Rex’s heart was breaking watching one of his brothers die, and while he just wanted him to be at peace, he needed to know more.
“Who gave you those orders?” Nothing. “Lieutenant, who gave you those orders!”
Air wheezed in and out of Waxer’s lungs, and blood dribbled up on his lips. Even in the dark, Rex could tell it was the bright red blood from internal organs.
Oh Force, oh kriffing Force!
“Lieutenant.”
“General… Pong… Krell.”
Waxer’s eyes grew distant till nothingness took them. His body went limp. Boil wailed, and, shaking, Rex simply pressed his forehead to Waxer’s, and he held in his tears.
This wasn’t over yet. Rex knew what he had to do, who was wholly responsible for the death and agony around him.
He would have to execute Jedi General Pong Krell for committing high treason against the Grand Army of the Republic.
Finally, Rex pulled back from Waxer and then pulled Boil into a tight hug, but it wasn’t for comfort. The time for comfort had yet to come. It was so the physical touch would bring him back. And it did. Boil thumped him on the back, Rex doing the same.
“Gather all those from Ghost Company who can stand. I’ll do the same with my men.”
Boil nodded after pulling away. “Yes, sir. Um, then what?”
Rex stood, burying the pain, the horror, and he said, “We take out the bastard that did this.”