Chapter Text
From the moment he stepped onto the drop ships leaving The Resolute, Rex has been feeling an increasing sense of dread curling around his stomach. This planet, in many ways, is too similar to Kamino for comfort. A churning grey ocean stretches out beyond the horizon line, and he immediately knows that to fall in is to be lost—it’s too old, too vast. The whole planet looks dreary. Large grey towers rise resolutely out of the waves, shifting and swaying against the swells of water. They whine and groan against the onslaught, sounding distressed enough to fall apart.
If today’s mission is successful, the ocean will get its wish.
Whatever is on this planet, it was clearly important to the Separatists, considering how much has been invested on volatile experimental` infrastructure and protection for a planet outside their secured sphere of influence. Explosions pop around them like fireworks, and Rex prays that his brothers in the air and on The Resolute win their day. After all, there is nowhere to run if they get stranded here.
That was assuming this assignment isn’t a one-way-ticket to the afterlife. From the get-go, this mission has been a shit-show. Droids seem to grow out of the rig itself, heavy fire greeting the small drop team of himself, Anakin, Fives, and Jesse. Heavy rain hazes through the air, helping to hide the droids and making his footing precarious. One small misstep, and Rex will be in the ocean quicker than he can curse. As Fives and Jesse drag themselves through to the underbelly of the rig to set charges, Rex and the General distract the droids and draw them up on deck.
Beside him, Anakin is steadily chucking droids into the ocean, a grin on his face as he dances around the wet platform. How the General can be so calm and collected, he isn’t sure. Even now, his heart is racing with the familiar thrum of adrenaline. This has to be in the top ten missions where Rex thinks it will be over any second—a droid will learn to aim, the charges blow early, the drop ship never arrives, the ocean reaches up and pulls him into its depths—
He never fears death until it gets too close, the way a child doesn’t fear the dark until the sun sets.
Shaking his head, Rex forces his focus back on the battle raging around him. “Jesse, what’s the situation downstairs?” A red bolt sizzles past his shoulder, and he jerks back with a curse, raising his own blaster to send a shot cleanly through the droid’s servos. He almost loses himself in the motion of ducking and weaving around blaster bolts, his DC’s returning each shot in kind, but with truer aim. It’s moments like these, with an ache in his wrists, the pounding of the rain against his bucket, the trembling of his senses, when he realizes they are all very human. Death is so close he could reach out and touch it.
The comm buzzes with static before Fives answers with a grunt. “Just dandy, Cap. You should come enjoy the view down here,” the sound of blaster fire rings through the comm, and Fives curses. “The charges are almost set, but Jess and I are pinned three levels down.”
“I’m calling the drop ship for rendezvous. Rex, you go get the boys, I’ll hold the line up here,” Anakin levels the Captain with a big grin and a thumbs up. Rex is not nearly as confident as his General in this plan, but he doesn’t see many alternatives. He swears to the Force, if Anakin gets himself shot or otherwise blown off the rig before evac, Rex is going to help Kix enforce whatever bedrest the General gets assigned after Rex drags his stupid Jetti ass to safety.
As Rex forces his way into the rig, the clanging machinery quickly drowns out the sound of droids marching. If it weren’t for the fact that he had two brothers to save, Rex would turn around. All his instincts are screaming at him that his movements are potentially suicidal. Unsafe. Unsafe. unsafe.
Rex tightened his grip around his blasters.
“Jesse, Fives, give me your current position,” Rex twists behind a crate just before a volley of red bolts flew where his head had been. A quick glance told him it was a squad of three—no, five, droids. Typically not a problem, but Rex didn’t want to shoot some delicate machine and blow up the whole rig. The droids did not share this same concern.
“It’s that clone! Get him! Get him!” The creaky voice of what must be a sergeant droid sounds out behind him. Almost too late, Rex whips around, seeing another squad of five droids directly behind him. Kriff, Rex is good, but not shoot-ten-droids-while-sandwitched-in-between-them-with-sub-optimal-shelter good.
Something inside him wants to laugh. And he had been so worried about the General.
“Rex, heads up. A group of clankers just left the platform, possibly headed your way,” Oh, so now Skywalker informs him. Helpful.
“Noted, General,” Rex tells him wryly.
Thankfully, the droid’s aim has not improved in the last few standard minutes, and three manage to take each other out right off the bat. Staying crouched low, Rex focuses on the group not blocked by the crates. Two shots, two down, two to go. The remaining two lay down a spray of bolts that force him out from behind the crates. Kriff.
He needs to get himself out of this position. Two shots and the last group of droids from behind him are down. Now, he can focus on the remaining four. There is no good shelter down here. No strategic corners, no crates besides the ones he’s too far from. Rex grits his teeth and prepares to pull a Skywalker-level reckless stunt.
He charges forward.
The droids beep in panic, momentarily forgetting to fire. Like clones, droids are programmed to process the most strategic route someone can take and counteract it. By charging forward, Rex is throwing all that to hell. It gives him a second to fire two more shots. One goes down, the second only receiving a grazing wound. Kriff, Rex can’t afford to be sloppy like that.
The droids’ servos reboot and begin to fire. Ducking behind one, Rex lets the other two shoot it apart for him. Unfortunately, a single bolt glances off the droid’s arm and slams into the area just above his hip. Rex grunts and drops to his knees. Waves of hot pain travel up his left side. Kriff kriffity kriff. On wild instinct, Rex shoots at the two remaining droids. It takes too many shots for them to go down in pieces. The desire to keep shooting is trembling inside him.
“Captain, what’s your status?” Five’s voice is loud in his helmet. Rex takes a deep breath and wills any sign of pain away from his voice.
“Found Skywalker’s clankers and a few buddies of theirs. Continuing my way down now. You can say hi to the scraps on the way back up.” Gingerly, Rex pokes at the hole in his armor. The shot was a lucky one on the droid’s part; the armor shattered upon impact, lodging a few shards of plastoid deep into his skin. There’s probably extensive bruising and maybe a burn as well, but Rex figures that it’s a problem for the medics once he gets back home. Or, if its’ not too bad, it’s a problem for him and the small medkit in his quarters. Rex is personally hoping it will be option number two. He does not need Kix hovering over him any more than usual.
With a few measured breaths, Rex shifts his Kama so it hides the hole in his armor. His next few steps are more of a pathetic stagger, but by the time he reaches the stairs he’s figured out the best way to distribute his weight to hide any limping.
The second level is practically empty; Rex figures any droids on the rig have been called up to the platform to deal with Skywalker, or down to the third to deal with Jesse and Fives. He’s not one to complain. His hip is throbbing and sending stabbing pains up his side with all the hatred of the Sith. The trip back up to the platform is already beginning to feel daunting, and he still has another level down to go.
“Jesse, Fives, I hope you aren’t leaving all the work for me down there,” Rex uses the stairwell railing as a crutch, hobbling down the stairs as quickly as he can. Even from here, he can hear the sound of blasters firing. They are very lucky the brainless droids haven’t hit something explosive.
“Ah Cap, we want you to have at least some of the fun,” Jesse grunts and curses over the comm. Rex picked up his pace. The hydraulics of multiple machines and the report of blaster fire is achingly loud. Rex spots the familiar white and blue of his brothers hiding behind a column as they take turns shooting at a sea of droids. Piles of scraps litter the floor, but there has to be at least fifteen left. The Force must be with them indeed; the way the clankers are firing, they should have all been blown sky high. From his own corner by the stairwell, Rex takes aim.
“Hurry up boys, our ride is almost here!” Skywalker cheers over the comms.
“Aye sir!” Fives chirps as he shoots a droid in the head. Sandwiched between the three of them, fifteen droids is almost nothing. Especially when the droids don’t notice Rex until their numbers have been halved.
“Cap, I could kiss you!” Fives gets too close, and Rex puts a firm hand on his bucket.
“Thank me later, we have a rig to blow. You boys go ahead, I got rearguard,” Rex gestures Fives and Jesse in front of him. He’s sure his brothers exchange looks with each other. Rex always takes point. Always. But in this case, he’s not sure he can move quickly and hide his limping. Thankfully, his brothers don’t argue. They don’t have time to.
A loud, shrill beeping sounds throughout the room. Fives curses “We’re on borrowed time boys, three minutes till this rig is blown to the Sith’s favorite hell.” They start running. Hot pain is searing up and down Rex’s entire left side. It takes every trick he knows to keep his legs moving.
As they move up the levels, Jesse lets out a whistle. “Damn Cap, having a field day with the clankers, were we?”
“All in a day’s work boys. Now keep it moving.” They break onto the platform as their airship arrives. It’s hovering just off the edge of the platform, ready for a quick get-away. The firefight in the sky is still in full swing.
Anakin is gesturing to them from the airship. A few droids still remain on the platform, trying to shoot at their ride. The General is doing his part to deflect the shots, but it's clear his boundless energy is finally waning. Fives and Jesse take a running leap off the platform, letting Skywalker catch them and ensure a safe landing. Rex is glad his bucket hides the grimace on his face. Jumping off the rig will not look pretty. At the very least, it will make it pretty kriffing obvious that something is hurt.
His lungs hitch as he draws a deep breath, and forces himself to run anyway. As he makes the leap, three things happen all at once:
One: on the last step, his foot slips on the wet metal, making the jump painfully short.
Two: one of the straggling clankers finally gets lucky, a bolt cracking into Rex’s right shoulder blade.
Three: the rig explodes.
The concussive force catapults Rex off the rig. He hits the water hard, mind struggling to process what just happened. Hot boiling water and shrapnel pelt him as the rig continues to explode under water. He’s tumbling head over heels through the ocean. His instincts are screaming at him, but his body is frozen, stunned by the blast. Just as quickly, everything goes still and silent. And impossibly, utterly cold. Like he’s been doused in ice water. Like his veins are freezing from the inside out.
He’s sinking.
Rex feels weightless as he falls, dazedly watching trails of red blossom around him. He’s not sure if his bucket is on or not, not sure if he has any breath in his lungs. What he does know is that he’s a dead man. The water presses down on him like an anchor, like the weights he had strapped to his belt in ARC training. Bubbles trail from his mouth. His lungs are burning, squeezing like they will burst any second.
And all Rex can think is that, funnily enough, this is a beautiful way to die.
Skywalker was not blown to bits, his brothers are safe, and Rex is drifting in the ocean, empty and full. There is no pain here, and no noise. No one suffering outside of himself. Rex could be the only thing alive in the universe. The salt water is making his eyes sting.
He’s sinking with the rest of the rig, bubbles trailing serenely up with his blood.
The only thing he regrets is that his brothers won’t have his body. He belongs to the ocean now, and he doubts they will be able to recover him from the depths. The second he spotted the blue-grey waves, he knew: there was no escaping. From the moment he stepped on the rig, a part of him deep down knew he was looking at his own grave.
Well, at least he won’t be burdening the Medics. Kix is already overworked as it is. Now Rex is just one less body to worry about. His eyes are starting to blur and blacken at the edges. Rex isn’t sure how far he has sunk, but he can feel the pressure eating at him. It will all be over soon.
Rex takes a breath. Water floods into his lungs, freezing and stabbing like the winds of Hoth. The sensation of pain washes over him, and he can finally move again, bucking against the lack of air and the wrong wrong wrong that is the water in his lungs.
He has never been this cold before.
What had he been thinking? Rex doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to be stranded amongst the debris, never found, never mourned properly. He doesn’t want his brothers to grieve, to have nothing of him but memories and the time they already spent.
Painfully, desperately, Rex wants to live.
His limbs twitch sluggishly, pain roaring up his side and across his back. He’s still sinking. Every inch of Rex is shaking with desperation, with the desire to live. But his armor is too heavy, and the water is dark and thick. For all the ocean cares, Rex is another piece of debris. Just another corpse to swallow.
Something hot and fierce sparks in his mind, in his chest. No. No. No. no. Something is tugging against his ribs. The feeling of drowning persists, but Rex feels lighter than before. Live. Something deep inside him screams. You must live.
Rex’s head breaks above the surface. Debris still floats over the surface, the rig no longer standing. Rex tries to take a deep breath, but his lungs are still full of water. Trying to breathe again is the worst pain he has ever felt. His vision is black and spotted, and Rex distantly wonders if he fought his way up just to drown again. There’s a shout, and then a splash. Rex flails and finds himself below the surface again.
This time, arms wrap under his, and he is pulled back up. Without seeing, Rex knows it is Skywalker. Only his General would be this reckless and still feel this steady, even as he is clearly panicking. Rex wants to reassure him. Instead, he coughs and chokes, his vision washing white as he loses all sense of orientation.
“I got you Rex,” the General murmurs. With a tug, Rex is freed from the ocean’s grasp. He feels heavy, suspended in the air. Distantly, Skywalker’s voice is humming in his ears. Safe. The voice whispers. Safe. Safe.
Rex can barely feel as he is laid flat against some hard surface. He is still stuffed with ice and fire. There are excited voices drifting above his head.
“Captain, you are officially never allowed to take rearguard again. Stick to point—it’s what you’re good at,” Rex can’t decide which of his brothers that statement belongs to. He figures he can make whoever it is run laps later.
He still can’t figure out how to breath. His chest is gasping and heaving, but air is just beyond his mouth. Panic claws its way through his stomach. Thankfully, someone seems to notice his plight. Rex is turned onto his side where he can choke up all the water he wants. Someone is slamming their hand against his back, making the gunshot wound flare with new fire. Rex tries to choke out a complaint, but instead he just throws up water. It’s cold as it burns up his throat. Distantly, he knows he is shivering so hard he might fall to pieces.
“That’s it Cap, keep breathing. You’re alright. We’ll get you to Kix soon enough. Medic’s going to have a field day with you.” That’s probably Jesse, Rex decides.
The first full breath almost shocks him with how alive it feels. Every inch of Rex is trembling with effort. He’s heavy and light at the same time. And indescribably, unbearably tired. He knows he shouldn’t sleep—not until he’s warmer, or until a medic looks at him—but he is in pain and the voice is telling him he’s safe. He didn’t die in the ocean. That should be enough. A short nap sounds more than earned.
The voices above him seem to disagree.
“Stay awake soldier.” The General is using his “command” voice. Anakin rarely ever uses it on Rex. Something must be wrong. He should be concerned, but instead he can only feel detached interest. Behind the attempt at sternness is a wall of panic. Rex can feel it as surely as reaching out and touching it. “Rex, open your eyes right now. That’s an order,” Rex knows he should care that his general is giving him a direct order. He tries once, twice, each attempt feeling like crawling in sand. He can’t open his eyes. He’s too tired to feel afraid.
“Come on Cap, stay awake. We still need to compare kills. You better not have gotten more than 57. I’ll be upset if you managed beat me again. What good is ARC training if my Captain is still a better shot than me?” That’s Fives. The attempt at humor is too strained, his voice too high pitched. He too is panicking, though he is doing the best at controlling it.
“Not again, not again! This is Saleucami all over again!” Jesse’s panic is the most palpable of the three. If Skywalker’s panic was tangible, Jesse’s is being shoved down his throat. Rex wonders if it’s his hands that are shaking Rex’s arms, trying to keep him awake. He supposes it doesn’t matter. He’s already drifting, and the Force itself couldn’t keep him from unconsciousness. There’s a painful tugging in his chest that feels like panic, and then Rex is gone.