Chapter Text
The world was a haze of nothing and everything.
The bright lights flickered blindingly, bouncing off the surfaces in a twisting kaleidoscope of red, purple and neon green. Bodies swayed, glasses chinking and alcohol sloshing onto the glass floor, and if a few wallets went missing, nobody noticed.
The alcohol burned his throat, bitter and stinging. It crawled down his throat, and it made his stomach sit warm.
He'd been on Coruscant for some time now, always waiting for another brother to wake up. 'Not that they're allowed to wake up for long,' he thought bitterly, still remembering the last one, Slip, he'd called himself over the encrypted line.
So many troopers. His breath hitched, he swallowed another gulp, making it burn his throat like Mustafar.
It'd been a simple extraction, and then it'd become something more. Happened all the time, that was the mission, and Rex wasn't complaining, but the mission...
'...The mission, the nightmares, they're finally...'
Rex blinked at the voice, head swivelling around, warm liquid sloshing in his head. The bar and dance floor blurred, spots and glitter in his gaze as the natborns gyrated and grinded just metres from his little corner booth. There was no brother here, or at least around.
He sighed and breathed, cradling the perspiring glass that look so tiny in his hands harder. 'It's looking low.' He picked up the moonshine bottle he'd ordered from the bar and filled it high till it almost spilled.
'I should stop. There's work to be done,' Rex thought, shaking his head. 'Echo'll be probably waiting up... yeah.'
He stared at the shimmering liquid, almost like water save the thick, grey oily look. He downed it in one go, letting out a hoarse breath and slumping back in his seat with the glass still in hand.
'Just like old times, Rex.'
'Yeah, just like old times.'
The whispers in his ears, so familiar and distant and foreign now. 'It never is...' His heart lurched, a panic clawing at his throat, and he just about put the glass firmly back on the table before it could slip from his grasp.
He half-sobbed, but managed to wrestle the rest down. His legs were shaking.
'You're shaking.'
The voice that whispered wasn't himself or a brother this time. It was oily and slick, knowing and satisfied. Krell... He swallowed dryly, grasping his muscled thighs tight through the dark trousers and poncho to fix them in place. He breathed, he exhaled, and then breathed again.
"There's nothing to it," he half-muttered to himself, shaking his head, rolling his eyes at himself. His eyes scanned the room, looking at the natborns he'd once protected. The natborns who, despite everything, still had everything. Who supported the Empire. Who danced as youngling and Jedi Padawan bodies cooled in the bloody arms of unwilling brothers, good men. Who cheered for Palpatine and now his new Stormtroopers.
Why?
'The Jedi are going to lose this war, and the Republic will be ripped apart from the inside.'
He should have believed him. 'Why couldn't I believe him...?' It was all right there, plainly spoken. He sighed, leaning back and massaging his temple. He knew why. Krell was a traitor and a liar, and it'd been so incredible, whatever claims of Jedi magic and visions. But... it was right there, the truth that would haunt him till the end, painful and full of mocking laughter. Why did Krell have to be so cruel?
'Because I can. Because you fell for it. Because you're inferior.'
He shivered, clenching his jaw tight and shaking his head to shake away Krell's cruel, poisonous voice. Not my brothers, he thought defensively, anger in his heart and blood.
The club was busy, like always, full of sweaty revellers and species from all walks. Mid-level Coruscant, the perfect mix of high-quality alcohol with just only a hint of hive rat and seediness. His lip curled in disgust as a sickly Rodian shakily took deathsticks from a corner dealer.
'What problems do they have?' He stood up, not analysing the thought for a second. He picked up the bottle and began to stride, save the odd stumble, towards the exit. He instinctively swayed and dipped passed the dancing mess of natborns, stomach swishing and jolting sharp and gentle each time.
'CT-7567, do you have a malfunction in your design?'
Krell, again. He was gonna be sick.
There was no avoiding it. Back in the day, after a particularly hard campaign, he'd kick back a glass with the boys at 79's. Despite being a medic, Kix would get completely wasted to the point of utter bafflement. You could convince him he had a mother and that mother was a droid at that stage, and Fives...
Rex swallowed down something thick and sickly pushing up his throat, missing a step and stumbling into something hard. A hand gripped his shoulder and dug. "Hey, watch it, friend," a gruff voice growled at his ear.
Head pounding, Rex craned his neck up, eyes stinging in the harsh lights. The blurry, grey face of a Weequay, tough, bumpy and framed by long, thready, flaxen hair, was sneering down at him.
"Sorry," Rex mumbled half-heartedly, trying to move passed. Something firmly stopped him, making him blink. The hand was still on his shoulder. Huh? He blinked rapidly, brain swishing in his head like slurry.
The Weequay flicked him up and down with keen gold eyes, a slow smile cracking leathery skin. "You have a bad night, bud?" he said, voice like oil, trailing a calloused finger up his neck.
Rex blinked stupidly, stockstill. "Uh, what?" The grainy finger gently trailed some more, and he almost leaned into it, feeling his heart rate pick up and his mouth go dry. 'What's... what's going on?' He blinked as loud, disjointed club music stabbed his brain like a hot vibroblade.
"You got a friend, friend?" the Weequay said, pulling and pawing at him, glancing through the sea of sweaty, moving clubgoers to a dark corner and an exit door with glowing red aurabesh letters above it.
Rex blinked and blinked, as the hazy red aurabesh letters glowed bigger and bigger. He blinked again and realised he was being dragged across the room.
"Hey!" He planted his feet, grabbing the offending hand and pulling. "Geh ouf," he snarled, slurring as he struggled, and shot out a punch.
*Crack*
The Weequay dropped like a stone. Rex blinked at dark spots and bright flashing neon lights; he looked down at the crumpled, wiry figure on the floor, who was moaning and clutching his head.
Rex stared, then hiccupped. "Huh, that'll teach ya," he slurred again, swaying on his feet, knees haunching, before his stomach flipped and he vomited everywhere. "Ugh. Kriff."
The Weequay twitched on the floor, covered in splotches of yellow and green. The smell wafted up to his nose and he vomited again.
Rex wasn't sure how he got outside. It was all a blur after. He remembered stumbling side-to-side, the lights burning his retinas; grinning faces and laughter, gleaming teeth and fangs, as he swung from one side of the dance floor to the other. Then, he was outside, vomiting in an alley trash can.
'Force,' he thought, 'I'm worse than Kix.' Then, it was like the floor opened up under him. He ground his jaw, feeling his breath hitch, and his eyes stung with shame. Kix had a reason to drink. He was a medic, and he'd watched so many brothers march on, march on under his Captain's command, under Rex's choices. Umbara was the worst of it. Something broke in him then. Something broke in all of them.
Rex lost things which never returned.
'I'm part of the most pivotal moment in the history of the Republic. If we fail, then our children and their children could be forced to live under an evil I can't well imagine.'
'What a joke,' Rex thought in disgust, sneering. He clenched his jaw, closing his eyes tight, wetness pooling to his cheeks and clinging to his lashes. He let out a harsh sob.
He tried to push it down, to be the Captain. But, he was on his knees, slumping over the trash. The smell of spoiled Bantha milk and curdled cheese and rotting nuna filled his nostrils, making him gag and wheeze, face reddening as he gasped.
"Kriffin' useless," he choked, vision blurry. He leaned his head against the hard trash can, grinding his crown into the rusted metal. So many troopers gone. Hevy, Ninety-Nine, Hardcase, Tup, Fives, Vaughn, Sterling, Jesse, all those shinies in the 332nd picked up fresh from Kamino. Waxer.
His heart clenched. And, he never knew what happened to Dogma. Neither General Skywalker now, or General Kenobi.
'Sometimes in war, it's hard to be the one that survives,' Cody had said, standing with his helmet, every line of his body straight and proud, a resolute tribute to the rigours of their training and pain.
But even the survivors weren't spared. Because, whatever happened to Appo and the rest of the 501st? Whatever happened to Cody? Did Wolffe survive? Could Bly even? He didn't want to think of the Commanders, he didn't want to think of Fox and Thire, of Stone and Monnk...
'What's the point of all this?' Rex slumped tiredly, tears streaming down his face as past and present bled. The world around him as dull as the ash and ice of that force-damned moon where so many of his brothers, his men, lay; the agony on Ahsoka's face burned into his brain when they found Jesse.
His eyes drooped, glistening with liquid, burning stars and growing black spots. He tucked his chin in his neck, hot forehead pressed against cool metal, nostrils burned out to dust. For the first time in 64 hours, he found darkness.
Fives, half-crazed, desperate, but always right, always incredibly right. 'YOU DON'T BELIEVE ME!' he screamed.