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The whole planet is unsettling, a wasteland masquerading as a living thing. There was nothing but sand for days.
Still, Mouse treks on. He’s heard rumors—rumors of living brothers, of an organizing rebellion.
Blood and chrome, that’s what they said. The Indomitable is made of blood and chrome.
He doesn’t know what he’ll say. Who he’ll see. There is rumor that a commander or captain or something escaped, but as to who it was no one agreed. Some said it was Cody. One said it was Fox. At least three people swore it was Wolffe.
Mouse tucks his cloak close around himself. Up ahead is a broken down AT-TE, scratched and shattered in at least one place.
He breathes. There is nothing to fear.
There is everything to fear.
When he’s about four meters away, he lowers his hood and lifts his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m looking for the Indomitable!” he says.
Nothing.
Trying to ignore the fear that automatically bubbles up, he clears his throat and tries again, tearing long-disused words up from memories he still clings to. “I’m looking for the Indomitable!” he says again.
This time, he says it in the language they have no name for.
Someone stands up on top of the tank and lets out a trilling whoop. Mouse waits.
He doesn’t have to wait long. Several speederbikes roar into view, each ridden by people with their entire bodies covered, by masks or by hoods or veils or helmets.
Terror punches holes through his lungs again. What if they kill him? What if they—
The engines cut almost as one. In the chaos, the person on the tank climbed down, slipping a hood over their head as they made their alarmingly rapid way over to their companions.
When they see Mouse, they gasp, grab him by the back of the head, and press their foreheads together.
“There’s something in the eyes,” one of the others—a clone, by the voice—says. “I feel like I’ve seen him before.”
The hooded one shakes their head. Their eyes crinkle in a way that reads a bit like a smile—and then they are smiling, and that’s—
Mouse knows that scar, knows the way the lips twist up, knows the—
“Rex?” he says softly, barely daring to believe it.
“Yeah. Yeah. It’s me,” Rex says.
“Who’s this, then?” one of the others asks.
“My batchmate,” Rex says.
“The dead one?”
“They’re all dead, and he’s living, Wolffe, have a thought.”
“The one who got out,” Rex says and his voice is—
Is—
Something.
Rex was always a bit cold, a bit harder and sharper than the rest of them. They were all selected for ARC training, but of them Rex was the only one anyone ever called ramikadyc, the only one who could watch death with a straight face.
But he never, ever directed that coldness at Mouse. Never shut him out or shut him up.
He tells himself it’s just time, that it’s simply been so long since they’d seen each other that Rex didn’t know what to say or do, but—
But. But that isn’t how Rex works. Which means.
Oh, sweet gods, Mouse is going to have to bite the bullet and ask.
…maybe.
As it turned out, he doesn’t have to, because Rex tips his head to the side to pull Mouse away from the others.
Once they’re alone, Rex takes Mouse’s hands in his. Examines them. “Gonna have to take you to the doctor,” he mutters. “Get the aging fixed.”
“That’s why you’re—”
“Yeah.” Rex drops his hands suddenly. “Can I ask you a question?” he says. “Just—I need to know.”
“Anything.”
“Why?” Rex asks. His voice breaks, eyes raw. “Why did you leave? Or—no, that’s not—why did you leave me?”
“I couldn’t stay,” Mouse says. “I couldn’t keep living like that.”
“But I could?”
“You did—”
“But you couldn’t have known that.” Rex’s voice is nothing at all, and Mouse doesn’t know what to do. “I lost—I lost everything, Mouse. Everything. And maybe then I wouldn’t have wanted to go, but—I don’t—why didn’t you tell me?”
“You’re mad because I lied,” Mouse says. “Rex, I—”
Rex’s breath hitches. “I should—I need—we should head back,” he says, and his voice is thick but he’s holding back tears because that’s what he does, because he’s Mouse’s older brother, and—
Mouse doesn’t know what to say. This isn’t how they work—Rex has the words to deal with Mouse’s panic, because Rex doesn’t panic.
Except he does. He did the night after they deployed, Mouse realizes, but he’d wiped the tears off because he’d had to help Mouse because Mouse was always, always worse.
Weak, a voice that sounds like one of the Cuy’val Dar says. “I’m sorry,” he says uselessly. “I should have—I should have—”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s done, it’s over, it’s dead. You’re here. That matters.” Rex’s face shutters. “It doesn’t matter,” he repeats, and then he turns back towards the glinting amber of the fire, and to the people he calls home.
Mouse does what he does best, and follows him.