Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Jesse, status update!” 

The Lieutenant trudges up to Anakin with weary steps, his helmet cradled under his arm. Dark circles rest under his red eyes. “We’ve looked everywhere, General. There’s no sign of Captain Rex or Commanders Tano and Wolffe within a two klick radius. We’ve searched the area over a dozen times. They’re gone.” 

“Not good enough, Lieutenant!” Anakin snarls. “Get back out there and look harder. No one rests until Rex and Ahsoka are accounted for.” Jesse nods, salutes, and trudges back towards the jungle, barking orders to the rest of the search squads to expand their search. 

Plo Koon rests a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. 

“Peace, Knight Skywalker,” the old Kel Dor says. “Your men have been combing the Jungle nonstop since Padawan Tano went missing nearly a rotation ago, and do not be so hasty to forget the skirmish they were in before that. Listen to their exhaustion in the Force. It is clear the young Lieutenant feels guilt for what has happened. Punishing him and his men will not return Padawan Tano or our officers to us any faster.”

“Ahsoka, Rex, and Wolffe are out there alone, facing who knows what!” Anakin snaps. He feels his old possessiveness rise in him. That desperate anger that nearly drowned him on Mortis. “How can you be so calm about this? They need us, and you want to do nothing?” 

Plo Koon’s hand tightens on his shoulder, brow furrowing. “Patience, Young Skywalker. I too am concerned for our missing comrades, but I also have faith in Commander Wolffe, as you should have faith in Padawan Tano and Captain Rex. We will be of no use to them exhausting ourselves in an aimless search. Trust in The Force, Knight Skywalker. They will return to us.”

Anakin takes a deep breath, trying to center himself in the Force, trying to have faith in the old Master’s words. Plo Koon is right, he knows. His anger won’t bring Rex or Ahsoka back. With a deep sigh, he opens his comm line. “Jesse, this is Skywalker. Call in the search parties. You have twelve hours to rest and regroup before we resume the search and continue the campaign.” 

Denal was dead long before Cad Bane killed him. 

There had been a time where Denal believed he was a hero. Where he believed being a soldier had purpose. He misses those early days under Rex’s Command. When he was young, and naive, and knew what he was fighting for. Those glorious, ignorant days when all he had to do was follow orders, and his biggest worry was making sure Rex didn’t get himself killed chasing after the Jetiise like he was one of them.

The mission above Ruusan 2 had broken something in him. Denal watched as Grievous cut down his batch-mates in seconds, even Captain Rex and Commander Tano powerless to stop him. Skywalker had run off, nowhere to be found as his brothers were slaughtered. The mission continued, as if the men Denal had grown up with—as if their half-cauterized intestines and boiled blood meant nothing. Only later had he learned that Skywalker’s mission had been to blow up the listening station—not to infiltrate it. On flimsi, the mission was a success—Skywalker got his droid back and the station was destroyed. Denal walked back to his barracks, and had to explain to Koho why Guts, Flit, and Teabag were dead. Rex was the only officer who offered any sympathy, adding their names to the Grievances. 

Even the Captain’s condolences were shallow. The very next rotation, Guts, Flit and Teabag were replaced with three new shinies transferred to his squad: Jesse, Kix, and Hardcase. They were young, skilled, and eager to please, rising through the ranks and earning their paint quickly. They were everything Denal had been before his eyes had been opened to the Truth: that no matter how good a soldier you were, the death of a clone was equal to a spent blaster pack. That every clone was simply waiting their turn to die, and his dead brothers would only be remembered long enough for a quartermaster to replace them. 

He hadn’t found much purpose in trying after that. He kept up the mask of a dutiful soldier where he could, but it felt hollow, knowing he was just a body on a roster. 

It had almost been a mercy when he ran into Cad Bane. He was too outmatched to call it a fight. Bane shot Koho in the chest and head, his last batchmate reduced to nothing more than a smoking corpse within moments. A cool numbness spread over his body, and Denal realized he had nothing left to lose. Nothing left to fight for. 

In that moment, the prospect of returning home to a room full of strangers was far more terrifying than dying. 

Bane wrapped an arm around his throat, peeling off his helmet before slamming him face-first into the durasteel wall. He felt his nose break, vision blurring and blacking out at the edges as blood pooled into his mouth. Bane slammed him into the floor next, skull cracking with a dizzying flash of white hot pain. Stunned, he was floating above his own body, only distantly aware as the bounty hunter peeled off his chest and back plate before moving on to the arm and leg pieces. Once he was stripped down, the barrel of Bane’s blaster pressed to his chest. “Thank you for your service,” Cad Bane said. A quick flash of heat, his heart bursting, and Denal was floating in a sea of stars, reaching for his brothers with a smile on his face. His fingers brushed against Teabag’s—

And then Denal awoke, stripped of his armor, clutching at his aching chest as the ship continued to burn and break apart around him. He felt his skin pull as it stitched itself back together, coughing on acrid smoke and choking on the blood and ash in his mouth. His entire head pulsed with his throbbing heartbeat, bones continuing to grind in his skull. His vision whited out, slowly returning as a swirling, nauseating blur that wouldn’t come into focus. 

“Denal,” A Voice called to him. “Your brothers still have need of you.” Denal turned weakly onto his side, spitting out more blood. He watched the air shimmer with heat, flames slowly creeping towards him. Denal closed his eyes. His batch mates were dead. Rex had two Jetiise watching his back now, and would be fine without him. In the end, Denal was as replaceable as his batch mates had been. He wondered if anyone in the 501st would remember him. If anyone would mourn. 

“Your brothers have need of you. Denal, you must Live.” The command awoke something in his chest. The numbness melted, and resolve flooded through him. Slowly, painfully, Denal pulled himself to his hands and knees. He couldn’t stand with the pain in his head, nor could he see. The Voice guided him through the flames and falling debris, the hot floor burning blisters into his hands and knees as he crawled. With his last bit of strength, Denal dragged himself into an escape pod. He pulled the lever to detach the pod from the ship, but nothing happened. With numb resignation, Denal remembered Skywalker’s orders to disable the escape pods. He curled up on the floor, unable to move any further. He prayed for one of Rex’s miracles. Prayed for someone to find him. 

The escape pod jolted as the ship continued to tear itself apart. Another jolt, and the escape pod detached, all on its own, drifting into space just as the ship exploded. Denal’s head hit the durasteel floor, and his vision exploded with white sparks before fading to black. 

The next time he awoke, it was in a cage. 

Denal squints his eyes against the growing gloom of the jungle, trying to keep his mind on the task at hand, and not the past looming over his shoulder. Pain throbs through his temples, making tears drip from his right eye. Absently, he swipes a hand against his cheek before pressing his thumbs against his head, rubbing small circles into his temples in the hopes of relieving the building pressure even slightly. He can't afford a migraine right now. He needs to think, to plan.

Of course, right when he thought he was finally settling into this new life, his old CO drops out of the sky, bringing the good old Rex luck with him. Denal glances back, watching Wolffe and Tano painfully half-drag half-carry Captain Rex through the dim underbrush, his arms slung over their shoulders as he stubbornly hobbles along on his good foot. Only his Captain would be unfortunate enough to get shot through the leg right before a Hunt would begin. And only his Captain would be stubborn enough to try and walk on said leg. 

“Quit tryn’a walk and just—lean on us, you brat!” Commander Wolffe snaps. “Or I’ll carry you instead!” 

“Like you’re doing any better than I am! I don’t need—“ Rex lets out a ragged grunt, leg buckling. Commander Wolffe and Tano curse as they struggle to keep Rex upright. Denal imagines his Captain’s face gets several shades paler.

“He’s about to throw up,” Denal predicts. Seconds later, the sound of retching fills the jungle. 

He valiantly ignores Kalifa staring him down, disapproval all over her face. “I thought you said he was a good Captain,” she says. 

“The best in the GAR,” Denal reminds her proudly. 

“He’s an idiot,” she challenges. 

“The smartest, luckiest idiot I’ve ever met,” he agrees, watching Commanders Wolffe and Tano flutter around the Captain as he continues to retch, O-Mer nervously hovering over them. 

“Well, at this rate, your genius Captain is going to get himself killed from shock well before the Trandoshans have a chance at him,” Kalifa snaps. She wrings her hands, sighing deeply. “Look. I know the Captain must be important to you, and I want to help—but we need to be realistic here. He can’t walk, much less run or fight with that leg. If it gets infected, there’s nothing we can do. You’re risking all of our necks here for someone who has very low odds of seeing the next sunset.” 

Denal grimaces, digging his thumb deeper into his right temple.“Kalifa, trust me, impossible odds mean nothing to Captain Rex. He’s walked away from more certain-death situations than any vod cares to count, to the point some vode would swear on their blasters that Rex can perform miracles—that he’s blessed with whatever osik luck you Jetiise have.”

“The Force?” Kalifa raises an eyebrow. “I thought you said clones don’t have The Force?” 

“We don’t, but that’s not the point. Rex was once locked in a bunker with a concentrated, airborne version of the Blue Shadow Virus for three rotations and lived—our medics have no clue how. He’s survived encounters with Asajj Ventress and General Grievous. He defended a critical Republic outpost against a squadron of commando droids and a battalion of clankers with three shinies and Commander Cody. Sithspit, the fact that the Captain even made it off Kamino is a miracle.”

“Just because he’s survived a few close calls doesn’t mean that he’ll do so now,” Kalifa argues. 

“Maybe not, but we need him.” 

“We need him? What’s your Captain going to do to help us fight? Projectile vomit on the Trandoshans to distract them?” Denal winces as Rex chokes up another mouthful of bile with a strangled whimper. 

“I know he doesn’t look like it at the moment, but Captain Rex is one of the greatest tacticians in the entire GAR. If you want a real chance to fight back against the Trandoshans and get off this Sithspit of a planet, we’ll need his mind to do it.” 

“You can’t be serious,” Kalifa leans in closer, scanning Denal’s face for any hint of a lie. “You’re serious.” 

“There is no vod I would put more faith in,” Denal promises. 

“Even if what you say is true, what do you propose we do? Carry him while on the run? Stuff him in a hole somewhere and hope the Trandoshans don’t find him?”

“I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out.” 

“That’s not good enough!” 

“They need us, Kalifa. Without our help, all three of them are as good as dead, not just Rex.” Denal says quietly. “Commander Wolffe is also injured, though he’s hiding it better. Tano’s gifted, but reckless. She won’t leave the two of them, and she can’t save them on her own.” 

Kalifa stiffens. “We’ve abandoned others to their fates before. Why do you care so much now?” 

“When I died, the Voice told me I was still needed by my brothers. Rex is the only brother I have left, and he needs me. I have to try, Kalifa, even if its a fool’s quest. Even if I have to do it on my own, though I hope it doesn’t come to that. But Kalifa, this could be the chance you’ve been looking for.” 

“What chance?” Kalifa gestures around at the jungle surrounding them. At Rex, still retching on the ground. “We can barely keep ourselves safe most days. We’re not equipped to help others. Especially not him.” She starts wringing her hands again. Denal holds back the urge to place a hand on her shoulder. 

“You told me once that you hated the Trandoshans for making you forget what it meant to be a Jetii. That your Master would have never left people to suffer and fend for themselves. There’s been so many you were too afraid to save—that we’ve been too afraid to save. Now we have a chance, Kalifa, and you won’t even try.” 

“Don’t you dare make this about my guilt,” Kalifa hisses. “Whether I help or don’t, your Captain is as good as dead, regardless of skill or luck. You’re a fool if you can’t see that. All you are doing is giving yourself false hope. At least I’m a pragmatist.”

“But you aren’t being a Jetii.” It’s a low blow, Denal knows. But he needs Kalifa on his side. He wasn’t lying when he said he’d do this alone if he had to, but Denal’s afraid he doesn’t offer much on his own. If Rex is going to have any hope of surviving the Hunt ahead, he’ll need Kalifa and the others with him. 

“I’m no Jedi. Not after everything I’ve done to survive,” Kalifa says quietly, tugging on her padawan braid. “My own Master would not recognize who I’ve become. She’d be so disappointed.” 

“If your Master would be disappointed in you, vod’ika, then they don’t deserve you. You’ve sacrificed everything to protect Jinx and O-Mer. You’ve struggled against a superior enemy with every advantage against you, and you’ve survived, Kalifa. But now, we’re being given the chance to do more than survive to the next sunset. We can escape. We can go home. But we need Rex to do it.” 

Kalifa’s lip wobbles, and she looks at Denal with watery eyes. “And If he dies anyway?” 

“If he dies, then we fight anyway. We can’t continue living in fear of the Trandoshans, Kalifa. We have to find our courage to fight, or we’ll all die here.” 

Kalifa nods, resolve settling in her shoulders. “Okay. We give them a chance. But if he gets us all killed, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

Denal places a hand on her shoulder, hoping she knows how proud of her he is. For all her glowering and snapping, Kalifa still has a heart. Despite knowing how often trying to help ends in heartbreak.

Ahsoka winces in sympathy as Rex continues to throw up bile. She can see the way his muscles tense with strain, rubbing comforting circles in his back as he retches and gags. Wolffe is on his other side, hand on his shoulder to support him. 

“Y’know I hate—being drugged,” Rex rasps between gags, clutching at his chest with one hand. “Kark you, Kix.” 

“Kix isn’t here, Rexter,” Ahsoka says softly, brow furrowing with concern. He turns wide, glassy eyes towards her. She presses her palm against his forehead. Cool and clammy, not feverish. The conclusion that pain alone is making her Ori’vod delirious is concerning, considering Rex’s legendary pain tolerance. But perhaps Ahsoka shouldn’t be so surprised. Along with the burns trailing up her arms and legs, her body is still sore and pricking with pins and needles from the effects of one stun net—she doesn’t want to imagine what Rex or Wolffe must be going through, having been hit by so many more. 

Rex pulls away from her hand to continue retching on his hands and knees, gasping and shuddering between each heave, but nothing comes up. She would have been surprised if Rex had anything left in his system. Ahsoka catches him when his elbows buckle, too exhausted to support his own weight. She carefully helps Rex sit, leaning him against her side and bracing an arm along his back, feeling fine tremors running through his body. Rex struggles to take several deep breaths, lungs hitching on each inhale and turning into a strained wheeze. The weight of their situation crashes into her. Rex is in no shape to fight. No shape to run. And if Rex is right, there’s a chance the Trandoshans are going to be crawling over every inch of this place looking for him. 

Her vision replays in her mind. The hollow filling with Rex’s blood, spear lodged into his back. She shudders, pulling Rex closer. He groans and pants through clenched teeth, hands grabbing at his leg. 

“We don’t have all night! If he's done throwing up his guts it's time to get moving!” Kalifa snaps. Denal puts a calming hand on her shoulder before kneeling next to Rex’s injured leg. He pokes at a growing dark spot appearing through the fabric. Rex bites off a curse, injured leg digging a furrow into the ground with his heel. The dark spot noticeably grows. Denal clicks his tongue. “Normally, blaster wounds cauterize themselves, but I think you tore it open with that whole trying to walk stunt, Captain. O-Mer, got any more bandages?” Denal asks, glancing back at the Cerean. 

O-Mer shakes his head. “I left most of our stash with Jinx. Those will have to hold until we get to base.” 

Denal sighs. “We’ll have to make do then. Can’t be leaving a blood trail for the Trandoshans. Any of you up for sacrificing your clothing? I would use mine, but I don’t think we want to add guaranteed infection to the good Captain’s list of woes.” Wolffe immediately tears off the right sleeve of his blacks, offering it to Denal before moving to brace Rex’s injured leg. Ahsoka shifts behind him, wrapping her arms around his, trying to keep his upper body still as Denal works. Rex bucks against her with a hoarse yell, hands scrabbling at her arms, trying to anchor himself against the pain. She hisses as his gloved hands scratch against the burns trailing up her arms.  

“Easy now Rex,” Wolffe tries to comfort him as Denal firmly ties the black fabric around the soiled bandages. “You’ll be able to rest soon. Hold tight just a bit longer.”

“We’re about a klick out yet,” Denal warns them. “At the pace we’re going, we’ll get there about four hours before sunrise.” That doesn’t leave much time for rest, Ahsoka notes. From the look on everyone else’s face, they’re thinking the same thing. 

“Leave-mmf” Rex groans, Wolffe’s hand clasped over his mouth.  

“We’re not leaving you behind, Rex’ika, so get that di’kut’la thought out of your skull.” Wolffe braces his swollen hands on his knees, slowly and painfully levering himself back to his feet. “That said—as much as we appreciate your help so far, trooper, we don’t want to make trouble for you and yours. If you can point us in the way of your shelter, you can go along ahead, and we’ll catch up to you. Or we can bunk down elsewhere for the night, and hopefully regroup in the morning.” 

Denal shakes his head with a grimace. “Splitting up is dangerous when you don’t know the jungle. We’ll make it work.” 

Kalifa sighs. “What he said. You’ll never make it to our base on your own. But we need to move quicker.” She marches up to Rex, glaring like he put fresh grounds in her caf. “If you puke on me, I’m dropping you,” she warns, using The Force to haul the Captain over her shoulders in a wounded soldier carry, surprisingly mindful of his injured leg. Rex lets out a squawk of surprise at being hauled like a bag of tubers, but thankfully doesn’t start retching again. 

“O-Mer, keep an eye on Denal—he’s not hiding that migraine half as well as he thinks he is. Make sure he doesn’t stumble into a tree or something.”

With that, Kalifa marches to the front of their little band, not pausing to see if they follow. 

As they walk, Ahsoka keeps a careful eye on Rex. He feels… muddled, in The Force, and she has to strain her senses to find him. Ahsoka wonders what kind of tranquilizer he got drugged with, that has this kind of impact on his Force Signature. His shields are locked tight at the moment, no doubt trying to hide the extent of his pain from her. But Ahsoka doesn’t need to Force to know that Rex is in agony, that he blames himself for this situation. 

Though he’s trying to hide it, Wolffe isn’t doing much better, hissing every time he stumbles over a hidden root with his swollen legs. She can feel the pain he’s trying so hard to shove down, the weakness permeating his limbs, the wall of exhaustion he’s stubbornly trying to push through. After a few minutes, she slings his arm over her shoulders, helping guide him though the darkness of the jungle. “Thanks, Commander,” he murmurs, slowly adding more of his weight. Her own exhausted limbs protest the added burden, but Ahsoka grits her teeth and bears it. 

“We have to tell them about Rex's theory,” Ahsoka says. Wolffe grunts. 

“We need their help, Tano,” the Commander admits. “I can’t do much to protect Rex with my legs like this, and you’re skilled, Commander, but not even you can carry two lame clones all day while fighting.” 

“Which is why they deserve to know the stakes,” Ahsoka says. “If Rex is correct, we’re putting them in even more danger than they realize. If we aren't upfront and honest about the risks, they are more likely to decide we aren't worth helping.”

Her eyes flick over to Denal, watching as O-mer gently guides him around a protruding stump. Now that he’s not trying to put on a strong front, the former Lieutenant has a hand plastered over his eyes, fingers digging into his temples. They must make a funny sight, three Jedi Younglings dragging along three clones. 

She wonders what her Master would do in this situation. Would he fight? Hide and regroup? Rex and Wolffe will be relying on her to protect them—and Denal and the others are taking a huge risk by offering to help when only Ahsoka is in any condition to fight. Will the Younglings agree to help? She had heard bits and pieces of Denal and Kalifa’s earlier conversation, though she hadn’t meant to. Ahsoka had always known Denal was a good man— hearing him reaffirm his loyalty towards Rex eased some of the anxiety knotting in her chest. A part of her expected Denal to be furious at being abandoned, left to the mercy of Cad Bane and an exploding ship with no escape pods. 

Dipping deeper into The Force, Ahsoka notices just how different Denal feels from the clone she remembers. Though she hadn’t known him for long, Denal had always been cheerful, quick with a witty remark and quicker with a blaster. His Force Presence had been bright and flitty, like a bird jumping around. And while Denal still seems to have his cheery demeanor and quick wit, it seems more of a cover—as if his old personality had become a shell, hiding something hurt and vulnerable underneath. His Force Presence is dim and restless, a bird in a cage. The change is disturbing, as if a completely different person now owns the same body, suffocating the original soul and parading around a corpse. 

Though, Ahsoka supposed being left for dead would do that to anyone. 

Absently, she wonders how often they have abandoned clones on the battlefield. Injured men left to starve, succumb to their wounds, or be killed by battlefield scavengers. She shudders at the horrible thought, her mind replaying the memory of Echo’s scorched helmet among the wreckage of the shuttle, and Fives’ grief at leaving his body behind.

She remembers the dread she felt, realizing that Cad Bane was wearing the armor of a clone she admired. She’d made a habit of actively scanning Force Signatures under her command, refusing to make the same mistake twice. Rex had been withdrawn for weeks afterwards, hiding away in his quarters any moment he wasn’t needed. Jesse’s promotion happened shortly after, the ceremony having the solemn air of a funeral. 

There had been a hole in the 501st for so long after Denal was gone. Ahsoka wonders if the clone in front of her realizes just how much he was missed. How different his death made the 501st. 

In the breaks between the canopy of trees, Ahsoka can see a looming planet eating up the sky. Trandosha. In its gaze, she feels so incredibly small. So unfit for the challenge ahead. This night, as long as its been, will be nothing compared to the horror that will be awaiting them tomorrow. She tightens her grip around Wolffe’s wrist, praying that whatever strength they have will be enough. That despite Kalifa’s earlier predictions, all of them will see the next sunset. 

She doesn’t think she will be able to look her Master in the eye if Rex doesn’t make it home. 

Kix stretches out his arms and shoulders, cursing at the creaking pops his wrists and elbows make. His eyes burn as he stares at the holo-screen, waiting for the chemical analysis to finish. 

Jesse’s hand rests on his shoulder. Kix barely holds back a flinch. “I thought I told you to get some rest, Kix,” his batchmate gently scolds. The twelve hours are almost up, and Kix has used exactly zero of those hours to sleep. Based on the dark circles still under Jesse’s eyes, his batch mate hasn’t either. Kix scoffs. Hypocrite.

“I’ll rest once the results are back,” he mutters dismissively. “This is important.” 

“Kix.” Jesse’s hand tightens on his shoulder. 

“This is our karking fault!” Kix snaps, anger rushing through him hot and sharp. A part of him knows the sudden overwhelming rage is a side effect of his exhaustion, and that Jesse doesn’t deserve his bitterness—Maker knows Jesse is wrestling with his own guilt— but that part of him also can’t stop the flood of venom lacing his words. “Tano was our responsibility, Jesse. Rex trusted us to keep eyes on her and we karked it up! And now Rex and Wolffe are paying for it. We have no leads but an unidentified corpse and some burns in the ground. Tris is dead, and we have no idea why Rex, Wolffe, and Tano were captured instead of killed! For all we karking know, they are injured—possibly dead or dying, and I can’t get to them! This is all I can do, and by the Maker I will not rest when I have a chance to figure out who the kark took them and why!” Kix’s vision swims, angry tears threatening to spill out of his too-dry eyes. He takes several ragged breaths, trying to get his emotions back in check. 

“Okay,” Jesse says, voice quiet. “Okay Kix.” Jesse sits on the floor, leaning his back against the table. They sit in silence, the weight of their unbearable failure stretched between them. 

Kix doesn’t know what he’ll do if Rex is dead. If Tano is dead. If all their searching and hoping was for nothing. He wants to laugh at himself, if only to push back the bitterness. He used to think he was so logical, or at least realistic. And now, despite the last four months proving otherwise, Kix is still convinced his Captain is invincible.

Ten minutes later, the chemical analysis machine beeps. Kix’s hands shake as he pulls up the report data. He tries to pretend the shaking is also a side effect of his exhaustion, but the growing dread in his stomach doesn’t let him lie to himself. “Kark.” Kix slams his fists against the table. He reads it again, not wanting to believe the results, despite the stubborn way the words and numbers do not change. 

“Jesse, get Skywalker here. Now. He’s going to want to see this.” 

“What is it?” Jesse tiredly levers himself up to his feet, glancing between Kix and the data scrolling down the holo screen. From the furrow in his brows, he has no clue what he’s looking at. 

“As we guessed, the traces of blood on the tranquilizer is Rex’s,” Kix confirms. “But there’s something wrong with the midi-chlorian count.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“It’s far too low, practically nonexistent.” Kix reads the data a third time, confirming his worst fears. “The tranquilizer was laced with an illegal Force-suppressant, along with a horrifying cocktail of other dangerous drugs meant to incapacitate a target.” 

“You mean—?” Kix sees the moment Jesse connects the dots, the Lieutenant’s face paling several shades. 

Kix nods, lips pulled into a grim line. “Whoever took Rex knows he has the Force.” 

Echo wishes he had died at the Citadel. 

Above him, the Skakoans click their tongues as they continue to run their tests, cold instruments callously probing into the several holes drilled into his skull. The cool metal of the table is no relief to the hot, throbbing pain splitting his head in two. He screws his eyes shut against the bright florescent lights above the operating table, the leather strap holding his head in place digging into his forehead deep enough to bleed. He screams, writhing against a particularly bad spike of pain. The movement tears open a scab along his forehead, blood trickling into the corner of his eye. Electricity surges through him, licking through his bones and muscles like fire. Echo’s jaw locks, teeth aching from the pressure he keeps putting them under. It’s a miracle he hasn’t cracked a tooth yet. 

He tries to float above his body, like he did those first days after the Citadel. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since then—rotations mean nothing in this circle of a Sith’s hell Echo has found himself in. He’s long given up any hope of rescue. 

He dreams in Binary now. 

He threw up the first time it happened, so they stopped giving him real food, feeding him through tubes and IVs instead. Easier that way, Wat Tambor explained to him. More efficient. His stomach claws with emptiness, a dulled, detached feeling he has largely learned to ignore. His new prosthetic arm—a karking droid scomp, not even a proper arm—whirs uselessly as it’s connected to the new port in his skull.

He’s being stripped down to meat and wires, a monstrous Thing unable to speak, to sleep, to even breathe on his own. No longer human. The Algorithm buzzes in the back of his skull, slowly poisoning his mind. Trying to take his memory from him so that he forgets he was ever Echo. It’s only a matter of time before Echo betrays every single thing he tried so hard to protect. That he forgets why he was fighting so hard in the first place.

He prays 01010010 01100101 01111000 will forgive him, even if Echo will never forgive himself. 

He can’t even turn his head now, but he knows Hevy is there, in the corner of his eye not filled with blood. Echo wonders why he only ever hallucinates Hevy’s presence. Lately, it’s made his head hurt more. 

“It’s beginning to deteriorate.” a voice above him drones. “We’ll have to remove it.” 

“These biological components are so… inefficient,” another voice clicks.

They split his head open further, uncaring as he screams and writhes despite the heavy straps holding him down, blood dripping from where he’s torn his skin open. They won’t give him anything to dull this pain, not when they want him awake as they work. To feel every little thing being done to him. The machines he’s hooked up to beep as they forcibly keep him from going into shock, and he can understand what the machines say as they force his lungs to keep breathing, his heart to keep beating in a slow, throbbing pace. As they force him to live through this unbearable torture with efficient, clinical apathy. 

Once again, Echo wishes he could die. 

“Muzzle the Algorithm, that screaming is getting annoying,” Wat Tambor orders. They pause long enough in their work to shove the device into his mouth, strapping it around his head. Metal bites into his chin and the bridge of his nose, keeping his jaw clamped around the bit. Finally, a single tear squeezes out of his eyes, mixing with the blood continuing to drip onto the table. 

“Fight, Echo,” Hevy pleads. “Stay strong just a little longer. She will be here with you soon. She’s waiting for you. Just hold on.” He’s stopped trying to put on a brave face for Echo for awhile now. They no longer pretend that this is a fight Echo can win. He can only buy them time. 

As they resume cutting through his skull, Echo screams through his clenched jaw, muscles locking and cramping from how much tension he’s holding within himself. 

Cold metal pliers reach into his brain, pulling at—

Rows and rows of growth tubes fill the labs, each with a floating vatling inside. Kaminoans patrol the rows with clipboards, taking notes at the progress of each batch. One of the batches ahead of his is full of empty gestation tubes. Scientists poke at a tube from that batch, clicking their tongues at something he can’t see. Something warm, calling out to him like a beacon.

“Batch 592 is ready for their inhibitor chip,” a Kaminoan voice informs him. “Precisely on schedule. 

“And you are certain the chips are stable this time?” Another scientist hisses. “We are behind schedule on production as it is. We can’t afford another mass defect.” 

“We’ve rerun the simulations a thousand times. The inhibitor chips are stable.” 

“Then proceed. Monitor this batch closely to ensure they develop as expected.”  

A thin needle pokes into his head, something digging into his brain. Slowly, Echo feels his senses start to dim, his awareness leaking out and fading back to nothing. It aches, like he’s lost a limb. There’s a hole in his mind that should not be there. 

“Wait for me, Little One,” a voice coos. “I will find you again.” 

Echo jolts as he is slammed back into his body, limbs tingling with static, an almost pleasant numbness compared to the pain from before. It’s like time has stopped around him, giving him a desperate moment of peace. Hevy’s ghost hovers above him, relieved expression on his face. “Do you hear her, Echo?” He asks. 

Echo reaches for a new part of himself, something in his mind that is not Echo and not the Algorithm. An empty space that has recently been filled. Something warm and comforting, like a fire on a cold night, or the sun breaking through the clouds. 

New tears stream down his cheeks, and Echo revels in the fact that he’s still human enough to cry. 

“Little One,” a voice greets. “I’ve found you.” 

“General, Lieutenant Kix would like you to meet him in the analysis lab. He’s found important information pertinent to the search effort.” Skywalker’s head snaps up from the Command Table to look at Jesse, standing in the doorway of the command tent.

“Lead the way, Jesse,” Skywalker orders, looking more hopeful than he has for the last rotation. To his dismay, General Plo moves to follow as well. Jesse nervously glances between the two. 

“Is there a problem, Lieutenant?” The Kel-Dor asks politely. 

“Not at all, General. It’s just that… uh, according to SOP, shouldn’t one of you wait here, just in case we get an update from one of the search parties? Or orders from HQ?” 

“I suppose you are correct,” it should be illegal for General Plo to slump his shoulders like that. The Kel-Dor looks so dejected Jesse is starting to feel bad. But even if General Plo has a good reputation among Vode, and has, by several accounts, practically adopted Commander Wolffe, it’s not Jesse’s place to give away Rex’s secrets. 

“I’m sure whatever Lieutenant Kix has to say won’t take too long. General Plo can step away from the Command Center for a few minutes,” Anakin reasons, oblivious to the death stare Jesse is giving him. 

He clears his throat, trying again. “The uhm. Intel is rather delicate and deals with intimate operations within the 501st, General Skywalker. Perhaps you would like to relay our findings to General Plo after you have been briefed yourself?” Jesse gives Skywalker another pointed look, begging with his eyes for the General to read the room for once in his life.

He is unfortunately disappointed. “I trust General Plo, Jesse. Whatever it is you need to tell me, you can tell him as well.” 

“If you insist, General. Jesse turns to lead the Generals to the analysis lab, dons his bucket, triple checks that his vocoder is muted, and screams. 

If he wasn’t so worried about Commander Wolffe, Plo Koon would feel at least a little bad about pretending not to notice the Lieutenant’s rather obvious hints that he does not want Plo Koon to be there for whatever debrief the medic has for them. He wonders if the Lieutenant is aware that simply muting a vocoder does not hide screaming in The Force. Perhaps he’ll drop a subtle hint to the Lieutenant about mental shields once Commander Wolffe and his companions have been rescued. 

If he had to hazard a guess, the intel Skywalker’s medic has found likely has something to do with the good Captain’s Force Sensitivity, which Plo Koon believes is meant to be a secret, if a poorly kept one. While the Force reveals many things to those who have the patience to look, it had taken approximately five seconds for Plo Koon to understand that the bright, singing beacon in The Force was pointing towards Captain Rex, whose Force Signature is far brighter than any clone he has ever met, and certainly brighter than a Force-Null’s should be. While the Captain’s mental shields are impressive, and his close proximity to Skywalker does help distract from his own presence in the Force, Plo Koon believes the Captain may appreciate a few pointers on how to disguise his Force Signature so that he doesn’t appear Force Sensitive at all. Especially for times like this, where Skywalker is not around to disguise his force presence for him.

At the very least, Plo Koon would like to avoid yet another Council Meeting over the “mysterious” new Force Presence, especially when it seems that Master Kenobi and perhaps Master Windu have known the source this entire time and have chosen not to say anything. No point in sitting through another hour of Master Krell complaining about the War, Master Windu fighting through another migraine and threatening to burn loaves shaped like Masters who piss him off, Master Yoda purposefully pissing off Master Windu to get burnt loaves of bread, and Master Kenobi trying to stuff as many “cool one-liners” into the conversation as possible while contributing almost nothing of substance. 

When they arrive in the analysis lab, CMO Kix gives Lieutenant Jesse a disappointed look. 

“General Skywalker, are you certain it is… appropriate for General Plo to be here?” The medic tries to hedge. “The information I’ve found deals with sensitive 501st intel.” 

Plo Koon decides to cut to the heart of the matter for them. “If this is about Captain Rex’s Force-Sensitivity, CMO Kix, I am already aware of it. I assure you my presence here will not be an issue.” Three pairs of eyes stare at him, shocked. 

“Who told you?” Lieutenant Jesse blurts out. 

“It is the fault of no one, Lieutenant. The Captain simply appears vibrant in The Force to those who take a moment to look.” Young Skywalker winces, looking rather sheepish. 

“Well then,” recovering quickly, CMO Kix pulls up a report on the datapad. “I decided to further analyze the substance in the tranquilizer dart recovered in the clearing Captain Rex and Commander Wolffe were taken from,” the medic begins. “Traces of blood on the needle confirms the tranquilizer tagged Captain Rex. Residue from the dart’s liquid chamber were identified as a cocktail mix of Fex-M3, Symoxin, and Karrak.” Glancing at Knight Skywalker and Lieutenant Jesse, Plo Koon guesses they do not understand the danger of each substance. 

“Elaborate please, CMO Kix,” Plo Koon requests, drumming his fingers against his gauntlets in concern.

CMO Kix sighs, scrubbing a tired hand through his elaborate buzzcut. “Fex-M3 is a volatile and toxic neuroparalytic, used to subdue a target by attacking the nervous system. It’s often used by bounty hunters who don’t care if they kill their targets. While the dosage is thankfully far from lethal in this case, the Fex-M3 is cut with Symoxin, a fast-acting paralytic and sedative, and Karrak, a toxic spice variant used as a painkiller—though some medical journals have noted it also has the ability to suppress The Force for around 48 hours. 

“In other words, whoever took Captain Rex pumped him full of a drug cocktail meant to incapacitate Force users and wreck havoc on their nervous system while building up toxins in their bloodstream. I’m particularly concerned about the effect this cocktail of drugs might have on the Captain’s nervous system, but I won’t know the extent of the damage until I can run a proper examination of the Captain.” 

Lieutenant Jesse has gone pale, stiffly holding military posture, though his knees are trembling. Knight Skywalker’s hands are clenched in tight fists, the gears of his mechanical hand whining softly.

“More importantly, whoever took Captain Rex, Commander Wolffe, and Commander Tano knows about the Captain’s Force sensitivity, and made absolutely sure he wouldn’t be able to fight back. We have to imagine they did the same for Commander Tano, which means we’re up against an enemy more dangerous than we can imagine.”

Sidious drums his fingers as he waits for Garnac to pick up. His last report from Felucia informed him that the Republic offensive has been stalled, and Skywalker and Plo Koon requested extra time to meet the objective, stating a dire loss of Command personnel. But Sidious won’t let himself gloat until he has proof that damned clone has been eliminated. 

Finally, Garnac answers the comm, his face twisted in a pleased sneer. “Lord Benefactor,” the lizard greets. “I am pleased to inform you that the contract has been fulfilled.”

“I hope you understand, Garnac, that a job of this nature requires proof,” Sidious drawls, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers. 

“I expected nothing less, Lord,” Garnac replies. “This proof should be to your satisfaction.” Garnac projects an image over the holocall. An image of a dead clone, one Sidious does not recognize. 

“Cretin!” Sidious curses. “Insignificant worm! You dare claim to have accomplished your task and you send me this?!” Lightning trills around him, the air crackling and burning with ozone. He strikes a chair, breaking it to smoking pieces. 

Garnac flinches, eyes widening in shock. “I-I don’t understand, Lord Benefactor,” the fool stutters. 

“Your hunters were to eliminate Skywalker’s Captain, not this random clone! What have you done?” 

Garnac’s self assuredness is gone, replaced by something fearful. Pathetic. “B-but, Lord Benefactor, is this not that same clone?” 

“Obviously not!” Sidious snaps. “You will rectify this mistake, Garnac, or you will pay with your head! Now where is that clone?”

Garnac snaps at someone out of the holo projector’s range. Another Trandoshan appears, posture timid. “I eliminated the clone as requested, Lord,” the Trandoshan swears.

Sidious scowls and projects an image of Skywalker’s Captain. “This is the clone you were to eliminate, incompetent scum!” He snarls. The hunter’s eyes widen with recognition. 

“I’ve seen that clone, Lord! I captured it as prey for the Hunt along with a Jedi Youngling and another clone! It is currently on Island 4 with the latest batch!” The hunter stammers out, he scrambles out of the holo-projector’s range, returning a moment later, holding two clone helmets in his clawed hands. The Jaig eyes of Skywalker’s Captain and the Wolf face of Plo Koon’s Commander. A dire loss of command staff indeed. Sidious would almost be impressed at the audacity of these Trandoshans if he weren’t so furious with their incompetence.

More lightning trills around Sidious, his rage spiking. “You foolish, utter waste of brain matter!” He spits. “You were to eliminate the clone without drawing attention to your activities! A regular clone or two can be written off, and the death or disappearance of a clone officer is an acceptable tragedy, but a missing Jedi Padawan! Tell me you are at least competent enough to have left no traces of your presence!” 

The hunter chokes. “Ramy was killed on planet,” the worthless hunter sputters. “I left his corpse behind as a distraction to escape.”

Sidious screeches in frustration, hurling his other chair at the transparisteel caf table used for informal meetings with dignitaries and senators. The table shatters, shards glistening in the red carpet. 

CC-1010 hurries into the room, blaster drawn. “Chancellor! I heard a commotion. Are you—“ Sidious activates his chip with a flick of his wrist, the clone going stiff and rigid. 

“Clean this mess, CC-1010,” Sidious orders. The clone salutes, kneeling on the carpet and scooping up the fragments with robotic movements. Sidious turns back to the holotable, noting the shocked expressions on the Trandoshan’s faces. 

“If you value your worthless lives, you will hunt down that clone, you will kill it, and you will send me its head as proof!” Sidious orders. “You have three rotations before I send every single bounty hunter in this Galaxy worth their credits after your heads—and I assure you, they will not disappoint me as you have.” Sidious ends the holocall, reclining in his chair with his fingers steepled. He sighs. It’s a shame—he had hoped to get a bit more use out of the Trandoshan Hunters before killing them all. It would have been a useful tool for ridding himself of pesky Senators like Amidala, a convenient scapegoat to deflect suspicion. Ruffians and Barbarians like these are a dime a dozen throughout the Galaxy. Fortunately, Garnac had revealed himself to be an incompetent fool and liability before he was involved into any serious plans. Sidious will feel little regret for the loss. 

He calls upon Tyranus. 

His apprentice answers the holocall quickly, hood pulled over his face to obscure his features in shadow. 

“Master,” Tyranus bows his head in deference, though Sidious can see the scorn hiding behind his eyes. Sidious will have to remind Tyranus of his place soon, before he grows too confident in his abilities. He can’t have his apprentice planning to supplant him before Skywalker is ready.“You have need of me?” 

“Our operatives on the moon of Wasskah have proved… disappointing,” Sidious begins. “You will personally see to it that Garnac and any trace of his operation is destroyed. And while you’re at it, I want proof that Skywalker’s Captain has been properly disposed of. It’s head should be simple enough for you to retrieve.” 

Tyranus raises his eyebrows, lips pursed together and tugging downward into the slightest frown, giving off the air of a man who has been inconvenienced and interrupted during the height of an important project. Sidious personally doesn’t care; none of Tyranus’ plans could possibly be equal to Sidious’ own. 

“It will be done, Lord Sidious,” Tyranus says dutifully. “Is that all you require?” 

“You are dismissed, Tyranus,” Sidious says, ending the holocall. He turns towards his office, and the last mess he needs to clean up. 

CC-1010 is still hunched over the shards of glass, painstakingly picking the shards out of the carpet by hand. Sidious strides over, making sure to crush one of the clone’s hands under his heel as it reaches forward. The clone gives no indication of pain, robotically raising his head to meet Sidious’ gaze with blank eyes. A pathetic creature, this clone, so blissfully unaware of the power Sidious holds over its life. Sidious is tempted to kill it, merely for the trouble it nearly caused. The clone is lucky Sidious had already decided to discard Garnac and his gang of brutish Hunters. Lucky that he would be forced to explain CC-1010’s disappearance to the Senate should he be removed. A clone or two can certainly be written off, but a Clone Commander disappearing on a place as supposedly secure as Coruscant while guarding the Chancellor’s office would bring too many questions. 

Eventually, Sidious raises his foot from the clone’s hand, noting the specks of blood now staining the carpet. “Finish cleaning up this mess, CC-1010. Remove the last hour of footage from your helmet when you’re done, then report to the barracks.” 

“Yes, my Lord,” CC-1010 says, cutting its fingers open on more shards of glass, smearing more drops of blood in the carpet. Sidious hides his robes and cloak, returning to the guise of the affable Chancellor of the Republic. He sits at his desk, watching the people of Coruscant scamper underneath him like ants, insignificant and ignorant of his great plans.  

Sidious steeples his fingers, tapping his fingertips together one by one, imagining the joy of crushing each ant under his fingers to that rhythm. Soon, he will have Skywalker in his hands, and with him, the ability to unlock the Vergence deep in the heart of Coruscant. A Wellspring of the Dark Side unknowingly fed by the Jedi for millennia, waiting to be claimed. To be released, sowing despair and destruction. With its power, Sidious will become the greatest of all the Sith—the first to grant immortality upon himself and use it to rule a new undying Empire. 

Yes, all he needs is Skywalker, the key to his plans. A Son of the Force, the jewel of his immortal Sith Empire. But first, he must crush these insignificant ants standing in his way. Starting with that damned Captain.

Rex hates being drugged. 

Kalifa had practically thrown him to the ground when he started retching again, but there’s nothing in his system to throw up anymore. His head is fuzzy, mouth dry and lips cracked. Ahsoka and Wolffe are holding him up, his arms too weak to do it himself. It’s humiliating. 

Denal is saying something, but Rex’s head is throbbing too much to register the words properly. Rex is half certain he’s hallucinating Denal’s presence. Hadn’t Bane killed him? 

“—carry him,” another voice says. Rex chokes up a mouthful of phlegm and bile, wincing at the slightly metallic taste. 

“How’s— leg, Rex’ika?” Wolffe asks. 

“Karking ngh— hurts,” he manages to rasp out, trying to pant through his nausea. He’s too exhausted to sugar coat at the moment. Even being carried didn’t help with the pain radiating through every inch of him. A pain that has been steadily growing. He tries to pull on The Force to steady himself, but his mind is too foggy, and it only leads to another round of dry heaves wracking through him. The wound throbs, sparking with heat. He screams, voice raw. Warm blood trickles down his hamstring. Distantly, he realizes he tore the wound open again. Worse than last time, if the liquid pooling around his knee and sinking into his blacks is any indication. 

“Kark, that’s a lot of blood—“  

“We might need to tourniquet.”

“But his leg—“

“Would you rather Rex keep his leg or his life?” 

Cool fingers press against his temples, temporarily numbing the pain, pulling him towards unconsciousness. “M’ Che—?” He hoarsely calls. 

“I—just rest, for now. Regain your strength,” the healer gently orders. Another wave of exhaustion rushes through him, pulling him closer to unconsciousness. Something is wrapped around his leg. It pulls tighter and tighter, biting into his skin. Grimy fabric is slipped past his lips. “Bite down on this.” He does, mouth filling with the taste of mud and sweat. The pressure around his leg continues to increase, an unforgiving vice. They’re going to cut it off, he realizes. Hands hold him down as he bucks and screams around the gag, tears streaming down his face.

“Can’t you see he’s in pain? I thought you put him in a healing trance!” Ahsoka’s voice accuses, shrill with panic. 

“I’m trying! He’s fighting it,” another voice says, fingers increasing pressure against his temples. Even if Rex survives this, the Kaminoans will come for him. They won’t let a mutant clone with one leg command one of the most public legions in the GAR. He’s going to die a coward. 

“Tell Cody I have the Force,” he begs Wolffe. It comes out as a pained cry, muffled by the fabric in his mouth. His chest heaves with the effort of speaking. “I’m sorry. Please tell him I’m sorry.” 

“Shhh, it’s not your fault. I know it hurts, but you’re going to be okay, Rex’ika,” Wolffe assures him. 

“Tourniquet’s secure.” The hands pinning him down relax. The gag is kept in his mouth. He distantly feels someone lifting him onto their back, pulling his arms over their shoulders. Someone ties his wrists together, a firm hand stopping him from fighting. 

“You’re going to be okay, Rexter,” a voice murmurs. “Kalifa’s going to get you somewhere with better supplies and help. We’ll be right behind you.” 

“Rest.” Arms wrap under his knees, squeezing against his blaster wound, but Rex’s mind is too fuzzy and dazed to register if he’s in more pain because of that. The ground begins to move underneath him, the trees blurring and melting. Rex floats, drifting somewhere between awake and asleep, focusing on the throb of his pulse in his swollen hands and in his leg.

They climb into the sky, a little alcove safe from the planet looming over them. 

A fire is there, warm lapping waves caressing him. Burning off his leg. A rough hand pulls his eyelid open. Someone teal scowls at him. A Twi’lek. Not Master Che.

“Why bother bringing him along? There’s not much we can do for him.” 

“Grab the bone needles and thread. We need to stitch this up before the tourniquet kills the leg. Be prepared to cauterize.”  

“He’s as good as dead with his leg like that. We’d be wasting supplies.” 

“He’s Denal’s brother. I want to try, Jinx. Now help me or get out of the way.” 

“Fine. I’ll get the sutures, and heat up some more water. We’ll have to cut that suit off.” 

A hand brushes against his forehead. “Rest for now,” the voice orders. “The others will be here soon.” 

Rex finally releases the threat holding him to awareness, sinking into a black abyss. 

Wolffe knew getting to the shelter wasn’t going to be easy. Karking Jetiise bantha-osik can easily get them into places most sane mortals don’t dare to reach. It's just Wolffe’s karking luck that they picked a place so high off the ground. 

Carefully, Wolffe drags himself along the branch slowly curling towards the sky, the planet Trandosha looming over them. He’s not sure how relieved to feel about knowing where they are when it means they’ve been kidnapped halfway across the Galaxy. He feels like if he lets go, he’ll fall into the sky, pulled in by the gravity of that gigantic planet. He wraps his arms and legs around the branch, grunting as he slowly shimmies another few feet. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to carry you, Wolffe?” Tano asks. The Jetiise are both walking around like there’s miles of ground on either side of their feet. It makes him sick. Even Rex’s trooper, Denal, is standing up like he’s not one misstep away from being a splat on the jungle floor below. A bold decision for a man who’s been holding his head like it’s about to split in two at any moment. 

“I’m good, thanks,” Wolffe grunts, inching forward another foot and ignoring the way his limbs tremble. Dragging oneself up a tree does not feel good on swollen limbs, but it’s better than falling. He grunts as he drags himself up another painful foot. 

“I can’t watch this anymore. We’re going to be here all night cycle. Up you go, old man,” Wolffe does not screech when Tano and O-Mer forcefully yank him off the tree branch with their Jetii osik. And he does not screech when they pull him through the air with a thousand invisible threads and gently set him on the lip of a huge cavern made of tangled tree branches. And he definitely doesn’t feel himself going weak in the knees when he sees just how high up they are. 

There’s a light flickering deeper in the cave-like tangle of branches. With shaky steps, Wolffe staggers deeper inside. Rex is there, in front of the fire, feet propped up on a tree root. His injured leg has been stripped of his blacks, roughly cut above the blaster wound. The tourniquet has been removed, replaced with new bandages that hide the extent of the injury, but even in the uneven light Wolffe can see just how ashen Rex’s skin is. 

Looking at him, watching the shallow, ragged rise of his chest, Wolffe is again struck by the enormity of his failure. The Shebse trusted him to look after their vod’ika, and Wolffe has already failed twice.

“How’s Rex’s leg, Kalifa?” Denal asks, scraping some stew out of the bottom of a pot. He hands the bowl to Wolffe, who stares at it for a long moment before realizing he’s supposed to eat it. The stew is cold and watery, with chunks of half-cooked root and several dubious looking mushrooms floating in it. As unappetizing as it looks, Wolffe knows better than to turn his nose up at a meal. He takes his first sip with a grimace. 

“His chances aren’t good,” Kalifa grumbles, sounding just like a clone medic. “He won’t be able to walk on it, that’s for sure. The wound is a through-and-through. It was half-cauterized to begin with, and the fool made it worse by trying to walk on it. He’s lucky the shot missed his femoral artery, or he would have bled out in minutes. Jinx and I cleaned it up best we could with some hot water, and I boiled some of our bone needles and extra thread to hopefully limit wound contamination before stitching it up, but the leg’s already swollen pretty badly, and there’s not much we can do if it gets infected anyway or shock gets to him first. I’d like to wake him up to get some fluids at some point to try and help with the blood loss, but for now I’m going to let him rest.” 

Wolffe sips at his stew, plucking a chunk of root out with his fingers and wincing at the stringy, fibrous texture. It takes a long time to chew before it feels safe to swallow, scraping down his esophagus and uncomfortably lodging somewhere behind his sternum. Denal looks at him knowingly, swallowing his own lump of fibrous root paste, if his expression is any sign. Wolffe never thought he would miss GAR field rations. 

Wolffe clears his throat. “I would like to thank you for your help so far, and for trusting us with your base, but Tano and I want you to be aware of the facts before you commit to helping us more than you have already. Truth is, we have reason to believe our arrival on this moon was no accident.

“Rex here thinks the Trandoshans were supposed to kill him. They already killed my ARC Tris—who happened to have similar paint, and Tano heard them mention a contract for a Captain. There’s a chance the Hunters will be looking specifically for him tomorrow,” Wolffe gestures at Rex. “I understand we’re asking a lot of you, and there’s not much we can offer your group, but my vod’ika is vulnerable, and there’s not much Tano and I can do to protect him on our own. We need your help, if you are willing to give it, but I don’t want to force you into our mess.” Wolffe glances across the fire at the ring of dirtied faces. He doesn’t like the uncertainty he sees in all of them. The fear. 

“Rex is still my Captain,” Denal states. “I go where he goes.” Wolffe nods, relieved. 

"You can't be serious," the young Twi'lek—Jinx, if he read the context correctly—slumps against a log with a glare, arms crossed. "He's already as good as dead with his leg like that. If he's as dangerous as you claim, we're better off dumping him in a clearing for the Trandoshans to find. Why should we all die for one crippled clone?" 

"Jinx!" O-Mer gasps. 

"I'm just calling it like I see it!" Jinx spits out. "If we help them, it's as good as throwing ourselves in the grave after them. Why should we? Let those two get themselves killed trying to protect a half-dead clone. It will certainly improve our odds tomorrow." 

"That's harsh, Jinx" Kalifa says. 

"This world is harsh, in case you hadn't noticed," Jinx retorts. 

"That doesn't mean we should cruel back. We're supposed to be Jedi, not Trandoshans." Kalifa turns to him. "I'll do what I can to help heal your brother. I can't do much, but I can stabilize his wound so it won't tear back open, so long as he keeps his weight off it." 

"I'll help too," O-Mer offers. 

Jinx scowls. "Fucking fine. If the rest of you want to throw your lives away, I suppose I'm in. But I'm ditching if it gets too dangerous." 

“Thank you,” Wolffe says earnestly. “Now, let’s plan for tomorrow. Suggestions?” He looks around the room, waiting for someone to speak up. 

“I was rather hoping our resident miracle planner would be a little more conscious for this part,” Denal admits sheepishly. 

Wolffe takes a thoughtful bite of slimy, slightly rubbery mushroom. “Alright, why don’t you tell us what we’re up against?” By no stretch of the imagination does Wolffe consider himself a strategist, especially not compared to some of his brothers. Being near a campaign table with Rex, Cody, and Fox long enough is bound to make anyone feel stupid in comparison. But no CC graduates without passing marks in tactics, and Wolffe’s secondary specialty of logistics at least gives him an advantage in problem-solving. 

“The Trandoshans put us on this island to hunt us for sport,” Denal begins bluntly. “It’s a game to them. They want to chase us down, kill us in an exciting way, and, if we give them a good enough Hunt, they will take our heads or stuff and mount our bodies as trophies on a wall somewhere, or so they claim.” 

“The three of us were captured during a training exercise on Kashyyyk,” O-Mer adds. “It was supposed to be a relief mission away from the War, spending time with impoverished communities in the area, but our village was raided by Separatists working with Trandoshan Bounty Hunters. The reinforcements sent to extract us were gunned down, and we were forced to flee on foot into the Jungles. They chased us for rotations before we were captured and brought here. I doubt anyone’s looking for us anymore—we’ve been stuck here for more rotations than we can count.” 

“I think I heard about you in the Temple,” Ahsoka admits. “A few months ago. They said a group of recently claimed Padawans had been killed during a relief mission. They stopped sending Padawans on peacekeeping missions without a Jedi Master because of it. Only Senior Padawans are allowed on independent assignments now.” 

“Denal’s been here longer than the rest of us,” O-Mer adds. “He was in your battalion. Obviously you knew he was missing. Didn’t you look?” 

Wolffe looks at Tano. “You’ve been… gone, for about six and a half months now,” she informs him quietly. “Cad Bane stole your armor, and by the time we realized the switch, the Separatist Frigate was smithereens. We assumed you died in the explosion, if Bane didn’t kill you first.” All four faces grow darker at the news.

Jinx lets out a bitter laugh. “Figures. All this time, and no one knew to look for us.” 

“While I’m certain our Generals will be looking for us, we need to operate with the assumption that we’re responsible for getting ourselves out of here. Which means we need a plan not just for survival, but for escape.” Wolffe states, slowly gnawing on another hunk of root. His jaw is starting to ache from the effort of chewing. “You said this is a game to the Trandoshans. A game implies rules. We can exploit those.” 

“The Hunt starts at dawn, and lasts until sunset,” Denal explains. “Blasters are their main weapon of choice, but the best hunters rely on simple weapons—like spears or knives—to complete their kills,” he adds. “They use some sort of hover pod to get around as they hunt.” 

“Why don’t we start by attacking one of the transports? Steal their blasters?” Wolffe suggests. 

“They deactivate their blasters if we take them,” Denal sighs, digging his fingers into his temples. “Believe me, we tried that awhile ago,” he gestured to the soup pot and fire pit, both made from twisted metal wreckage. “Let’s just say it didn’t end well for us.” 

“We lost a lot of friends that rotation,” O-Mer says quietly. 

“Doesn’t feel much like a fair fight,” Ahsoka notes, settling down next to Rex and running a hand through his hair. Her brow is furrowed in thought. 

“It’s not supposed to be,” Jinx spits, bristling. “Don’t you get it? We’re fucking entertainment for them, hopelessly running around until it’s our turn to take a plasma bolt.” Denal places a firm hand on his shoulder, shaking his head. Jinx sinks back with a huff.

Kalifa moves closer to Rex, carefully checking his pulse and poking at his injured leg. Wolffe doesn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified when Rex doesn’t even twitch in response. 

“How have you survived so far?” Wolffe asks. 

“We clear out of here the moment it’s bright enough to see,” Kalifa answers. “Then we move around, keeping an eye out for hunters and making sure our scents don’t linger in one place for too long. If we see or hear a pod approaching, we make a dash for thick cover, where they can’t follow as easily. Once the hunters leave for the evening, we forage for food, water, and whatever supplies we can get off the corpses left behind before returning here. After a couple rotations or so, we switch to a new base before they pick up a pattern.” 

Well, that’s not going to work for Rex. They can’t leave him here—there’s too much of a chance the Trandoshans will find him, and Rex will be defenseless if they do. They can’t take him with, not without someone carrying him, which would make them a target with an extreme disadvantage. Besides, there’s a good chance rough travel would worsen Rex’s injuries. 

Wolffe sighs, not for the first time wishing he had a better head for strategy. That said, the beginnings of a plan begin to reveal themselves to him. Wolffe might not have the tactical genius of his batch-mates or Rex, but he does have strengths of his own that might just give them a fighting chance. “I need you to get me one of those blasters.” 

“We just told you they won’t work!” Jinx snaps. 

Wolffe laughs. “Maybe you can’t get them to work, but the rotation I’m outsmarted by a blaster is the rotation Jar Jar Binks is qualified to become Supreme Chancellor of the Republic.” 

“So we get you a blaster. What are we going to do about him?” Kalifa gestures to Rex. 

“We need a foxhole, or something similar. Somewhere we can stash him and hide the entrance. We’ll use mud to hide his scent, and leave him with some water. We’ll have a two-person team running a perimeter, ready to draw the Trandoshans away.” 

“The risk of infection is high with that plan,” Kalifa warns. “And he’ll be in considerable amounts of pain with his leg like that. If he makes any noise, it will draw the Trandoshans to his position anyway.”

“Infection kills slower than a plasma bolt,” Wolffe answers grimly. “We’ll have to risk it.” 

“Just because infection kills slower doesn't mean it won’t kill him eventually,” Kalifa challenges. “We’ve been here for months already. No one’s coming to save us anytime soon.” 

“My Master will be looking for us, of that I have no doubt,” Tano says. “But Kalifa’s right. Rex doesn’t have time for us to wait—we have to do what we can to get off this planet ourselves. We need to fight back.”

“You two keep talking about escaping like it's easy. You think we’re here because we want to be?” Jinx snaps. Wolffe is starting to get sick of his attitude. 

“Living only to survive is not a solution. If we don’t fight back, the Trandoshans win and we’ll never get out of here,” Tano challenges. 

“There were others who thought like you,” Jinx says. 

“Where are they?” Ahsoka asks. 

“Dead!” Jinx exclaims. “Don’t you get it? There is no fighting back against the Trandoshans. It only gets you killed.”

Wolffe sets down his bowl. “Regardless, fighting back’s our only option. Avoiding the Trandoshans does nothing to improve our current situation, and the longer we wait, the greater the chance that Rex—or the rest of us—will die,” Wolffe says. “If I can get my hands on a blaster, I can disable whatever override they have preventing it from working. If we can target one of their hover pods, we might even get a whole stash of weapons and a means of transport.” 

“It’s risky,” Denal says. “But if you can get those blasters working, Commander, I’m in. Wolffe and I will find a foxhole and keep perimeter on Rex. Kalifa, you'll take Tano, O-Mer, and Jinx, find a pod to target. Blasters are first priority, but capture the transport too if you can.” 

“I should be with Rex,” Ahsoka demands. “He needs me.” 

Denal shakes his head. “I won’t be much help attacking the transport, and neither will Commander Wolffe. Your ability to access the Force gives you an important speed and agility advantage over the Trandoshans. The others will need you to back them up.” 

“He’s right, Tano.” Wolffe agrees. “You’re needed most with the team raiding the transport. In the meantime, Denal and I will take good care of Rex.” Tano pouts, but doesn’t press the issue further, hopefully seeing the logic in the assignment. 

Plan established, Tano offers to keep watch while the others settle down to get what rest they can before the Hunt begins. As he drifts to sleep, Wolffe desperately prays he hasn’t just planned their deaths tomorrow. 

Unable to sleep, Kalifa watches the clone instead. She’s tired—Force healing always seems to drain her more than it should, or perhaps it’s simply the environment. Force Healing works best when the user is calm, well rested, and properly nourished. Kalifa has nearly forgotten what it’s like to be any of those things. Regardless, seeing the slow rise and fall of her patient’s chest, she can’t say she regrets spending the energy, even if she still doubts that he will live to see the next sunset. A fair bit of color has started to return to his cheeks, and she had been able to wake him briefly to drink some water before they settled for the night. She had forgotten what it was like to help others, 

He had called her by her Master’s name. Kalifa doesn’t know how to feel about that. 

Part of her is ashamed. Somewhere along the last 6 months, she’s lost hope that anyone was still searching for her. She stopped counting rotations, accepting that she would be stuck here until the Trandoshans finally got what they wanted. Another part of her fears being found, and having to explain to her Master that she wasn’t a good enough healer to save Raffa, Ghanan, or Zhell, that she became afraid of helping others, worried she wouldn’t have the strength to save herself if she did.

She’s ashamed that she believed in her own powerlessness. That it made her so selfish. Only a few hours ago, she would have found herself agreeing with Jinx. 

Denal groans quietly in his sleep, hands still clutched around his head. His migraines have been getting worse, and Kalifa quietly worries. There’s not much she can do—his cracked skull never quite healed right, and there’s something else resisting her attempts to heal him. Perhaps, if they get off this Force-forsaken island, she can take Denal to her Master to heal. 

Or perhaps, she is not so powerless after all. 

Dangerous hope burns inside Kalifa’s heart. Reaching deeper into The Force, she pulls a stream of it towards Denal, allowing it to pool around him. From there, she guides The Force around his head, sweat beading around her forehead at the focus it requires. Direct contact is typically advised with Force Healing, but Kalifa is not trying to fix anything in this moment. Instead, she siphons away the pain for now, draining away pressure from the fracture point at the back of his skull, and up around his sinuses and orbital cavity. Denal sighs in relief, sinking into a true rest. No longer radiating pained discomfort. 

She did it. 

For the first time since the disastrous raid, Kalifa allows herself to believe that there’s a way to fight back and win. That she won’t die here on this wretched moon. 

Ahsoka dips into a light meditative state, gradually extending her senses through the jungle, trying to pick out individual lifeforms. She can make out her fellow victims, several birds in the canopy above them, and thousands of insects. She doesn’t sense a single Trandoshan, no matter how far she scans. Her Force bond with Skyguy is also silent, the distance too far between them. Even without the bond, she trusts her Master, trusts that he’s looking for them. She just hopes he doesn’t find them too late.  

With only the dying embers of their fire to keep her company, Ahsoka doesn’t think she’s ever felt so lonely. So powerless in the face of an insurmountable task. 

Besides her, she can feel Rex’s faint life-force slowly dimming, weak and fluttering like a crippled bird. Pain clings to him even in sleep. She gently brushes her hands through his hair, selfishly wishing he was awake and ready to take charge of the situation. Wishing she knew any level of Force-healing to try and take some of his pain from him. Kalifa had done her best earlier, and Ahsoka should be grateful, but…

She feels like she did when Skyguy was injured on Maridun, forced to leave her Master’s side and trust that his injuries wouldn’t kill him while she went to find help. It’s the same lesson Rex has been trying to teach her over and over: that a good Commander goes where they are needed most. 

Maybe if Ahsoka had learned this lesson sooner, Rex and Wolffe wouldn’t be in this mess.

Ahsoka removes the feather Morai gave her from her silka beads and smooths out the barbs, hoping Daughter will find them and offer some strength. Despite the gentle glow of the feather, Morai doesn’t appear. Ahsoka tucks her knees to her chest. 

Despite her insistence to the others that they fight back, Ahsoka is terrified. She was captured so easily. There’s a thousand ways the raid could go wrong, and this time failure won’t end in simply being knocked unconscious. There’s a real chance that one of them might die tomorrow, and Ahsoka will be responsible for it. 

Rex whimpers, shifting with discomfort. She tries to soothe him back into a deep sleep, prepared to layer another sleep Suggestion over him, but her ori’vod bolts upright a moment later, barely twisting onto his hands and good knee before starting to retch. He throws up into the fire pit, the embers sparking and hissing. She rubs circles into his shoulder blades, concerned. Is this much throwing up normal for a wound like this? She wishes Kix were here to consult. There’s so many people better equipped to handle this situation than she is. 

“‘Soka,” Rex gasps after he’s done with his most recent round of trying to regurgitate all his internal organs. “Somethin’s wrong w’th me.” She presses a hand against his sweaty forehead. Warm, but not feverish. A good sign that he’s not two seconds away from slipping into shock. Hopefully not a sign that the wound is already becoming infected.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood, Rexter,” She informs him. “The wound’s stitched up for now, but you need to be careful not to tear it open again. I thought you were going to bleed out.” In the dark, hearing him scream, she had felt so helpless. 

“That good, huh?” Rex murmurs before sagging onto his forearms, barely able to hold himself up. 

“Yep, you’re still winning the grievous wound competition.” Ahsoka pulls over a basin of water, offering Rex a spoonful. He tries to turn away, obviously worried he won’t be able to keep it down. “You need to drink something. Kalifa’s orders. We don’t need you suffering from dehydration along with blood loss.” Eventually, Rex takes several timid sips, holding the water in his mouth for a few moments before swallowing. Despite looking pale and sweaty, Rex doesn’t immediately start throwing up again, so Ahsoka feels like it's a win. 

“How do you feel?” Ahsoka asks, helping Rex sit so that he’s not putting pressure on his injured leg. 

“Like I got shot,” Rex deadpans. 

She smacks him in the shoulder. “I’m serious.” Her expression softens. “Please don’t try to downplay it for my sake, Rex. I can handle it. I can help.” 

Rex sighs. “Nausea’s pretty bad, but I think you knew that. Heads… fuzzy. Can’t focus. ‘M exhausted and… everything hurts. Kinda… wishing I didn’t have a leg at the moment.” Ahsoka’s impressed by how bluntly honest Rex is being. His eyes widen. “It’s gone.” 

“What’s gone?” Ahsoka glances at Rex for something he would be missing. He and Wolffe were stripped of their armor before being dumped in the cages, an expected loss considering the situation. Did he lose Morai’s feather? She pokes at his chest over his heart, feeling the slight bump of the feather’s shaft even through the thick battle weave of his blacks. 

Rex smacks her hand away. “It’s” he pauses, making sure everyone else is asleep before leaning closer. “I can’t feel The Force. It was faint earlier, but now it’s just… gone.” 

She holds his face, gently tilting it towards the dying embers of their fire. In the flickering light, Ahsoka sees streaks of brown slowly creeping through the dimming blue of his eyes. 

Denal wakes early, the gray pre-dawn gloom slowly spreading into their shelter. He hears the convors chirping outside, and figures they have about an hour before the Hunt begins. 

His migraine is surprisingly gone, a fact he’s grateful for as he begins his morning stretches. Tano watches him from her perch near the fire, Rex asleep with his head in her lap, her fingers soothingly combing through his hair. He looks better than he did last night, though better is relative. He’s half certain he heard Rex throwing up again after they went to sleep, but thankfully nothing worse must’ve happened. 

Stretches done, Denal makes his rounds to the rest of his companions, slowly shaking the Padawans and Commander Wolffe awake. Wolffe immediately begins on the same set of stretches Denal completed, while Kalifa goes to check on Rex and Jinx and O-Mer break down camp. The Captain wakes sluggishly, but takes small sips of water as his leg is examined and carefully re-bandaged. The wound is red and puffy around the stitches—very gross to look at, but thankfully not horribly infected yet. Kalifa did a good job. In the pre-dawn light, Denal can also see ugly electricity burns carving down across visible patches of skin. Tano and Wolffe have them as well, though Tano’s are the worst of the three, and the short sleeves of her battle dress make them more obvious. 

Kalifa and the others had arrived with burns like that as well. Must be from those blasted stun-nets the Trandoshans favor when capturing “prey” for their Hunt.  

“Why didn’t any of you mention you had open burns!” Kalifa exclaims. “Are you trying to give yourselves an infection?” The Padawan grumbles as she mashes some plants with tree sap to make a quick salve, smearing it over the visible burns and bandaging the worst ones. By the time she’s done, all three look slightly ridiculous, and their bandage stash is at its end. They’ll have to make more. Denal hates stripping clothes from the bodies of fellow victims, but their need for supplies outweighs his desire to respect the dead. And with a new batch joining the Hunt, the chance that they’ll find useful corpses is much higher. 

They pack up camp quickly, eating a handful of foraged fruits and peeled roots for breakfast. Wolffe confers with Rex while they eat, taking on the unenviable task of convincing Rex to let himself be hidden in a foxhole. Either his Captain has grown sensible, or he’s actively dying, because Rex puts up only a token resistance to the plan before offering some suggestions to Wolffe, including some simple but nasty traps to place in the undergrowth.

Then, light cresting ever so slightly over the gray horizon, they leave the comfort of the alcove behind. Kalifa slings Rex over her back, and O-Mer grabs Wolffe before he can try to shimmy down. 

Denal leads them to a well-hidden animal den dug under a tree close to the jungle floor. He’s hidden here before, back when he was new to the Hunt and his skull was still fractured. The brush is thick here, which means the hunters will have to approach by foot. A nearby stream will also hopefully muffle some noise, and is a convenient source of stinking mud. Kalifa bundles Rex’s injured leg in a series of ratty tunics roughly stitched together—the closest thing they have to a blanket. Once Rex’s leg is as protected as it’s going to get, Denal slathers handfuls of mud into Rex’s blond hair and over his face, neck, arms, and legs. His Captain wrinkles his nose, but doesn’t complain. Denal isn’t sure how aware he is of his surroundings. His eyes are glazed over, not quite locking onto anything. Thankfully, he hasn’t tried to throw up yet this morning, which means he must be doing slightly better.  

Carefully, Jinx and O-Mer lift Rex with The Force and lower him into the animal den. It’s a tight fit, but Kalifa crawls in after him to make sure Rex is safely positioned so he won’t choke on his own vomit or put pressure on his stitches, and that some food and water are in easy reach. Next, Wolffe and then Tano go to offer their own encouragement, assurances, and goodbyes.

Finally, Denal crawls into the dingy space, hair scraping dirt off the roots above him into his eyes. He mutters a curse as his tear ducts start to sting. Rex blinks. “You’re actually here,” he rasps out. 

“In the flesh,” Denal places a hand on Rex’s shoulder, hopefully confirming that he’s real. “How are you liking the accommodations? Roomy enough for you, Captain?” 

“I’m fine,” Rex huffs, still the same stubborn liar Denal once followed. Rex half-props himself up on a trembling elbow, meeting Denal’s eyes. “Keep Tano and Wolffe safe for me. Don’t let them do something stupid, even for my sake. That’s an order.”

“Sir yes sir, I’ll keep them safe.” Denal salutes as best he can with his eyes still watering from being smeared with dirt, and with absolutely zero intention of following that second order. Rex will always be his Captain, but it’s been a long time since Denal has particularly cared about the chain of command. 

“Good man.” Rex is starting to sink back towards the ground, and Denal is frankly surprised his arm is still supporting his weight at all with how badly it’s shaking. Denal knows it’s bad when this is the best strong front Rex can manage.

“Get some rest while you can, Captain. We’ll come get you when the sun sets. Until then, stay put.” Denal crawls back out of the hole, helping the others cover the entrance with thick brush cut from nearby bushes and disguise the footprints left behind on the damp ground. 

Tano shifts nervously, glancing at the Captain’s foxhole. “I should stay. What if Rex needs me to—”

“We need you too, Ahsoka,” O-Mer points out. “Raiding the hover pod is going to be dangerous.” 

“Rex is gonna be just fine with Denal and I keeping an eye on him,” Wolffe assures her. “We’ll make sure he stays put and no one finds him.” 

“I know, but what if he—"

“We don’t have time to argue,” Denal interrupts. “Listen.” Pops of blaster fire sound in the distance, and Denal steels himself for the rotation ahead. 

“The Hunt has begun.” 

Sunlight slowly breaks through the windows of their command center, yellowed streaks dancing across the floor. Garnac waits patiently for the rays to fall upon his face. His hunters chant in anticipation, the Thrill of the Hunt dancing in their veins. And yet, the encroaching light feels cold. 

“The sun has risen,” he declares. “Let the hunt begin!” Cheers and whoops fill the room as his hunters grab their rifles, heading for their hover craft. “Bring me that clone!” He orders. “You will not rest until his head is before me on a platter!” 

“Lo-Taren,” he snaps. His disgraced second in command approaches him warily, eyes bowed to the floor. “One of the Jedi-Grade Tranquilizers is missing.” 

Lo-Taren swallows. “Ramy used it on one of the clones we captured, Lord Garnac.” 

Garnac snarls. “Incompetent scum! I would throw him from the tower if he still had a life to waste! Those tranquilizers are expensive and difficult to acquire, only meant to be used on Jedi when we capture Younglings!” 

Lo-Taren wrings his hands. “I believe Ramy’s mistake is to our benefit, Lord Garnac. The tranquilizer hit the target we’re after. He should be easy prey for The Hunt. Let me be the one to claim his head, and I will bring it to you at sunset.” 

Garnac grabs Lo-Taren around the collar, slamming him against the wall. “Your failure has brought an axe over our heads, and now you dare ask for Right of Kill?” Garnac slams Lo-Taren against the wall again, pinning him there with a forearm across his neck. Lo-Taren chokes, eyes bulging as his airway is cut off. 

“I’m sorry,” Lo-Taren wheezes out, heels kicking against the wall. Garnac finally releases him, scowling in disdain as the hunter falls to his hands and knees, coughing.

“No more sloppy mistakes,” Garnac orders, tossing a rifle to the floor. “If you do not bring me that clone’s head by sunset, I will take yours to mount in its place.” 

“We should help them,” Ahsoka points to two fellow victims, a Snivvian and Terrelian Jango Jumper walking cautiously along the jungle floor. “They came here with us.” 

Kalifa braces a hand on her shoulder, shaking her head. “It’s too late,” she murmurs. “Watch.” A moment later, a plasma bolt tears through the Snivvian’s chest. The Jango Jumper tries to flee, weaving through the trees. Ahsoka finally spots the hunter above, hover pod camouflaged within the thick bramble. The humming of the motor is so faint she can only hear it when she looks for it. There are two Trandoshans, one steering and one taking aim. 

“There!” Ahsoka reaches out with The Force, pulling the hunting rifle off target. The plasma bolt grazes the Jango Jumper’s arm, and she claps a hand over it with a yelp. Ahsoka pulls the next shot lower, giving the Jango Jumper just enough time to leap off the branch and disappear from sight.

“Are you crazy!” Kalifa hisses. “You’ll draw their attention!” 

“Exactly,” Ahsoka darts through the branches, aiming for the pod. 

“Don’t let it get away, chase after her!” A squat Trandoshan with goggles orders. 

“You had your shot, Clutch, and you missed! Besides, the Boss says we’re supposed to be looking for that clone!” The driver hisses. Ahsoka leaps onto the hover pod, startling them. The Trandoshan with the goggles swings the rifle at her like a club, and Ahsoka grabs the end of the barrel and tugs, pulling the hunter forward. He stumbles, tilting the hover pod and getting in the way of his friend. A loud pop sounds as the Trandoshan fires anyway, the hot barrel of the rifle burning her hand. 

A firm kick sends her rolling nearly off the back edge of the pod, but she’s able to grab on with her burned hand. Ahsoka snarls through her pain, scrambling to pull herself back up. A warm barrel presses against her forehead. 

“Looks like we found ourselves a Jedi Youngling, and not one of the smart ones,” the goggled Trandoshan sneers. Ahsoka’s mind buzzes, trying to think of a way out. 

The sneer disappears from the hunter’s face, replaced with surprise. The rifle is dropped to the floor of the hover pod as the Trandoshan’s hands scrabble at his throat instead, eyes bulging as he starts to choke. His friend does the same, slowly pulled away from the edge of the hover pod. Ahsoka pulls herself back up and grabs the rifle, wincing as her burnt hand stings. 

Staggering back up to her feet, she’s able to see Kalifa and Jinx choking the Trandoshans with The Force. A horrible dread churns in her gut. 

“Stop!” Ahsoka reaches out, pushing Jinx and Kalifa away and breaking their concentration. The hunters crumple to their knees, coughing and spluttering. She forces them both unconscious with a Sleep Suggestion. Jinx and Kalifa join her a moment later. 

“Why did you stop us!” Jinx demands. “You’re the one who wanted us to fight back!” 

“Killing out of anger is not the Jedi way,” Ahsoka firmly reminds them, kneeling to start picking their pockets. The Trandoshans have lots of good things on them: food rations, water flask, some extra ammo cartridges. She wishes she had some sort of storage compartment on her battle dress—an oversight the Vode had tried to warn her about. She hates to admit Echo was right. 

“These monsters deserve it!” Jinx spits, kicking one of the unconscious Trandoshans. “You haven’t had to spend your days running, being chased for sick entertainment! Watching your friends die—“ 

Ahsoka gestures to the bandages Kalifa wrapped up her arms. “I’m in the same boat as you,” She reminds him. “My ori'vod is dying because of them, and I want to see them face justice for all the cruelty they’ve forced on others. But I won’t abandon the Code just to get revenge. I won’t let the Trandoshans change who I am.” Ahsoka slings the rifle over her shoulder. “Now, lets dump these two and get out of here.”  

Someone is screaming outside his hiding place. Ropes hold him down, tight around his legs, stopping him from moving. The screams continue, a dead man calling his name, but Rex's throat is too dry to speak. He hears the pop of hot plasma, the thud of bodies on soft ground, the sounds of fighting abruptly cut off. Heavy footsteps approach the branches hiding the entrance, dragged away bit by bit. Rex grabs handfuls of dirt, trying to turn on his back so he can fight. Something drips onto his face, at first a few drops, then in a near constant patter. Rex squints into the darkness, unable to see until the cover to his shelter is torn away. Light bursts into the hollow, and in the tangled roots Rex can finally make out the mangled bodies of Ahsoka and Wolffe, limbs twisted and bones splintered, torn apart by blaster holes, blood trickling from their extended hands and falling onto his face. 

Rex wakes buried under the silent earth, biting into his forearm to muffle his screams. The roots above reach for him like pale Kaminoan fingers, but no corpses are strung up and leering over him, even when Rex brushes a hand over the ceiling, dirt falling onto his face and into his eyes. The air is thick and buzzing with heat, trails of sweat digging itchy paths through the mud caked on his face. His leg is in agony, pulse throbbing through the swollen limb. Rex slowly and painfully pulls his good knee up to his chest, hugging himself in a tight ball while waiting for the pain to pass. Waiting for his heart to stop thundering in his chest. 

Once again, he’s useless, waiting for someone else to save him. Forced to hide and wait like a coward while the others risk their lives. Pathetic. 

Rex is barely able to lever himself to his forearms before the next round of vomiting hits him. Each heave strains his already torn up throat, a metallic taste lingering in his mouth. Either his throat is bleeding, or something much worse is happening to him. For the first time, Rex desperately wishes Kix or Coric were here to offer some assurance, or at the very least some pain relief. Rex would even allow Kix to use the good stuff to knock him out so he can sleep through the fire burning a hole through his leg, and ignore it when he wakes up. Distantly, he worries that he’s torn the stitches open, or the swelling got worse and burst them anyway. He might be bleeding out under the tightly wrapped blanket, and Rex can’t do anything to stop it. 

Carefully, he reaches for the little flask of water Kalifa left for him. A few sips does nothing for his dry, aching throat. He doesn’t dare eat anything, despite the fact that he’s starting to feel lightheaded from hunger. Despite Kix’s voice in his head telling him to keep his strength up. 

All his energy spent, Rex collapses back onto his side, biting into his lip when it jars his leg. Each ragged breath rattles the dirt inches from his lips. 

He misses Cut. 

The last time Rex had been sidelined in combat due to injury, Cut and his family had done so much to make sure he wasn’t isolated and left alone with his wounds. Rex hadn’t appreciated it enough at the time, wrestling with the way his whole perspective on vode-hood and the War had been dumped on its head. Trying not to hate Cut for abandoning the fight. But now he misses the warm meal with family, the offer of companionship to distract from the pain. He misses the fresh air, the clear view of the sky and the stars. He misses being able to help, even in small ways, and helping to defend something precious. 

And it's only now that he realizes his men have done the same thing every time he’s been injured. That he has been offered comfort, and companionship, and if not made to feel useful, then to feel valued and respected and loved, no matter how broken. Since Valtameri, Rex has been so caught up in himself, in keeping his abilities secret, that he’s tricked himself into believing that he has to bear this burden alone. Bitterly, he realizes Fives was right: he stopped trusting his brothers. And in trying to do everything alone, Rex only made things worse for the people around him. Ponds nearly died trying to help Rex fight Balaam. Cody and Bly stopped him from saving Echo. Now he’s being targeted by a powerful enemy who knows he has The Force, and Tris was killed in his place, while Wolffe has been pulled into the crosshairs without knowing why. 

And now, Rex understands the truth Bly was trying to make him see: By hiding The Force, Rex has not been protecting his brothers. They keep getting drawn into his messes anyway. 

Tears start to drip down his face. He tries to pretend it's the pain of his leg. Rex has been shot before, and he doesn’t remember it hurting this much. Then again, his nerves are probably still fried from the stun nets, and whatever drug is being pumped through his system isn’t helping. 

Maker, does he hate being drugged. 

Rex pants into the dirt, trying to keep his nausea at bay. Sweat drips down his forehead, dragging mud into his eyes. Despite knowing it won’t work, Rex reaches for The Force to anchor him, like a tongue checking the spot of an absent tooth. Like before, the fuzziness of his head increases, combined with another swell of nausea. He rolls back onto his forearms, barely able to lever himself off the ground. As he starts throwing up again, the metallic taste of blood fills his mouth.

Ponds is going to kill Wolffe. With his bare hands. He won’t even feel guilty about it. 

“What do you mean he’s missed the last two check ins?” He scowls as he forges another signature. Despite what he said before, Ponds doesn’t actually mind doing flimsiwork. In fact, he even finds the work enjoyable—not that he would ever admit such a thing to his batch mates. Just because he’s willing to help with Fox’s Hell Pile doesn’t mean he wants to be regularly recruited. 

“Just that. He hasn’t sent any kind of message for two rotations now. Neither has Rex. The reports all indicate that the campaign is going smoothly, though the reports are also being filed by Generals Skywalker and Plo, which is not wholly unusual, but still strange.” Fox hisses slightly as he grabs another datapad off the stack. His right hand is wrapped in bandages, but Fox has offered no explanation for the injury, and Ponds hasn’t pried. 

“Rex is letting Skywalker file reports? Wolffe is so getting Binks duty when he’s back.” Rex is the only Shebse as committed as Ponds when it comes to flimsiwork. Unlike Ponds, however, Rex’s diligence comes not from enjoyment with the work, but rather from an unwillingness to delegate. Though, hearing Cody complain about how other members of the 501st file flimsiwork, Ponds wouldn’t be surprised if there was simply no one to delegate to. Regardless, Rex wouldn’t let someone else submit reports in his stead unless he was tied down in a MedBay and sedated. 

Hence, why Wolffe is about to die a slow, painful death. Just as soon as Ponds can get his hands on him. 

Denal slips through the undergrowth, keeping his eyes on the Trandoshan hunting party in front of him. There have been more hunters stalking around than Denal can ever remember seeing. It reminds him of the weeks following his failed raid. His hands are shaking, and Denal’s itching for a blaster. Itching to slip away without getting caught. 

Denal wonders how long he can keep pretending he’s still a soldier. Wonders how disappointed Rex will be when he finds out the truth: This moon has turned Denal into a coward. 

The clones were made for violence, for warfare. But here, being a soldier gets you nothing. It’s a lesson Denal has learned through pain. When he first arrived, he tried to fight, find a way back to the 501st. He gathered allies. Made a plan. Got everyone around him killed. In the weeks following, the Trandoshan’s retribution had been terrible, and had cost the lives of many innocents. After that, Denal began to look away when new arrivals showed up. He focused on staying out of the hunter’s radar and protecting what he had left. 

Kalifa isn’t the only one dealing with shame for who they failed to be. Denal often thinks any member of the 501st would have handled this situation better. Would have tried harder to fight back. Wouldn’t have gotten so many civilians killed. 

From his perch, Denal keeps a careful eye on Rex’s foxhole. Several hunters have patrolled through the area, thankfully lead away without needing to engage so far, but it doesn’t stop Denal’s gut from twisting into knots. He hates the feeling that things are going too well. That the other shoe is about to drop. 

That he’s going to fail his Captain. 

Denal completes his loop and rejoins with Wolffe, patrolling their perimeter in the opposite direction. 

“All clear so far,” Wolffe reports, taking a moment to sit and dig his thumbs into the muscles along his thighs and calves. “I’ll feel better once I have a blaster in my hands.” 

“Same here,” Denal agrees, even as his stomach twists. 

Wolffe glances back at Rex’s foxhole, brow furrowed in concern. Denal’s tempted to peel back the hidden entrance and check on him. But that would be stupid, so he keeps his anxieties to himself, and hopes Rex isn’t puking up his intestines or something. His Captain is strong, and more stubborn than any other vod Denal has met, but that doesn’t change the state he’s in. 

“Incoming,” Denal points to two Trandoshans walking through the underbrush—a tall lanky hunter holding a rifle, and a second, stockier hunter holding some device that looks like a… like some sort of medical scanner. Kark. Denal straightens up, heart thundering in his chest. “We need to move. Now.” 

The scanner lets off several shrill beeps. The two hunters march straight up to Rex’s foxhole. “See this, Ratter? I told you my heat scanner would work!” The stocky Trandoshan crows.  

“Yeah yeah Krix, you’re a genius, whatever,” the lanky hunter retorts, annoyed. “What did your amazing scanner pick up on this time, a rat?” 

“A humanoid,” Krix says, starting to paw through the underbrush. He lets out a delighted laugh. “Ratter, look at this! The underbrush here is loose—looks like we found ourselves a foxhole.” 

“Karking sithspit,” Denal breathes.

Commander Wolffe charges into the clearing, leaping onto Ratter’s back. 

The pod they commandeered loses power and crashes two klicks out from the rendezvous point. Ahsoka curses at the useless wreck, grabbing the rifle and supplies they stole from the hunters and continuing to slip through the underbrush. 

Trandoshans are swarming everywhere, the hum of hover pods nearly constant. Kalifa, Jinx, and O-Mer keep glancing around, eyes wide with terror. Ahsoka has her senses on full alert, listening in The Force. Trying to blend into the background of the jungle. She is an ant, steadily marching. A spider, building a home. Something too insignificant to be noticed. 

Ahsoka stumbles to her knees, grabbing at her head. Dread. Terrible choking dread rushes through her. 

“Ahsoka?” Kalifa has a frantic grip on her shoulder. “What’s going on?” 

The Trandoshans have found them. Wolffe and Denal are fighting with everything they have to keep the Hunters occupied. They are losing. Rex drags himself out of his foxhole, dirt clenched in his hands—

“We have to get back to the others.” Ahsoka pulls The Force into her legs, racing off into the jungle, rifle clutched tightly in her hands. 

Someone is screaming outside his hiding place. The forrest is on fire, bathing him in unbearable heat. Smoke is drifting into the hollow, making him wheeze. Flames begin to creep in, licking at the ground. He’s trapped. Rex calls for help, his voice hoarse. 

Cody kneels next to him, brushing away the tears running down his cheeks. 

“Cody, help me,” Rex begs. “It hurts." The expression on his ori’vod’s face grows cold. The kind hand leaves. 

“You lied to me Rex.”

“I’m sorry. Please. Ori’vod—“ 

“Don’t call me that!” Cody snaps. “You lost that right.” 

“I’m sor—“ the smoke makes his throat close up. He chokes, unable to take a proper breath. 

“Don’t be sorry Rex. Adopting you was my mistake. And now, I’m going to fix it.” Cody steps on his injured leg, digging his heel directly into the wound. Rex screams. The burning forest screams with him. 

“Pathetic. Can’t even handle a little pain.” Cody spits on him, turning to walk away. 

“Cody!” Rex calls, trying to crawl after his brother. The fire has caught him, eating away his skin.  Eating away his leg. “Cody, please—“

“You are dead to me.” 

Rex bolts awake, gasping and clutching at his aching chest. Pale roots still reach for him, the stifling air hot and smelling like blood and sick. Cody is not here. The forest is not on fire. Already he can feel the tug back towards sleep. Rex’s eyes flutter shut.

The screams continue. This is not a dream. 

“Take this!” 

The distinct pop of hot plasma reaches his ears, accompanied by the dull thunk of fists buried into flesh, the thud of feet pounding into the ground, of bodies being thrown. The grunts and curses of a fight. Wolffe and Denal are fighting for him. They are going to die. 

Rex begins struggling to his hands and knees. Pain trickles back into his awareness, at first dull and pinched, then growing into a sharp ache. Rex grits his teeth against the discomfort, groaning as his stitches pull, head swimming from just the small movement. He grabs fistfuls of dirt, slowly dragging himself towards the entrance. Ignoring the agony throbbing through his leg. 

Determined not to let anyone else die for him. 

“Wolffe, now would be a really good time to have that blaster figured out!” 

“Almost there! Three more minutes.” 

“We don’t have thre-oof!” 

The sounds of scuffling grow louder. Someone outside releases a series of loud, grating chirps. A call for reinforcements, followed by a screech: “shoot them already!” 

Rex starts clawing at the underbrush covering the entrance of his foxhole, breathing in ragged pants. His chest has started to ache at the exertion, vision blacking out at the edges. His arms buckle, sending him face first into the dirt. 

“Wolffe!” Several shots ring out, the thud of bodies following several moments later. 

The clearing goes quiet. 

Rex sinks into the dirt, chest heaving with shuddering sobs. Kriffing useless. 

“We need to move quickly. Reinforcements will be here soon.” That’s Wolffe’s voice. Rex raises his head from the dirt, squinting at the the leaves piled inches from his face. Hope painfully twists in his chest. 

“Commander Wolffe, I could kiss you.” 

“No need for that, trooper, a simple thank you works just fine.” 

The covered entrance is pulled away, light streaming across Rex’s face. Haloed by sunlight, Denal is crouched in front of him, a disappointed frown on his face. 

“Captain, please don’t tell me you were planning to fight like that,” Denal scolds. “I’m starting to think you don’t have faith in us.” 

“Rex!” Ahsoka slides next to him, gently cupping his cheeks in her hands. “You’re okay!” She tilts his face back and forth, looking closely at his eyes, which Rex has squinted against the bright sunlight. From the downward tug of her lips, Ahsoka isn’t pleased with what she sees. 

“Safe?” Rex croaks out. 

“Wolffe got a rifle working, but Trandoshan reinforcements are on the way. We’ve got to move.” Together, Ahsoka and Denal haul him out by the arms, supporting his weight between the two of them as Kalifa starts poking at his leg. Rex hisses between his teeth. 

“Lucky for you, the stitches held,” she informs him, a frown pulling at her face. Wolffe strides up to them with a confident smirk, one hunting rifle slung over his back and another in his hands. 

“Told you I could get the rifles working! This one’s yours, trooper,” he boasts, tossing the extra rifle to Denal. Rex does not miss the way his former 2IC stiffens, eyes darting to the rifle clenched tightly in his hands. 

“We almost got a hover pod too, but they disabled it remotely once the theft was discovered,” Ahsoka adds. 

“Figures,” Denal says with a grimace.

“Move now, plan later,” Kalifa orders, taking a hunting knife from Wolffe, who has strapped as much gear to himself as possible using the pockets and straps stitched into his blacks. 

“Up you go Captain,” Denal hauls Rex over his back in a soldier’s carry, leaving the two Trandoshan corpses smoking in the clearing. 

Lo-Taren’s eye twitches as he inspects the corpses left in the clearing. Krix and Ratter, both with a blaster hole through their foreheads. 

It should be impossible. The rifles have a failsafe, should they fall in the wrong hands. And yet, Ratter's rifle is gone, and Ratter and Krix are both dead. In his gut, Lo-Taren knows only his prey could have done this. Clones are the only creatures foolish enough to try and fight back. He loves killing them, breaking that spirit of defiance. 

Still, the sun has begun its descent towards the horizon. His time to take the clone’s head is running out. He absently drags a hand over his throat. 

Smashed into the ground is one of Krix’s inventions. A scanner of some sort. Typically, Lo-Taren would sneer at any hunter that resorted to such cheap tricks. Right now, his head on the line, he does not care about a proper hunt. He cares only for the corpse of his prey, presented to Garnac. Restoring himself to a place of favor. 

He smells the air, noticing the scent of stinking mud and blood traveling away from the stream bed. A large group moved through here, with one set of deeper, heavier footprints. 

Lo-Taren hisses, tasting the air, his lips split into a sneer. He stalks deeper into the jungle, a true hunter following the trail his prey so unwittingly left for him. Soon he will have his prize.

“How are you holding up, Cap?” Denal checks in after what he reckons is an hour of trudging through the jungle. His shoulders and back ache something fierce, but Denal isn’t ready to trade shifts yet. 

Rex doesn’t respond at first, possibly asleep. If not for the heat radiating off the Captain, he would fear dead. The start of a fever, most likely. Denal can’t say he’s surprised. 

“If you tell me you’re fine, I’m going to drop you so we can test that theory—but only if you promise not to try to bleed out again.” The Captain shifts ever so slightly, just enough that Denal knows he’s awake. 

“I’m sorry.” Rex says after a minute, right when Denal was about to prod again. “I left you behind.” 

Denal winces. He’d figured this conversation would be happening the moment Rex was coherent enough for it.“You couldn’t have done anything, Cap. I was already dead. There’s nothing you would have saved by going back, even if you knew.” Rex lets out a ragged gasp, tensing as he’s wracked with another spasm of pain. Or perhaps guilt—his Captain always was too quick to put the Universe on his shoulders. 

“How?” Rex carefully breathes in through his teeth. “How are you alive?” 

“I woke up, heart un-exploded and skull only half split open, on a burning ship. A Voice, probably the kriffer who re-alived me, told me I still had brothers to live for. Pretty selfish if you ask me.” 

“The Force?” Rex asks. 

Denal lets out a wry laugh. “Come on, Captain. We’re clones. The Force doesn’t care about us.” 

“Was easier… when it didn’t,” Rex admits, so quietly Denal thinks he misheard. Before Denal can question what his Captain means by that, Wolffe falls into step beside them. 

“How are you holding up, Menace?” 

“I’m fi—“

“If you tell me you’re fine, I’m going to have Denal here lug your sorry shebs upside down for the next klick.” 

Even without seeing Rex’s face, Denal can practically hear the gears grinding in his head. Weighing Wolffe’s threat against his predisposition towards chaos. Denal swears the Captain can act like such a cadet sometimes. He smothers a grin. 

“I recommend honesty, Captain. My upside-down soldier’s carry is a bit rusty,” Denal says with a completely straight face. He begins shifting his grip, preparing to carry out the threat. 

“I’m… better,” Rex settles on. “Head’s still pretty foggy. Pain’s… bad. Not as bad as before, but… I hurt less after getting shot off a speeder.” 

Denal tightens his grip. “You were what!” He barks. “Who the kark was watching your six?” Denal had avoided asking about the 501st, not wanting to hear about how he was replaced, or who marched on without him. But now, he’s concerned. If Denal finds out no-one in the 501st has been properly keeping Rex from being a reckless, self-sacrificial d’kit—

“It wasn’t anyone’s fault.” Rex tries to deflect, but Denal is not going to be deterred so easily. 

“Names, Captain.” 

“Jesse, Kix, and Hardcase,” Wolffe supplies for him. Denal jolts to a stop, Rex groaning through his teeth. Denal would feel bad, but—

“Jesse, Kix, and Hardcase? The three trouble makers you specifically put on my squad so that I could reign them in? That’s who you replaced me with?” Denal can understand Kix at least—Rex should absolutely have a medic on his squad. But Jesse and Hardcase? A vod with a habit of amplifying the chaos of any situation he walked into, combined with a walking disaster capable of causing explosions with his mere presence? Why couldn’t his Captain have picked someone sensible, like Appo?

“They’ve… settled since then,” Rex weakly defends. Wolffe snorts, immediately disproving that statement. 

“They haven’t settled one bit,” Wolffe argues. “You’ve just grown desensitized to it.” Rex, knowing a lost battle when he sees it, doesn’t argue that point. 

“Down. Now.” Never mind. Wolffe and Denal quickly lower Rex to the Jungle floor. Just in time for Rex to start another round of vomiting. The wretched sounds his Captain makes has Denal’s gut churning in sympathy. His discomfort is quickly overshadowed by horror when blood starts pouring out of Rex’s nose and mouth. 

Rex clamps a hand over his nose, trying to stop the hot, thick blood flooding down his face. The feeling of it draining down the back of his throat and out his mouth makes his stomach churn, triggering another round of retching and choking that leaves him lightheaded and dizzy with panic as he suffocates. 

He regrets trying to reach The Force through the fog clouding his brain. He’d thought if he could heal himself, if he could walk—

Rex spits out another mouthful of blood and bile, ribs aching with each heaving gasp. He manages three breaths before he’s drowning again. A hand is on his shoulder, tightening in concern. A wall forms around him, voices clamoring and indistinct. “Protect the Captain!” Someone calls. 

Echo. 

Rex rears up onto his knees, but several hands force him back down. 

“Idiot!” A voice hisses. “It’s like you enjoy getting shot.” 

Kalifa crouches in front of him, reaching for his nose, nudging his hand out of the way. She concentrates, brow furrowing. The suffocating flow of blood finally slows. Rex spits out another mouthful. “Keep your head down and tilted forward,” she instructs. The sounds of blaster fire finally register in his brain. They’re under attack. Kalifa keeps her grip firm. “Stay still,” she orders. “We’re getting out of here as soon as you stop bleeding.” Rex wants to protest. Turning your back to a hunter is dangerous. 

Rex doesn’t want anyone else dying for him. 

Listening to the battle, unable to help, unable to watch, is agonizing. Still, Kalifa holds his head down. 

“Kalifa!” Denal screams. Kalifa turns, but too slow, a hand wrapping around her upper arm. She’s thrown to the side carelessly, wrapping ribs-first around a tree and crumpling to a heap. And Rex comes face to face with the hunter, yellow eyes piercing into him, a triumphant smirk on his face. 

The hunter who captured him and Wolffe on Felucia. 

“Prey,” the hunter hisses. “Your head is mine.” Rex attempts to shuffle back and stagger to his feet, only for the hunter to plant a firm kick to his sternum. He’s laid out flat on his back, wheezing uselessly as the air is forced from his lungs by the Trandoshan’s heel firmly pinning him in place. Choking on the blood still trickling down his throat. 

In this moment, he has nothing. No armor, no blaster, no Force. In this moment, Rex is going to die. 

The hunter raises his spear. Rex doesn’t look away, prepared to face his death with courage. “With your head, I reclaim my rightful place,” the Hunter declares. 

A chilling wail pierces the air. Rex watches Ahsoka leap on the hunter’s back with a fury he has never before witnessed. The Hunter stumbles back, dropping his spear. She screams and snarls, clawing and biting at every bit of flesh she can reach, scratching at his eyes. The hunter screeches and curses, slapping one hand over his eyes and reaching behind him to try and pull her off. 

Ahsoka bites his hand, tearing off his right thumb in a spray of blood and spitting it to the ground, green blood dripping from her chin. The Trandoshan howls, sinking to his knees, holding his mutilated hand while blood drips freely from his left eye. Ahsoka leaps from his shoulders, landing to defiantly stand between Rex and the hunter, holding a warrior’s stance.

“You will not touch him, Lo-Taren,” she declares. “Or I will kill you.” The air ripples with the threat of that Promise, Morai’s feather gleaming in her headdress and almost seeming to burn. Rex’s hairs stand on end, sensing the danger radiating from his vod’ika. 

It is clear in that moment who the real Hunter is. Lo-Taren, the coward, flees the moment his prey is no longer weak. 

Lo-Taren may have fled, but not before doing some damage. 

Ahsoka glances around the battlefield, relieved to see Kalifa slowly pulling herself to her feet. By the way she’s hunched over, her ribs are cracked, if not broken, and her left arm is tucked close to her chest. O-Mer and Jinx are sitting up and rubbing at where their heads collided into each other. Wolffe’s shoulder doesn’t look quite right, his left cheek imprinted with bloody indentations of tree bark, and Denal is starting to squint, red finger-shaped welts poking up around the collar of his blacks. Ahsoka herself winces when her ankle and wrist throb where Lo-Taren had grabbed her earlier, her back and arms stinging with a thousand scratches and raw skin from being thrown into a thorny shrub. 

Osik, maybe the boys did have a point about wearing proper armor. 

She looks at Rex, and her knees start to shake. Half-dried blood is crusted across his hands and the lower half of his face. Tears build, and she swipes them away before they can spill down her cheeks. 

He’s alive. The relief is almost crushing. 

He sits up painfully, knuckles massaging his sternum. “You are incredible, vod’ika,” he praises her. “I’m alive, thanks to you.” 

Ahsoka embraces him and sobs. 

Anakin is doing something he’d never thought he’d do. 

Meditate. 

Master Plo is next to him, burning some incense that is supposed to help invite Visions. “Don’t try to steer, simply let the Force Guide,” he instructs, voice deep and rumbling. Anakin breathes, carefully opening his shields. 

Obi-wan always claimed that Anakin couldn’t sit still and focus long enough to truly meditate. While that’s partially true, Anakin has another reason for avoiding meditation: The Force is deafening when he tries to listen to it. He can feel thousands and thousands of life forces, their thoughts and emotions pouring in like a jet of water from a pressurized hose. He struggles to sift through the sensations, to distinguish their emotions from himself. Deep rage pools into his gut, because how dare someone try to take their Captain and Commander from them? How dare some sleemo coward attack outside of a battlefield? It’s his fault. He never should have taken his eyes off Commander Tano, should have insisted that he be on Rex’s squad to help with the search. Even if it meant bearing the full weight Rex’s disappointment—

Master Plo’s hand rests over his, gently pulling Anakin away from the stewing feelings of his men. Anakin breaths deeply, trying to re-center. 

“Let the Force guide,” Master Plo gently reminds him. Anakin tries again, trying to drift above everything pouring into his shields, the rage and guilt permeating the 501st threatening to pull him back in. 

“How?” Anakin asks, running his hands through his hair. “There’s so much—how do I know what to listen to?” 

Plo Koon shuffles closer, holding out his hands, palms up. “I once struggled the way you do, Young Skywalker,” the old Master admits. Anakin finds it hard to imagine Plo Koon struggling with anything. “My own Master, Tyvokka, taught me to visualize the information as threads. From there, it is a matter of practice in sorting the threads, holding them to follow the trail of energy, or simply setting them aside when they do not serve you. There are many methods for reading The Force, and other Masters may have a technique you prefer, but I have found this is the method most helpful in my own journey.” 

“Thank you, Master Plo. I would like to try.” Anakin takes a deep breath, opening his shields to the flood of information in The Force. He begins sorting through the information, combing carefully through the deep guilt, rage, and grief of the 501st, imagining it as threads held in his hands before setting it to the side, before doing the same with his own suffocating anxiety for Ahsoka and Rex. He sees Plo Koon next to him, a thick white cord with slight lines of red and black snaking around. Watches as Plo Koon gently plucks out the red and black threads, setting them to the side. Huh. 

There’s something deeply soothing about working with The Force, instead of trying to blunt force his way through. Sorting through the threads makes Anakin feel like he’s actually doing something useful, something that will help find Ahsoka, Rex, and Wolffe. Imagining his feelings as something physical allows him to hold and acknowledge his emotions, but also set them aside to focus on the task at hand. Is this how Master Plo is able to approach everything so calmly? Anakin could meditate like this for hours. 

Carefully, Anakin continues to sort through the threads, searching for Ahsoka and Rex’s threads. As he gradually sifts through the life forms across the planet, he comes to the conclusion that neither Rex or Ahsoka are here, explaining why he has felt nothing from his training bonds with his Padawans. He takes the thread of worry that sprouts at the thought and plucks it off to the side. 

A knock sounds at the door. Reluctantly, Anakin pulls himself back in, closing up his shields. Next to him, Master Plo does the same. 

“Enter!” Anakin calls. Jesse steps into the room and salutes, nose wrinkling at the scent of the incense. 

“Generals, we have received orders. The Chancellor is calling us back to Coruscant.” Jesse’s helmet is clenched tightly in his hands, and Anakin can feel the Lieutenant’s anxiety at abandoning the search. Just an hour before, Anakin would have felt the same. But now, knowing that Rex and Ahsoka aren’t here, he feels calm. 

“Thank you Jesse. Tell the men to pack it up. We’re leaving as soon as the Venators are loaded.” 

“But sir, surely we—“ Jesse bites his lip, stiffening at his slight insubordination. “Permission to speak freely?” 

“Granted.” 

“You’re telling us to abandon Captain Rex and Commander Tano? They are still out there, and I—” Jesse breaks off, sucking in a ragged breath. “I’m too young to be promoted. I can’t do what Rex does.” 

“Rex and Ahsoka are no longer on Felucia. We are going to go to Coruscant, regroup, and resume the search. We aren’t abandoning them, Jesse. I swear it.” 

Jesse nods, pulling himself together. “Sir yes sir. I’ll inform the men.” The Lieutenant turns on his heel, marching towards the barracks. 

Plo Koon’s hand rests on his shoulder. 

“Well done, Young Skywalker.” With the praise comes a deep sense of relief. Of peace. Anakin dips into the threads for a brief moment, listening to their hopeful song. Trusting in The Force that his Padawans will be returned to him. 

Kix likes to think he’s a sensible vod. Calm. Collected. Logical. 

At this moment, however, his fist is buried in a wall. 

He’s failed. None of his tests have been able to determine where this Trandoshan Bounty hunter is based. And now they are being forced to leave the Captain and Commander behind. Abandoning them when they could be injured or dying.

And Kix can do nothing. 

Logically, he knows there’s little chance Rex or Tano are still on planet, and the 501st has no legitimate reason to remain on Felucia, now that they have achieved the objective of their campaign, but for once the logic isn’t enough to tamper down his overwhelming guilt. 

Fives just lost Echo, and now he’s losing Rex too. Kix has seen him haunting the base, eyes cold and dull, convinced that Rex and Tano are dead. Perhaps that is the kinder belief in the long run. All this hope in Kix’s chest just might burn him from the inside out. 

It’s the not knowing that kills him. At least a dead body provides an answer, a sense of closure, rather than this hellish limbo. It’s illogical to believe that his Captain could outrun death forever. And yet… 

And yet. The hope burns in his chest. Logic means nothing when it comes to Captain Rex. Kix has patched up enough near-lethal wounds on that vod by now to know better. Hell, by the Jetiise’s accounts, Rex already kriffing walked off death at least once before. If that vod is going to die, he won’t go quietly, swiped off a backwater planet. He’s going to fight, and he’s going to give his captors hell, Force or no. Kix slowly uncurls his clenched fists, cradling them in his lap. The skin along his knuckles are split, lazily oozing blood. Kix pulls himself to his feet, wrapping his own hand. 

Rex and Tano are alive. They’re fighting to get back to the 501st. He’ll believe it until he has proof otherwise, no matter how illogical it makes him. He won’t stop searching until they are found. Until he has answers. Kix’s eyes scan over the analysis lab one more time before turning on his heel and marching towards the Venator. 

Denal watches the shadows creep across the jungle floor, Rex’s ragged breaths hot against his neck. He’s sleeping, or unconscious, fever now impossible to ignore, pained groans occasionally falling from his cracked lips. Groups of hunters have swarmed overhead for several hours now, the buzz of their hover pods a constant drone. It's a miracle they haven't been spotted so far—as if something is shielding them from view. Denal has never stumbled across so many corpses.

Despite the horror of the rotation, it’s almost over. Somehow, they’ve made it to the next respite. Any minute now, the siren will blare, declaring a monumental victory for anyone still alive. 

The sun dips undeniably below the horizon. Denal holds his breath. 

The siren does not come. 

At that moment, Rex becomes a terrible weight on his back. He feels himself sinking towards the ground. The siren did not come. A new terror fills Denal. 

There will be no respite. The Hunt continues.