Chapter Text
They were mighty, once. They sang songs of battle and blood. They swatted the poison-rats that swarmed their feet, that harvested the rivers and oceans of oil that thrummed through the veins of the planet only to burn it. They did not know the ground, did not hold it sacred. They did not pray to it, or bury their dead. They did not offer food to the Earth at mealtimes, or sing songs to her glory. No, the poison-rats were greedy, foolish. They would drain the soil dry before even beginning to think about giving back to it.
They fought the poison-rats, preserving the life-blood of the planet, singing songs and feasting on the bones of their enemies. In eating the flesh and marrow they took the strength of the poison rats into themselves, as the Sacred One had taught them. But as they feasted on the bones, on the flesh, on the brains, the arrogance of their enemies seeped into them as well. They grew more concerned with feasting and singing than prayers, than battling for the praise of the Sacred One. They let the poison-rats come and do their work for a time, drawing them in so there would be enough blood to drink.
It continued this way for a time. The songs were good, the poison-rats knew to fear them, and the order of the world was kept.
Then there was discovered a way to kill them with the very oil they protected, and the guardians began to fall. Their bones were desecrated, flesh left to rot on the surface. No songs were sung about their bravery, about the glory of death in battle. It was slaughter—there was nothing sacred about this death, no return to the world.
They abandoned battle and feasts and songs and hid underground, moving through the stone and rock, swimming through the old veins. They were chased through the tunnels, growing old and weary of war. The songs they used to sing felt stale now—hymns of glory had no place here, at the end of things. They grew weak, and they grew old. Many times were filled with hunger.
There are no stars under the earth. No seasons, no time, no fresh breeze. There is only survival, and that is no life to live.
Now, Balaam is alone. He hides in the veins, thinking of the old songs, dreaming old dreams.
He is alone and tired now. He feels the sacred ground die around him, the rocks groaning as the lakes of oil are pumped up to be burned. It is a heavy weight to bear alone.
Everything is dying now. The songs are dead. He has forgotten the words.
Words mean nothing when there is nothing to speak to. Nothing that would understand. Nothing, nothing, nothing but Death. The ground cries and bleeds with it—
“Rex?” Three taps against his forehead. Rex blinks his eyes open, squinting groggily at his surroundings. Kix is hovering over his face.
“Kix?” Rex mutters. Why is the medic trying to wake him up in the middle of the night cycle?
“Don’t you have a briefing with the Generals at 0700 hours?” As the words sink in, panic flares through Rex.
“Kriff, what time is it—?” He’s already imagining the disappointed frown tugging at General Skywalker’s lips, the slight disdain in General Windu’s gaze—
“Only 0620, Captain, you still have time,” Kix assures. Rex winces. During campaign, he always wakes up at 0530 in order to make an inspection of camp and receive an update from the vode on duty before the morning brief. Sleeping in this late is unlike him.
“Are you alright, sir? It took several attempts to wake you,” Kix frowns at him, worry clear in his face. “Are you eating? getting enough rest?”
Rex frowns. Sleep is always… difficult, on campaigns. But recently, the issue has been these dreams he’s been having. They leave him restless, hovering somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. They’re becoming more frequent.
They feel like a warning.
“Sir?” Kix prompts.
“Just dreams, Kix.” Rex sighs, mentally preparing himself for the battle ahead. He can’t quite shake the feeling in his gut that something is going to happen.
So far, Malastare has not been short, easy, or any of the other things they have been promised. In fact, it is probably the worst campaign Rex has been on since Geonosis II (After all, Valtameri went well for pretty much everyone but him). They have been fighting large, open battles for the last ten-day, with few defensive landforms or strategic footholds to take advantage of. The Dugs fighting besides them are more a hindrance than a help, and yet still verbally demean them at every possible turn. The Separatists have started using the battlefield as a testing ground for new weapons. None of them are as bad as that anti-organic matter shell from Maridun, but casualties are high, and Kix is staying back at base due to the workload, and Jesse, Hardcase, and Fives all got caught a little too close to an explosion three rotations ago, and he hasn’t heard anything about their conditions since. The Republic has upped the ante and finally approved the use of a new weapon: the electro-proton bomb. Rex doesn’t know what to expect, but if the bomb does half of what the scientist says it will, then they may stand a chance. Assuming it doesn’t fry their gear and weaponry as well.
As it is, they are very unlikely to survive contact with the long lines of the massive droid army marching their way.
As he crouches behind one of the few rocky outcroppings that would actually provide some cover, he reaches out to Anakin’s presence in the back of his mind for strength. Chancellor Palpatine had ordered Anakin and General Windu to stay at the palace with Doge Urus and Doctor Boll, who engineered the bomb they are about to drop. The Chancellor claimed it was because he wanted the Jedi to be able to coordinate the battle from above and to report information as the battle continued, but Rex swears, even through the hologram, that he sees something glint in the Chancellor’s eyes. Palpatine looks like a nat-born admiral who is strategizing a battle without regard to the number of vode lost. It’s not a real surprise to Rex that the Chancellor is one of the nat-borns who sees clones like pawns on the battlefield—tools to manipulate and sacrifice needlessly because they can always get more.
In other words, the Jetti are staying behind just in case the bomb’s capability calculations are wrong and the bomb either does not work, or does not work as planned.
Rex understands—he knows that from a political-military standpoint they are mostly here to keep the Separatists from gaining access to Malastare’s oil fields and help secure a treaty with the Dugs that would provide the GAR with vital fuel reserves. What is a legion of clones—two legions of clones, even, compared to successfully securing such important fuel reserves for the rest of the fleets in the Republic? Still, something itches just under his skin. A sense of unease, perhaps.
Really, he is growing tired of politics. Of men who point the clones towards battles they don’t have to fight in.
His squad of shinies all crouch around him, observing the battlefield before them. None of the soldiers here are really shiny anymore, not after this Sith’s third-worst hell of a campaign, but they have to survive this deployment in order to paint their armor.
Span kneels down next to him as he pulls out his scopes. Rex surveys the lines upon lines of droids, his stomach sinking further into his stomach. There are thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of droids heading their way, all an empty void in The Force.
“That’s a lot of clankers,” he mutters.
“Sir?” Span asks. Rex hands him the scopes, letting the Private get his own look. The droids are almost in firing range, and Rex can feel the fearexhaustionanticipationfearresolve building through the ranks of Vode at his back.
The first shots are red. Rex watches them move almost in slow motion, twitching his head to the side to avoid a red bolt of plasma to the face. Around him, he can hear the sound of bolts hitting their marks, brothers going down in screams and grunts. The warm lights around him dim, some extinguished entirely, and The Force is tugging at him to save. Now that the battle is upon them, he tightens his shields, not letting The Force speak to him as he normally does. Now is not the time to be distracted.
But The Force is persistent, tugging at his shields, slamming against them. It’s trying to tell him something.
He can feel the vode next to him as they die. First Lick, then Crank and Steady. Ren and Span are still there, fear and anxiety building as their squad is gunned down. A moment later a shot hits Ren in the head, his light snuffed so quickly it makes his breath catch. Span’s distress is palpable in The Force, but there’s nothing Rex can do. They have to hold the line as long as they can, keep the clankers in formation. The Force is screaming, and it’s taking everything he has to keep his blasters firing, to keep his focus on the battle and not the wailing of The Force in his head and the knowledge that his brothers are dying. They only have a few more seconds until the bombers are sent out. This could all be over soon.
They will hold. They have to.
“Tighten the line! Hold!” Rex barks. He tries loosening his shields just enough to radiate strength and resolve into The Force, keep his brothers steady as they get closer and closer to being overrun. To his satisfaction, Span calms, as do the brothers around him.
The bombers fly overhead, and Rex watches as they keep tight formation above the legions of droids.
“Remember, you only got one shot at this,” General Skywalker unhelpfully says into the comms. Seriously? Who wants to be reminded that this is a do-or-die moment? Rex already knows he’s going to be apologizing to the bomber on his General’s behalf.
The bomb drops, and the cloud of dust and fire that shoots up into the air is truly spectacular. Any clankers in the immediate blast zone are torn to shrapnel.
Then the electron field comes, sweeping towards them like a blue wall of death. Rex half expects the electron field to kill him—no one up top really cares about clone casualties, what if they were lying, what if—the field sweeps over him, making his armor buzz and his HUD go dark. After a moment the visor flickers back to life, enough that he can scan the battlefield. All the heavy electronics are fried, and comms are down. Thankfully, so are all the droids.
Rex straightens, only to crumple to one knee. The Force is wailing through his head, all jagged shards of shrapnel and ice.
“Captain, are you hit? Are you hurt?” Span has a hand on his shoulder, the shiny sounding almost panicked. Rex wants to comfort him, but he can’t remember how to form words at the moment.
He has been asleep for a long time now, hoping to drift away peacefully into the arms of the Sacred One. Maybe there are songs there, maybe there is nothing. Either is better than this vast emptiness.
The Sacred One screams, the earth trembling and torn. Balaam wakes to the feeling of it dying around him, the earth is weak here, going to collapse inward—
“Captain!”
The poison rat's work, he can smell it. They have forgotten their duty a long time ago. But Balaam is the last, and even as he forgot words and song and speech all together, he remembers how it felt to protect the Sacred One.
His people were cowards, and they died as cowards. Balaam is old and weary, but not dead. He will restore the glory of his race, he will pick up the fight alone, if they come to him.
He was the biggest coward, for hiding, for wanting to go quietly into the earth. Now the Sacred One is dying.
Rex stumbles to his feet, panic racing through him. His heart might burst, it is pounding so fast.
“Run!” He shouts into his comms (which are still offline) into the Force, where he knows Skywalker will hear him. He signals the retreat quickly, urgently, grabbing Span’s arm and sprinting back towards the palace. Force bless the vode, they do not question him. He signals the men to get out of the tanks, he grabs a wounded vod—Tryst—and starts hauling him along.
As they retreat, there is a loud crack. A geyser of dirt bursts into the air. The ground shudders. What before was a sense of urgency is replaced by panic. The ground behind them is collapsing quickly, catching up despite the head start. Still, brothers are helping brothers, and Rex is so proud of them even as he feels the ground start to buckle under his own feet.
They aren’t going to make it. Not at this pace. Rex pushes Tryst into Span’s arms and stops running, the ground under his feet already cracking and shifting as it is being pulled into the sinkhole. Like Skywalker taught him, he gathers his courage, his love for his brothers, the will to act, and The Force at his disposal, and pushes.
His brothers are all flung forward, out of the path of danger.
Rex falls, the ground under his feet finally collapsing. He thinks he hears someone call his name, but his head smacks a rock and everything goes black.
“What do you mean, Rex is down there?” Skywalker snaps. As soon as the sinkhole had stopped growing, they had gone down to help with cleanup and to determine the damage.
“Exactly that, sir,” Ponds has a tight set to his jaw, an expression that Mace knows means he is barely holding onto his professionalism. “Private Span reported that all the survivors of Captain Rex’s platoon were able to get out of the sinkhole’s range in time. Based on incoming reports, only Captain Rex and some members from Jump’s platoon were pulled in, including Captain Jump as well.”
Those losses are considerably lower than what Mace had feared when the ground first started sinking. He wonders if the tug in The Force had anything to do with that.
“I’m going to put together a search party to look for survivors,” Skywalker declares.
“Survivors are unlikely. I doubt there will be any to find,” Mace says, because it needs to be said. He does not miss the way both Ponds and Skywalker tense up. Mace Windu is not stupid—he knows that this is about that Captain of Skywalker’s more than anything.
Captain Rex is a strange one. He is an excellent leader, from what he knows of him—should be a Commander, has the training and the skill for it, but the Kaminoans have made it so he can’t be promoted any higher, and with Skywalker’s Padawan there is no upward mobility in the 501st anyway. No one wants to move him from that posting—it is a miracle that anyone can work with Anakin Skywalker as well as Captain Rex does, and they aren’t likely to get that lucky twice. He is loyal to the Jedi and to his men, and has a way of inspiring those around him to return that loyalty a hundred fold. Ponds and his batch-mates love him like a younger brother, and Windu has yet to figure out how to tell Ponds no when it comes to the health and safety of said younger brother.
Most strangely, however, The Force clings to him. Like a cloak. There are enough shatter points around that one clone to give him a migraine for a month.
Maybe that is why he agreed to rendezvous with The Negotiator and The Resolute. Maybe that’s why he’s on Malastare now. He wonders how many times is he going to make concessions just so this clone captain can live. The Force seems to think as many as it takes.
“He’s still alive!” Skywalker protests. “I can feel it, and I know you can too.” Skywalker does have a point. The Force is nagging him, tugging at his mind and demanding that he go into the sinkhole.
“Alright, you may go. And take Ponds with you” Mace concedes. His Commander brightens up considerably.
Mace Windu can only hope that this clone is worth the headache.
He is awake now, and the sky is above his head for the first time in centuries. It is stale and gray, but he has seen nothing for so long it makes his eyes hurt with how brilliant it is. He rumbles, biding his time until the poison-rats come. Balaam will show them why the Zillo were feared, why their songs had the power to shape the earth.
There are other creatures in here. White specks. They walk strangely, unlike anything in his memory. They are huddled and pitiable, one of them carried between two others. They smell of the poison-rats. These white specks will soon know to fear him too.
Rex wakes, head pounding and body aching. He opens his eyes, the world spinning and tipping and black-spotted. Likely a concussion then. Great. The Force is still ringing through his head, making him nauseous. He makes his shields a little thicker, trying to make room to think, but keeping his senses wide open.
He landed on a small ledge a fair ways down. No one else is here with him, which means that they are elsewhere in the sinkhole, or he succeeded in getting them to safety. He prays to The Force that he got them clear.
Rex stumbles to his feet, ignoring the way his whole body aches. He must have hit several ledges on the way down before coming to a stop. Kix is going to have a field day—if he doesn’t strangle Rex first. Master Che is not going to be very pleased either.
There is a rumble in the distance, and Rex tries to look through the dust. The rumble sounded familiar—The Force twinges in warning. His head slightly clearer, he reaches out. There are some brothers here. He pushes down his surprise, his worry. ‘Focus on what you can do, Rex,’ Cody always tells him. Well, he can go find them.
His grappling line is still on his belt, though one of his DC-17s is busted. Figures. He makes his way down cautiously, looping the rope around his belt and keeping his footing stable against the wall. His HUD is coming back online slowly, so he keeps it off for now, only turning it on to check its progress every now and then.
The sinkhole is deep, and he is amazed any brothers survived the fall. He wonders if they found a ledge like he did, and then decided to scout the bottom for a way up, or to make themselves easier to find.
He wonders, briefly, if a search party will even come. Assuming most of the battalions got clear of the sinkhole, they might not see a recovery effort as necessary. They were trained to be loyal, but also expendable. Rex accepted long ago that someday, he might be left behind.
Comms are still down, so there’s no way to communicate with the surface, making everything much more difficult. He hates not knowing. He can’t feel his General from here, the distance too great, Rex’s head too muddled for his training bond to be of any use. No, Rex has to assume that he’s responsible for getting everyone out of here.
Of course, all this pessimism is not accounting for Anakin Skywalker or Ponds. He’s fairly certain his General will come for him, even if he is told not to. And Ponds has convinced General Windu to make exceptions for him before.
All the same, Rex should make it easier for them.
His grappling line is not quite long enough to get him all the way down. Rex sighs and cuts himself free, falling the remaining ten feet or so.
The ground he lands on is rounded, and his right ankle twinges as he lands awkwardly and almost falls. The Force surges through him like an alarm, but all it does is make Rex’s head spin. His bucket is filtering out all the dust, and he would rather not take it off to throw up.
He cuts The Force off. That is quite enough Jetti osik for the rotation, thank you.
He scans the dusty air for specks of white or any signs of movement.
[There are other creatures in here. White specks. They walk strangely, unlike anything in his memory. They are huddled and pitiable, one of them carried between two others. They smell of the poison-rats. These white specks will soon know to fear him too.]
Rex shivers at the dream. Everything in him is screaming that there is something dangerous in the sinkhole with them. He needs to get his brothers out before they run into whatever it is.
The ground he is on is strange. He’s never seen stone like this—almost scaly, looking like overlapping plates with sharp spikes. He hobbles along as quickly as he can, careful of his footing.
There. He spots some white specks amidst the dust, waving to get their attention. There appears to be ten of them, with one supported between another two. Captain Jump, if Rex knows his vode.
Green light falls over him, and Rex turns to come face to face with an enormous eye. It blinks at him, the ground rumbling as it growls.
[There are other creatures in here. White specks. They walk strangely, unlike anything in his memory. They are huddled and pitiable, one of them carried between two others. They smell of the poison-rats. These white specks will soon know to fear him too.]
Dread floods through Rex, as he realizes that this moment is exactly what he had dreamed. That this eye he is looking at is the source of all his dreams since arriving on Malastare. This is Balaam.
And it is not fond of the Dugs.
The ground shifts, and Rex realizes that he is standing on the back of this creature—this massive creature, that is about to kill him and his brothers.
The thing shrieks, piercing and angry, swinging its large head around on its long neck.
It does not like that he is on its back. Rex barely manages to dive out of the way as it snaps at him, teeth long and jagged and very capable of impaling him. He clambers down one of its hind legs, sliding down the plated scales and ignoring the way it sends jolts of pain through his whole body. He’s almost to the foot when the creature lifts its leg and flicks it, sending Rex flying.
“Captain!” One of the soldiers shouts. Rex doesn’t respond—he’s a bit busy trying to stay alive. Kriff, how does he even get himself into these messes?
He’s starting to realize that Jetti powers comes with Jetti trouble.
Rex opens himself up to The Force as his feet hit the ground, calling on it for help, for guidance, for something. Almost immediately, he is overwhelmed by the worryconcernfear that Skywalker is pushing through their bond. Rex stumbles through a roll, inadvertently saving his own life as one of those long appendages swipes through the air where his head had been.
Oh kriff, how the hell is he getting out of this one?
“Just run!” He scrabbles to his feet, ankle protesting as he dodges sharply to the side. His brothers are trying to scrabble back towards the wall of the sinkhole, but the ground is uneven and Jump can’t put any weight on his right leg. If his brothers are going to have any chance of getting out of this, it will be up to Rex to keep the creature’s attention.
From his dreams, he knows the beast is at the very least sentient, if not intelligent. It has an acute sense of smell which is bothersome, but its eyesight is adjusted to darkness. He can exploit that. He shoots at the beast’s eyes, knowing the plasma bolts will help disorient it. One of the bolts strikes the eyebrow ridge, glancing off the way it would if deflected by a lightsaber.
Good to know the weapons he has on him are going to be practically useless.
“Clover, Luk’ie, get back here now!” Captain Jump barks. Out of the corner of his eye, Rex sees two vode break off from the main group. He tries to gesture them back towards Jump, but both vode shake their heads and stubbornly continue to make their way over. The di’kuts are going to get themselves killed.
Rex dives and rolls under another sweeping leg. He can feel the beast is getting frustrated, knows that it’s about to get more serious with its attacks.
Little gods, he really hopes Skywalker is on his way.
“Aim for its eyes, try to keep it disoriented,” he barks to the vode.
The creature shrieks with anger as blaster bolts bounce off its scales, head bowing down to snap at them with sharp teeth. Rex sees his chance and shoots the creature right in the eye. It whips its head around, roaring with pain. They all flatten and roll as it rampages, swinging and stomping its appendages around aimlessly.
It stomps a little too close to the two vode, sending shards of rock at the two troopers and knocking them off their feet. Rex hears a cry of pain, knows that one of his brothers is now hurt. Through the dust, one of them appears to be dragging the other.
“Clover!” The beast locks its good eye on the two troopers, a foot rising to stomp the two of them like bugs. He can feel desperation clawing through him like a primal thing. The knowledge that Death is swooping for the kill, that what is coming is unavoidable.
Rex pushes, sending to two vode sprawling out of the way as it brings a clawed foot down. Rex shoots it in the eye again, trying to draw the creature’s attention solely to himself. It screams and swings its head in his direction. He dodges to the side, just managing to avoid getting smashed by the creature’s club-like tail.
“Get him to safety!” He orders.
“But sir!”
“Do it now!” Rex barks. He presses his will into his voice, using a tone that he knows won’t be denied.
Thankfully, the vod listens, dragging his friend back towards the main group.
Rex shouts and screams and curses, firing his DC-17 at the creature's eyes and doing everything he can to keep the beast’s attention on himself.
“Rex!” Suddenly, his General is beside him, lightsaber lit and thrumming with The Force. Rex almost melts with relief. Anakin jumps, arms raised over his head as he swings his lightsaber down onto the creature’s foot with a yell.
The blade bounces off. Shock radiates off Skywalker. Rex has never seen something deflect a lightsaber. “Back to the gunship!” Anakin declares. Rex nods.
They make a mad dash over the ground to the gunship, the beast swiping and stomping. Rex fears that even if they make the gunship, they are going to get knocked down in flight. The gunship is hovering in the air, ropes descended for vode to latch onto, ready to takeoff at full speed.
Rex feels The Force wrap around him, barely having enough time to mentally brace himself before he is lifted off his feet and flung through the air. His chest collides with the floor of the gunship, and he momentarily panics as he scrabbles for the purchase necessary to pull himself in. Arms grab him and haul him into the gunship. Ponds is there, keeping a firm hand on his shoulder as he tries to regulate his breathing. A moment later, Anakin is beside him and the gunship is retreating at full speed. The doors slam shut, and everyone braces as best they can.
Rex hates not knowing. He can only grab the overhead handles and pray as they swerve and dip, lives entirely in the hands of the pilot. They are tilted almost straight up at one point, and Rex foolishly allows himself to think that they are going to make it. Then the ship lurches, engines straining, metal grinding.
“It’s grabbed onto us sir!” The pilot reports. It sounds like Navy, but Rex can't tell over the comm and the blood rushing in his ears.
“Open the doors!” Rex shouts.
“Sir you can’t be serious!” The pilot protests.
“Do it pilot!” Anakin snaps. The doors open, and Rex sees the beast eye to eye.
Balaam, I am Rex, he pushes into The Force. The creature’s pupils shift to focus on him. So the creature can understand speech—or thought imprints? Rex isn’t entirely sure what he is doing. Let us go, and you will live.
You smell of the poison-rats. They are Death-bringers. They do not love the Sacred One. You must die. The gunship strains as the beast tightens its hold, a clear snarl on its face.
To kill us is to bring Death and Wrath on your head, Rex warns.
Balaam laughs, and it makes the very air vibrate. Little one, you think I fear Death? I am alone. I have weathered this aloneness for centuries. I have forgotten how to sing. My own name is strange to me. You, who are so small, dare to threaten me with something as meager as Death? As Wrath? Little one, you know nothing of it.
“We’ll see about that,” Rex mutters. He raises his DC-17 and shoots the creature point-blank in the eye. Green blood bursts from wound, splattering on Rex's armor. The gunship lurches as Balaam roars and shrieks with pain. The pilot immediately pushes the thrusters to full, and it’s enough to break them free.
“Good job Rex!” Skywalker praises. But they are not clear of the danger yet—Balaam rears up, long limbs swatting around their position. In a star-fighter, they might have stood a chance—the ships are built to be fast and maneuverable. In contrast, the LAAT/is are armored and meant to carry troops. Speed and agility are not in their favor.
As it is, one of Balaam’s long arms clips the back of the gunship, knocking it into a wild spin. Ponds loses his grip on his handle, crashing into Rex and sending them both tumbling out of the open doors.
Rex really, really, hates Jetti luck.