Chapter Text
Good soldiers follow orders.
Rex’s memories of Kamino vary. Most are mundane. Many are positive, especially ones of his brothers. He has a back-catalogue of times he’d sneak out of his dorm and into Cody’s. Bly would whisper the best stories, and Wolffe would ruthlessly tease Fox, and Cody would pretend to be annoyed at Rex’s presence, but never say a word when used as a pillow. He remembers pretending to be asleep while Cody was carrying him back to his bunk one night. Cody has always been that beacon of safety, always so sure, always so steady. There’s never been a problem his brother can’t fix.
Except maybe this one.
After dozens of near-misses and endless hours worrying at Cody’s bedside when he’s been injured, there’s a small part of Rex that prays Cody is already dead. Dead, and spared this horror, or stronger than the rest of them combined, and somehow capable of seizing his body back from the entity that’s controlling them. If anyone can, it’s Cody.
His brother is with Obi-Wan right now. If they’ve made Cody do to his General what they’re making the rest of them do to the other Jedi, there won’t be anything left of him to save if and when this is done.
Good soldiers follow orders.
There have been times in battle, in the very early days, back when he was still a shiny himself, where it’s felt as though he’s been a stranger in his own body, watching. Aware of his actions but oddly removed from them.
This is not like that.
There’s blood on his visor, more in the gaps between the plates of his gloves. He’s killed people. Jedi. His commanding officers. His friends.
The Senate burns and the world is oddly quiet outside the echo chamber of his own head.
Good soldiers follow orders.
Opposite him, Fox stands equally bloody. He stares right into his brother’s armored face, remembers the child who pouted so furiously when teased, and imagines he’s screaming as loud as Rex is.
The room is full of brothers. Bodies have been stacked neatly against the walls, perfectly ordered and regimented. Some are Jedi, most are civilian. There’s the odd politician in there too, dead-eyed and betrayed.
Rex lost track of General Windu early in the fight. He’s not here among the dead, and Rex prays the revered Jedi has survived. He doubts it, though.
There’s only one living Jedi in the room with them now and Rex’s head is screaming with the instinct to put a blaster bolt between his eyes.
Traitors. Traitors, all of them. Especially this one.
Anakin is his brother as much as Boba is.
Rex wants to kill him. He wants to save him. He wants...
Good soldiers follow orders.
Any hope that Anakin might save them died after the first hour of watching him writhe and scream on the ground, his body wracked and twisted by lightening. Now, Anakin is quiet, conscious but barely, surrounded by his own men, their weapons drawn and aimed at his head.
“Captain Rex.” Rex has met with the Supreme Chancellor before and he's never looked like this. His feet move him forward. “My new apprentice requires some encouragement.” He steps over Anakin, his long robe trailing a line of blood behind him. “Your men are making good progress at the Temple. Join them, and bring me what is left of Ahsoka Tano.”
“D-n’t,” Anakin slurs, trying to push himself off the ground and falling back down with a cry as the Chancellor throws a lazy torrent of lightning towards him.
“Yes sir,” Rex says, even as he screams his denial. His voice is calm and even and he sounds so normal.
If he goes to the Temple, if he joins the rest of the 501st...
Most of the Council are off-planet. Generals Windu and Yoda are missing. General Kenobi is... and reports have already come in from battalions across the Galaxy. Bly and Wolffe have killed their Generals already. Ponds killed his forteen-year-old Commander with his bare hands.
“Go now. Do not fail me, Captain.”
Rex salutes the man orchestrating the genocide of the Jedi, turns his back on his brothers, on Anakin, who Rex is supposed to protect with his own life, and steps out into the blood-soaked, smouldering halls of the butchered heart of the Republic.
Good soldiers follow orders.
It’s been long enough since the initial battle that much of the Senate now lays in darkness. The clones have taken control of the upper levels, along with all exits and the docks. There are two levels in the middle of the building currently blockaded by survivors, but with the entire might of Fox’s men hammering down on them, they won’t last much longer.
Rex wants to help them. He steps around the fallen body of a young Jedi Knight, nauseous with the battle between wanting to spit on his treacherous corpse and weep over his murder.
The thing inside his head has already taken control of his body. How much longer before it takes his whole mind as well? How much longer before he feels the same scorn for his brothers that he know feels for his Jedi?
Death would be kinder. The first chance he gets. The first hint that he might be able to wrestle back control...
He takes the lifts down to the lower levels and steps out into a floor that’s consumed by darkness. Even the emergency lights are out, and it’s only through the night vision of his visor that he’s able to navigate the debris-strewn ground.
The flash of a lightsaber draws his attention, temporarily blinding him. He turns sharply, weapon raised, but the light that cuts through the darkness is not blue or green or the golden yellow glow of the Temple Guards. It’s red. From the shadows, a woman’s voice calls out with a cackle of sadistic glee. “Hello, little clone. Remember me?”
Good soldiers follow orders.
Already trapped inside his mind, Rex can only watch himself stumble as his body reacts on instinct, memories of his time after Jabiim colliding with the walls of his invisible prison.
Good soldiers follow -
“You should’ve taken me up on my offer when you had the chance.”
Her voice seems to be coming from the darkness itself. He can hear his breathing hitch, his lungs burning even as his body struggles to override a source of fear it doesn’t understand.
“Show yourself!”
“Come and find me!” Her laugh fades away.
Good soldiers follow orders.
He has a job to do. Orders to carry out. His body turns, even as he screams himself hoarse inside his mind. If there’s anyone capable of stopping him, it’s her. As much as he fears being back in that cell, left at the mercy of her droids, this is torture far, far worse than anything she did to him. He’ll take it. Maybe, if he’s lucky, she’ll kill him just like she promised.
Rex isn’t nieve enough to think the freedom she offered was anything other than a swift death.
Before he can even raise his weapon, Asajj Ventress looms from the dark and knocks it from his hands. Rex feels the fibers of his mind start to fray as he throws everything he has left into not fighting her, and almost weeps in relief as he’s picked up by invisible hands and thrown into the closest wall with enough force to make his bones ache.
“Hardly the subtlety I’d expect from the Dark Lord of the Sith,” Ventress muses, lazily stalking towards him the same way she did in that cell: all predator, toying with her captured prey. “But effective enough, I suppose.” Her hands slide under his chin, unfastening his helmet and throwing it aside. “Poor thing,” she coos, “you really never stood a chance.”
The thing controlling his body just appeared out of nowhere and took over from inside his own mind. Ventress doesn’t have that access, for all of her tricks and for all Rex’s fear of her. She’s on the outside, looking in on a picture Rex can only imagine as all of his nightmares collide.
Cool hands reach up to rest on either side of his head, cradling his cheeks almost tenderly. “This will hurt,” she warns with a sharp smile, “but I seem to remember you rather enjoying that in the past.”
He can’t move his body with or without her powers. All he can do is try and relax his mind. If it hurts, so be it, but let it end.
“None of that, now,” Ventress tutts, “it’s no fun if you let me in.”
His vision goes red. Not in a sudden explosion, not the way it went dark back in the Senate, but as if there is blood slowly creeping across his vision. His head hurts in a way he can’t define - the pressure of a vice squeezing from the outside, and a thousand knives raking against the inside of his skull. The blood in his eyes drips down across his lips and his tongue darts out to lick it away, base instinct overriding control of both her power and thing inside him. It takes a second through the pain to realize what he’s done, and then the scream that’s been ringing inside his head ever since he woke up a prisoner of his own mind tears itself from his throat.
“Yes,” Ventress purrs, her eyes closing in concentration, “good boy.”
He doesn’t care if that’s giving in to what she wants. After his enforced silence, the freedom to cry out is a blessing he grabs a desperate hold of. Ventress’s expression deepens into a frown. She tightens her hold on his head, and Rex screams until his throat burns and his vision dances and his whole body thrashes against her, vying for freedom.
He raises his arms - he raises his arms - and shoves at her, the effort weak and uncoordinated. The blood in his mouth tastes thick now, his eyes and nose streaming as he chokes, his scream slowly dying out into a sob.
“Ventress, stop!”
Her hands leave him and she steps away. Unable to support himself, Rex feels his body slowly sliding down the wall before he pitches forwards and finds himself swept up in strong arms. He sees a Jedi’s robes through the blurred red of his vision and whimpers painfully.
Please. Please let them kill him. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone... he doesn’t want...
“Rex! Rex, it’s alright. It’s alright, I won’t hurt you!”
He can feel the hands trying to clear away the blood on his face, feel them stroking over his hair even as he’s lowered to the ground and cradled against a warm body. He tries to open his mouth, tries to say that it’s not himself he’s afraid for, but only a pained gasp leaves his lips. Terrified he’s already lost that brief, glorious moment of control, Rex flails out with his arms, panic choking him.
“Rex, ad’ika...”
He stills. He knows that voice. There’s only one person alive who calls him that, and Rex swore to Cody that he’d keep him safe.
“Buir?”
Obi-Wan’s steady hand closes over his forehead and he tries not to flinch. “What have they done to you?”
“You’re welcome,” Ventress says from over Obi-Wan’s shoulder. Rex tenses, flexing his fingers, clinging onto control for fear of losing it again, and tries to put her in his sight. When she looms into view, Obi-Wan holds Rex tighter, but he doesn’t move to defend himself from her.
Are they working together?
“You’re trying my patience, Ventress,” Obi-Wan growls, not taking his eyes off Rex. “I told you not to hurt anyone.”
“Yes, because that’s practical,” she rolls her eyes. “Need I remind you why we’re here?”
Rex grasps desperately at Obi-Wan’s arm. “Anakin-” he chokes, trying to force the words past his bruised throat.
“I know,” Obi-Wan assures him. “I will find him.”
“The Chancellor-”
Something furious flashes through the calmness in Obi-Wan’s eyes. “Hush, dear one. You must rest.”
Fuck that. Fuck that, and fuck Obi-Wan if he thinks for a second that Rex is going to roll over. His body is his again, for however long it lasts, and Rex is going to use it to tear a bloody path through the ones who have done this to them.
“Kenobi!” Ventress demands. “If we could pick up the pace-”
“Help me up,” Rex demands, clutching at Obi-Wan’s arms.
“I don’t think-”
“Don’t be a hypocrite, sir,” Rex tries to joke. It falls flat, at least with Obi-Wan, who only looks pained.
Ventress laughs. “He knows you so well.”
“Fuck you,” Rex fires at her. “And fuck-”
“Alright!” Obi-Wan hauls Rex up to his feet and for a humiliating second, Rex fears he’s either going to pass out or throw up. He fumbles in his belt pouch for a stim and jabs it angrily into his neck.
Adrenaline hits him like a clanker on full speed and the pain melts away. Nothing’s healed, but the parts of his brain that process pain go meek and quiet under the chemical hit.
Kix is going to kill him.
Kix is going to... Kix might be dead.
Rex lifts his blasters and grips them tight. “Give me someone to shoot.”