ᴄʟᴏɴᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ꜱʜᴏᴛꜱ

Defective (501st and OC)

 TW — PTSD, gore/blood/detailed description of an injury from a medic's POV, anxiety attack

Clone medic Stills copes with the loss of his Commander. The 501st offer whatever help they can.  

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I collapsed to my knees. The weight of a thousand worlds pressed into me. My chest felt like it had been pierced by a blade. My Commander... my brother. His groans of agony echoed in my mind.

It isn't like you'd think... pain. When a person is in so much pain that they're no longer coherent, they don't scream. They can't scream. That takes too much energy. All they can do is moan and mumble. As a field medic, I know this too well. I thought I would grow accustomed to watching clones die slow, horrible deaths at the hand of fatal wounds, but Commander Cobalt proved me wrong today.

I tore my gloves and helmet off, heaving for air. I tugged at my chest piece but didn't dare take it off. I didn't want to fight putting it back on. Splatters of his blood stained my armor. I tried to slow my breaths down, but my body was no longer controllable. I was uncontrollable.

Defective.

I trembled. Clones are designed to handle stress, yet somehow I was falling apart at the seams. Was I dying? This wasn't the way I wanted to go. I wanted to die heroically, and not of a heart attack. The way his piercing blue eyes begged for the mercy of death...

"Trooper, are you all right?" A clone with a solid voice spoke.

I opened my mouth to reply, but no words would spill out. Only a muddled whimper. Pathetic. Defective. I hid my face in my hands, forcing back sobs. I should've been stronger than this. Yet my own body was trying to kill me.

Help me! I wanted to scream. I tried. I can't breathe.

"Hey, look at me."

I did as he said, and met the brown eyes of a blond clone with blue and white armour. It only took me a moment to recognise him as the Captain of the 501st. I shakily scrambled to my feet to stand at attention in the presence of an officer. My limbs felt like lead. The movement made my chest ache. He held my shoulders down, forcing me back to the ground, and knelt in front of me.

"Steady there, Trooper. What's your name?"

I gasped for breath, "Stills," I managed, "from the 399th, Sir."

"All right, Stills, I'm Rex." he smiled at me, "What's going on? Are you okay?"

I needed to be okay. Men die all the time. I was loosing it. Yet, Commander Cobalt was my brother. He was closer than any brother I'd ever met, and I let him die. I let him die. I let him—

"Stills, calm down. Look at me, vod."

I did as he said.

"Are you injured?"

I shook my head with a frown. It felt like I was. Maybe I'd missed something imbedded in my chest. I looked down, searching for shrapnel or a blaster wound.

Caution etched his voice, "Are you in pain?"

With a grunt, I detached my chest piece. As a field medic, it would be irresponsible if I missed something on myself. "I..." It felt like I was choking. Each word was difficult to express. "am,"