The Republic has fallen.
In the final days of the Clone Wars, Chancellor Palpatine died under mysterious circumstances. With the Senate struggling to retain a sense of unity, it was the perfect time for the Separatists to strike. And strike they did...
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Rex awoke from a light doze to the quasi-familiar sound of a brother's voice, turned up at the end like he was asking a question.
Not sensing immediate danger, he grumbled and shifted in his seat – his sheb had fallen asleep and was tingling something fierce – before reaching for the comm out of habit. His hand was halfway to the control panel when he matched the sound with its origin someplace behind him – a person, not a voice through the speaker.
"What is it, trooper?" he asked, feeling wakefulness slip back to him.
"Sorry sir, didn't mean to wake you," came the non-answer from the gunner stationed behind him – a vod'ika Rex had learned called himself Chatterbox.
"What's our ETA for the drop out of hyperspace?"
"Two minutes."
"Then there's no need to apologize for waking me up in a timely fashion," Rex said as kindly as he could. Two minutes of sleep wouldn't make a difference in what promised to be a long battle, but the rattle of the cruiser carrying his Y-wing exiting hyperspace would've woken him up anyway. "Now, repeat what you asked before."
"It's nothing, sir – just a nervous tic. I get jumpy before a big battle, more than my old batch and squad members ever did, and before I can stop myself I'm asking all these weird questions."
Rex had to smile at that. "After our buir'alor Jango Fett was killed in battle, the Kaminoans had to stretch what samples of his genetic material they had far to keep the army staffed, vod'ika. How old are you, ten?"
"Just turned twelve, sir."
"Young enough to be part of the generations when our brothers started coming out of their tanks with more quirks."
"You mean defects?"
"Nah. I saw a lot in the war, kid. I don't believe any brother comes out of his growth tank defective – just a little different," Rex said. "Being chatty isn't a defect. Besides, I've never known a brother who wasn't a little unsettled before a battle. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying. Nerves are a part of sentient nature."
"In that case, sir," Chatterbox said, sounding heartened, "it's not my place, but I was wondering why you weren't wearing a vac helmet."
"Our gear is solid, vod'ika, but without the Republic to keep us armed and fed there's only so much to go around. Actually, the pair of us are lucky we still have all our original plate and haven't had to split it with anybody. I can make do with only a spare oxygen tank if it means giving a brother who could really use it a shot at a proper vac helmet."
It was half the truth – something like what one of his Jedi COs would've said when they wanted to soften bad news. Were Rex in the mood for full disclosure, he would've said too much time out of his bucket and plate made him antsy, and he'd had a lot of undercover missions in the last few months. It was part understanding that he knew all its strengths and drawbacks every bit as well as he knew his own body, and part fleeting superstition that all his past victories wearing it would protect him, somehow.
