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It never gets easier watching a vod die.
You would think it would just be normal by now. Given how common it is to wake up kicking up at the top of your bunk, telling the brother above to stop snoring so much, and then come back that same night knowing you’ll never hear those snores from the empty top bunk again.
But this is different.
Killing a vod is something else altogether. It’s not a droid made of machine parts. It’s a living person. Someone who you might’ve shared lunch with at the mess hall. Someone who you might’ve shoved playfully as cadets back in the blinding halls of Kamino. It’s watching the light fade from your own eyes, knowing it was your fingers wrapped around the throat.
It’s practically taboo. It certainly felt like it when the 501st and 212th returned to Coruscant half a year ago on leave. It hadn’t even been shore leave. It had been a tribunal. An outrage. Calls to Kamino about the possible defectiveness of their products. Because a clone murdering a Jedi General is something to consider seriously.
Because that’s all they saw. That’s all they heard. A clone executing a highly decorated Jedi.
Not a Jedi forcing two battalions to turn against each other, forcing vod to kill vod.
No member of either battalion could look each other in the eye. They were skittish, in a way that Fox typically only sees in those who have seen and done the worst.
Rex himself had been stoic, completely unreachable even though he had only been paces away from Fox on the tiny office couch. Fox had never seen Rex close off like this before, he might as well have been another galaxy away. It had taken the entire bottle of moonshine for the Captain to finally break, leaking hot tears and snot into Fox’s shirt as he pulled his younger brother close.
I killed them. I killed so many, ori’vod . I could’ve done something if I said something earlier. But I didn’t. And I killed them.
But it hadn’t been Rex’s fault. It could never be. Fox let him know as much, even when he knew the words were futile because Rex would never believe them. And for as long as he kept fighting and surviving this hell called war, he never would.
It hadn’t been Rex’s fault when he killed his own vode on Umbara.
But here? In this abandoned warehouse on some forgotten level of Coruscant?
Who else could be at fault besides Fox?
He fires his blaster, and the blue flare of light goes off. Just like any other time he’s fired it before.
Except the one on the other side is not a bounty hunter or some scum that doesn’t deserve to see daylight.
It’s a vod.
The shot rings through the walls, bouncing around in an endless reverb that remains within the confines of his helmet for at least several seconds more.
The blaster bolt rips through the ARC trooper’s chest, the hole appearing near-instantaneous. The edges of the plastoid glow and flakes of orange flutter in the air between them like burning flimsi. For all intents and purposes, it might as well be. What’s the point of armor if it can’t even block a simple blaster shot? In the end, the armor isn’t meant to last, just like clones aren’t meant to live long.
But vode will grasp onto it anyway as if their brief lives depend on it. Because it’s the only thing that they can definitively know as their own and decorate however they wish. Except for the Guard; Fox forbids it. And he will continue to forbid it. Even when he can feel the envy in the Guard’s gaze every time they run across vode on shore leave with stickers on their helmets or stripes of extra paint on their cuirasses. The individuality the others take so much pride in — that the Guard yearns for — it would kill them on Coruscant.
The white of Fives’ armor forms a glare in the dingy overhead light as he stumbles back, a rattling breath leaving his burning lungs. It’s as loud as it is quiet. It has no other competition in the silence of the warehouse.
In the end, the ARC trooper is executed in the bone-white plastoid of an unpainted uniform rather than his own customized pair. Just like any other clone back in the early days.
Fives falls, and Fox can’t feel anything.
Skywalker is yelling at him, brows furrowed and teeth bared. But that’s nothing new; he has a feeling they will never ever see eye-to-eye. But Fox doesn’t care about Skywalker, all he cares about is—
Thire fires another shot, and Fox watches it hit the ray shield mechanism. Oh. So that’s what Skywalker was yelling about. The white glow falls away and Rex stumbles (he had been pounding his entire weight against the shield) onto his knees, mouth moving in a flurry of words.
“Call for help! We need a medic!”
It doesn’t matter. It won’t help. Fox knows where he hit. He never misses. It doesn’t matter.
It never gets easier watching a vod die.
Especially not so agonizingly slow, with Fives gritting out each word like they’re barbed and ripping his chest into shreds.
The mention of nightmares cools the air, and the wave of shivers travels through them all with a familiar Kaminoan chill. Glazed eyes, stiff shoulders, and muscles that won’t listen to them. Good soldiers. It’s been more than just nightmares for them lately. These are things that have jumped out of the dreams and into reality, taking control of their limbs and thoughts without fanfare. They have been for months. Good soldiers. He wonders if it has finally spread to the rest of the GAR.
Rex pulls Fives in, hands grasping at the back of his neck to press him closer, cheek against cheek to hear his last words.
Fox is letting Rex watch another one of his vode die, without being able to do anything once again.
And he knows that Rex won’t even blame him.
Because in the end? Rex had told Fives to stop and stand down. Not Fox.
Fox replays the last few minutes over and over in his head. He sees Fives’ desperate motions, hears the crack in his own voice as he screams, ‘don’t do it’ twice, no longer sure who he had been yelling the words for.
He feels the resignation and grief emanating from Rex before he even took the shot.
Because Rex knew what would happen if Fives went for the gun. He knew the split-second decision Fox would’ve had to make in that situation. He knew the choice Fox would ultimately go with.
And Fox did. Because he’s a good soldier who follows his orders.
And Rex won’t blame him for that.
Fox just wishes that he would.
He doesn’t know what to do with himself otherwise. Doesn’t know what to do with the hammer of judgment and sword of execution thrust into his own hands.
Fives goes slack, and he can hear Rex break. Just like that time on the couch in his office. Rex buries his face in the crook between Fives’ neck and shoulder, still murmuring softly. He doesn’t want anyone to see him cry. But Fox knows he is. They all know.
It’s only natural. A vod had just died.
Fox had just killed a vod.
His hand twitches, and the hard metal of his pistol jerks against his kama. It is only then that he realizes his arm is still slightly raised, frozen with the barrel of the gun still aimed at an angle.
He holsters it, slamming it against the edges of the holster and almost missing entirely. His muscles aren’t listening to him.
Fox hears the others take off their helmets one by one with soft clicks. It’s the least they could all do in respect for a fallen brother, no matter what crimes he had done in the end.
He reaches for his own bucket to do the same. Except he can’t. His fingers can’t find the cache to unseal it, they’re—
Shaking.
The tips of his fingers clattering against the plastoid, and he hears the erratic thumps on the outside beat down into his ears. Stop, just stop —he can’t— he can’t,
He killed Fives. And he meant to do it.
What right does he have—
His Guard takes a step forward, and Fox takes one back. The closer they move, the further he goes, hands still clenched around the grooves of his helmet, trembling.
He hadn’t faltered when he raised the pistol. He hadn’t shaken when he pulled the trigger back. No, his aim had been steady and true. So why now —
“Sir?” Thire hadn't moved yet, and he’s looking back at Fox now. His unhelmeted gaze is neutral, just as his voice had been. Just like with Rex, Fox knows Thire won’t be angry.
Because Thire would’ve done the same if it had been his call to make.
“Go.” He croaks out, throat scratchy. He’d rather them all just be angry. It’d be so much easier if they are. But nothing comes easy for him. It never does.
He continues backing away, hands still on his helmet. The Guard forms a circle around the fallen body, and he finally loses sight of the unmitigated anguish on his little brother’s face. The standing vode form a wall, blocking Fox from seeing any more. It’s a barrier that he has no right to breach.
Fox finally lets go of the bucket when he walks into a crate. His hands fly down to grasp back at it out of instinct, steadying himself. The corner of the box digs into his palms with how hard he’s clenching down on it. Yet, his fingers still pulse around the pressure; he’s still shaking.
He squeezes harder, eyes clenched shut. He can’t do this right now. He’s not allowed to. He has a job to do.
Fox lets go of the crate, going for his commlink. His finger missing the correct button two times before he presses down harshly, the glove squeaking against it.
The other end answers almost immediately.
“Your report?” Palpatine rumbles. His gravelly voice echoes through the sealed chamber around Fox’s head, filling it with ash and dust. If he takes a second to linger on it, he’d say the Chancellor sounds...nervous.
But he wasn’t made to think about the Chancellor’s tone of speech, so he ignores it.
“Fives was neutralized. Per your orders, if he didn’t stand down.”
He hears the old man’s hollow exhale of breath. He’s relieved.
“Excellent, Commander.” He purrs, “such a shame it had to end this way.”
“Yes sir.”
“And young Skywalker? Is he alright?”
Fox hadn’t even known Skywalker and Rex were here until he saw it with his own eyes. The ‘how did you know Skywalker was here’, is on the tip of his tongue but it doesn’t fall. It’s not like he’ll get an answer, so does it even matter? He’s worked under the Chancellor long enough to realize some things. Such as Skywalker being one of the few things that matter to Palpatine in the long run.
Even now, after all that has happened, after everything that Fox has done in the name of protecting Palpatine and the Republic, why does only Skywalker matter?
“The General is unharmed, sir.” Is what he says instead.
“That is good to hear, Commander. Please, escort them back at once.”
“Yes, your Excellency.”
“You’ve done the Republic a great service today, Commander. I am pleased.”
Fox ends the transmission and walks towards the entrance they came in from instead of back towards the group.
The large doors are still ajar, just as they had been when they entered. He squeezes past the gap, just as his headset crackles. Someone had forgotten to shut off their open mic channel.
“— taab'echaaj'la —”
He rips the helmet off his head, feeling his cheeks sting from where the edges had roughly dragged against his flesh.
Fox lets out the breath he’s been holding in for a very long time. It sounds pitched, broken, wrong. He slides down against the metal doors, feeling his armor scrape grooves of paint away.
He presses a palm against his mouth, digging his teeth into the sweaty fabric of his gloves. It’s smoky and bitter, just like the aftermath stench of a fired pistol. His other hand reaches up for his head, nails digging into his scalp as he yanks at the curls. Both limbs still shake, and they don’t belong to him. His muscles don’t belong to him. Nothing belongs to him, because he can’t stop it. He can’t control any of it.
He bites down, forcing the pathetic noises back so they can’t escape his trembling lips.
It’s silent out here, everything too far away from the warehouse to register as anything other than background noise. No one is around to care.
Fox’s stifled sobs echo through the abandoned alleys in harmony with the clattering of his armor.
He’s the only one around to hear it.