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There’d been a boy, back on Tattooine, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old. He was a house slave in town belonging to a wealthy human woman. His depur always told him to smile. That wasn’t unusual, of course, especially for house slaves, but she was insistent about it. It wasn’t just that he had to smile at her when he served, had to smile at her guests. She demanded that he act as though he were happy at all times, say “yes, mistress,” and “no mistress” not only as though he were willing, but as though nothing in the world could ever give him more pleasure.
And it was constant, every moment of every day, the boy had nothing but good things to say about his depur, how she was so kind to him, how he was so lucky to have her to look after him, even in the slave quarters where no one could overhear, as though the truth had been so far trained out of him that he knew no other way to be.
One night the boy walked out into the desert and let his chip detonate. He had no supplies, no plan, never said a word to any of the slaves.
But that wasn’t even the worst of it. The worst of it, the most awful, disgusting part, was that his depur wasn’t annoyed or furious, the way you’d expect. She was heartbroken, distraught. Like she had actually believed it all, actually believed that he was happy, actually believed he loved her.
Rex had argued with Anakin before. There was a slight caution to it still, but he wasn’t afraid to speak his mind. He’d question orders, at least when he had a chance in private, he’d chew Anakin out after a battle, whenever Anakin’d been too reckless. The chain of command was still there, of course, couldn’t be ignored, but they’d come a long way, Anakin’d thought, since the days when Rex stood stiffly at attention, trying his best to emulate the mindless machines the Kaminoans claimed the clones were meant to be.
They’d argued, but never like this.
“You can’t just throw her back into command,” Rex snarled. Anakin could feel his anger even through his impressive shields, and felt his own, so easily sparked, boil up to meet it.
How dare Rex question the way Anakin chose to raise his padawan? Everyone questioned Anakin’s choices regarding his padawan, Obi-wan, the Council, even though the Council assigned her to him in the first place. Others, strangers, didn’t say anything, at least not usually, but Anakin could feel the way they looked at him.
But Rex was different, Rex was supposed to be different. He was Anakin’s captain, they were friends, he was supposed to be on Anakin’s side.
They kept arguing, and Rex wouldn’t back down, and he kept talking like he blamed Anakin for the troopers who died during Ahsoka’s first command, like maybe he blamed him for every dead trooper. And Rex wouldn’t concede and he wouldn’t mind his own business, and Anakin just kept getting angrier and angrier, and louder and louder.
Until Anakin was standing in Rex’s space and force was humming in his ears, and he was yelling.
And for just a brief fraction of a moment, Rex’s shields failed him and he was terrified.
And the fear was in the force and in his eyes, and his spine went straight and his shoulders went in and for half the tiniest instant everything about him was trying to say, I am small I am obedient don’t notice me don’t noticemedon’tnoticeme, just like every slave Anakin had known as a child.
But that wasn’t even the worst part.
Because the worst part was that it was there for one brief fraction of a moment and then gone. His posture loosened, his eyes went up, and he said, “Well, if that’s how you feel about it, sir.” His voice sarcastic, shaming Anakin for being so childish.
Except that the fear was gone, but only because his shields slammed down so firmly that Anakin couldn’t feel him in the force at all.
Except that his voice, his posture, his movements, were so exact, so practiced, they could only be deliberate.
Except that Anakin scared him, and in one brief fraction of a moment, Rex became exactly what Anakin wanted him to be.
Because Anakin had told him not to to always stand at attention, not be so formal, had mocked him when he was. (Mocked him only a little, in a friendly way, to let him know they didn’t have that sort of relationship. The clones always knew that it was friendly. Didn’t they? Could it be? When the clones were… When Anakin was…)
It wasn’t like that. Anakin wasn’t like that.
Was he?
”We’re done with this conversation,” Anakin said, trying his best to sound calm, sound like a grown up, like he was, like he wasn’t—
He fled.
He thought he heard Rex calling after him, somewhere beyond the pounding of the blood in his head, but he ignored him, got as far away as he could.
He wasn’t like that.
He couldn’t be.
Anakin wanted to tear his own skin off. He wanted to eject himself into hyperspace.
Rex knocked on his door a few hours later.
”Sir,” he said, “The conversation’s not over. I don’t know what made you freak the hell out like that, but Ahsoka needs us to be on the same page here. You can take as long as you have to to get your head on straight, but then we need to talk, alright? Like responsible adults this time, for preference.”
Anakin didn’t answer. He tried to make himself as small as possible in his bunk. He wished he was nine years old again, tiny and helpless. Harmless.
Rex sighed, and Anakin heard his boots click in the hall as he walked away.