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He knows he’s different.
He doesn’t know why or how, but when a brother gets knocked over at lunch, no one else seems to care. No one else drops their tray and pulls him up by his wrists. No one else asks if he’s okay or if he needs to see the med droid.
He knows he’s different.
A six-year tells him he’s surprised the longnecks haven’t noticed his weakness and decommissioned—
The six-year doesn’t get farther than that.
He knows he’s different.
His batchmates don’t understand. They tell him he acts like a med droid sometimes, but he doesn’t mind. He likes the med droids. He likes how the tools flash in the light and how his brothers always feel better after a visit to the ‘bay. He likes standing at attention behind the other cadets and listening to the longnecks drone on about treating blaster wounds.
He knows he’s different.
In seventh year during training, when his brother gets hit four, five, six times, he drags him, groaning and protesting, behind a barrier and out of the way. And he finishes the drill alone, blasting and kicking down every training droid in his path. (It’s how he gets his name.)
The longnecks must have noticed.
The next day, he’s away from his batchmates, sitting in a classroom with fourteen other cadets he doesn’t recognize. And the lecture isn’t on weapons or strategy or regulations.
Now everyone else knows he’s different too.
He wears a small red symbol on his shoulder. He’s taught how to heal his sick brothers. He’s taught about not just blaster wounds but about much worse, much scarier injuries. His eyes open wide at some of the lessons, and he sets his jaw, determined. He’s never let his brothers hurt before, and he won’t start now.
He’s taught that when it comes to the health of his men, he outranks even the generals.
He doesn’t mind being different.
He can still fire a blaster and fight alongside his brothers, but he has a higher purpose now.
The first troopers have shipped out to Geonosis before he completes his training. He watches them go, marching in sync—the way they’ve been taught ever since they could walk. Pride wells up in his chest at the sight.
He completes the final test alongside his batchmates, but he still has one test to go.
After the exam and the surgery demonstration, he’s given a black bag with the red symbol on the side. He grips it as tightly as he can as he salutes the longnecks.
His armor isn’t as shiny as the others. He has the red symbol on his shoulder, and his black bag strapped to his back. He stands rear center, rifle at his side, the world too bright through his helmet. Beside him, his batchmates are like statues, hardly breathing.
They’re assigned to a battalion and he’s ready.
To him, being different is a good thing.
War is worse than Kix imagined.
The longnecks made it sound clinical. As polished as the sterilized scalpel in his med bag.
But war is messy. War is chaos and fire and pain and loss and sleepless nights and not being sure if it’s blood or tears running down his face. War is all they’ve ever been meant for.
When Jesse is too near an explosion and has blistering burns on his lower back and legs, Kix drops everything and hauls his brother back to safety, bacta spray already in his hand.
When the General’s last-minute plan goes just a bit awry, Kix pulls him aside for scans, finding exactly what he feared. But the concussion won’t be debilitating, and with some rest and a short furlough to the Core, he’ll be in good shape again.
When Rex is shot off his speeder, barely able to even sit up in the barn, Kix realizes this is what he’s been prepared for. He pulls rank, ordering his own captain back onto the makeshift bed, leaving him in the capable hands of the farmer.
But he feels helpless most days.
So many brothers dead. So many wounds that couldn’t be treated soon enough. So many unseen injuries that destroyed them from the inside out.
He doesn’t cry. He’s not a cadet anymore. But when Hardcase collapses onto the ground next to him, chest heaving after their day-long run through the wilderness, Kix clasps his brother’s forearm and automatically, by force of habit, feels for a pulse.
He recites procedures to lull himself to sleep on days when he can’t see past the blood and burns and bodies piled high, never to be buried. He uses his med bag as a pillow most nights, letting the rough canvas under his cheek ground him, pulling him back to reality so he doesn’t get lost in the memories.
And in the mornings, he shakes his head and pushes those thoughts away and does the routine inspection of his bag. Ready for another day.
He knows he’s earned Rex’s trust, and for that he’s grateful. Because on Umbara, all they have is each other. The small band of brothers facing a threat greater than they ever could have imagined. Greater than the enemy they were originally sent to destroy.
He can’t keep up with the casualties.
He drags men behind trees, promising he’ll be back and that they’ll be alright. They should be allowed to hear something comforting before their deaths.
None of them will walk away unchanged.
War is worse than any of them could have imagined.
He knows the Captain hasn’t forgotten about Fives and Tup. None of them have.
Two of their closest brothers, gone in the span of a few short days. Kix can’t believe it was just coincidence. He knows it wasn’t a coincidence.
But the war isn’t ending anytime soon, and there are soldiers to care for. He can’t overthink it. Brothers die every day. Fives’ death was tragic, but they still have a job to do. They have a war to win.
He lets his hair grow out and Jesse returns from ARC training with shiny new pauldrons. Kix punches his shoulder. Jesse threatens to headbutt him. Just like old times.
The war gets messier. More scattered. Their forces are still strong, but he wonders how long they’ll be able to keep pressing on.
He takes it day by day, comforting one brother at a time. Healing wounds. Providing some modicum of peace to dying soldiers. Just like he’s always done.
It nags at the edge of his mind.
Rex was so secretive about Fives’ death, and Kix can’t help it. He’s a medic. He knows abnormality when he sees it.
He’s never been one to abandon his duties, so he researches in private. When he has a rare moment of peace, he digs into anything he can. It’s to protect the rest of his brothers. Otherwise he would have forgotten about it. But he’s always looked out for his vode. He was trained to, but more importantly: he’s different. It comes naturally.
It’s his only purpose.
He hasn’t forgotten Fives and Tup.
The air smells different when he wakes.
He hadn’t even realized he was asleep.
They tell him he’s been out of it for over fifty years. That the war is over. That in the end—the very end—they won. That he was right: Palpatine was behind everything. And for a while, it was hopeless. That for twenty-three years, the Empire had the galaxy in a stranglehold. But now they’re free and peace is restored and even the Jedi are back. (Were they gone in the first place?)
His head spins.
They offer him a spot on their crew.
But he needs to think.
Fifty years.
No clone could live that long. That’s more than a lifetime. His brothers were lucky to make it to year twelve during the war. They’re all dead now. He knows that much.
He falls against the wall—doesn’t realize that he hit the floor until he feels the jarring in his neck.
It’s his job to keep his brothers safe.
Keep them healthy. Fix their injuries. Comfort them as the life fades out of their eyes.
The longnecks’ words echo through his head from his early training. They’re your responsibility.
And he failed them.
If only he had been able to fight off the Seppies that captured him. Maybe he could have told Rex first.
His mind wanders.
He sees gray walls and dirty floors. He sees the dim lights of the med bay. He sees dying soldiers on cots, sees streams of blood running down pure white armor, sees pale faces and bodies piled high.
But through all the pain and suffering and death, he also sees his batchmates.
He sees their laughing faces and childish scuffles in the hallways. He sees food fights at lunch and accidental naps on the barracks floor. He sees late-night conversations about tattoos they would get and what kind of Jedi they would be assigned to. He sees the rubber ball they would toss around, which caused more than a few bloody noses.
He sees past the war.
He remembers every name. Not their numbers. Not their ranks. He hears their names as clear as day.
He wasn’t taught to treat soldiers. He was taught to care for his brothers.
And the one time he should have been there for them . . . To help them, to haul them up and drag them to safety . . .
He failed.
He still wears the red symbol on his shoulder, bright and jarring as blood. A stark reminder of his failure. His inability to react quickly enough to save his brothers.
He doesn’t cry as he attaches the symbol to his shoulder pad. He’s not a cadet anymore.
But he repeats the names of his fallen brothers, vowing to honor them and remember them as long as he lives. He’s the only one who remembers what it was like before. Before the pain. Before the death. Before the betrayal.
They deserve that much.
It’s the best he can do.
And he’s always done his best.