[ Rex, of course, had spent the time fighting among them, though he showed no such restraint when it came to Imperials, grimly gunning them down with a blaster in each hand, that very same crisp, military professionalism oozing out of every practiced movement, every well-measured maneuver. But professionalism can't make up for everything, and it certainly can't make up for what could have been a lucky shot.
As it turns out, Rex would have preferred the lucky shot, so long as it glanced off of his shoulder as he suspected it might. When Poe tackles him, he lands heavily and there's a solid sounding crunch as his forehead bounces off the pavement, the plastoid of his worn mask cracking and the glass of his goggles shattering. ]
No! [ He roars.
Damn it! Damn it! He'd been so close! The chance to get this blasted chip out of his head is so close he can almost taste it, and all it took was one self-sacrificial pilot to tear that plan to pieces.
No. He's not letting it end here. He can't. He springs to his feet, bringing his hand up in one fluid movement and shoots their assaulter - the last remaining Imp - gritting his jaw, teeth bared. His face is a recognizable one for anyone in the galaxy; a little sparer than other clones, blond hair grown out in bristles and lying flat on his head, the ferocity of his expression almost but not quite masking the true fear underneath it all.
He doesn't lower his blasters. Instead he backs up, holding them aloft in case he needs them against his once-allies, eyes wide, wild. He doesn't look like a man who wants to shoot, but he looks like a man that will. How does he know how they feel about clones? They may think him an Imperial deep undercover, too brainwashed to disobey, or they might just want the pay-out that comes with returning a runaway clone, far more than anything he could give them. His voice comes out as a low rasp. ]
You got your money. You can go. Back to your ship, where you belong.
[ It doesn't have to end the way Rex suspects it might. He hopes it won't - because if his suspicions are true, he's not getting out of here alive. ]
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As it turns out, Rex would have preferred the lucky shot, so long as it glanced off of his shoulder as he suspected it might. When Poe tackles him, he lands heavily and there's a solid sounding crunch as his forehead bounces off the pavement, the plastoid of his worn mask cracking and the glass of his goggles shattering. ]
No! [ He roars.
Damn it! Damn it! He'd been so close! The chance to get this blasted chip out of his head is so close he can almost taste it, and all it took was one self-sacrificial pilot to tear that plan to pieces.
No. He's not letting it end here. He can't. He springs to his feet, bringing his hand up in one fluid movement and shoots their assaulter - the last remaining Imp - gritting his jaw, teeth bared. His face is a recognizable one for anyone in the galaxy; a little sparer than other clones, blond hair grown out in bristles and lying flat on his head, the ferocity of his expression almost but not quite masking the true fear underneath it all.
He doesn't lower his blasters. Instead he backs up, holding them aloft in case he needs them against his once-allies, eyes wide, wild. He doesn't look like a man who wants to shoot, but he looks like a man that will. How does he know how they feel about clones? They may think him an Imperial deep undercover, too brainwashed to disobey, or they might just want the pay-out that comes with returning a runaway clone, far more than anything he could give them. His voice comes out as a low rasp. ]
You got your money. You can go. Back to your ship, where you belong.
[ It doesn't have to end the way Rex suspects it might. He hopes it won't - because if his suspicions are true, he's not getting out of here alive. ]