Work Text:
Some ghosts are born of tragedy.
Suffering so deep that it never quite all fades away.
Some ghosts are born of violence.
Violence carved into bones that leave nothing but victims in their wake.
Some are born of both.
Some of neither.
Rex is two when things begin to change. Two and defective, but still with his squad. Two and returning from flash training with his brothers when they pass by an aid leading a lone vod away.
Alone is bad. Alone is dangerous.
The vod is defective.
The light colored hair, what color is it, he doesn't know, hair far longer than Rex has ever dared, almost shines in the overhead light. It’s darker than Rex’s, but only just.
What hope does he have?
His batchmates avoid looking at the pair. Averts their eyes, lest they draw attention to themselves.
Rex doesn’t.
Rex can’t.
Rex is two, ever curious, and already more than just a little spiteful.
Rex Looks.
And for the first time, someone looks back. And that 5 seconds of eye contact begins to fray apart the Sith’s plans, not that anyone knows it.
5 seconds to change Rex.
Because the vod is Rex, Even now smaller than most of his brothers, defective like Rex.
Eyes not like Rex’s.
H̴o̴w̴ ̵u̶n̶n̵e̷r̷v̶i̶n̸g̷,̴ ̸u̴n̷f̶a̶m̶i̷l̸i̷a̶r̶ ̶e̸y̷e̴s̸ ̸c̷a̶n̶ ̸b̷e̴.̵
The color is the same, but it’s not, the shape too, but something is different.
The vod isn’t afraid.
Rex doesn’t have the words for what he sees in those eyes. Won’t have them for years and years. But he Knows, and that’s enough.
This vod isn’t Rex.
This vod could have been Rex.
Acknowledgment isn’t something he has experienced before.
He has now.
Deep—deep—in his bones, his lungs, his core.
I̷̥̰͍̊̌̇̕̚ ̸̝̜͉̥̼͙̘͚̔̑̂̌̓̊͛S̸̘̈́͂͒͘͝e̵̩͍̩͎͔̗̞̻̺͛̐̑̿̇̆̊̆ẹ̶̬̻̓̕ ̵͔̮͙̟̝͔͔̮͎̂̔͜y̶̡̦͉͈̏̆̽̕o̸̡͖̻̲̖͙̟̲͙͖͛̂͒̆̉͝u̵̢͈̳̩͉̯͆͐̐̆̈̽̈́̐
̶̡̲͉͔̳͊
Rex Looks and never quite remembers how to looks away.
Rex is two, and has just seen a Ghost.
He looks it up the next day. The color is called Gold.