"Surely you can come up with a more specific question than that. You know damn well what I've been brought in here for," Rex says sharply, aware that it's probably not good form to try to tell your interrogator how to interrogate, but unable to quite help himself. This entire thing has put him off. She's not asking him specific questions. She's certainly not asking him any of the right questions. It's like they're having two separate conversations. Is she just inept? No, he thinks. Many people in the Empire are, but she doesn't strike him as inept. An inept interrogator would already be slamming his head into the table, because they believe that information uncovered underneath duress is the most honest there is, even if that's a complete load of bantha shit.
It's something else. And it's off-putting to realize that, but not know where that train of thought is going. He grunts, flexing his sore shoulders, shifting in the uncomfortable, hard, metal chair. While her attention seems somehow fragmented, Rex's is as sharply honed as a pointer, the weight of all of his attention focused on her, grounded in the physical world.
"The same thing that everyone's been brought in here for. To take down the Empire."
It is. He believes that. But it's something other people think is worth dying for. Rex can't truly say that that's why he's here. Perhaps it would make him a better man, to fight for the greater good when he's got nobody in his life to take advantage of that greater good. No, it's merely a stepping block to take him to who he needs to reach. He would die to save a single brother, and it would be worth it. He thinks about poor Appo on the news marching beside Darth Vader and doing unspeakable things that he'd never in his right mind do. He thinks of Wolffe, and the Wolfpack, shooting down a man that Rex knows they had rightly worshipped. He thinks of dozens upon dozens of men he's loved and known to be nothing less than noble and good, quick and clever, playful and so brimming with personality that he can't imagine anyone not being able to tell them apart, wrestling in the barracks, betting over limmie ball in the rec room, the songs they sing as they march off to war, the way that they clumped together after a hard-won fight, just to listen to each other breathe.
He thinks of Cody, who he'd always looked to when he didn't know where to go next, his hand firm on his shoulder and eyes kind, lips curled in an enigmatic smile not unlike his General's. Now that Rex really needs guidance, Cody is nowhere to be found. It's illogical, irrational; if Cody comes to, he'd be filled with as much regret and despair as Rex, even moreso knowing that he quite possibly killed his Jedi. But somehow, it still feels like if Rex could just find him, then everything else would be all right.
He quirks a brow at her. "We're all just political zealots, aren't we?"
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It's something else. And it's off-putting to realize that, but not know where that train of thought is going. He grunts, flexing his sore shoulders, shifting in the uncomfortable, hard, metal chair. While her attention seems somehow fragmented, Rex's is as sharply honed as a pointer, the weight of all of his attention focused on her, grounded in the physical world.
"The same thing that everyone's been brought in here for. To take down the Empire."
It is. He believes that. But it's something other people think is worth dying for. Rex can't truly say that that's why he's here. Perhaps it would make him a better man, to fight for the greater good when he's got nobody in his life to take advantage of that greater good. No, it's merely a stepping block to take him to who he needs to reach. He would die to save a single brother, and it would be worth it. He thinks about poor Appo on the news marching beside Darth Vader and doing unspeakable things that he'd never in his right mind do. He thinks of Wolffe, and the Wolfpack, shooting down a man that Rex knows they had rightly worshipped. He thinks of dozens upon dozens of men he's loved and known to be nothing less than noble and good, quick and clever, playful and so brimming with personality that he can't imagine anyone not being able to tell them apart, wrestling in the barracks, betting over limmie ball in the rec room, the songs they sing as they march off to war, the way that they clumped together after a hard-won fight, just to listen to each other breathe.
He thinks of Cody, who he'd always looked to when he didn't know where to go next, his hand firm on his shoulder and eyes kind, lips curled in an enigmatic smile not unlike his General's. Now that Rex really needs guidance, Cody is nowhere to be found. It's illogical, irrational; if Cody comes to, he'd be filled with as much regret and despair as Rex, even moreso knowing that he quite possibly killed his Jedi. But somehow, it still feels like if Rex could just find him, then everything else would be all right.
He quirks a brow at her. "We're all just political zealots, aren't we?"