He nods at Anderson's question. All clones learn it. It's in case of capture from the Sith, theoretically speaking, but that rarely truly helps all but the ones with the strongest wills. In practice, it's largely to make their Jedi's lives easier. Clones live through as much hardship as any other soldier, and they've been taught to maintain shielding so that the Jedi can do their jobs without having to bear the burden of listening to the minds of hundreds, thousands of men, all crying out. Rex has always been glad not to have those particular powers, and he doesn't envy Anderson's, or what he's come to assume about Anderson's; assuming others' emotions is an exhausting enough prospect without having to feel them.

He's glad he still has his up now, so that Anderson can't feel what he feels when she speaks. It is a simple compassion she speaks of, but a rare one, even before the Republic fell. He's able to largely conceal how it touches him, expressed only in the clenching of his jaw, the way that his finger taps idly at his knee, the way that his eyes flick down as he restrains the emotions welling up in his chest. He's too damn emotional these days. He spent his entire life muddying how he really feels, and these days, even this simple admission feels like it would be enough to drive him to tears if not for his self-control. To have someone else feel and value that love, to understand the atrocities done to them -- most who are even aware of the chips are too busy with their own tragedies to muster that sort of thought.

He forces his gaze back to meet hers, unflinching as it is. "I've never known another to do what you did. Not for those reasons." He doesn't think she can understand what that means, not without understanding their lives. He chooses not to elaborate.

"How did you come to the position you're in? I don't know anything about Judges, or about your planet. But they seemed to have trusted you."