The piece of tent tarp fell closed behind the commando droids with a wet sound, the kind perforated lungs made when they struggled to breathe. The first droid fixed Kix with a stare that dared him to make a run for it - for the blasters lying at an insurmountable distance at his back.
“CT-6116,” it said, its voice a low drone barely heard over the rush of the wind outside. “We have been tasked with retrieving you. Know that resistance is useless.”
Kix glanced over his shoulder as he edged his way backward, past the bed frame that had almost tripped him and into the narrow corridor between the cots. He could make a run for it. He could. He’d always been fast in training, had even had the option to become a scout, he’d just become a medic because that was what he excelled at. He could, if only—
The commando droid tilted its head at him, eyes a uniform glow. As if obeying a silent command, its two companions at its back cocked their blasters and leveled them at the sleeping patients in the cots closest to them.
Ice traveled down Kix’s spine and settled in his gut. “No.” His voice was a rasp, even to him. He wanted a glass of water. “No, you can’t. They’re- You’re not allowed to do that. It’s against the law of war-”
“We are not here in a military capacity. We have been tasked with retrieving you - CT-6116, designated clone medic of the 501st Attack Battalion.” Now, the first commando droid hefted its blasters, just like its colleagues - except it wasn’t pointing it at helpless wounded, but at Kix. “And failure is not provided for in our programming.”
Kix looked around himself. The tent, the cots, the troopers asleep in them - asleep or dying, but everyone died eventually - the drips hanging from their mountings, the patients’ stats scribbled onto flimsi clipboards at the foot ends of the cots with a pen that smudged…
Kix wasn’t even gone yet, and it already felt so strange. So distant.
