The man ordered another round, ashen-faced and tired. He was young, not quite over thirty in appearance. The bartender hadn't even batted an eye when he'd come in, and that's what hurt the man. It had been so long that no one remembered. 

He tried to focus on his drink, tried to block out the memories that flashed through his mind. It was too much to bear. That was why he was here, wasn't it?

The man remembered a time when he could've walked into a bar on a planet like this one, and expect two different reactions. One; he'd be closely watched and given a discount of some sort, or two; his presence would cause several people to exit the bar immediately. 

He wasn't quite sure if he should be thankful or regretful. 

And this man certainly had his regrets. He knew the year. He knew what had happened because of him. Or rather, he knew what had happened because he'd failed. 

Kix sighed deeply, staring down into the dark liquid in his glass. It had lost its taste. Maybe it hadn't had one to begin with. He caught a fragmented version of his reflection and bit back a cry of pain. His own face wasn't even safe to look at. It was the face all of his brothers, long dead now, had shared. 

Maybe he should just end it here. There didn't seem to be any point to his existence anymore. The one goal he'd set himself, he'd failed. The one thing that could make everything else that had happened okay. He'd blown it. If he'd been a bit faster, just a bit. . .

Would everything have worked out? What if the Separatists hadn't gotten him? What if he'd told the Jedi? What if Fives hadn't died for nothing? 

But Fives did die for nothing, with all the good it ended up doing the Order, and the Republic. 

And he hadn't told the Jedi. 

The Separatists had gotten him. 

The Republic had fallen and thousands of Jedi had been murdered because Kix had failed. He could have warned them. And he never got the chance. 

Kix adjusted his coat and pushed the drink away, leaving a tip for the bartender on the counter. He couldn't stay here anymore. The walls seemed to lean towards the centre of the room and the lights were too dim. He couldn't see, and he couldn't think. 

000

It was cold outside, but he'd been in cooler temperatures before. Two half-moons floated above a dim cityscape, almost level with one another. Dark trees in the distance cast a jagged silhouette against the evening sky. 

Finding a flat rock, Kix sat, turning his newly aquired blaster pistol over in his hands. Should he use it? He knew that it would solve his problem, but there was so much he didn't know, so many questions that he needed answered. 

It'd been fifty years, though. There was hardly anyone alive who could answer them. 

Did the Jedi feel betrayed? 

Did my brothers feel remorse for what they'd done? 

What happened to the clones?

Are the Jedi all gone? 

He doubted anyone had answers  for him, honestly. 

Slowly, he put the barrel of the blaster to his forehead. Kix closed his eyes and held the position. His index finger moved for the trigger. 

"No, stop!" 

Kix paused. That was a familiar voice. His voice, in fact. 

"Don't do this," Jesse said, sounding far off. 

He looked around for the source of his brother's voice, but saw nothing. 

The hand holding the blaster pistol dropped, and then his arm was back in his lap. 

"Jesse?" Kix realised how hoarse his voice sounded. He glanced around once more, desperate for a sign that he wasn't actually alone, that there was someone who'd actually understand. 

"Stay alive for me, brother," Jesse said. Kix finally discerned a pale outline in front of him. He searched it until he found the place that Jesse's eyes would be. His brother's face smiled at him softly. 

Kix was the last clone alive, and the only one still living who remembered those old issues, but maybe he wasn't alone.  

"It'll be alright," Jesse said again, and Kix could feel his brother's hand on his shoulder. The touch was reassuring, bringing back memories that he didn't want to see. Those times shouldn't be his definition of "the good old days", but they were. A time when he'd had everything he needed, and he didn't even know it until it was all gone.

His life then wasn't perfect, and it wasn't perfect now. Everyone he'd known and loved was dead, and he knew that they'd loved him too. Maybe that was enough to keep going. Maybe he really could stay alive, just for the contentment of having lived a life. 

"Thanks, Jesse," Kix said. His throat hurt; he hadn't spoken in a while. 

Slowly, he holstered the blaster pistol and stood up, ready to move on. 

So yeah. This has some themes in it that are entirely personal, like the suicidal thoughts, unwanted memories, and the feeling where it seems like a dead loved one is present and speaking with you. 

Maybe that's why this was so easy to write. I don't know. Anywho. 

-J