Chapter Text
Kix was not a sentimental clone. He was a medic, he had no time for sentiment or emotion when he was working.
Of course, now he wasn’t exactly on the job anymore. Not with his new potential employer being the Empire after all. Now, he ran with a variety of crowds, all illegal, mostly scrappers, but scrapping made money, and money kept Kix alive.
But this trip, this one wasn’t for money. He wasn’t on Republic payroll anymore. He could afford sentiment now.
The old skeleton of the cruiser was rotting from the inside out. Multiple explosions had destroyed nearly all of the precious materials left, but Kix wasn’t here for metals and minerals. As he ran towards the old medbay, Kix had one goal in mind. Find his old office.
It wasn’t hard. He knew this ship like the back of his damn hand and could navigate it blindfolded if he had to. In the flickering lights, he found his office, which was less of an office and more of a closet with a bunk in it. And under the bunk…
Kix pulled out the plastoid box, unearthing its precious contents. A small book, a rarity nowadays. Handmade by Kix, the thing was a mess of precise stitches and ripped flimsi sheets, an old sheet of bantha leather acting as the cover. Along with the book were a few ink pens and graphite pencils, along with a plastoid tub of scavenged materials to create another book should the first one fill too quickly.
The book and all the materials were shoved in Kix’s bag, no time for sentiment now. He could reminisce later. The faceless helmet he wore helped him blend in as he grabbed a crate full of abandoned supplies and left the cruiser behind, saying a silent prayer for his fallen brothers as he abandoned an era of his life one last time.
Kix’s home was somehow less of a home than his office. A bunk, a bathroom, the tiniest kitchen known to man, and a wobbly desk were all Kix had to his name. He tossed his rent at the landlord before shutting himself in his home and dumping the contents of his book on his desk.
Instantly, as Kix straightened out the book and thumbed over the unevenly cut pages, he was torn back to his past, the day he created the book. It had been in the wake of a terrible battle, Kix’s first live battle, and when it was over, he had sat with a mother who he had helped recently birth twins. She had been making a book, and Kix, ever the curious soul, had sat beside her and watched her, copied her hands while she showed him her steps, her babies in cots by her side. It was the safest Kix had ever felt, nurtured and learning, his failures not detrimental, but experiences to learn from.
And learn he had. He’d asked the purpose of the book while he’d been working the leather of the cover. The woman had laughed and told him the book had no inherent purpose. It was destined for whatever he wanted to write. She would tell the story of her children. He could tell whichever story he felt was right.
So he wrote of his brothers. Not the gritty stories or the sad ones, but the small silly ones. The stupid injuries his brothers inflicted on themselves that weren’t worth an official report. He wanted to prove they were people. Not just warriors. Because warriors lost limbs and needed field surgery. People got flimsi cuts and stubbed toes. He documented every ridiculous, emotional, and perfectly mundane thing his brothers did in the hopes he could tell the worlds what they were. Brothers. People. Living beings with emotions. Sentiment.
Kix took a breath, rearranging the materials across his desk. And then he opened the book and began to read.