“Oh no,” the general says from the edge of camp, something spiking sharp in his pheromones, and Rex glances towards him with a mix of confusion and concern. That tone is not a normal tone, coming from General Skywalker. That tone is also not a good tone, considering they are no-damn-where near reinforcements right now.
“Sir?” he asks warily, instinctively putting a hand on his blaster and honestly expecting a dozen slagging droidekas to land on their heads in the next heartbeat. Jedi don’t say much with that much dread, is the thing, and he’s not the only brother to have gone for his weapon over catching it in the general’s scent.
“Oh no,” the general repeats, not seeming to have heard him or to even have realized that he’s close enough to be overheard himself. His back’s to them, which might be contributing to that, but Jedi still aren’t usually that unobservant.
Rex takes a sniff and takes a few steps to the side to get a clearer look and figure out if he needs to call Kix over. The general’s pheromones have been a little off the past week or two; he might be coming down with something. They’re even worse now, warped and jitter-bright under a sudden rush of anxiety, and his face is paler than a dead man’s. He’s staring at something in his hand–a little plastic-looking stick. Some kind of holofile, maybe? If it is, Rex doesn’t recognize the hardware.
He approaches the general warily, still on high-alert for an attack, but the general doesn’t move and every drop of that dread in him is all very, very clearly focused on the stick. Rex hopes like hell the thing’s not some kind of explosive or fucked-up Sith weapon.
“Sir,” he says again, a little louder, and the general’s head snaps up and he stares at him–guiltily? What the kriff? “Something wrong?”
He’d ask everything all right?, but he’s not a damn shiny.
“No,” the general says abruptly, and crushes the unidentified stick in his prosthetic before sweeping away. Rex stares after him and sticks by his earlier assessment: what the kriff?