flee the fire that

Rex stands, horrified and still, as Krell starts raving about a new order, a plan, about how blind they’ve been—and the feeling builds.He won’t soon forget this: the hatred boiling in his feeble, manufactured, armor-protected chest, whispering that he’s no Jedi, that sometimes even unarmed men need to die. Rex’s fingers twitch. Is this what it feels like to make rash decisions, he wonders? Is this what it feels like, right before the pressure finally builds enough to break?(Rex fires, and Krell lives. The galaxy unspools from there.)