Chapter Text
CHAPTER ONE
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10 BBY
TATOOINE
MOS EISLEY CANTINA
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You were a simple teenager in Tatooine, as you spent your days alone in the cantina, typically listening in to the starship pilots talk about their ships, about their smuggling jobs. You didn’t have many friends, spending all your free time admiring the freightors or transports that landed next to the Cantina. It was alright, though. Soon enough you would finally be able to leave this stupid planet and go into the Imperial Academy. Maybe become a pilot.
You sat outside the Cantina today, blue milk in hand as you watched the starships fly over you, their loud engines causing your ears to ring as they landed close. Your feet kick sand up into the air, leaving a cloud to slowly fall back onto the ground. Stormtroopers guarded the entrance to the Cantina, their E-11 Blaster rifles held tightly in their arms. They hardly ever came around, only staying near the more popular spots of Mos Eisley.
Your head turned up to notice a particularly strange man with a hood covering his face walking towards the entrance. He wore strange clothes, robes. They looked like Jedi robes, but Jedi were extinct by now. You had heard stories of them from when you were a kid. They were supposed to have lightsabers and move things without touching them. They were supposed to use the force, channel it, and fight the Sith with it. But they were all killed by the Empire
The Stormtroopers visibly tense up when the man comes near, and from the corner of your eye you can see their grip on their blasters tighten a little. “Identification to enter.” The Stormtrooper on the right side closest to you demands, standing up a little straighter than before.
The tall man does not hesitate nor pause, as he simply shakes his head and looks at the Stormtrooper, and with a wave of his hand says, “You don’t need to see my identification.” You can see the bottom of the man’s face now that he’s closer. He has a slight frown, with dark brown mutton chops. You wonder how he wears so many layers in this heat.
“I don’t need to see your identification.” The Stormtrooper freezes once the man speaks to him, and steps to the side with the other Stormtrooper to let the man pass into the Cantina. He just listened and let him through with a nod of his head, how was that possible?
You hurriedly follow the man inside, leaving the empty glass of blue milk on the stone steps leading to the entrance. You were interested, could he actually be a Jedi? It would be amazing if so, they were supposed to be all dead, that’s what everyone told you at least. Order 66 killed them all 9 years ago, leaving not one alive.
The man sat down in a private and secluded corner, not one life form near him. He removed the hood of his caf-colored Jedi robe, showing his full face. He was older, probably the age your parents would be. He had tiny blue eyes with prominent wrinkles around them. His hair and beard were bushy and dark brown, grayed only slightly. He looked around the Cantina for a second, before standing up and ordering a green milk at the bar. He stood quite a bit taller than you, probably a good half a foot at least.
After a while of waiting, he was finally handed his drink, and with a friendly grunt, he accepted it. He walked back over to his seat in the corner, which was across the bar. The Cantina was at peak capacity today, and it was extremely crowded with smugglers, criminals, and fugitives, same as always. The tall man would mutter “Sorry” every time he bumped into someone, which was quite a lot.
When he sat back down, he seemed to notice you staring so much at him. It was awkward, you had been following him for at least ten minutes and still hadn’t said anything. “What’s a kid like you doing in here?” The man said, motioning with his hand to the space around you and him. “Isn’t the safest place to be,” he jokes with a small smirk, taking a sip of green milk and letting it decorate his mutton chops comedically. He sets the drink down softly on the table with a light bang, still smiling straight up at you.
Your eyes widen in anxiousness as you realize he caught you. “Just—looking around—” You stutter. You didn’t know what else to say, this strange Jedi knows you’ve been stalking him around the cantina, and you have so many questions for him, your brain had only started processing the situation now. Slowly, your mouth starts forming the question you’ve been desperate for an answer to, “Are you a Jedi?” You ask, a little too loud for his liking.
He shushes you swiftly, grabbing your arm tightly. “Sh!” He whispers, a slight look of panic in his eyes before it calms down. “Yes, I’m a Jedi. My name is John.” Your arm is let go of his grasp once he makes sure you're going to stay quiet, and not make it known to every Imperial soldier here that he's what they hunt.
“How.?” you whisper back to him, your eyes wide in amazement. You're staring at one of the last remaining Jedis ever. He has somehow survived being the most hunted being in the entire galaxy for over a decade now. It was nothing short of a simple miracle to meet someone like him here, of all places. His experiences must be countless, and his stories must be nothing short of priceless.
The man shrugs nonchalantly. He sure seemed confident of his abilities as a Jedi. It’s almost as if he never noticed the stormtroopers behind him, keeping watch for anything remotely suspicious at the tavern. These stormtroopers were new, you could tell from how much you observed them out of utter boredom. From the patterns they came in, it seemed as if the Galactic Empire sent a new troop to Mos Eisley every two weeks. The Empire was phasing out the clone soldiers, sending real humans to hide behind that white armor instead. Human stormtroopers were much easier to differentiate than clones; whether it be how deep their voices sounded under the helmets or each one's height, they all varied somewhat.
“Managed to survive, I guess,” John mumbles, dragging the green milk to his lips again. John’s eyes moved to his surroundings again, double-checking to see if his mysterious appearance raised suspicion. He was quite big, like a Wookie. John seemed intimidating without the knowledge that he was a Jedi, as his large size casts a shadow on any life form here.
John clears his throat, “Who are you, kid?” He asks with a bushy eyebrow raised. Something is different about you, he can sense the force stronger with the teenager in front of him. You were unique compared to the regular Cantina-goers here. That uniqueness could be nothing, but it wasn’t a risk he would enjoy taking in his experience. John remembers the gore of his friends on his hands, the putrid smell of loss that taints every flavor he consumes. He has witnessed the sins of those who were evil, the violence that those who hate cause. And he refuses to witness it again.
You blink at the sudden question. You weren’t anyone important; at least to someone compared to him. You debated lying, but he could probably tell if you tried. You were simply a pathetic kid who lived in the poverty of Tatooine, desperate for a job that the slavers couldn’t find a slave for. You had hair that was always too messy with lips that always found themselves cracked from the manual labor you were barely paid for. No one would assume that you were much more than a wandering child whose parents never cared.
The gaze that connected you two was broken, your eyes falling down to the green milk below John. It shook every so often, from the heavy footsteps that echoed through the cantina. “No one important.” Your small voice drawled, almost muted by the atmosphere. You were going to be someone important, one day. But that wasn’t today; a lie wouldn’t make up for that. A sigh escapes you, one of disappointment, before you bravely bring your gaze up to his again.
But when you match his gaze, a joyful expression fills his face, his wrinkles more prominent as his mouth widens with a smile. John’s eyes glint with an unspoken amusement, as if he finds hilarity in your bitter predicament. This old man was hard to decipher, if your consciousness hadn’t figured that out itself yet. His body shakes with once another chuckle, as if you had told the funniest joke to him. “You, are very important,” John announces to both of you. “You’re different, kid.”
Your eyebrows shoot up in sudden confusion, the shock of what he just said administering into your head. No one had ever thought of you as something other than a paid slave, a worthless child who ate the scrapes they could find. You weren’t different, at least to this desert planet of hopelessness. Just a child who could barely get by, except this man, to this Jedi. John thought you were worth something, worth enough to tell you’re different. You stay frozen, eyes wide as thousands of thoughts yet none at all occurred in your head. A frown is apparent now, but not one of disappointment.
How could this man, someone you’ve never met, see anything in you? Neither of your parents saw anything in you when they left you to fend for yourself on the street. They didn’t care for your cries or pleas when they left, they never cared for the child they had. “How.?” You question, leaning in almost anticipation of more attention. You had never received that before, attention, especially from someone who seemed to care so delicately about you.
John, who seemingly noticed you leaning in, leaned back almost automatically with another sigh. “Let's get out of here.” John turns around to face the stormtroopers, recounting them. “I don’t prefer the company of the Empire.” He grumbles with a grimace, his eyes narrowing as they follow the stormtroopers’ movements. John has experienced firsthand the treacherous horrors of what they could do, the blood they could smear, and he doesn’t want to stay near monsters like them any longer. It fills him with a disgust no words are capable of describing, something that has to be personally endured to even comprehend.
He stands up to his normal, intimidating height, taking his green milk with him in his grip tightly. Despite the fact you were large for your younger age, the tip of your head barely made it past his broad shoulders. You could spot this man from anywhere in this Cantina, which was convenient for you, but could end as a considerable problem for John. He wanted off the radar, away from the constant creatures that hunted him. You watched as John’s free hand placed his fingers over the brown hood, draping it over his head and letting the shadows hide his face again.
His pace was quick, John’s legs which were ample your size spared you no time to catch up with his speed. The Cantina, which was full to the brim, challenged your path outside. There was no lack of drug dealers or pilots filling each available space with their inconsistent clothes. Many of them weren’t situated with proper clothing for the desert planet of Tatooine, with jackets made of Nerf-leather and pants made from Sulianan cotton. Your mind was almost always on the constant thought of pickpocketing one of them. If they could afford clothing as fine as that they would have no absence of money in their wallets, it would do well for feeding you a meal.
Your thoughts of thievery ended as you felt your body slam into white armor. It was pristine and shiny—new and unused. Your body froze as your head tilted up to stare at the plastoid armor helmet looking down at you. “Hey kid—!” The stormtrooper started, his voice which became mechanical outside the helmet was the only sound your ears could make out. You had avoided the Empire’s authority for years now, despite the fact you had hopes of one day joining them as a pilot. Stormtroopers were always unpleasant to deal with, especially because you lacked proper identification to enter the Cantina and would just slide past them.
Before you could react, the stormtrooper collapsed into John’s arms quietly, his body becoming limp and slack. The white armor contrasted with John’s brown robe and he immediately let the stormtrooper droop down onto the stone ground. The silence that echoed around you was then filled with John’s instant cursing, his voice jammed with panic. “Dank farrik!” he exclaims, his eyes wide with either fear or anger, most probably the latter. “Let’s go,” John demands, tightly grabbing your arm and scampering out.
“What happened to him?” Your voice shakes as you stumble along with John. Your feet stagger behind John’s, still unable to keep pace with him. The stormtrooper just collapsed without any cause, strangely. You have never seen anything like that happen to anyone before. Stormtroopers just don’t crumple to the ground at a moment's notice, they were better than that. Was John responsible for making him lose consciousness? Was it some sort of Jedi power he had to resort to?
John scoffs, maybe at your empathy or maybe for your stupidity. “He’ll be alright. After you pulled that rather dull stunt, however, I’m not sure we will be.” You barely stop yourself from tripping down the stairs out of the Cantina. You’re running on the dirt now as it kicks up with each rampant step, filling your lungs with a scratchy, itchy, feeling. The afternoon sun beat down on your bodies, and you regret wearing such conservative clothing today. Your vision blurs as you both venture into the desert neighborhoods, homes built from dried clay and sand. Your eyes closely examine each house you trip past, trying to decipher which one is yours.
You slam into the clay wall of your small home, panting in exhaustion as you finally found your house. Your fingers fumble onto the lock of the front door, hands sliding the correct number code into place. The door is slammed open as John rushes in quickly behind you, shutting the door behind himself as he enters. The open windows make the drifting dust glow in the daylight, and John pulls the curtains over them. John leans on the wall, which felt thin behind him, smelling of dust and age.
He sighs as he looks down, shaking his head. John hadn’t been that fearful since years ago, and he was getting older. “For kriff's sake kid—” He starts, running a hand through his cropped hair. “You almost gave me a heart attack.” He stands back up straight, staring down at you. He glances around at the neglected house. It looked like a slaves’ quarters, with a mattress in the corner and a pathetic kitchen placed awfully close to it. It wasn’t liveable, especially for a youngling like yourself. He couldn’t believe this was what you had to resort to, where were your parents? John crosses his arms after he drops his robe, letting it fall onto the ground.
“Where exactly are your parents?” John asks, his voice back to its grouchy undertone. His eyebrows were furrowed deeply and his face featured a disappointed frown. This strange child was apparently abandoned in this abusively tiny home. The only furniture it contained was a wooden chair with two missing back slats and old fraying robes scattered on the floor from a lack of a clothing rack. The home was eerily silent as well—no oven with a fire crackling underneath it, no staircase for creaking steps, no crickets hiding underneath the cracks of clay to chirp to the darkness of night. It was quiet—it lacked life—it lacked a sense of character.
You look up at him, “They left.” You mutter matter-of-factly. It hurt to tell others, knowing they willingly left you. They left without turning back, without looking over their shoulder. They didn’t spare stale bread or clean water to drink, but instead offered you the gift of independence, the freedom of responsibility.
John’s frown deepens as he stiffens, it was always unfortunate to meet a lost child. But fortunately for him, if you were special like what he believed, it would be easier without parents holding you back. He fumbles, grabbing a strange metal device from his pocket, holding it up in the dim light. It was a wonder how he was able to keep this thing in his belongings for so long after Order 66. It was a device meant for midi-chlorian blood tests, and he intended to use it to decipher if you’re as different as he thinks you are.
You stare at the obscure metal contraption John is holding in his hand. It was silver, with multiple buttons following the border of the oval-shaped device. More silver covered the black front of it with a strange pattern you had never seen before. It looked aged, like it had been used for a long period of time before being presented now. “What is that?” You nervously ask, eyes narrowing as your head tilts at its presence. Despite its matured appearance, it still appeared to be more advanced than any other piece of technology you could get your hands on in Tatooine. The purpose, however, was a mystery to you.
“A midi-chlorian blood test,” John answers back, removing a piece of it to reveal a sharp needle point. “Sit down.” He motions for you to sit on the stained mattress lying on the floor with a tilt of his head. You hesitate, but ultimately give up to John’s request and travel across the room to sit. The mattress was by no means comfortable, as it was lumpy and too thin to be situated on the floor, yet you let yourself relax onto it as John sat next to you.
John rolled up your khaki sleeve to reveal a bare arm, as he moved the needle into your arm with a sharp prick a wince came out of you in return. He let the needle sit inside your arm for a few seconds, your lips moving to silently count with him. The needle felt unnecessarily painful, the added time meant your arm had to ache for longer. Your eyes blinked in shock as he finally slid the needle out without a stumble and reconnected the piece of the device he removed earlier with a soft click.
“Sorry if that hurt.” John apologizes, looking behind him through the dingy atmosphere of the room to the door. He looks down at the midi-chlorian device, running his wrinkled fingers down the cracked and crumbling surface. “I need to send a transmission.” He quickly adds, rushing to the door and cracking it open to exit. Your gaze follows his quick transition outside the room, looking down to catch the brown faded robe still on the ground near the door, abandoned by John. You stand up and creep towards it, kneeling once you reach it, your hands feeling the wrinkling material beneath your skin.
John steps further away from your home, his steps increasing the length separating you, as he grabs his transceiver with his right hand, radioing someone. “This is Price,” He grumbles, holding the other device in his left hand, keeping his gaze on it. “I need an analysis of the blood sample I’m sending you,” John orders, eventually nodding his head as the other person on the transmission speaks back, his dark blue eyes flickering in the daylight.
Your fingers feel a strange cylinder inside one of the many pockets of John’s robe, as you grip onto it and slowly pull it out of the tattered fabric. You hold it in front of you, standing up and admiring how the metal reflects every surface it can see. Buttons line up on one side of the cylinder, but an obnoxiously big one shines on the opposite side. You slide your finger into place, lightly touching it with little pressure. You flinch as a green light then rashly beams from the cylinder with a loud crack and a continuous hum. The emerald glow illuminated your face, casting vibrant hues across the lines of your expression, as your blue eyes adjust to the light once more.