Lekku. LOG-001. The First Thing I Remember.

LOG-001. The First Thing I Remember.

“Buh.”

I wake up wrong.

Not in the ‘ugh, slept on my lekku again’ kind of way, but more in the ‘oh hey, I don't remember having lekku’ kind of way.

My eyes, too big, too dry, snap open, and I immediately regret it. Dust. Sand. Heat. Screaming. Blaster fire in the distance. Something wet smelling nearby that I do not want to identify.

I blink. Once. Twice. Then a third time, because maybe if I keep doing it, I'll forget that I just flinched from the idea of moving my head too fast.

Doesn't work.

My brain (recently defrosted from wherever the hell it's been chilling) is now doing that thing where it goes and tries to figure things out, gets bored of listing options and just elects to have me blend in and look around.

I don’t panic. Probably because my entire body feels like it’s been wrapped in callused leather, dehydrated, and then stomped on for good measure. I’m not in a bed. I’m not on a ship, which in and of itself is a strange thought. Hell, I’m not even on pavement.

Instead, I'm in dirt. Real dirt. The kind that clings to your clothes, your face, your teeth. The kind that smells like piss and smoke and somebody else's blood.

A voice calls out in Twi’leki, raspy and rough, and something inside me stirs. My body reacts before my thoughts catch up, stumbling to my feet. Tiny feet. Child feet.

Oh goodie.

My…father (the current biological one, not the old man from Earth who once nearly lost a toe to a crab) grabs my wrist. He’s got blaster scars on his arm and metal where his elbow should be. He's got the eyes of a man who's killed for less than a drink of water.

He's my dad.

Yay.

“Back in line, Ki'ari.” He growls.

…Ki’ari?

Right. That’s what they call me. Hm.

Five years. I’ve been here five whole damn years and just now my brain decides to light the fuck up like a Life Day tree?

Certified hood classic.

My mother waits further down the rusting chain of slaves being herded through the alleys of Mos Kaer, a nice little crime haven outpost tucked like a fungus under Hutt space, not too far from Nal Hutta itself. Or at least from what I understood from the occasional passing smuggler.

I'm…not exactly sure what system I'm in. Somewhere with twin suns, infinite corruption, and the distinct scent of fried gundark nuts sold on skewers from broken speeder parts.

Tatooine adjacent? Maybe. Maybe not. The point is it's hot. It's loud.

And we’re property.

My mom smiles at me as we pass her, and it does something weird to my gut. She’s dressed in what could generously be called ‘entertainment attire’ and realistically described as ‘Hutt pandering skankware.’

But she makes it look like royalty. She always does.

Because that's what they want. Pretty, smiling, obedient.

My mother is none of those things. But she’s a damned good actress.

We’re marched past a half dead Rodian getting the shit kicked out of him by a Trandoshan handler, and something about the sick crack of a bone resetting itself without permission makes my newly reactivated brain flash images.

Jedi. Clones. Ships. Skywalker. Sith Lords. Order 66. Blahdeefuckingblah. The entire galaxy's Greatest Hits collection scrolls through my cortex like I just mainlined a Wikipedia binge from five years ago.

Because oh right, I'm in Star Wars…somehow.

The realization doesn’t so much hit me as it oozes in. Slow. Disgusting. Unstoppable.

I remember. Not all of it. But certainly more than enough.

I remember the Clone Wars. I remember Sidious. I remember the Empire. I remember Mando helmets and red sabers and Leia choking out a Hutt. And I remember the ending. All of it. Sort of. Maybe. Some parts are missing. Others are hazy. But it's enough.

I'm five years old. My parents are slaves. Judging by the weird something I occasionally feel, I’m Force sensitive or have some kind of really fucked up disease.

Oh, and the galaxy is about to go to war in, what, a decade or so? I need to check the date again, when I get the chance.

Cool. Love that for me.

The collar around my neck itches. Not metaphorically. It literally itches. It’s a shock collar, actually. Standard model. Hutt grade. Discount. I know because I saw a kid fry himself to death last week when he sneezed at the wrong time.

I breathe in. Slow. Focused. I don't flinch when the next blaster shot rings out across the slums. I don’t cry when my father pushes me into the low shade arch of our hovel and tells me to stay quiet.

This is my life now. Slave. Child. Twi’lek. Star Wars side character #64321.

…Motherfucker-

—

“Mom, why do the suns hate us?” I ask, flopped belly down on the ragged blanket we call a floor.

She hums like she didn’t hear me. Which is bullshit, because the hovel’s only like two meters wide. I could sneeze and knock over her whole rack of stolen makeup powders with my snot.

“I mean.” I continue, picking at the threads near my elbow/ “I’m pretty sure this planet is trying to cook us like meatbags on a vendor spike.”

“You talk like an old man.” She says back, finally. Her voice is soft, lilting. The kind of sound that could make a Hutt think about smiling. Maybe. “And your head’s too full of nonsense.”

I shrug. I’ve got nothing but nonsense. Nonsense and memories of a world that doesn’t exist here.

It’s quiet for a while after that. The good kind. The kind where you’re both not saying things because saying them would make them real. I stay where I am. She brushes her crimson lekku out of her face and hums an old song from Ryloth, and I imagine a life that isn’t this one.

Then the shooting starts.

The first shot isn’t close. It's distant. Dull. Just a pop that echoes off scrap walls and doesn’t mean anything yet. Nothing unusual, it just kind of happens sometimes.

Then there's another. Then two more. Then it doesn’t stop.

My mom freezes mid hum, her eyes wide.

“Stay here.” She orders. Her voice is different. Not scared. Ready. Like a switch flipped and now she’s someone else. The performer becomes the survivor. The fake smile gone.

She peels the curtain back from our door and peers outside. Her body blocks my view. Her lekku twitch. I hate that they do that. They're a tell. I can read them now, even at five.

Something’s wrong.

More shots. Screams. I crawl forward, press myself against the rusted wall, and peek out the gap near the frame. Smoke. Flashes of light. Movement, so fast and precise it cuts through the chaos like it owns the place.

And then I see him.

My dad. Charging down the alley with three others. Blaster in one hand, arm shield in the other. He’s barking something in Huttese, trying to rally the other slave soldiers. His shirt’s soaked in sweat and plasma singes. He looks…

Well, he looks like a soldier. A dirty slave soldier, but still a soldier.

And then he takes a bolt to the stomach.

He goes down.

I think I scream. I don’t know. My ears are ringing and the wall next to me explodes in sparks.

I turn and-

My mom’s reaching for me, eyes wild. “Run!” She shouts. “Ki’ari, GO!”

And then the fucking ceiling comes down.

Something hits me from behind, shoves me forward as the hovel collapses. Metal shrieks. Flame bursts sideways from the open stove.

I tumble onto the street, skidding on my palms, skin tearing open from the sheer heat of the sand beneath me.

I turn back.

The hovel is gone.

My mother is gone.

I scream again, or maybe I don’t. Everything’s too loud and too bright. My head feels like it’s been torn open. I crawl, stagger, sprint, because I have to, because if I stop I’ll die or explode or-

I find him.

My father is on his back. Still breathing. Barely. I reach him just in time to see his chest stop moving.

His eyes don’t close. They just…look past me.

I reach down, barely thinking. His blaster’s still clutched in his hand. My fingers are too small but I rip it free. Turn. Look for the thing that did this, before it does the same to me.

A blur of metal and cape stands ten meters away. Broad shoulders. T-visored helmet. Holding a vibroblade, dripping.

A motherfucking Mandalorian.

Everything clicks.

In quite possibly the most panicked bout of stupidity I can manage, I raise the blaster and fire.

One. Two. Three.

All center mass. All dead on.

All worthless.

The shots glance off his armour like they’re nothing. Like I’m nothing. I scream and fire again, emptying the charge like a kid having a tantrum. Because that’s what I am, technically.

The Mandalorian tilts his head. Steps forward.

I try to backpedal but trip over my father’s foot and hit the ground hard.

The warrior crouches.

Takes the blaster from my hands. Tosses it aside. Doesn't say anything.

Then, before I can crawl away, he grabs me by the arm and yanks me upward like I weigh nothing. My vision spins. My legs kick, useless.

I’m tossed onto his shoulder. Secured like baggage.

I can’t even cry.

Around us, the other Mandalorians are falling back. Shouts in their language echo through the smoke. They’re leaving. Whatever their mission is, it’s apparently done.

And now I’m going with them.

…Shit.