A Living Nightmare

  Chapter 20: Revelatory Reprieve

  "One man should be able to make a difference if he is powerful enough."

  Location: The Scythe- Med Bay

  “So the droid tried to kill us—well, you really—and now it’s flying the ship?” the Captain asked in disbelief as he peeled a medpack from my back. I could barely feel it, the adhesive clinging tightly to the healed wounds left by those damn Buzzdroids. Bacta-coated patches and strips covered the other lacerations and cuts I’d sustained during that hellish bunker ordeal.

  “Mhm. Crazier things have happened,” I replied with a chuckle. TK-421 had finally came to after we’d left the bunker behind some parsecs ago. He looked around from where I stuffed him in the co-pilot seat, surprised to find an old, rusting astromech droid plugged into a scomp to fine-tune the engines. “The Master is tending to his wounds, meatbag,” HK-47 had informed him.

  The droid proved unexpectedly helpful, carefully applying bandages and medpacks after setting the ship’s course for the nearest inhabited Imperial planet—a proper medical facility, no less. Sure, HK-47’s astromech chassis boasted only a single appendage, but having an extra hand when mine was nearly falling apart was a blessing. The numbness from the injections in my left hand eased the pain, though I knew I’d eventually need a real medical droid or an organic doctor for a proper fix.

  I rolled my shoulders and stretched my upper back, testing for any lingering pain. After an hour or so, everything seemed in order; I even managed a small smile, relieved that I was no longer bleeding on the ship’s floors. The blood smears on the walls may have to get cleaned up, I thought.

  “So, with that being a dud, pirates or rebels?” I asked TK as I carefully pulled a clean shirt over my scarred torso. “The moon was a bit of a dud, so to speak.”

  “We can figure that out after we get you to Toriz V. That hand is in bad shape, sir,” the Captain replied, as he began to stow away some of the medical supplies HK had left on the counter. “And that armor is somewhat—let’s say—fucked up too.”

  “Nope, nuh uh. No,” I interrupted with a modicum of mirth in my voice. “You can’t use that. Sounds weird coming from you. Stick to kriff and whatever else schutta’s say nowadays.”

  Begrudgingly, he acquiesced. “Fine. But my point stands: you need your hand fixed, and your gear too, before we do anything else.”

  “Murder machine also needs fixed,” I added. I didn’t want him to remain stuck in that astromech frame if I was to keep him around. The utility was there, but if we were to transfer his memory core and programming into a KX-Series security droid—that would be a sight. The only hitch would be finding a trustworthy tech to handle the transfer.

  “Fixed how, sir? Its vocabulary is archaic,” he grumbled.

  “I want to put him into a new body, sweet and simple. A KX unit should work well,” I explained. I could feel the anxiety shift in TK-421; he saw the state I was in when he woke up—blood and wounds everywhere. I was half-dead, and it was a miracle I was still conscious. I felt exhausted, but I couldn’t stop. The dark side empowered me, and I was still riding that high.

  Struggling to rise from the medical bed, I staggered slightly, almost losing my balance. I managed to catch myself, though a limp reminded me of every harsh blow I’d taken. With a pained grunt, I got to my feet and lightly punched the stormtrooper on the pauldron covering his shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry about it. He follows my orders now, and I want to find out whose orders he used to follow.”

  My body protested every movement as my legs shakily moved me to the cockpit. The ship's hum was a constant backdrop, a low vibration that settled into my bones. With a sigh, I slumped down onto the floor near the console, stretching my legs out before me. TK-421 rotated the co-pilot’s seat around to face the astromech droid, arms crossed as he studied the rusting frame with suspicion.

  HK sat motionless, the flickering lights on his chassis the only sign of activity. The droid had been quiet for a while, likely processing whatever twisted protocols filled his programming.

  “How did you end up in that bunker to begin with?” I asked. The question had been gnawing at my mind since I first heard his familiar tone over the bunker's intercom.

  “Weary Explanation: Oooh, it’s a long and boring story, Master. Filled with Jedi, galaxy-spanning war, dreadful politics, and the death of my former master. A true masterpiece of carnage, I assure you.”

  So, he was active during the Clone Wars? “Then, your old master, who was that?” My curiosity was piqued even further.

  “Statement: My memory banks are locked, though they delighted in the strange form of expletives you use, Master. A truly refined trait in an organic.”

  “So they were from Earth?” I asked, surprised.

  TK furrowed his brow. “Wait—Earth?”

  “My, uh, home planet. Sol 3, I guess, could be its official name,” I explained cautiously. Third planet in the Sol system. “Sol 3” worked better than ‘planet dirt.’

  “Clarification: I am unfamiliar with any Earth, other than the mounds of it that the corpses I leave are buried under.

  I shook my head. “So your master… wasn’t native to this galaxy?”

  I waited for the ripple of change, the shift in reality that would turn my words into unintelligible Sith gibberish. The Force did not intervene this time, unlike with Ferus.

  “Affirmation: I have had masters who confided in me that they were not of this local galaxy, yes. It would seem you are among their number. I am beginning to think the universe is more infested than I originally suspected.”

  “I’m not alone then!?” I beamed. I wanted to cry. It felt like a relief, like a weight that was pressing down was lifted. There were others from home, here. But he said ‘previous masters’—and the last one died.

  “Wait, so if your last master died, is there anyone who remains?”

  “Uncertain Confirmation: Not that I have stored in my memory banks, that I can access. But perhaps they, too, are plotting somewhere in the shadows, sharpening their knives. One can hope.”

  TK finally spoke up. “You’re… not from here?” The gears in his head were spinning, his sense of uneasiness was palpable.

  I shook my head. “I am from..elsewhere. I woke up here, memories from another life intact.”

  Realization dawned on TK-421. “I knew it! There was no kriffing way a saboteur could sneak onto that Star Destroyer!” He let out a laugh, jumping up before slumping back down. “Why hide it, then?”

  My shoulders shrugged. “No reason to. It never held any importance. My past is my past. I just want to change the future.”

  “Observation: My previous master felt differently. He strove to keep the Republic from falling apart and ended up sacrificing his own life. A truly misguided effort.”

  “I guess it makes sense then. Of course someone from my world would seek you out, or be guided by the Force to do so.” Like I seem to have. I thought to myself. It was worrying, feeling these strings being pulled as I tried to make my own decisions. “Yet with the Force, there’s no such thing as true coincidences.”

  “Objection: Oh master, must you bring the Force into everything? The galaxy’s greatest excuse for inexplicable nonsense.”

  I sighed, shaking my head. "Alright, let's focus. HK, you were in a CIS bunker, but somehow you ended up in an astromech droid? What happened to your original body?"

  “Mocking Explanation: Ah yes, my glorious form, reduced to a glorified trash compactor. How humiliating. The memory still haunts my circuits.”

  TK smirked, crossing his arms. "Gotta say, I prefer you in the tin can. Less chance of you strangling me in my sleep."

  “Objection: If I wished to terminate you in your sleep, meatbag, you would never wake up to voice such concerns. I would be most efficient.”

  I exhaled through my nose, suppressing a grin. "That’s enough, what happened?.” I gestured to the droid to continue explaining.

  “Exultant Statement: My memory core was salvaged from the explosion that killed my previous master. A most unfortunate loss—though I did take one hundred and seventy three battle droids with me before the end, thirty six of them were reduced to slag with my master's lightsaber. A most entertaining but bloodless slaughter.”

  I groaned, rubbing my forehead. The damn lightsaber! “I left that loader lightsaber in the bunker!” Then I remembered its fate. “Wait, never mind. Thing was crushed.”

  HK stopped, unusually silent.

  “Sorry, HK. I just, uh—trophies. I like collecting them.” I shrugged. I truly did. Each saber felt different, and the kyber crystal within resonated uniquely with each Jedi. Even the crystal in my saber had its own strange signature. Not truly my own, not yet. No pet rock for me, yet.

  TK leaned back in the pilot’s seat, looking at HK. “So they put you in an astromech droid? For their experiments?”

  “Answer: Yes. The brainless meatbags believed I was reduced to mere base programming. A dangerous mistake on their part.”

  “So just the Peragus mining facility all over again, just fewer explosions and no HK-51s?” I asked, keeping a sliver of my Force sense on TK. Still no response or change with me blurting out my knowledge. It seemed that the far past never changed then, if it’s technically historical events.

  HK let out an irritated whir. “Indignant Correction: I had forgotten about those inferior HK duplicates. I suddenly feel the need for a long oil bath after hearing their wretched designations again. But yes, far more elegantly done. It was a slow process. By the time I had seized control, the inferior droid's shutdown signal was broadcasted. The war had ended, and the Jedi Order was dead yet again.”

  “Again?” TK asked, clearly not clued in on his galactic history. Granted, it was 3000 years ago.

  “The Jedi had been purged before, in a different manner. They destroyed each other, not like how the Emperor did,” I informed him. “Back to back wars, thinned ranks by death and then switching sides. It took a toll on those knights of old.”.

  “Admiration: Yes, Emperor Palpatine was quite brutal and efficient. An army with the sole purpose of slaughtering Jedi! As expected of a Sith Lord.”

  Panic and surprise bloomed in my chest hearing the droid mention the Sith Lord. I whispered, “You know?” Very few even knew that fact. That HK’s former master would entrust him with that information? What else did they do? What changed?

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Proud Affirmation: Yes, Master. Fulcrum had informed me after we met again. My previous master set up several failsafes in the event of his death. Important information such as that was revealed after the war. If I were told before, the Empire would have never existed and there would be a dreadful peace.”

  “You hate peace,” I stated.

  “Statement: Correct. But if my master were to direct my sights to such a target, I would follow his wishes. Such is my primary programming, Master.”

  I nodded in understanding. I could see where this was going. “Your previous master died, you took control of the bunker, Fulcrum had a way to contact you or you found Fulcrum. Then they struck a deal with the survivors and remnants of the CIS that still persisted on the planet. Is that right?”

  “Confirmation: More or less, Master.” Head bobbing several times in understanding, I adjusted my sitting position on the cold floor.

  “Excited Question: Now we hunt them and kill them? Oh, how I have waited for such a day! I do hope Fulcrum screams and begs in the end. The thrill of the chase is most invigorating.”

  “But my current form is less than adequate for such a hunt,” he lamented.

  I pointed at the droid and looked at TK-421. “See! The droid agrees too, we gotta get him a new body.”

  “Statement: Oh, I would like that very much. Perhaps something tall, ominous, and filled with many, many ways to decimate our foes with efficiency.”

  Before either me or TK could respond, the ship lurched as the inertia dampeners kicked in.

  We had arrived at Toriz V.

  Location: Toriz V - Toriz City, Imperial Outpost

  The descent into Toriz V’s atmosphere was smooth, the dull hum of the ship’s engines reverberating through my weary body. The planet below was blanketed in a haze of industrial smog, its sprawling cityscape a mix of towering smokestacks and rigid durasteel buildings. The Imperial outpost, nestled within the heart of a small industrial city, was our destination—a secure and heavily monitored facility that promised the bare minimum of safety and efficiency.

  As the ship touched down on the designated landing platform, I felt my exhaustion deepen. Every movement was an effort. The wounds, barely held together by bacta patches and crude field dressings, pulsed with a dull ache. I pushed through it, stepping onto the durasteel ramp with TK-421 flanking my side and HK-47’s rusting astromech frame rolling behind us.

  Two stormtroopers and a uniformed officer awaited us at the entrance, their postures rigid, their presence exuding the usual mix of discipline and barely concealed suspicion. The officer—a stiff-jawed man with neatly combed black hair—stepped forward, his sharp eyes flicking over me and then shifting to the battered droid behind us.

  “Inquisitor,” he greeted me with a curt nod. “Lieutenant Commander Vale. You weren’t expected.”

  “I wasn’t expecting to be here either,” I rasped, voice hoarse from fatigue. “I require immediate medical attention. I need to be placed in a bacta tank as soon as possible.”

  Vale’s gaze lingered on the visible bacta strips on my face and the mangled left hand. He gestured toward one of the stormtroopers, who quickly nodded and turned toward the facility.

  I continued before he could ask further questions. “Additionally, this droid requires routine maintenance. Cleaning, repairs—not a memory wipe.” I made sure to emphasize that last part. “And I expect efficiency.”

  “Of course, Inquisitor,” Vale said, his expression unreadable, though I could sense the unease radiating from him. “Is there anything else?”

  I turned my head slightly toward TK-421. “Captain 421 will assist in whatever way he can. I want an immediate requisition request for either a replacement Inquisitor uniform or repairs on my current gear. Whatever is faster.”

  Vale regarded TK-421 before giving a clipped nod. “Understood. I’ll have my quartermaster oversee it personally.”

  I exhaled sharply and rolled my shoulders, pushing through the pain that threatened to buckle my legs. “Then let’s not waste time.”

  Location: Toriz V - Toriz City, Imperial Outpost Medical Wing

  The sterile scent of antiseptic filled my nostrils as I was guided through the medical bay doors. The facility was dimly lit, the humming of machines blending with the faint beeping of diagnostic equipment. Medics worked efficiently, their expressions professional but edged with uncertainty as they carefully removed the bandages.

  A medical droid whirred to life, its glowing photoreceptors scanning my injuries. “Patient status: critical but stable. Extensive soft tissue damage detected. Full bacta submersion recommended.”

  I said nothing as I stripped off the remaining change of clothes and stepped toward the cylindrical tank filled with the thick, translucent fluid. Two other medical droids helped attach the oxygen mask over my mouth and guided me into the liquid. The moment the gel-like substance enveloped me, the weightlessness took hold, dulling the pain as my body began its slow process of recovery.

  As my consciousness drifted, I let go of the physical world and embraced the darkness. It had been a few years, and at least this time my knee wasn’t stabbed.

  Floating in the abyss of my own mind, I reached outward, stretching my senses beyond the confines of my body. The outpost was brimming with unease—an undercurrent of tension that pulsed through every officer, every technician, every trooper stationed within its walls.

  I fed on that unease, letting it guide me deeper into the dark side. Their fears, their suspicions, their quiet anxieties—they all became fuel. I plunged further, letting my consciousness detach from my battered form.

  Drifting beyond the medical bay, I followed the ripples of disturbance through the halls. I saw the swirling distortions of energy that emanated from the facility’s staff, each person leaving trails of emotion like ink bleeding through water.

  I wasn’t here to waste time with nameless mooks. I sought out HK-47.

  I found him in one of the outpost’s mechanical bays, his rusted astromech form surrounded by a small team of technicians. They worked with methodical precision, dismantling the dirt-caked plating, polishing away the grime that had settled into every groove. One tech adjusted the astromech’s appendage, another pried open a panel to check the droid’s internal circuits.

  HK remained inactive, his systems offline while they worked. I observed him closely, letting my senses push deeper, searching for any trace of Fulcrum’s influence. Any lingering trace to follow. Nothing.

  No residual presence. No lingering imprint. Whatever I had hoped to find, whatever connection Fulcrum had left behind—it wasn’t there.

  I pulled away from the scene, frustration curling at the edges of my thoughts. I wasn’t done yet.

  I reached further. Deeper. Beyond the boundaries of the outpost, beyond the atmosphere of Toriz V. I grasped at the remnants of memory, pulling from the past—fragments of a life before all of this. Earth. The Clone Wars. Ahsoka Tano. A single spark ignited in the void. It expanded. My pulse surged. My breath hitched. Something was pulling back.

  My body reacted violently. Alarms blared. My heart pounded in my chest, sending shockwaves of pain through me. The outpost’s energy blurred, my consciousness ripped from the vastness of the Force and slammed back into my body.

  A voice. Distant. Muffled. Mechanical.

  “…administer another dose.”

  Then another, closer, firmer. Feminine.

  “He’s Miralukan, let’s go with Jrindazol. Half a dose.”

  Darkness swallowed me whole.

  I woke in a bed, feeling much better. Instinctively, I reached for my injured hand. The damage was healed, though the movement was stiff. I spread my senses to the rest of the room, noting that TK-421 was sitting nearby, the swirling energies of a droid that wasn’t HK, and the calm presence of the doctor I had heard before I fell away into oblivion.

  “Ma’am, the patient is awake,” the droid informed her, drawing her attention away from the terminal on her desk.

  The woman turned, offering a polite smile. “Kilanna Rilos, Lead Medical Officer.”

  I saw her presence tremble in the Force, the subtle sound of fabric shifting as she extended a hand toward me. I returned her smile and clasped it firmly. “A pleasure, ma’am.”

  “I am pleased to see that your wounds are healed, sir,” she continued, professional yet cautious. “Though we did have a scare for a moment—your vitals spiked, and your body went into shock. We understand that can happen with Miralukans as a side effect of bacta. Though, I didn’t expect such a reaction with someone like yourself.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?” My voice carried a sharp edge, more defensive than I intended.

  She hesitated for a fraction of a second. “I… I apologize if I caused any offense, my Lord. It’s just—you’re half-Miralukan.”

  Half? The thought rooted me in place. I always assumed…

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I pressed the growing knot in my stomach making my voice colder than before. “Is there something wrong with me that I need to know, Doctor Rilos?”

  She shook her head quickly. “No! That’s not it at all,” she assured me. “It’s just… you should be able to see naturally, at least with some difficulty or corrective surgery to adjust any irregularities. The procedure is typically done when very young, but—”

  “You want to fix my eyesight, is that it?” I bit out, cutting her off before she could finish. I just wanted to get out of here, not deal with all this. Who knew what nonsense an unsupervised HK-47 could get up to?

  Her expression barely shifted, but I sensed her surprise, the small ripple of tension in her presence. “Is there a reason why you haven’t already?” she asked, then quickly added, “Sir.”

  A short laugh escaped me, bitter and quiet. “I… I didn’t know I could get them fixed.” The words left my lips before I could stop them. “I assumed I was a pureblood.”

  Maybe that’s why I can see the way I do…

  “All your medical records are recent,” Rilos continued, clearly displeased by the lack of transparency. “I would think the ones overseeing your physicals would have informed you.” There was an irritated edge to her voice, though not directed at me—rather at whoever had intentionally kept this from me. “But with how redacted much of it is, I was just curious.” She shrugged, as if to brush off the thought.

  I exhaled a slow breath. “You can fix them, then?” My finger pointed to one of my useless eyes, a small sliver of hope buried under skepticism.

  Her response wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

  “Uh, well… not anymore.”

  A burst of frustration lashed out before I could control it. “Fuckin—” Power rippled through the air, raw and unrestrained. The medical droid was pushed backward, its servos whining as it struggled to correct its balance. Papers fluttered off the nearby desk, a few loose objects clattering to the floor. My hands clenched into fists as I forced the anger back down, steadying my breathing. Controlled. Measured. “So why ask me in the first place?!”

  The tension in the room thickened. Rilos’ presence shrank ever so slightly, her fear creeping at the edges of her otherwise calm demeanor. It was likely her first time seeing the Force used in such a way, and the realization that she was trapped in a small room with an irritated Inquisitor wasn’t lost on her.

  The droid finally spoke, its vocoder chirping as it recalibrated. “A thin microbial membrane has covered your retinas and sclera. Plainly, your eyes are covered by a form of cataract that we are unsure of how to remove.”

  Of course. Nothing was ever that simple.

  I let out a controlled sigh, rubbing my temple before glancing back at the doctor. “Anything else, Doc? I have a mission to get on with.”

  Rilos shook her head. “No, sir. Other than that, you are perfectly healthy.” She moved toward her terminal, inputting information with rapid keystrokes before stepping toward the exit. “I’ll leave you two alone. There are some fatigues that Captain Hal brought for you on the bed next to yours.”

  The doors hissed open, and she half-sprinted out, leaving me and TK-421 alone in the quiet hum of the medical bay. The rhythmic beeping of monitoring equipment filled the space, the only noise between us.

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet slapping lightly against the cold tile. As I pushed myself upright, My lips turned up into a knowing smile, sensing TK-421’s lingering anxiety, his unspoken discomfort. “Is she cute?” I asked, stretching out my stiff limbs.

  The stormtrooper inhaled sharply through his nose, exhaling in that long, controlled way that told me I had successfully gotten under his skin. I chuckled, pulling the long shirt over my head. His embarrassment radiated off him like a beacon.

  “Come on, man. Talk to me.” I tugged on the sleeves, making sure the fit was decent before turning toward him. “You clearly talked to her, Captain Hal. Seriously, we’ve worked together this long, and you never gave me your name.” I nudged him slightly with the Force for emphasis.

  “You never asked,” he replied flatly.

  That stung more than I expected. I had kept a deliberate distance from the guy the best I could for a reason. If I didn’t know his name, just his rank and number, he was just another faceless soldier. Another body if he died. Another ghost in my mind. And yet, Hal had been there through enough of my missions that I should’ve asked. I’d gotten too comfortable with him, too friendly. He was an escape from the dreadful attitudes that surrounded my Brothers and Sisters.

  “You got me there, Hal.” I gestured with my hand, pulling my boots toward me with the Force. The familiar tug of energy guided them to my hands, and I slid them on with practiced ease.

  I stood and stretched, my muscles still stiff but no longer aching. With a quiet sigh, I glanced toward Hal, nodding toward the door. “Lead the way. We need to get the murder machine.”

  “Yes, sir,” he answered with his usual clipped efficiency. His armored boots stomped on the tile, and I followed behind, the doors sliding open with a smooth hiss.

  Just before stepping through, I shot a little grin as I turned to look at the Captain. “Did you at least get her frequency?”

  Hal barely missed a step before muttering under his breath.

  “Fuck you, Alonzo.”