The bacta clung to me in a shroud, its viscous, sticky grip pressing against my chest. I floated in a featureless expanse, weightless, my mind a fractured mosaic, shards of a life I wasn't sure was mine. Juno's voice cut through the fog, "Be careful, Galen," her eyes fierce with a faith I didn't deserve, then faded into Kashyyyk's ashes. My scream, shattering a boy's terror, echoed back, shattered into an empty abyss, suffocating expanse heavy with dread.
"They are the memories of a dead man." His voice slithered into me, a cold blade twisting in my chest, each word a weight sinking me deeper. "A side effect of the cloning process." The doubt clawed at me, a beast unchained, tearing at the fragile threads of who I was. Was I Galen Marek, or just a shadow, a hollow echo forged in this tank? My pulse thrummed against the bacta's grip, the hum of the lab beyond a sterile drone pressing in, suffocating. I reached into the Force, its currents surging through me like a storm, and felt the tank's walls, smooth, unyielding. I clenched my fists, summoning the Force with all my will, and the tank shuddered, transparisteel cracking like brittle bone, then bursting outward, shards flying as the bacta spilled onto the floor in a warm, bitter tide. I stumbled free, my chest heaving, breath scraping my throat, the chemical tang coating my tongue. The voice lingered, a splinter in my mind: A dead man.
The lab's sterile glow flickered, jagged shadows dancing across durasteel walls as the storm outside clawed at the spires, rain hammering, lightning cracking like a whip, its electric tang seeping through the cracks. I staggered forward, my boots slipping on the wet floor, the cold air biting my skin through sodden cloth. Guilt gnawed at me, sharp as Felucia's blood-soaked vines, where I'd hunted Shaak Ti for Vader, blind to his web. The Death Star's betrayal burned in my chest: Kota's blind trust, Bail's quiet "Thank you, Starkiller," Mon Mothma's nod, all led to Vader's trap by my hand. What if I was a clone, a lie wearing their hope? Juno's touch, her hand warm on my shoulder, "You're fighting for something worth believing in," flickered in my mind, a lifeline I clung to.
I pushed through the corridors, a labyrinth of durasteel and shadow, rain seeping through cracks, its damp chill clinging to my skin. My boots echoed on the slick deck, each step a jolt through my aching frame, the storm's thunder rumbling like a beast unchained. Then he appeared—Vader, a colossus of black armor rounding a corner, his mechanical breath a chain rasping through the silence, his cold "You were weak" a brand on my soul. The air grew heavy, mingling with the ashen reek of his malice. "You are my pet," he intoned, "reborn to serve." My hands trembled, slick with bacta, as I faced him, the corridor narrowing around us, rain pooling at my feet. I rasped, my voice raw, "I'm no one's pawn to use. No longer." The Force surged, lightning crackling from my fingertips, its electric tang splitting the air. It arced toward the guards flanking him, one's helmet bursting in a spray of blood and bone as he collapsed, another's chest smoking as his heart fried, his scream cut short. Vader advanced, his cape a dark tide, but I spotted a power conduit pulsing in the wall. I thrust my hand upward, lightning surging, and the conduit erupted in a shower of sparks, cables snapping like bones. The corridor groaned, durasteel buckling, debris crashing down to block his path. His bellow shook the air, a cheated hunt, but I ran, rain stinging my face, the cold seeping through my tunic.
I stumbled into a chamber, its walls lined with trophies: Jedi relics, sabers, and holocrons glinting under cold lights, Vader's gallery of conquests. My breath hitched, the storm's roar fading to a dull pulse as I saw them—dozens of cloning tanks, their glass fogged, each holding a figure with my face, suspended in bacta, their stillness a mockery of my turmoil. "Memories of a dead man." The echo struck again, a vibroblade to my heart. Was I one of them, a copy etched with stolen dreams? A vision flared: "You'll never take him!" But Vader's choke crushed my father's throat, and I, a boy, screamed, my terror echoing as his shadow loomed. The vision faded, my chest tight, the question burning: Was I real, or his lie? Driven by a pull I couldn't name, Juno's faith, Kota's grit, or a spark refusing to die, I searched the chamber. A locked case, etched with Imperial sigils, held prisoners' belongings, its security panel glowing red. I slammed my fist against it, the Force surging, but it held, a guard rushing me from behind, vibroblade raised. I spun, dodging the slash, and crushed his windpipe with a Force grip, his eyes bulging as he choked, blood frothing before he dropped. Another guard fired a blaster; I twisted, the bolt grazing my arm, flesh sizzling, and hurled him against the wall with a Force push, his spine snapping with a wet crack. I tore the panel open with the Force, the case yielded my crimson saber, its kyber crystal humming a bitter dirge of my Sith past, its blood-hued glow a stain of the Jedi I'd hunted, the lives I'd reaped for Vader. I gripped it, the hilt cold, a chain forged in my servitude.
But the Force pulsed in my head, a sealed reliquary at the chamber's center, pulsing with a dark resonance, its durasteel frame etched with Sith runes that stung my eyes. Within, suspended in a crimson glow, a familiar saber on display, its hilt carved with Kashyyyk's wroshyr vines, a beacon of defiance among Vader's hoard of Jedi souls. My breath caught, the storm's thunder fading to a pulse in my ears. This was no mere trophy; it was my father's, stolen during my kidnapping, a relic Vader had claimed to mock my heritage. I stepped closer, rain dripping from my brow, the Force churning within me, a storm of longing and rage. The reliquary's barrier flared, a crimson haze that pushed back, Vader's will woven into its guard, a test, a taunt. My hand trembled, reaching out, but the Force resisted, a cold weight pressing against my chest, whispering, "You are weak." I roared, defiance burning through me, and thrust both hands forward, the Force surging like a tide. Lightning crackled from my fingertips, arcing against the barrier, its electric tang mingling with the chamber's stale air. The runes pulsed, resisting, but I poured my will into the breach. The barrier shattered, a scream of ruptured energy, and the reliquary's frame buckled, durasteel splintering like bone. Glass rained down, glinting in the storm's lightning, and the saber fell into my grasp, its hilt warm, pulsing with a life that sang of my stolen childhood.
I felt him: Kento's presence, his defiance against Vader, his whispered "Galen, be strong" as his choke ended. My vision blurred, tears mixing with rain, the weight of his loss a vibroblade to my heart. I ignited both sabers, crimson and blue flaring in the chamber's gloom, their hum a symphony of conflict and resolve. The crimson snarled, a beast heavy with Vader's chains, its light casting blood-red shadows across the trophies. The blue hummed steady, a clear note of my father's light, its glow cutting through the storm's rage like a star reborn. I stood, blades raised, the Force swirling around me, a tempest of Sith and Jedi, shadow and fire, my soul laid bare in their clashing light.
The storm battered me as I fought toward the hangar, my crimson saber in one hand, blue in the other, their light cutting through the rain's gloom. A squad of stormtroopers rounded a corner, blasters raised, but I moved like a phantom, the Force guiding my steps with lethal precision. I angled my crimson saber, deflecting a bolt back at its shooter; it smashed through his visor, blood and brain matter splattering the wall as he dropped. A second trooper lunged from my left, vibroblade slashing; I sidestepped, my blue saber slicing upward through his chest, the plasma blade parting flesh and bone with a hiss, his torso falling in two cauterized pieces. A Carbonite War droid stomped forward, its freeze ray whirring, frost misting the air. I ducked under its arm, the Force surging as I gripped its leg with an invisible hand, yanking it off-balance. It crashed to the deck with a metallic screech, and I leaped onto its chest, plunging my crimson saber into its optic sensor; the plasma melted through its circuits, sparks and molten metal spraying as I withdrew the blade. Another droid fired from ten paces, its blaster bolt grazing my thigh, searing flesh. I snarled, pivoting on my heel, and hurled the blue saber; it spun end-over-end, slicing through its torso, bisecting the droid in a shower of molten slag before returning to my grip with a hum.
The air thickened with blaster smoke, rain mixing with blood and oil into a slick mire underfoot, the coppery stench stinging my nostrils. My chest heaved, sweat and rain blurring my vision, but I pressed on, the TIE fighter hangars looming ahead. TIEs screamed overhead, engines wailing like banshees, vibrations rattling my teeth. I reached the platform's edge, rain streaming down my face, lightning illuminating the churning sea below. Vader's roar echoed from a distant spire, his presence a dark pulse in the Force, relentless. I leaped, the Force propelling me through the storm's core, my sabers gripped tight, their glow piercing the tempest. I landed in the hangar, boots skidding on the slick deck, the air heavy with fuel and plasma fumes. Stormtroopers scattered, blasters snapping to life, but I was a blur of motion. I flung my blue saber with a flick of my wrist, the Force guiding it in a wide arc; it sheared through one trooper's legs at the knees, his screams cut short as it curved back, impaling another through the throat, his body collapsing, a smoking wound before the blade slapped back into my palm. A third fired point-blank; I twisted, the bolt scorching my sleeve, and brought my crimson saber down in a brutal arc, the blade shearing through his shoulder to his hip, his body parting in a smoking ruin.
A TIE pilot bolted for his craft, panic in his stride. I sprinted after him, the Force boosting my speed, and tackled him against the fighter's hull, his helmet cracking against metal. I thrust my crimson saber through his back, the blade emerging from his chest with a hiss, pinning him to the hull; he gasped, blood bubbling at his lips, until I deactivated the saber, letting his corpse slide to the deck. The cockpit beckoned, its engines growling low, a promise of escape. I vaulted inside, hands slick on the cold controls, the console flickering like dying stars. The TIE roared to life, engines shrieking as I tore into Kamino's storm, rain hammering the hull, lightning fracturing the sky.
TIEs pursued, their lasers slashing the frame, sparks erupting in the cockpit, smoke stinging my lungs. My hands shook on the controls, slick with sweat, Kota's gruff "Fight, boy!" a spur driving me on. Kamino's storm fell away as I broke orbit, the planet's churning seas shrinking to a blue smear, but the TIEs clung tight, their lasers grazing the hull. I wove through their fire, the Force sharpening my reflexes, stars blurring past as I pushed the fighter to its limits. A hit scorched the nav console, the hyperdrive whining in protest. Cato Neimoidia glowed in the nav, a distant refuge across the galaxy's span. I cleared the gravity well, TIEs still screaming behind, and slammed the jump lever. Stars stretched into streaks, the TIE shuddering as it leapt into hyperspace.
Days bled together in the cockpit's confines, air thinning, my breath shallow, the Force my only tether against exhaustion. The hyperdrive sputtered, damaged circuits flickering, and the ship lurched, realspace snapping back. Cato Neimoidia loomed, its fog-shrouded bridges rushing up fast. The TIE plunged into the atmosphere, the hull glowing red from the friction, fog obscuring the viewport. I fought the controls, but they were dead, the ship spiraling toward the planet's surface. The fog thickened, swallowing the bridges below, and I braced, gripping the edges of the seat as the ground rushed up. The crash hit: a shriek of metal, glass exploding inward, fog swallowing the wreck. Pain ripped through me, ribs screaming, blood hot on my face, the sharp sting of bacta fumes in my throat. My vision blurred, hands slipping from the controls, the cockpit a twisted ruin around me. Blackness rolled into my vision, the distant rumble of Cato Neimoidia's winds a fading echo as I sank under its weight.
A lab of some sort comes into focus, fleetingly. A woman's voice, I think—says, "Stabilizing the implants now. Vitals are holding." Another voice, softer, murmurs about "unusual neural spikes." My heart races, artificial and unsteady, as a rush of cold fluid floods my veins. My skin prickles, tight and raw, as if it's being woven anew. The sensation is disorienting, like waking from a dream only to plunge into another, overloading as the light from overhead blinds my vision.