The cantina's clamor washed over the shadowed nook like a sluggish tide, a restless murmur seeping through the thin walls of the backroom where I'd taken refuge, a grimy hollow carved from Coronet City's industrial guts, deep within Corellia's neon-soaked sprawl. Beyond the warped door, raucous laughter collided with the brittle clatter of sabacc chips on worn tables, a Twi'lek's off-pitch croon threading through the jukebox's static hum, her voice tangling with the drone of voices in Basic, Huttese, and a dozen other dialects and tongues I didn't bother to place. Inside my dim retreat, the air hung heavy with the stench of stale ale, tabac smoke curling like restless spirits, and the sour reek of sweat-soaked bodies packed too tight in the chaos outside. My bottle of Corellian rotgut sat perched on a splintered crate beside me, half-empty, its amber sheen flickering in the stuttering glow of a failing neon strip overhead—a cruel echo of the light I'd lost, her life extinguished by blaster fire decades ago in a skirmish I couldn't claw back from memory's edge. Her ghost haunted every sip, a shade I'd been chasing down in dives ever since, hiding in a sea of blurred faces and unanswered questions, a man fleeing a legacy I'd never meant to claim.
The crate groaned under my propped boots, my coat's seams fraying like the threads of my resolve, gray streaking my hair like ash from a pyre long extinguished, deep lines carved into my face by battles and booze. Time hadn't softened the power coiled within me, though; it thrummed there, a restless force honed over six decades, keener than ever despite the rotgut's rust clinging to my spirit. The bar's tumult pressed against the walls—drunken boasts clashing with the clink of glasses, a Rodian's raspy barter over a spice pouch, the hiss of a ruptured coolant pipe spitting vapor into the haze—but I let it drift away, closing my eyes to sink into a stillness beyond the noise. Meditation through the liquor's haze was my last bastion, a lifeline to a peace I'd forgotten how to name, a refuge I sought with every ragged breath, shadowed by her smile, her unwavering gaze, the faith she'd held in me when I'd had none—a hope I'd buried beneath years of regret and rotgut's burn.
The clamor faded to a dull hum as I leaned into the Force, letting it unfurl around me like a slow current, its tendrils weaving through Coronet's glowing veins, past the ceaseless clang of shipyards where freighters took shape in groaning skeletons, beyond the city's pulsing light, out into the galaxy's endless dark. I inhaled deeply, the rotgut's bite receding as I stretched further, my mind slipping past Corellia's orbit, past the stars themselves, chasing a quiet I hadn't known since her hand slipped from mine, her blood staining a battlefield I couldn't unsee, her final breath a plea to endure that I'd failed to heed. The liquor dulled the pain, a fleeting salve against the decades, but the Force sharpened my instincts, skills forged in a shadowed youth when I was torn from a life I scarcely recalled, now a weapon I wielded in solitude. I'd outrun purges and hunters, survived a galaxy that consumed its own, yet here I lingered, a specter in a cantina, seeking solace in a bottle's depths, the weight of years pressing heavier with each swallow, a man faded into obscurity's embrace.
A faint ripple brushed my awareness, a whisper on the ether, subtle at first, stirring the stillness like a breath across still water. I frowned, eyes still closed, the bottle tilting in my grip as I leaned into the sensation, following its fragile thread. It swelled, a pulse weaving through the Force, steady and unyielding, growing into a presence that tugged at my focus. Then it roared, a fierce, raw surge crashing over me with the force of a starship punching through atmosphere, sharp and unrelenting as a vibroblade's edge. My breath hitched, the room lurching as liquor and power clashed in my mind, vision blurring behind shut lids. A tempest erupted in my skull—sabers clashed through sulfur-choked air, their blades tracing arcs of light and shadow, dueling against a canvas of molten rivers that roared with ancient fury. Lightning split the haze, blue tendrils chaining unseen foes with a crackle that reverberated through my bones, the ground quaking under a will that bent stone and flame to its dominion. The precision of it, a mastery I'd once commanded in a life I tried to erase, sparked a flicker of pride beneath the drunken fog—a reminder of the strength that had toppled Star Destroyers, hunted Jedi, and kindled a rebellion that outlasted me.
At the storm's core stood a figure, light and dark fused into a single flame, unyielding and timeless, a fire that burned without wavering. Its power was a blade, forged across centuries, slicing through the chaos with a clarity that pierced the mist clouding my thoughts. Words rose through the din, resonant and unshakable, sinking into me like a decree etched in durasteel: "Rise beyond the stars, wield the Force unbound!" A mask gleamed in the vision, red and silver scars glinting in the light, its form ancient and fierce, reclaimed in a maelstrom of resolve and rage that shook the air. The figure wielding it was no mere fighter—a legend given form, his voice a summons pulsing with a will older than the galaxy's core. I felt her in that fire, her steadfast belief in me weaving through the tempest, her voice whispering alongside his: Fight, live, rise. Then a shadow pulsed beyond the storm, vast and verdant, threading the void like tendrils of malice. It was cold, infinite, a presence deeper than any tyrant's wrath I'd defied, older than the darkness I'd once served, stirring beyond the galaxy's rim with a menace that chilled even the rotgut's fading warmth—a threat that dwarfed the shadows I'd known, demanding more than a shattered man could offer.
My eyes snapped open, half-lidded and bleary, the room swaying as I exhaled a trembling breath, the vision's echo throbbing in my skull. The bottle slipped from my fingers, crashing to the floor with a muted shatter; glass sprayed across the grime, amber pooling in jagged streaks, its sharp scent cutting through the haze like a blade. "What the hell..." I croaked, voice rough with liquor, heart hammering against my ribs as I pressed a hand to my temple, the crate's splintered edge biting into my palm. The vision clung to me, vivid and insistent, refusing to dissolve like the usual drunken phantasms—real, or just the rotgut weaving lies? I couldn't parse it, not yet, but its gravity rooted deep, a tether in my mind I couldn't sever, a call to rise from the ruin I'd wallowed in too long, her whisper entwining with the legend's command, pulling me toward a fight I'd thought buried.
A metallic whir sliced through the fog, a familiar chirp grating from a companion who'd shadowed me for decades. "Sir, you're drooling again," the droid said, shuffling into the nook from the corner where he'd been lurking, his chassis a patchwork of dents and hasty welds from years at my side. His holo-emitters flickered, briefly mimicking a barmaid with a tray teetering in mock poise, before snapping back to his skeletal frame, optics glowing faintly in the gloom. "Perhaps the bottle's claimed victory tonight?"
I swiped my mouth with a sleeve, the vision's weight still pressing behind my eyes, blood from a faded scar smearing across my knuckles. "Shut it, rustbucket," I muttered, words slurring as I steadied myself against the crate, the rough wood grounding me. "Felt something, massive. A fight, sabers, a voice..." I trailed off, squinting at the spilled rotgut, its gleam dancing in the neon's flicker like a mocking reflection. "Or I'm trashed."
The droid tilted his head, optics whirring softly as he processed my ramble, his tone a blend of concern and the dry wit I'd come to expect. "Your visions are rarely mistaken, sir, even drowned in a cantina's swill. Describe it; perhaps a place?" He edged closer, servos humming faintly, a steadfast presence I'd leaned on more than I'd ever admit.
A sharp alert then entered my awareness. For days, I'd sensed their pursuit, a prickle at my nape that wouldn't relent, instincts sharpened from years evading the Empire's grasp. In Coronet City's neon-lit underbelly, I'd glimpsed them—three figures threading the throng, their outlines stark against the flickering glow, their intent a weight I couldn't shake. Earlier, a low hiss had cut through the cantina's roar, the bouncer's guttural snarl carrying over the din as he leaned toward his cronies, his words a venomous vow: "He's here—for the right price." I'd slipped away then, coat brushing the filth-streaked floor, pulse racing with the certainty of a hunted man, but their chase had tightened, a noose drawing closed with every move. Now, slumped in this shadowed corner, the air thick with ale and smoke, the tension snapped like a taut wire, the Force murmuring a warning I couldn't dismiss. Another half-drained bottle mocked me from the crate, but liquor couldn't blunt the dread twisting in my gut—a predator cornered, my past clawing free from the shadows I'd tried to drown.
The door jolted, a heavy thud shuddering through the thin walls, and my head jerked up, the room tilting under the rotgut's haze. Drunk, sure, but not finished—not yet. My heart pounded, a cadence forged in battles under a dark lord's command, the Force stirring within me, sluggish yet fierce, a beast waking from the stupor of grief and guilt I'd fed since her fall—and hers, the other smaller shadow taken too soon, her life snuffed by a vibroblade in a desperate flight I couldn't reach. "They've found me," I rasped, voice coarse as stone, the words igniting the power simmering in my core, fingers itching with the urge to fight, to endure, as they had through countless nights before. The door exploded inward with a splintering crash, wood spraying across the floor, and five figures stormed in, their armor clanking against the grime, a chorus of threat in the dim light. A Trandoshan led them, scales glinting with predatory sheen, vibroblade raised in a lethal arc; a Weequay trailed, slugthrower gripped tight, his weathered face twisted in a vengeful sneer; two humans hefted blaster rifles, eyes alight with the hunt's thrill; and a Rodian spun a stun baton, his bulbous stare locking on me, a bounty hunter's grin spreading wide.
The cantina's noise stumbled, the Twi'lek's song choking off, glasses clattering to a hush as patrons recoiled, sensing the violence brewing. "Thought you'd vanish forever, huh?" the Trandoshan growled, his voice a guttural hiss, the vibroblade's hum slicing the air like a beast's snarl, his scales tensing with eagerness. "That 100,000-credit bounty ours." The price on my head hit like a stun blast, a tether to a life I'd tried to shed, tied to an Empire's fury and the blood I'd spilled—a legacy I'd fled after her death, and hers, left me broken. My fists tightened, the Force surging with a raw, unsteady pulse, a power forged under a master I'd betrayed, now fueled by a will to live she'd seen in me. "Not today," I snarled, voice rising above the liquor's fog as I thrust my hands out, the Force bursting forth in a shaky but potent wave.
The humans faltered, caught off-balance, their rifles skittering across the floor as the unseen force hurled them into the far wall, a mess of limbs and shouts reverberating in the tight space. Dust fell like cinders, the haze thickening with fear and spilled ale's tang. The Trandoshan charged, vibroblade slashing down in a deadly sweep, its edge a flash of honed death; I ducked, too late, the blade nicking my shoulder, ripping cloth and searing flesh with a hot sting that snapped me alert. "Kriff," I hissed, stumbling back, boots sliding in the rotgut's slick pool, its bite mingling with the coppery scent of blood. I swung a wild fist, knuckles grazing his jaw with a jarring thud, pain spiking up my arm, but he recoiled only a moment, claws raking at my chest with a snarl that promised a quick grave.
I twisted aside, the claws snagging my coat, tearing fabric with a sharp rip as I staggered against the crate, its edge biting into my hip. The Weequay leveled his slugthrower, a glint of malice in his eye as he squeezed the trigger; I flung a hand up, the Force sluggish but obedient, deflecting the slug into the ceiling with a metallic ping, plaster raining down like battlefield ash. "Still got fight, old man?" he taunted, voice gravelly with spite, chambering another round as the Rodian advanced, stun baton crackling with blue sparks, aiming for my ribs. I sidestepped, the baton grazing my side with a jolt that prickled my nerves, and drove my elbow into his snout, cartilage crunching under the blow, his pained squeal piercing the air.
The droid darted forward, servos whining as he intercepted the second human scrambling for his rifle, a holo-flicker shifting his form into a towering Wookiee mid-stride. "Stand down, meatbags!" he barked, voice distorted through the projection, slamming a metal fist into the man's chest, sending him sprawling with a choked gasp. The Trandoshan roared, lunging again, vibroblade arcing for my throat; I ducked low, rolling across the wet floor, glass shards biting into my palms as I came up behind him, the Force surging through me in a jagged burst. I seized his arm with a force grip, wrenching it back until the blade clattered free, then slammed him face-first into the wall, scales scraping plaster with a dull thud.
Breathing hard, I straightened, the room spinning as blood trickled down my arm, the liquor's haze warring with the adrenaline flooding my veins. The vision's call echoed in my skull—rise, fight—mingling with her voice, and hers, their losses a fire that refused to die. These hunters weren't the end; they were a spark, a push toward something larger, a storm I'd felt brewing in the Force. "Who sent you?" I growled, voice steadying as I loomed over the dazed Trandoshan, the droid at my back whirring softly, ready for the next move.
The room spun, the cantina's neon flicker smearing into jagged streaks, but the Force anchored me, a lifeline cutting through the drunken haze, her voice echoing from a memory I couldn't bury: You're stronger than this. My shoulder throbbed, blood seeping through torn fabric, a hot sting that sharpened my senses, tethering me to battles I'd survived, blood I'd spilled, and the fleeting hope I'd kindled in others—now a spark reignited by a vision I couldn't shake. Her loss burned deeper still, twinned with the smaller shadow taken too soon, her life snuffed out in a desperate scramble I couldn't reach, their deaths a wound the rotgut could never numb. "Sir, your stance is a cantina waltz!" the droid chirped, his holo-emitters flaring into a lumbering Hutt thug, bloated and teetering, before he lunged forward, stun prod jabbing the Weequay's side. The slugthrower barked, a wild shot ricocheting off the ceiling, plaster drifting down like ash from a forgotten war.
"Less chatter, more action, useless bunch of bolts!" I barked, ducking a claw swipe from the Trandoshan; my elbow drove into his gut, forcing a guttural hiss as I stumbled back, the room doubling in my vision. The Force flared again, lightning bursting from my fingertips in a ragged surge, blue arcs leaping to chain him, sizzling across his scales as he spasmed, his hiss warping into a strangled gurgle before he crumpled, smoking, to the filth-streaked floor. The Rodian swung his baton, its tip crackling with a menacing hum; I swayed, footing unsteady, the world tilting as I seized his wrist, twisting until bone snapped with a wet crunch—he shrieked, the baton skittering away as he dropped, green blood oozing from a split across his knuckles.
The droid danced through the fray, holo-flickering into an old rival, red saber slashing in mock fury, before he sidestepped deftly, tripping a human who sprawled face-first into the grime with a muffled oath. "I've still got it, sir!" he crowed, optics flashing as he pivoted to meet the next threat, his patchwork chassis humming with purpose.
"Yeah, and I've still got a pounding skull," I grunted, hurling the second human into the crate with a Force push; wood shattered under the impact, bottles tumbling to the floor, liquor flooding out in a sharp, bitter wave that mingled with the tang of blood. The Weequay lurched upright, slugthrower raised with a snarl twisting his leathery face; the droid darted in, a jolt from his prod sending the hunter twitching to the ground, weapon sliding across the muck. The brawl teetered—the Trandoshan stirred faintly, the Rodian whimpered—but the last human rose, rifle leveled, finger curling on the trigger. I swore under my breath, hands dropping to my belt; my sabers were always supposed to be a last resort, but the hand was dealt. They snapped to life with a resonant hum, twin blue-white blades igniting, their glow carving through the dim, underhand grip steady despite the liquor's pull. I slashed, bisecting the rifle in a shower of sparks; he froze, eyes bulging, and I rammed a knee into his gut, sending him down in a heap.
A heavy silence fell, broken only by my labored breaths and the bar's distant murmur, five bodies littering the floor, the bounty hunt extinguished in a sloppy, booze-fueled clash that left my shoulder bleeding and my head reeling. I slumped against the wall, adrenaline slicing through the rotgut's fog as I pressed a hand to my brow, the graze's sting grounding me. The droid shuffled near, holo-fading back to his battered frame, servos whirring softly, a steady presence amid the ruin. "That vision," I rasped, wiping sweat and blood from my face with a shredded sleeve, voice finding its footing. "A name—Revan. Old stories, Jedi and Sith, balance in the chaos, and that shadow, bigger than anything I've faced, darker than the abyss I knew." I straightened, the fight sobering me as the vision's weight settled, its truth undeniable now. "It's real. Has to be."
"Revan?" The droid's tone spiked, processors buzzing as he sifted his memory banks. "Legends archive: Jedi, Sith, a Force in equilibrium, possibly apocryphal. Where's this call coming from, sir?" he pressed, optics spinning faintly.
"Mustafar," I said, the name clicking into place with a certainty that pierced the haze, Vader's sanctuary, a dark crucible I'd skirted since my youth, its pull yanking at me now like a thread woven through the Force. "Felt it there, the clash's echo." I snatched my coat from the floor, heavy with dust and blood, slinging it over my good shoulder as I turned to leave, then halted. The Weequay twitched, still alive, coughing up crimson liquid, his leathery hand scraping weakly at the grime.
I crouched beside him, the air thick with blood and spilled rotgut, my voice low, roughened by drink but laced with a steel honed by decades dodging a galaxy bent on breaking me. "One more thing," I growled, the words clawing up my throat, my shoulder's fresh wound pulsing with each breath. "Tell your masters I'll be paying them a visit soon."
He wheezed, chest shuddering, eyes wide with pain and a glint of dread as blood frothed at his lips, staining his jagged teeth a deep, wet red. "Pykes... boun..." His voice dissolved into a gurgle, but his gaze sharpened, cutting through his fading strength as it fixed on the sabers in my hands. The twin blue-white blades cast a stark, ghostly light across the cantina's grimy backroom, their hum a low, lethal hymn echoing the lessons of a master who'd shaped me in shadow—His cold dictate ringing in my ears: Strike without mercy, boy. The Weequay's pupils flared, terror overtaking his sneer as his hand stilled, the name trembling on his tongue a death knell he feared to voice. "Are you... the Starkiller?" he choked, barely audible, the words a plea to a specter he couldn't escape.
The name hit like a thunderclap, a burden I'd hauled too long, a myth I'd tried to drown in liquor and oblivion, now clawing free with relentless force. Starkiller—Vader's mark on me, a weapon forged to shatter, a hidden blade who'd torn down Star Destroyers, hunted Jedi, and lit the Rebellion's spark, only to lose it all when she fell, her blood still pooling on a battlefield I couldn't unsee, her last breath a call to live I'd betrayed. And her—our daughter—lost to a vibroblade's cruel edge in a raid I couldn't stop, her small form crumpling as I fought to reach her, both taken by Fett's cold hunt, leaving me hollow. The Weequay's whisper rippled through the haze, the cantina's distant clamor faltering—the Twi'lek's song hitching, glasses clinking to a hush—as if the stars themselves paused. My sabers' light threw jagged shadows across the blood-slick floor, a dance of light and dark mirroring the balance I'd chased in the Rebellion, the balance I'd lost with them, now a flame stoked by my drunken vision.
I rose, sabers dimming, their hum softening to a murmur as I loomed over the broken hunter, the Force coiling within me like a beast poised to strike—a power Vader had dreaded, the Rebellion had honored, one I'd drowned in rotgut for years. The Weequay shrank back, his leathery face ashen, blood dripping as he stared up at me, a ghost of the Empire's blackest hours given flesh. I held his gaze, my smirk fading, replaced by a quiet fire that burned brighter than the liquor in my blood, a resolve she'd seen in me, a purpose Revan's call had revived—and one her loss, twinned with her mother's, demanded I reclaim. "Yeah," I said, voice thick with memory, each word a stone dropping into still water, resonating through the room with a weight that seemed to quake the walls. "Tell 'em I'm not done yet." The Weequay's eyes fluttered shut, his body slumping as life flickered, his final breath a ragged echo of the legend he'd roused.
I turned, the droid clanking behind as I shoved through the backroom's debris, stepping into the main bar; heads swiveled, murmurs swelling like a tide as eyes tracked the blood-streaked figure and his mechanical shadow threading the crowd. A Zabrak recoiled, ale sloshing from his mug, his gaze wide with fear; a human gripping a glass froze, her hushed "Starkiller" spreading through the neon haze like a spark on dry tinder. The air hung heavy with spilled drinks and cheap spice, the Twi'lek's song resuming with a quaver, but I pressed on, shouldering through, their stares—a mix of awe and terror—trailing me like a mantle. The name I'd buried had risen, a phantom I couldn't outpace, and with it, a purpose I'd thought lost to grief.
The alley outside pulsed with neon red and blue, Coronet's undercity alive with motion, ships snarling overhead, their engines a guttural roar against the night, the air thick with fuel and dust. Boots crunched glass as I moved, the vision sinking deeper—Revan, a whisper from legend, and a shadow I couldn't ignore. The Rogue Shadow crouched in a shadowed backlot, her ship once, now a battered relic held together by patches and grit, its hull scarred from decades of flight—a stubborn echo of her I couldn't release, and of the smaller life we'd made. I staggered to its hangar, climbed the ramp, metal cold under my hands, boots ringing as I dropped into the pilot's chair, the droid settling into the copilot's seat with a clatter.
"Master, you're still swaying like a barstool reject," he quipped, holo-emitters flashing to a wobbling mug of ale, sloshing in exaggerated mockery before snapping back to his dented frame, optics glowing with a blend of worry and wit. "Shall I take the helm, or do you fancy crashing us into Corellia's nearest junk pile?"
I grinned, the ache in my chest softening under his familiar jab, hands steadying on the controls, the vision's clarity burning away the last of the liquor's blur. "Can it, PROXY," I said, voice rough but laced with warmth, his loyalty a lifeline through the bleakest years. "I've flown worse off—and you'd probably steer us into a Hutt's lair just to prove a point." The engines growled awake, a ragged rumble shaking the hull, the ship rising as Corellia's sprawling lights streaked below, stars punching through the dark ahead. Mustafar loomed in my mind's eye, Fortress Vader, its spire a black wound against a molten sky, summoning me to a fight I couldn't sidestep. The vision burned sharper—a warrior's flame, a rift's shadow, her voice weaving through it: Go, fight, live—joined by the fainter echo of our daughter's laughter, lost but not forgotten. I'd cheated death since I was a kid, outlasted her and her in a galaxy that never quit hunting me; now, some half-myth called Revan and a shadow beyond the stars demanded I stand again. With this battered droid, the last of my last kin, this ship, I'd face it head-on, odds be damned, dark be damned, straight into the fire.