Foreword: This is an original story featuring original characters set in the universe of Bioware's 'Star Wars: The Old Republic'. Events depicted take place alongside events in-game. Rated 'T' for depictions of violence and violent themes, as well as minor romantic scenes. Feedback is welcomed and appreciated.


Episode One: "Pilot"

Chapter One

There was a darkness. An emptiness. A creeping chill. Something a spacer would usually call home. Not this time.

Within the pilot's chair of a darkened vessel, a man stirred from unconsciousness. Blood streamed down the Human's face as he groggily panned his gaze around the compact but walkable chamber. The starship's viewports showed nothing but pitch black. Consoles lay battered and powerless. Once smooth and pristine walls had been warped under the stress of impact. The entire vessel seemed to hum and groan as its own weight pressed down upon it. As he pulled himself from his seat, the battered figure struggled to keep his footing. Stumbling through the darkness, he realized the ship's flooring was slanted, dipping toward the cockpit.

Slowly, he ascended the slope toward the rear of the vessel, nearly tripping when his foot collided with a mysterious object. Looking down, his eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness, but he knew what it was. A leg, attached to a lifeless corpse. The lone survivor continued out and down a narrow corridor, stepping over yet another stilled body, until he stood in front of an emergency hatch.

Steadying himself, the man drove his elbow into the hatch's release button. A sharp hiss rang out as the door cracked open, withdrawing into its side recess only a sliver. A harsh beam of light shined through the crevice, blinding the man and eliciting an equally harsh grumble. Gripping the door's edge, the survivor forced the hatch open as he pulled with all his might.

The man stood in the open doorway, leaning against the vessel's frame as he was bombarded with a bright light and scorching heat. An endless ocean of sand stretched toward the distant horizon. The twin suns above illuminated the figure's battered visage. Beneath the stream of dried blood was a man in his late twenties, eyes sharpened not only from the light, but from an enduring, internal pain. A pain wrought not only from physical wounds.

The survivor stepped down from the vessel and onto the flowing sand, collapsing to his knees. His fists clenched, grains of sand slipping between his fingers. Woozily, he lifted himself and began to trudge away, boots of his flightsuit sinking slightly with each step. The gray freighter remained buried headfirst in the dunes, pillars of smoke rising from its husk.

The lone survivor walked. And walked. And walked. His gray longcoat wafted in the wind as sand battered his grizzled face. He ran a hand through the half of his short, brown hair not matted with blood, before it was called away by a sharp pain in his gut. Clutching at his stomach, the man was forced to take a knee, almost falling over as it sunk and offset his balance. But he managed to endure. Standing and continuing his path to nowhere, the survivor scratched the stubble that graced his chin, only to find a wetness accompanying the scratch. Looking at his hand, the man stopped dead in his tracks as he saw a coating of fresh blood. Panning his gaze down, a redness had overtaken much of his flightsuit's midsection. Upon closer inspection, there were small tears in his gut where metallic shrapnel had passed through.

How could I have missed that?

The man fell to his knees, arms by his side. He looked ahead, the waves of desert heat dominating his blurred vision. Suddenly, a blotch on the horizon. Some structure. Or some vehicle. Approaching. Departing. Maybe even stationary. The anomaly would receive no further study as the survivor fell forward, his beaten and battered body lying prone in the sand.