Okay So Here's A Quick Note:

Hey guys! Firstly, I know this introduction probably seems a little odd, and to be frank I agree, mostly. I kind of got all ADD with it when I wrote it yesterday, and it DEFINITELY veers from the typical scene in the video game -mostly because I intended to focus on Bastila's struggle with her emotion's, and this piece just came out showing my own struggle on how to portray something like that.

Now trust me, even if this introduction seems to stray too far at times and you wind up thinking, "Well, what the hell was that?", just know that it will probably make more sense as I start to add more chapters, which I intend to. :)

Also, this Introduction was intended to be placed BEFORE the prologue, even though it says Chapter One. I'd fix that, but I'm new to this site and I can't seem to find a way to fix that (let alone find out if I even can). (If you know how to fix this, PLEASE LET ME KNOW - yes, I am a caps-lock-happy freak.

Anyway, when you're reading the chapter that will come after this, just remember that it was meant to say PROLOGUE instead of Chapter Two.

The dragon concept that you'll find, I do not own, nor did I invent - - it belongs solely to a phenomenal author named Matthew Stover, just so we're clear on this. :)

Okay, that's all. Sorry to bug you - - now start reading! :)


(I DO NOT OWN STAR WARS (But if I did I'd be really freaking happy and drunk right now). The Original Story is by Drew Karpyshyn. All the names, characters, places, etc. are copyright of LucasArts-well, copyright of Disney now...*eye-twitch*)


Introduction: Unbreakable

The dream is always the same...

"You cannot win, Revan."

That voice holds everything. But for the time being, you hold on to only a handful of everything.

Every smell, every sight, every sound: these are just the details of a dream you've kept locked away in that lone, pulsing box of stretching tissues and rushing bloodstreams, hidden like the vague strains of love that keep it beating.

It's the words you speak––not just the voice––which crush the spin of the galaxy beneath you. They ignite the raw sizzle of power that boils through your veins, tingling and sparking in your muscles, wrapping you in swells of strength that resonate across every fiber of your being. They kindle the molten green fire that smolders beneath your caged breast, then sings to life in your hand with a single twist of your mind. They depower the blazing stream of battle, the infinite storm of carnage––the universe at large––like the shattered surface of a melted control unit, silenced in one staggering split-instant of the millennial time-space continuum––

You hardly even hear them.

You only feel the words as they brush softly past your lips. Then they're gone.

By this point, you're shaking.

Fear is jolting through your bones, making you shiver down to the marrow as you realize there is still so much more you blaze like the sun to say. Your voice has become throttled and tight. Your breath becomes a whisper––a whisper of that tinier, inner self who is screaming in your mind and squirming in the back of your throat, chewing away at the walls of your trachea as if they are the barriers of discipline restraining you from touching your own dying will, concrete and iron-solid.

Unbreakable.

The combustion of overloaded circuitry is thick in the air. Your eyes water; your skin burns and itches and your body swelters, and yet beneath the hide-layers of your boots your feet have gone ice cold––even in your moments of strength, you will always feel your weakness, somehow.

And right now your weakness is that fragile shard in the mosaic of you; that piece you keep alive only to remind yourself of your own humanity: when you're forced to step back from a flaming wreck, to pull your blade out of an enemy, to meet the cold, drifting eyes of a dying face.

You don't even know why that shard is here, now.

But now you have to be strong. You were chosen to be brave. You have always been brave, except––

You remember the Trials.

You remember the deathless constant of white-hot time; the blistering mind-desert that you scoured until you were weak and scorched and boneless. Decades to an entire millennium could have passed in that constant, with only the shifting mental horizons to discern the end to each step, and the start of every new one. Your thoughts had been only emptiness, only silence––lack, as valuable as the sand––while you drifted slowly into the oblivion below sanity, tossed through the white tides of emotion that swept you out night and day after day and night.

You remember everything you saw then. How many times had you felt the cold touch of your dying self? Walked alongside that old rough-faced Jedi ambassador, wearing only the clothes on your back as you left behind the green world Talravin, and the memory of your mother's bitter grey eyes on the porch-step of your squarish brick hut? How many times had you watched your father die alone on the cold stone floor of an alien cave, sobbing and bleeding, not even once meeting your gaze?

How many times did you have to face the dragon?

The dragon...

Even now, as you raise your blade to meet the shadow of this Revan before you, you find the dragon's eyes staring back at you. Those glacial, bronze gems delve deep into the crevices of your own self, slipping through the turning pages and the rolling gears and the slamming gates, melting through every keyhole and sweeping in to skidding halt just outside the cold, crystal light of one delicately trembling creature. A creature not of the mind, nor the face––

But only of the heart.

You hate that creature.

You hate that dragon. That wretched desert monster...

You remember how the dragon had met its end, how it had squirmed and shrieked on your mind-blade until its writhing screams had run dry, and then at last had coiled into a dry carcass on the cave floor, its bones like chalk and its hide like crinkled dusty parchment.

As you duel now, the dragon should be gone. Should be...

But nothing that should be ever is––not in your universe.

The dragon lies rotting in the gutters of your mind, even now, but you know that you never truly slayed it. The dragon is a part of you, a shard in the mosaic of you. And you can never rid yourself of who you are, no matter what you might be, or rather, want to be. Even now, long after the Trial of Spirit, you can still hear the dragon whisper, reminding you of how you had listened to its stories while you lie dying on the cold, damp stone of its echoing lair.

You were at its mercy then. You always will be.

In the night, you no longer sleep, while in the day you walk with a haunted sort of grace. You dream of pain and suffering. Of death. Of nightmares with no end and dawns with no light––

And the dragon in between.

And the war...the war itself has become the reality of it all, gathered by the crash-colliding fates of the universe like some cruel gift spat from the desert-dragon's sneering, toothy maw; a hypercompacted disk of spiral arms and broken dusty worlds far beyond repair, and the torture that you should be the one to fix things best left crippled.

Should be...

You turn and face the shadow, clinging to the end of your weapon in a white-knuckled deathgrip, feeling the pulse of its power and the rhythm of its song. And in the fraction of a quantum split instant, something happens that your scarcely even have the time required to understand.

The Force, or fate, or destiny...or perhaps something else entirely––

It strikes the dragon before you, for you.

The view wall explodes like a proton grenade and blows inward. The shock sweeps the shadow into the air and throws him flailing like a rag-doll over bank after bank of terminals, swallowed in the plasma-infused storm of crystallizing fire that shatters the final moments of his lifelong memory––

And blasts away his universe.

A hurricane roars to life. From your sides shoot two arms; two deceptively-strong, reflexive hands that grip hold to the first thing they find, and soon you're fighting against a howling white river of flash-frozen air. Against a windstorm that plasters your clothes to your skin, your hair to your face. Soon your lungs are shriveling, choking––screaming for air.

Your fingers start to slip...

You squeeze your eyes shut.