AN: Heavily based off Star Wars Knights of the Old Republic I & II. Will involve worldbuilding, exposition, deconstruction of Star Wars themes. Slow burn. SW knowledge isn't necessary to understand this, as I'll try my best to make it as AU/reader friendly as much as possible.
CHAPTER I: Peragus I
Awaken.
The voice prods at his mind and, like a switch, the darkness around him began to disperse.
Awareness comes to him in pricks and caresses. It curls just beyond his grasp, in bits and pieces – the lingering wetness on his skin first, then the tiny sharp needle-like points attacking the nerves of his legs, the cold steel under his cheek – and it takes a moment for him to open his eyes, blearily. There's a sluggishness to his movements, and understanding staggers through his veins and nerves, and his vision is blurred, unfocused. There's a swath of grey and white, the edges softened, and the chill starts to bite, before Shiro blinks – the muscles of his eyelids languid – the colors jumping and coalescing.
His bearings take root in slow seconds, a huff of pain escaping his lips as he tries to raise himself on wobbly arms. His vision focuses somewhat, and he sees the dimmed light and the steel walls. He notices himself panting, raggedly, as he manages to rest his weight on his butt and takes a moment to even himself out. His muscles relax on their own accord, his eyes closing and he allows himself to breathe deep.
The air is let out slowly, controlled, and the muscles of his bunched up shoulders relax, a familiar movement that has Shiro remembering the silence and the color of beige linen and the hum of energy around him.
He grits his teeth, opening his eyes as he focuses on what's around him — away from what's on his mind — and takes in the thin black bodysuit he was in. Standard-grade, medical use. His memory is fuzzy, and there's a nagging pain at the back of his head when he tries to recall anything recent, pounding against his skull, but he can recall not wearing it before...well, before whatever happened that landed him here.
Wherever here was.
He turns his head, eyes squinting in the dimmed light. The overhead fluorescents were flickering, the glow feeble, and the shadows of the room seemed tangible. He shifts in his position, feeling the dampness of his skin as he adjusts his hands and turns his head again.
The voice – the one he heard – it felt unreal. It didn't feel as if it came from an outside body, a person. It echoed in his head, slithering in through his consciousness. There was no trace of anyone else in the room but him.
His mouth falls open, eyes wide as he takes in the pod behind him — a kolto tank. There were five of them, two on each side of the one in the center — right behind him. The glass was broken, the control screen dimmed and blacked out, and in the near darkness, it almost looked ancient.
Shiro bites his lip, trying to stand up, eyes not leaving the pod. The others were down, the inner light systems not glowing with their usual blue, and it was hard to see if there was anything — anyone — inside them in the darkness.
He turns back to the broken pod, and looks down at its base, where fragments and shards lie, dusky light catching on their surface. Shiro frowns, looking down on his bare hands — his skin, the parts that were not hidden by the bodysuit — and sees only older scars. Battle wounds that didn't require the recent healing provided by kolto tank he was in — if that's what really happened.
His memory is still splotchy, and the last thing he remembered, what he could without his head hurting, was the view of space in the pilot seat of his ship before something flashed — terribly red — and—
Now. Here he was.
Shiro puts a foot up, and his knee shakes a bit when he puts his weight on it but he doesn't fall — breathing in relief as he stands on slightly trembling legs. This close, even in the darkness, he can see the still present puddles on the inside base of the pod, and it was hard to decipher if it was clear or black in the low light.
He doesn't want to think of the implications of the liquid being black, but ingrained teachings has him realizing that if he does know whatever it was he was floating in for kriff-knows-how-long, then it would be easier to prepare himself for how his body might react.
Shiro turns around, an arm covering his stomach, his back slightly bent as his muscles re-acquaint themselves with movement. The pin-pricks running up his legs have mostly diminished, and he doesn't bite his lip every time his foot moves and it sends numbed out pain up his body.
The room — maybe medical bay, if the kolto tanks are any indication — is unrecognizable, and it was difficult to guess at the corners when all he could see are shadows. The doors were distinct, though, and he can see slight glow of the access pad to the side of it.
The overhead lights flicker, and in the silence, he can almost hear the energy sizzling out for a moment. There's nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the nigh darkness around him, and it's only when his fingernails are biting into his palms does he realize that his hands are shaking.
Okay, he thinks. Just a step, Takashi.
He outdoes himself and takes two, the pad of his bare feet almost noticeable in the quiet. The cold is uncomfortable, but he doesn't pay attention to it, focusing his gaze on the ground — avoiding anything that could possibly injure him. It was too easy to miss the low shine of a glass shard on the ground.
There are canisters set against the far wall, and he makes his way to them. The one nearest to him has the top lid open, the code keyed into the access pad. He breathes easily as he sees a pair of boots — worn, with scorch marks up its side but looked functional enough.
It takes a moment for him to put the boots on, finds them a bit smaller than his own size — his toes digging a bit into the sole — but the fear of stepping into broken glass shards now disappearing has him feeling grateful.
He's not going to lie — dressed in a bodysuit still made him feel vulnerable, knowing there was nothing but a thin, probably non-corrosive material over his bare skin. He turns to the canister and finds no trace of where his cloak, or his clothes were. The other canister's access pad glowed red, and it made a sharp beeping noise when he tried to put in a combination off the top of his head, remaining closed. There was nothing he could use to break it open, and seeing the glow of the material of the canister, it would take more than a blaster to cut through the durasteel.
Maybe if he can find something suitable, somewhere, he could come back and see what's inside. Might be the rest of his clothes, or maybe a comms-link. Or maybe junk. He wouldn't know unless he got it open.
He turns his head back to the access pad near the door, aware of the four intact kolto tanks in the periphery of his vision. It felt unusual, disturbing, to see kolto tanks as dark as black — like they were painted on. It wasn't like the way empty kolto tanks were when they were not in use, when you can see through the glass. It almost seemed like they were full of something — a black liquid that has him remembering the puddles on the inside of the broken pod.
The pod he may have fallen out of.
There are so many questions in his head — a hundred scenarios and hypotheses, all without ground and foundation, except what he could see staring back at him from the broken shards — and he turns away before he loses the strength to search for the answers.
Just keep on going, he tells himself. His lips don't move, but his mind supplies the words. He's made it this far — far longer than what he thought was possible.
He walks — limps — to the door, eyes on the low hum of light from the access pad. The interface is unfamiliar, but he thinks he could navigate through it. It didn't have the same layout as Republican access pads but there were only so many ways it could be different.
He shifts through the menu, finger pressing down on the screen. There's no code requirement.
The fear — the subtle, undisclosed fear of being trapped, the one he had been trying so hard not to think of the moment he woke up and looked about him — pours out of his skin, air replacing them as he opens the door.
It's slower than what he's accustomed to — in most Outer Rim planets — but the slight grating sound of the door against the steel, sliding back, was the best thing he's heard in the last few minutes.
The room beyond the door is dark — almost more so than the dimmed, flickering lights and tangible shadows of the med bay — but he sees a holo-panel to one end. The lights flit again, and sees the grime-covered metal of another set of doors across the holo-panel.
The hair on the back of his neck stand on end, even under the bodysuit, as he turns his eyes from the doors and to the hall before him, past the panel on one side and the dirty steel on the other, and to the inky darkness that lingered in the smaller, narrower hall forward.
Where am I? The question has been running around his head since he woke up, since he gathered his strength and his wits. The almost dilapidated doors, the scorch marks that he could see littering the steel ground and the ineffective lighting gave him pause — every instinct in him taut and tense, unsure of what's lurking in the areas he could not see. A part of him aches to close his eyes and reach out, try to envision what's beyond, but he reins the urge back in, a weight growing on his chest, atop the wariness and the echo of fear.
He turns to look at the kolto tanks again, trying to find a semblance of anything that could tell him where he was — but what he can only see are shadows and the dirt and age of the steel walls, the piping near the ceiling, and what he could only hear other than his tight breathing is the hum of the lights above him. The dark hall greets him when he looks forward, and he eyes the panel to the side.
It wasn't far — just a few paces away — and he turns to the hall again. If there had been anything hostile in the shadows, it would have attacked him by now.
His hand tightens to a fist, his muscles tense as he takes a step forward. The steel lining of the boot makes noise as he takes another step, the echo growing fainter as it continues its reverb in his ears. He pauses after every step, wary at what he can't see lurking in the shadows, still unable to shake the feeling of something noting his presence.
It wasn't clear — the feeling, the unsettling of his stomach — but it felt like something small and sharp biting into his skin, into his back, like a burning gaze—no, not a gaze, more like a whisper, or an echo.
The panel is cold under his hand when he reaches out for it, and he feels the cracks and the dents on the steel beneath his fingers. Still, the sturdiness of it grounds him, and Shiro takes the final step forward until he's over the panel, pressing a hand to the blacked-out screen.
Shiro frowns, chest tight, as the hum under his hand grows stronger and the screen begins to glow, activating. The blue glow blared for a bit – growing dim only to flash brightly – before it evened out and commands in Basic appeared. He blinks at the sudden brightness, feeling his eyes burn for a moment, before his vision steadies.
Access medical logs.
Access facility cameras.
Access interface commands.
Shiro takes a look back at the kolto tanks, contemplating, before he presses the top command. The medical log access opened to another panel. There were several logs named in different codes, and his finger hovers over one as he eyes them – trying to remember anything that might tip him off.
It was futile – his memory was splotched. Although the pounding had mostly gone by now, nothing was coming up every time he tried to think of anything – any second – before waking up. The sharp-cut edge of the panel bites into his palm and he relaxes his grip on it, pressing LOG-0480 on the list.
The panel beeps and a holo-record comes up, the bust of a Human woman slightly flitting in and out over the panel.
"…patient's vital signs are stable as of the moment," the hologram speaks in Basic, and Shiro leans close, taking in every word recorded. "No external injuries were detected during the observation phase, well, not new ones, that is. He's pretty much covered in old scars. War veteran, maybe."
Shiro doesn't look down at his hands, and the lines on his skin that had grown white with age.
The hologram glitches, the face of the Human doctor, maybe, flickering. There's a cut, and the message changes. "Wish I could say the same for the old woman that came with him. The ship we found them in was logged under vessel name Kerberos, but when we tried to pull the registration data from the recorder logs, the last owner was registered to Taris."
The name of the ship – Kerberos – jogs something in his memory, and he frowns, recalling the gleam of chrome-silver and black. Maybe it was his ship? The last thing he could remember – the one he wants to – was sitting in the cockpit, a hand on the clutch and his eyes on the navi-panel and the slow cruise of the ship through the Telos quadrant.
Something the doctor said has him turning back to the recording – an old woman? He wasn't sure if he picked up passengers on wherever he was going, and his brain was not being helpful, but he can't recall travelling with someone.
"Fat chance on tracking the owner down, not with how Taris was blown up in the civil war." The doctor shakes her head, the disgust on her face apparent. "You'd think people would hesitate to bombard one of the few urbanized planets in the Outer Rim, but I guess that's what happens when Jedi start killing each other."
The news cuts through him, and Shiro's mind is buzzing with questions. Taris, destroyed? He's never been to the planet before, but it was familiar. A planet-wide city, enough to rival even Coruscant. He's heard mercenaries in the shadows of cantinas talk about it – the gambling on the upper plates of the city, the luxurious lifestyle of the Humans while the non-Humans were pushed to the lower plates – where the light from the nearby sun can't even reach them.
He's been – it's been far too long since he's made contact, since he's entered Republic space. He wouldn't have known about it the moment it happened.
And thinking about it – thinking about what caused it, the civil war, left a bitter taste in his mouth. Shiro opened his eyes and turned back to the holo-panel, pressing the next log.
There's a glitch before the doctor continues again. "We also found a droid – an R2 unit – onboard. It was functional, and if the navigation logs are to be believed, it had steered the ship to the facility. Pretty far-fetched, if you ask me, considering how only half of the Kerberos remained intact. Maintenance has it down at the hangar, might find some use for it. The patient was in the ship's medical bay, stable. The old woman? Well, not even a kolto dip can bring someone back from the dead."
The hologram ends, and Shiro frowns – unsure on what to make of it. There are a few things he knows, now – he had been on a ship, and he's quite sure he was piloting it, but something happened. An attack? Maybe, although the idea is flimsy. It's been years since he's made contact, and he keeps to himself mostly – it was hard to imagine someone spending so much time looking for him in the Outer Rim just to take him out.
The idea of pirates holds merit, but he'd be one to avoid them. He wouldn't have risked traveling routes that were prime spots for pirate attacks – cargo routes, common travel charts and quadrants.
Shiro exits from the medical logs and returns to the main panel, accessing the facility cameras. It's still silent around him, and he keeps eyeing the dark hall to his right. The light from the medical bay stutters for a bit, the dirt and grime on the steel walls alight for a moment.
Hangar.
Central Hall.
Maintenance.
Dormitories.
Kolto Bay.
Morgue.
Detention Center.
He opens the camera for the hangar. The panel screen sizzles – black and white feedback – before he exits it. No luck, there. He tries the Central Hall and Maintenance. The same disruption and static comes up, and he's gripping the panel tight again. It's not unexpected – considering the state of darkness of the medical bay. It almost seemed abandoned.
Almost.
The Dormitories show the same thing, but when he opens up the Kolto Bay, the overhead camera he didn't notice pulls up the image of the kolto tanks and the broken pod in the center. At least, one of them was working.
He skips the Morgue and goes for the Detention Center – wondering where he was that required a holding cell, of all things. A military garrison? No – the Human, the doctor, wasn't dressed in any uniform he could recognize. There was an insignia on her shoulder, but it wasn't Republican – or Mandalorian, and considering the war that happened in the last few years, it was either of those two that would be putting up military bases across the galaxy.
The Detention Center camera flashes for a moment – and he sees, through the grainy feed, that the area was lit, and one of the holding cells was activated – there was a shape inside of it – before static comes up.
He grits his teeth, refusing to give into anger as he closes the Detention Center camera, his finger pressing on to the screen forcefully.
He leans on the panel, unsure of what to do next, wiping a hand down his face. The muscles of his legs have lost most of their aching, and he could think more clearly now – if the panic he was trying to repress running up his back was any indication.
A plan – that was what he needed, and that was what he had. Find out what happened, where he was and how he could get out of here. If the first couldn't be answered, he could go for the next.
The panel comes up, and the list of areas with installed cameras glare at him – and his eyes fall to the one he hadn't opened.
MORGUE.
It pretty much said what it was meant to say – a place for the dead. He turns behind him and looks at the closed door, the scatter of grime and dirt on it, the weathering of age on the steel. He shifts and faces the panel, again.
There could be nothing inside, nothing but—what? Dead bodies? The smell of decay?
Or, there could be something.
The hair on the back of his neck stands on end as he eyes the word – MORGUE – and that feeling, like something is prodding him to it – forward and closer – is present, like it's looking over his shoulder. There's nothing behind him, but even the bodysuit can't cover up the cold running up his arms. The shadows around him seem more tangible, as if growing sturdier with each passing second.
He raises his hand and presses on Detention Center again and the same static comes up. It exits by itself – to his surprise – and returns to the area panel. He shifts, finger hovering over MORGUE before pressing it, hesitating for only a moment.
There's no static, and the image isn't clear, but there's a room – dimly lit – and there are a number of flat surfaces – observation tables, perhaps. Several of them are empty, but one on the far right has a something covered in a thin white sheet – a body.
There was another, almost hidden in the low light of the Morgue and the grainy image, by the corner, and he can see a form hidden under dark robes, lying on it. It was unmoving.
The old woman? His mind supplies, remembering the doctor's words.
He closes the camera and exits the panel, returning to the medical logs. There were still a few of them he hadn't seen, maybe one or two could explain something – shed more light on what happened. The logs he had opened seemed observational, as if he – the patient – had been in the tank for quite some time. Maybe he could find one when he was first brought into the medical bay?
He doesn't know if that will answer any of his questions, but it would put more ground to where he was, and what happened that landed him in the medical bay.
A few taps of his finger on the screen and a roster of logs are pulled up, and he recognizes a few of the ones he had viewed a while ago.
He goes for one below the last he had seen, and he sees the same doctor come up in the holo-record, her voice fluctuating as the hologram flickers. Disembodied.
"There's been a lot of strange things happening," the doctor spoke, concern evident in her tone even through the feedback. "Some of our mining droids started acting up, attacking our workers. Nothing too extreme, mostly burns and cuts from the low-grade lasers. Most have been decommissioned, but it's unusual, especially when Maintenance reported that the calibration and protocols installed in the droids prevented them from accidentally attacking the workers."
The hologram glitches, and a different message plays. "…seems our patient could be a Jedi. His vitals have been steadily improving at a faster rate compared to most. Considering the radiation levels we detected inside the Kerberos, most Humans would have perished by then. I've heard of Jedi having these kinds of healing abilities, or this could just be something else entirely. Regardless, we've reached out to the Republic for assistance on this. Hopefully, we'll get a response soon."
Shiro stills, taking her words in. If it was true, if this facility was able to make contact with the Republic and had managed to convince them to send a party over, then it would be best if he got out of here fast. There was no telling how long he's been in the pod, and how long this recorded message was. He pretty much got a gist of what happened already – there must have been an accident, something that must have blown the Kerberos up, and he had managed to survive. The only one, it seemed.
All his instincts were telling him to go, but there were still logs under and he needs to know more. He needs to see the bigger picture, before he can plan out. It was too easy to give into fear and panic, but age-old teachings come up his mind and he ignores the memory of quiet meditation, pressing next.
The next log shows the same doctor, the same low disembodied voice echoing in the quiet. He takes a glance at his sides before focusing back on her. "…better. He'll probably awaken in a day or two, and maybe we'll get some answers out of him. We managed to contact the Republic and they're sending a cruiser over from their fleet near Ossus. If this man really is a Jedi, I can imagine the Republic will do its damned best to prevent him from escaping. Last I heard, there were barely any Jedi left after the Mandalorian wars."
A blaring alarm echoes, and Shiro freezes in place, looking up. The sound comes again, and he realizes it's from the recording as the bust turns up the same as him. A female mechanical voice echoes from the message. "Warning. Ventilation systems have been damaged. Toxic fumes detected in oxygen chambers. Red alert."
The doctor sputters. "Wait, what—? No! We need—HELP! Evacuate the patients! Evacuate—"
The log ends, the silence following the doctor's cry of alarm and only one log remains. Shiro wipes his hand on the suit, opening the log as the doctor's words continue to echo in his head, ringing. If fumes have infiltrated the ventilation system, then it stands to reason that the entire facility would have been affected. Was that what happened? An accident that killed everyone?
Was that why he continues to feel this odd lingering presence, sticking to his skin, hanging over him like a specter?
He presses the last log.
There's no recorded message, only a run-down of the last commands in place.
Administered sedative treatment to kolto tank patients. Warning: sedative dosage exceeds life-form capacity. Input authorization key to proceed.
Authorization accepted.
Kolto Tank 1: Patient deceased.
Kolto Tank 2: Patient deceased.
Kolto Tank 3: Patient recovered.
Kolto Tank 4: Patient deceased.
Kolto Tank 5: Patient deceased.
He doesn't realize he's taken a step back until he hears the sound of his boot hitting the steel. Someone – something – did try to kill him. He's had a suspicion, if the doctor's comments regarding the ship, his ship, was of any indication. He doesn't know who or why, but if he stayed here – or worse, if whoever attempted to kill him by increasing the sedative dosage knew he was still alive…
He had nothing on him, no weapons.
He turns to look at the kolto tanks and his chest grows cold as he takes note of the inky black underneath the glass. It wasn't just shadows – it must have been the sedative treatment. The log's words come to mind and he can imagine dead bodies floating in them, hidden from view.
The humming under the panel grows stronger, and he rears back as the screen flickers, the static audible. It was jagged, sharp and angry – cutting out after echoing in the chamber.
The log fizzles out, and Shiro blinks. The screen is still glowing, but the log had presses on one of the other logs – but no holo-record comes up, and only the sound of the steel under his boots shifting under his weight echoes in his ears. He opens the next log, and nothing comes up except blaring red words. LOG CORRUPTED.
He ignores the growing weight of frustration as he runs through almost all of the logs, all of them silent, all of them echoing with the same red words. He runs back up to the first log he opened and his hands grow cold as LOG CORRUPTED appeared again.
The light from the Kolto Bay flickers again, and he squints, pulling out of the logs and back to the main panel. He makes for the camera access, but it beeps harshly at him. UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS.
Shit. He thinks. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
He had been able to access it earlier, and even though it was mostly static, the fact that he's unable to now has him tense. He tries to access it again and sees the same words – and the suspicion is growing stronger.
He looks around, at the closed doors and the steel walls and the overhead camera. He can't help but feel like he's trapped, blocked on all four sides with no way out, and he can't help but feel like something knows that he's trapped.
The last access option glares at him and he hesitates. Access interface commands.
He ignores the tremble of his finger as he presses it, and it only brings one option up.
Access doors:
Hall
Morgue
He presses the access for HALL and there's a grating sound from his right side, to the dark entry way. There's a hitch, something heavy locked, and when he presses the access again, nothing moves. Either jammed or immovable.
He looks at the next one, hesitating only for a second, before pressing it.
The doors behind him slide smoothly, opening. More light filters into the room from the Morgue, and made it easier for him to see. He turns to the entry way, the shadows lessened, and he could see blast doors locked. He staggers to them, trying to even his steps, trying to ignore the stench of whatever was used to preserve the bodies – prevent them from decaying on the spot.
It was still a bit difficult to see, but this close to the blast doors – the old, rustic metal under his hand – he notices the weird angling of the ceiling, dented. He looks on the ground, to where the metal would slide backwards when opening, and notices the jammed metal, preventing it from sliding back, locked against the wheel of the door.
He leans down, taking hold of it and pulls. It doesn't move, doesn't even budge. The metal was cut too deep into the jamb, preventing it from moving. If he could find something to bash it off, enough for the door to cut through the remains and slide back, open even just a bit, it'd be enough.
Maybe the canister? No, too blunt. Something smaller, sharper. Something that could tip the edge off.
He looks to the Morgue, and blinks, unsure of what he's seeing. He hesitates for a moment, before shaking his head, and entering the room. The stench of the preservation fluid is stronger, and he reins back the urge to gag, frowning as he looks at the pile of clothes set next to the table where the body covered in the sheet was laid. He turns to the other body – dressed in dark robes – and sees the weathered, old skin of the face not hidden by the hood. Must be the old woman.
He had hoped that seeing the old woman might brought back some of his memory, but nothing happens. He shakes his head, turning back to the pile of clothes.
The body is still, the form undecipherable under the white sheet and Shiro roves his eyes over the outline of a nose, a chest, a noticeable belly. From the intensity of the preservation fluid, he estimates that whoever they were must have died for some time now.
Not—well, not from the toxic fumes. Maybe. He doesn't know how strong or pervasive the fumes were, if it had been stopped. Seeing as the doctor's body isn't around, then it might have been contained.
He's going on nothing but speculation, and he wasn't one to risk his life on uncertainty, but it was either stay here and do nothing, wait for whatever it was the tried to kill him…or live.
He turns away from the body and back to the pile of clothes, noting the bulge beside it. Something elongated, metallic. He reaches over and sifts through the pile, noting the carbon-scratching and the scorch marks on the pants and the hem of the shirt – this was a mining facility, if the doctor's words were to believed. The body must have been that of a miner, and when his fingers catch on the rod-like object and pulls it to the air, he realizes he's holding a plasma torch.
He turns the torch in his hand, noting the buttons and the ignition, the hollow emitter where low-powered heat would be released, allowing him to cut through thin metal. The door.
His attention is rapt on the item as he turns, unaware of the fact that the other table, by the door, where the old woman had been laid – was empty.
Shiro feels the presence of someone beside him and he stills, his veins turning cold as the sight of dark robes enters the edges of his vision.
"Find what you're looking for, amongst the dead?" The voice is old – female – and grating. The question was posed in curiosity, but he could hear the irony in it. He grips the plasma torch in his hand, tight.
The voice echoes in his head, and his eyes widen, noting their familiarity. It wasn't the voice, to be specific, but the tone – the prod – the way it slithers in his ears.
Shiro turns to the hooded figure, taking a step back. He couldn't see her face, but he could make it the lines of age down her cheeks and the weathered skin. White hair in braids lined the sides, resting over the dark-colored robes. He couldn't see her eyes but he had a feeling – the kind of gut feeling that's more conclusion than conjecture – that she was looking at him.
"You're—"His voice cracks, the first time he used it since waking up. "You're alive?"
The old woman doesn't smile, but she tilts her head to the side, the shadows seemingly melding into her cloak. She didn't look injured, that much he could say. Her robes were a bit dusty, but not damaged. No scorch marks or burns, nothing to indicate that she was placed in any physical danger.
"I never died." She says. Her tone is low, age ringing in the rasp of it. "We were in danger, and I needed to keep us safe. I protected you and, in turn, you protected me."
He frowns, her words taking root, the shock of her rising from the table slowly dissipating. He doesn't lower the torch, though. It wasn't a good weapon, could barely be called a weapon, but it was the best that he got.
"Protected me from what?" He asks, eyeing the line of her hood. She doesn't react to the suspicion in his voice.
"From those that would wish to harm you." She answers, raising a hand in a gesture. Her skin is pale, the fine lines over her knuckles, splotches of color down the inside of her wrist. Human, as far as he could see. "There are those in the shadows who would bide their time, waiting for when you will lower your guard."
The words are spoken in quiet confidence, as if she was sure of them. Shiro couldn't say he felt the same – there were too many things he was not aware of, too many things his memory couldn't provide details for.
"Who are you?" He asks, still keeping a bit of distance from the other. He remembers the doctor's logs – how they had declared the other dead. Considering his state inside the kolto tank, the idea of the doctor being wrong was impossible.
"I am Haggar," the old woman declares, and the name rings no bell to Shiro. "I am your rescuer, as you are mine."
"I thought you were dead." He continues, ignoring the last bit of what she said. He files her name away, still not relaxing his grip on the torch. There was something odd about her – and nothing to say of the possibility of her lying. He hasn't spent this long away to be this gullible.
No, there was something odd about her. Something he found familiar and foreign. There was something that swirled about her, and her posture and mannerisms – the even cadence of her speech and the vague wordings – all of it echoed in his memory. He bites his lip.
"Closer to death, yes," Haggar nods, her hood tilting with her. "But not removed. I could not awaken, but I was alive – that, I am sure."
She lowers her hand and crosses them together before her, the long sleeves of the robe hiding them from view. The image she presented was too familiar – and he'd be foolish to think otherwise, to believe that she was not what he thought she was.
Haggar tilts her head again. "I smell the scent of kolto on you. How are you feeling?"
"Was it you?" He asks, ignoring the question and eyeing the path out to the hall, the one where she was standing in the way. "I heard a voice…inside the tank. Was it you?"
Haggar doesn't answer immediately. She is quiet, as if taking in the rush of his words – or maybe his stance. He knows he doesn't look relaxed. His hands, both of them, were formed into tight fists, and he knows that the tension of his jaw was too noticeable to overlook.
"Perhaps," she finally responds, voice betraying none of whatever she might be feeling. No discomfort or annoyance at his standoffishness. "Perhaps I reached out unknowingly while I was asleep. Perhaps you reached out to me, as well."
Her tone is inquisitive, prodding, testing the waters. She seemed to know more than what she let on. Shiro ducks his head, hair falling into his eyes.
"What made you think I could do that?" He retorts.
The light of the Kolto Bay flickers, in contrast to the steady, if dim, glow of the Morgue light and the flash turns the dark robes black, and the skin grey for a moment, giving Haggar an unnatural glow. She doesn't tilt her head, this time, but there's that unnatural feeling of her gaze on him – even when it's covered by her hood.
He wants to pull it back, uncomfortable with the cover, but he resists. He doesn't know anything about her – except what she has said and even that was debatable. There was also the growing suspicion – one that seemed surer and surer as each second passes by.
"Such abilities are common to the Jedi." She answers, and Shiro holds his breath. "Are you not a Jedi?"
The question is a blow to him, and Shiro doesn't realize he's taken a step back until the echo of his boot against the steel ground reaches his ears. He pauses, forces himself to be still and not give away more than he already has with his surprise. Haggar's lips are set in an even line.
"What makes you think I'm a Jedi?" He manages to get out, past his gritted teeth. He ignores the burn of the memories – of Coruscant and the Jedi Temple, her spires and the orange skyline during sunset – and the plasma torch bites into his skin. He ignores the pain as he glares at Haggar.
There's a shrug of the shoulder – perhaps – under the robe. "Your posture, your stance…they all speak of Jedi. There is a weight to you, on your shoulders, a burden you carry that no one else would. Such is the training of a Jedi. Of course, there is the matter of your recovery, as well."
Her words confirm what he had already suspected, and the realization has him surprisingly relaxing his stance. He gestures to the Morgue and to the hall outside – the dilapidated look, the fluctuating lights, the eerie silence and the tangible shadows. He doesn't know if she can see it all from under her hood, but Haggar doesn't turn her head to the direction of his gesture. "What do you know, about what happened here?"
"Not much. I was removed from the world as I slept, and such events were beyond my awareness." She finally turns away from him, looking to the hall outside. "It would be prudent to learn what we can from this place quickly, and depart."
He frowns at her as she turns back to him. She must have recognized the look on his face as she continues. "We were attacked, once. Should our would-be captors know of our survival, who is to say they won't try again?"
The reminder has him gripping the torch tighter, striding to the hall, past her. He keeps an eye on Haggar as he passes by, but she doesn't reach out or attack him, simply steps back and out of his way. The kolto pods to the side are ignored – and he doesn't want to dwell on the bodies floating inside them. The jammed door is still, and when Shiro presses the ignition of the torch, it glows bright red and he can feel the heat from the exhaust.
She was right – even if he knew next to nothing about her. It didn't mean he trusted her, just that survival would take precedence over information for the time being.
"When I was in the kolto tank, we were given a lethal sedative dose." He found himself saying, turning to her. "The other patients died, except for me. Do you think it's these attackers?"
Haggar purses her lips, bowing her head. "That, we do not know, though I am curious. If what you say is true, why did they spare you?"
Shiro looks back to the kolto pods. "They didn't spare me. I was given the same dosage, but I survived."
Haggar shifts her hands under the robes, and Shiro watches as she nods her head. "The Jedi are known to have abilities that protect themselves. Perhaps you went into a trance, your body learning to recover. Perhaps they gave you the dosage to simply keep you unconscious."
Shiro's frown grows deeper. Every time the old woman said something, it was all littered with conjecture. "You seem to know a lot about Jedi."
She doesn't smile, but her tone grows ironic. "So do you, apparently. Shall we discuss this at a later time? I fear that we will need to leave soon."
He turns to the jammed door and back to her. Haggar shifts and turns her back on him, walking to the space on the ground of the Morgue, and he watches as she settles, crossing her legs under her. "Aren't you coming with me?"
Haggar doesn't raise her head, keeping it bowed. "I am weak, and I need to center myself. I shall only be an impediment to you as of the moment. Find what you can, and return."
He walks to the jammed door, eyeing the metal clubbed into the wheel. "What makes you think I'll come back for you?"
She doesn't answer him as he drops to his knees, igniting the torch. The metal exhaust is suffused in heat, and the glow of the red laser sheds light on where the shrapnel had slid into the jamb. With his other hand gripping the top edge, he squinted his eyes as he slowly pressed the torch into the narrowest cut of the metal he could find. The laser sizzles and sparks on contact, and he leans his head back as the smell of burning metal hits his nostrils at full force, the stench creeping past his nose and down his throat. He presses his nose against his raised arm, breathing through his mouth as the metal in his hand grows hot – uncomfortable and biting.
He hisses past his teeth, falling back on mantras in his head to stave off the pain in his fingers, counting the seconds, willing the torch to cut past the metal faster. Resistance against the laser disappears and he pulls his hand away, dropping the metal on the ground.
He flaps his hand, pressing it against his leg as he cuts the power of the torch. The loss of the brightness and the sparks has his vision flashing a bit – the imprint of the sight still distinct in the darkness until his eyes adjust. Haggar is still on the ground, head bowed, and he ignores her as he makes his way to the panel.
Shifting the torch to his other hand, Shiro pulls up the menu and accesses the interface commands. Pressing on HALL, he looks to the door and hears the grating sound once more – and instead of the metal catching on the jamb, there's only a slight, sharp crack as the remaining shrapnel in the wheel splinters. The blast door is open, and beyond is another room – the lights dimmed and access pads glowing next to doors. From his position, he can see the remains of droids – mining – on the ground, as if destroyed.
"A word of advice," he turns to the other. Haggar hasn't moved, and she hasn't raised her head but that same feeling of transparency – like she could see through him – comes again. Shiro bites back something scathing. "Keep your past and focus on the now. Trust your instincts."
The words are cryptic – vague – and, if he were honest with himself, reminded him so much of his old master. He swallows down the bitterness and spite up his throat and refuses to comment as he grips the torch tight. The first thing he would need to do is get a layout of wherever he is – this mining facility. Maybe in another holo-panel, perhaps in an administrative level. A facility of this size would need on-site management, and that would be his first destination.
The lights of the room beyond dimmed and flickered, and he breathes deep. He was unsure of everything, but he couldn't stay here. He can't admit – not aloud – but he's starting to feel the same sense of apprehension that Haggar mentioned.
A prickling feeling at the back of his head, the slight chill up his arms. A weight on his chest that seemed to grow heavier with each moment he wastes standing. Something was coming.
"Exile," he feels cold all over at the title, and it feels like the ground under him just disappeared. His gaze is wide-eyed as he turns to her, lost at what to make of the title. A title he hadn't heard in a long while. "Know that I need you, and you need me. Your survival depends on it. That is what will make you return."
There's no smugness or haughtiness in her voice as she says the words – only certainty, as if they were as obvious to anyone else as it was to her. She doesn't smile, he can't see it, but she raises her head and turns to the panel. "But there might be something you can learn from that, at the least."
He has no idea what she's talking about until he hears the hum from the holo-panel and he turns on the spot, gripping the metal. The menu flickers and when it comes back, he sees only one access option. The logs and the commands are gone – only the camera access remained.
His hand is still, and it's not trembling, at least, but it takes him a moment to press it, turning to look at Haggar only once.
The other areas have gone, and only remained. Detention Center.
He pulls up the panel, eyes flitting to the open door, as if expecting their attackers to materialize out of thin air.
The beep of the panel pulls his attention back to the screen, and the static he expects to see isn't there. The feed is grainy, and the sharper features aren't distinct, but he can make out more of what he had seen earlier, when that second-fast slip of the image had appeared the first time he tried to access the camera.
The Detention Center is lit, though he can't tell if it was as dim as the Medical Bay because of the rough quality of the feed. His attention is pulled to the center of the image, where an active holding cell was. He can see the faint outline of the ray shields, glowing yellow from the top and bottom emitters. There's a form inside – and though the outline is blurred, it looked humanoid. Bipedal, he notes, as the form continues to shift its weight from left to right foot, turning around in the cell.
A survivor? But why was it inside a cell? Maybe the facility wasn't as abandoned as he originally thought it was. Still, it'd be best to keep his distance – maybe just to ask. There must be a reason why it was in a cell, in the first place.
His finger slips on the screen, and the camera zooms closer, giving him a clearer picture of the humanoid. Dark hair – pale skin?
He turns to Haggar for a moment, eyeing her. She hasn't made a move to stand in the time he had his back turned to her.
He turns to the panel. Maybe Human? Male from what he could see, but he can only confirm that once he sees it with his own eyes. If everything else fails, at least he can glean information from the prisoner.
Shiro freezes, eyes wide and the metal of the torch cold against his skin.
The bowed head looked up, and stared directly at the camera.