A rush of adrenaline pulsed through Starkiller's veins as he pushed open the cantina door for the second time. He checked to see that his lightsaber was still in his belt—he wasn't sure that he wanted to use it, but it was comforting to know that it was there. Revealing his identity as a Sith apprentice (or, as the general public was concerned, a full-fledged Sith) seemed more risky than anything.
Starkiller glanced around the cantina as he entered. This particular bar was not too dangerous in comparison to the others he had seen. Some patrons were slumped over in booths while others crowded around the pazaak tables cheering on the players. The house band was taking a smoke break in the corner, and the bartender cursed as he cleaned up a spill. Starkiller wondered how many people in here were about to die.
Stop thinking and just do it, said the voice in his head.
Starkiller strode up to the counter. The bartender glanced up at him and continued mixing the drink that he was working on. When he was finished, he looked surprised to see Starkiller still standing there.
"Can I help ya, kid?" he asked, the slightest bit of uncertainty in his voice.
"I need a room," Starkiller said, as firmly as possible.
You're about to go through the exact same conversation as before. No more asking. Demand what it is that you need.
The bartender sighed and began wiping down the counter. He poured himself a drink and took a long, exasperated sip before turning back towards Starkiller.
"Get out," he said.
"No," said Starkiller.
The bartender looked up, shocked.
"I said get out, you little skug, or there's gonna be a problem."
"The only one who's going to have a problem is you," Starkiller said, a pang of fear flashing in his stomach.
"What did ya just say?" the bartender raised his voice. Patrons looked over, and a few gasped.
Kill him.
Starkiller reached into his belt and opened his lightsaber. The red blade brought some light to the murky bar, attracting the attention of the entire cantina. People began backing away. Some fled, screaming in fear. Starkiller tightened his grip on the lightsaber. Power and fearlessness flowed through him.
"Hell do you think yer doing?" The bartender ducked as Starkiller made a swing at his head.
"Give me whatever's in the register," Starkiller demanded. His voice sounded confident and powerful. He barely recognized it.
The bartender reappeared at the bar with a blaster in his hand. Starkiller jumped to the side as his opponent fired a few shots at him. A fire erupted at one of the tables near the door. People were leaving the cantina in hordes, screaming and pushing one another against the exits.
Starkiller summoned some Force power and jumped onto the bar. He spun his lightsaber around in his hand and grabbed the bartender by his shirt.
"One last chance," he said.
The bartender stood firm. "Been the owner of this place fer years, kid. You'd gotta pry it from my dead hands to shut it down. Yer nothin' more than a bully. I'm not going bankrupt causa you." He fired a few more shots from his blaster and picked up a phone in the corner of the bar.
Starkiller leapt towards the bartender from behind, sinking his lightsaber into the poor man's back. The wounded man let out a scream and fired one last round from his weapon. The shot grazed Starkiller's arm and burned through his flesh. He winced in pain and forced back a cry.
Starkiller expected the bartender's death to be quite dramatic. Instead, he watched as the man's grip on his weapon loosened, and he fell back lifeless against the wall. Blood spilled down his clothing and ran across the floor.
There was nobody left in the cantina. No one had actually witnessed the murder. Starkiller felt a little relief as he popped open the cash register. The panel inside was worth 200 credits.
All that trouble for only a third of what he needed?
Starkiller took what he needed and leaned on the bar, trying to catch his breath. Sweat spilled down his back, gluing his clothing to his skin. The beginnings of a headache pulsed just above his right eye.
He closed his eyes for a few minutes, focusing on his breathing. He thought of countless ways to justify the murder. He was poor (untrue). He was starving (untrue). He was mentally unstable (partially untrue). He was a Sith and could do whatever he wanted (true).
You do not need to justify what you've done. Leave this place, said the voice.
The wound on Starkiller's arm was scalding. Suddenly aware of the pain, he rushed over to the sink and shoved his arm under the cold tap. Steam sizzled up from his arm as the water touched it. He cried out, but watched intently as blood and peeled skin were washed down the drain.
He didn't feel guilty. As he had been reaching for his lightsaber, he worried that he was doing something he may regret. But he didn't. He felt invigorated, despite his injury and crime. He was a Sith. He did not need excuses. He needed money, and he would use whatever means necessary to get it.
Starkiller turned off the faucet and made his way to the front door. He turned around one last time to look at the bartender, who was curled up in a pool of blood and alcohol.
He still felt no remorse. He wasn't happy about what he had done, either. Content was a better word. He saw his actions as necessary, but nothing worth celebrating.
There were people gathered around the entrance of the cantina. Starkiller approached them as he exited the place, and still saw no sign of local security or district police. People backed away in fear when they saw him. Hushed whispers—Sith, evil, demon, Jedi, murder—surrounded him.
He summoned a bit of Force power and lifted himself onto the sign above the Cantina door.
"I am a Sith," he said, "and you will show me the respect I deserve."
Some of the patrons nodded, while others bowed in respect (or fear). Most of them stood there in shock.
"The next person to deny me something I need will endure a death that is much more painful and much, much more prolonged."
You don't mean that, do you? The voice mocked.
"I mean every word of that," Starkiller added.
This is so unlike you, Galen.
Sweet little Galen, sitting in the treehouse that his dad built for him, surrounded in books and pretending he was a prince spending time in his royal library. Is this the same little boy?
"He has three children," a voice from behind said. Starkiller turned to see an old woman, clutching her hood to keep out the night chill.
How cute he was, making trinkets out of branches and leaves for his mother to keep around the house, even though they were constantly on the run. Is this the same little boy?
"So?" he asked, resisting the urge to shove her onto the street and make her his next victim.
He was always so lonely. Friends would never last. The only thing that stayed with him on each new world was the pain and the isolation.
"Surely you would be devastated if someone did the same to your father. You were a little boy once."
"I was," he said, unmoved.
"Is this the same little boy?" she asked.
He thought for a moment.
"I've always been here. Though it may seem like I've changed, I've really just been allowing myself to feel the emotions I've suppressed for so long. Yes, this is the same little boy."
Leave this place. You are finished here.
Smoke billowed from the cantina windows as the fire inside continued to spread. Starkiller turned away, unconcerned, and returned to the alleyway where his escape pod had crashed. He tossed his earnings inside, sat down against the pod, and closed his eyes.
His lightsaber was tucked securely into his belt. He smirked at the possibility of using it again soon.
