Chapter 1
The Encounter

It was too light and too loud and it smelled really bad. The sensory barrage bordered on overload and it was all he could do to keep on his feet and not fall over or throw up. Doing either was not a good idea in this neighborhood.

Out here in the slums on the fringes of Coronet if he showed any weakness, any vulnerability, the gangs, independent muggers, and pick-pockets would descend on him and strip him bare. They were probably out there already, circling like carrion eaters, waiting. He couldn't see them, but they were there.

He wouldn't give them the chance to rob him though. He wouldn't let his weakness show. And if they somehow managed to see past his façade, he'd make them pay for daring to try and take his credits and valuables. Yes, he'd make them pay and enjoy every second of it.

A furry, grimy Bothan nearly knocked him off his feet as it brushed past him and it was all he could do to keep upright. At that moment, the ground decided to tilt crazily under his feet, making his task all the more difficult. And then his vision got kind of fuzzy, blurry around the edges. His stomach churned most unpleasantly. Things began to take on a gray tinge. He was dangerously close to vomiting, passing out, or both.

Suddenly, a hand grasped his elbow and steadied him. He blinked, startled, and whirled on the person that dared touch him. This was, of course, a mistake. The sudden movement made his head throb worse, his vision swim, and bile burn its way up his throat. He swallowed hard, willed the nausea away, and blinked rapidly, trying to clear his blurred sight.

"You should not be out when you are so ill. Where is your home?" A man asked, concerned.

"Why d'you care?" He managed between swallows.

"I sensed your distress and felt compelled to help." The man shrugged, or at least it looked like he did. Things swam in and out of focus and it was impossible to keep anything straight.

"Whatever," he gulped and tried to pull away.

The man did not let him go. "Please, where is your home? I will escort you there."

"Y' can't." He muttered thickly. He was starting to lose his battle with his stomach.

"Are you running away?" The man asked gently.

"'m gunna…b-be sick." He gasped, swaying.

The man paused for a long fraction of a second. "This way then," he ordered sharply and managed to haul him to a nearby alley where he wouldn't make quite so much of a mess.

He barely made it off the street when his stomach finally succeeded in rebelling. He retched and heaved until nothing more would come up and then he retched and heaved some more. When he finally stopped, his knees shook so badly that he nearly collapsed and he broke out into a cold sweat. He couldn't decide if he felt better or worse now that his insides were empty.

"Feel better?" The man asked softly.

"N-no." He panted.

"Will you tell me where you live?" The man asked again.

"No." He replied, managing a firmer tone this time.

"Are you running away from home?" The man repeated.

"Maybe," he cautiously admitted, struggling to think past his aching head.

"Well then, I shall take you to child services and have them look after you." The man decided.

He went stiff and glared dangerously at the man. "I am not a child!" He rasped out slowly and deliberately.

"How old are you?"

"I'm fifteen!"

"Eighteen is the local, and galactic, age of responsibility; therefore you are still a child." The man calmly pointed out.

"Don't care, 'm not goin'." He snarled defiantly.

"Please calm down—"

"Don' you tell me t' calm down!" He cried, his voice ragged and bordering on hysterical.

"Please—"

"Lemme go!" He almost wailed and he began to struggle against the man's grip.

His efforts to break free were less than successful. In fact, it just made things worse. In the scuffle, if it could even be called that, he hit his left side against something. Blinding, fiery agony spiked through him and drove the air from his lungs. And then the pain tripped a little circuit-breaker in his brain, and his sight simply turned off. Everything was black and silent and painless…


Obi-Wan thanked his Jedi reflexes as he managed to catch the young man as he suddenly toppled forward in a faint. Despite his thin, small frame, he was surprisingly heavy. In spite of the youth's weight, Obi-Wan was able to keep his feet and keep the ill boy from crashing into the hard ground. With a sigh, he hefted the teen up and dragged him to the opposite wall of the alley and set him down gently to better examine him.

While his clothing was shabby, it wasn't nearly in bad enough shape to mark him as a resident of this area. His boots looked to be of good quality, hinting of at least a middle-class origin. And his shirt, pants, and hooded cape seemed to confirm that assumption, though they were very tattered and dirty, like he'd run through a few forests. Hidden from sight underneath his cape was a bag of some sort that probably held his most treasured possessions.

"Yes, you certainly appear to be running away. But from what?" Obi-Wan mused, not expecting an answer from the unconscious teen.

A hand to the boy's forehead confirmed that he was sick with a very high fever. If it got any higher, the teen would slip into delirium and his brain would cook in his skull. He was also very pale and thin, suggesting that he hadn't eaten well lately. And then Obi-Wan sensed something odd as his hands drifted over the youth's torso. He lifted the boy's shirt and found a clumsy makeshift bandage tied around his middle, the left side of it was soaked through with blood. A quick peek under the bandage told Obi-Wan two things: it was badly infected, and from the looks of it, there was a good chance that it had been self-inflicted.

"Well young man, you have just earned yourself a trip to the hospital." He sighed sadly.

Careful not to injure the boy further, he scooped him up as best he could and headed for the nearest medical clinic. As he made his way through the slums and towards a nicer section of the city, he wondered.

Why had the Force pulled his attention on this boy? What was so special about him that a Jedi Knight was needed to intervene? What was he running from? Had he really stabbed himself? Why would anyone do such a thing? Who was he? Where did he come from?

Obi-Wan continued to wonder about the boy until he came to the hospital entrance where he pulled himself fully into the present and banished all his questions from his mind. He brought the boy inside and handed him off to the doctors. After doing his best to answer the doctors' questions, he took his leave and returned to the Corellian Jedi Temple and all but forgot about the strange encounter…


It was dark, so very dark, and cold. He was floating in a sticky, foul-smelling sea of goo. His body was as light and flexible as lead, yet he remained buoyant enough not to sink into the blacker abyss that lay beneath him. He was drowning in slime, yet he still was alive.

Well, he thought that he was still alive. For all he knew, he was dead, and this was hell. Damnation not in fire, but in sticky, cold, blackness.

For eternity he hung there, suspended outside of time. Sometimes he thought he saw things, distorted shapes through a greenish liquid haze. But most of the time, it was just darkness interrupted by nightmares.

Usually it was the nobleman who came for him. He was stride out of the blackness with his dark cape swirling with every step. He would brandish his red energy blade that glowed the color of blood. And when he was close enough, the elderly man would cut him down and chop him into tiny pieces.

Other times it was the Shadow Master – the great Puppeteer – that would come. Hazy, grainy, and blue, the electronic phantom man, cloaked in a dark concealing robe, would reach from him with ancient clawed hands. Even though the monster was just a hologram, the reaching claw-hands were solid enough and icy cold, freezing him from the inside out before dropping him so that he shattered like glass on the ground.

And a few times, faceless robed figures with blazing blue and green swords would advance upon him through thick gray fog. The nameless Jedi Knights wouldn't say a word as they approached; they wouldn't make a sound except for the humming of their sabers. Then they would strike with righteous fury, slaying him, a vessel of the Darkness that they opposed, that their Code condemned.

Every time he died he tried to scream in pain, in fear, in horror. Every time he tried to move away from the monsters that plagued him, that hurt him, that killed him. And every time, without exception, he couldn't move, couldn't scream, couldn't stop from dying.

He wished he stayed dead. That way the nightmares would stop. But here – wherever here was – death was only a temporary state. He'd be resurrected not long after his nightmares killed him to start the cycle all over again and again and again.

And it never stopped, it never—


He snapped upright, rolled over, and heaved over the side of his bed. Nothing came up, though. He just coughed and gagged for a little while.

When his stomach stopped spasming, he sagged back and trembled. He felt awful. His head was throbbing and dizzy, his guts were all tied up in knots, and he had no idea where he was.

The lighting was dim, leaving the room drenched in gray shadow. It was small and sparsely furnished, containing just a couple of chairs, a nightstand, and the bed that he was laying in. The room's only door was shut tight and what little light there was seeped in through a tiny circular window in the door. And it was absolutely silent.

The silence buzzed in his ears, an electronic shrill that shrieked through his brain. It rattled through his skull and into his teeth, down his spine and into his fingers and toes. It howled a message he couldn't ignore.

He'll find you here, the silence hissed. He'll find you! He'll kill you! Or worse, he'll take you back! He will find you!

He rolled out of bed and instantly collapsed as his legs refused to hold his weight. Spewing curses made hoarse by his raw throat, he forced himself back up into a standing position. Pausing only long enough to step into a pair of thin slipper-shoes and shrug on an equally thin robe over the papery pajamas he found himself wearing, he staggered towards the door.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, he stabbed at the door pad with a trembling finger and nervously peered out into the dimly lit hallway. It was just as silent as the room and just as empty. There wasn't a soul to be seen, not even a cleaning droid. It was the ideal opportunity for him to escape.

Without hesitation, thought, or a backward glance, he stumbled down the hall in the direction of the nearest glowing 'exit' sign. Moving as quickly as his weak, aching body would allow, he practically fell down several flights of stairs until he reached ground level. Then it was out the door, out of the building, and back into the streets, chilled by the gray predawn hour.

And even though it wasn't silent out here like it had been inside, the buzzing scream still burned through his brain and drove him on.

He'll find you! He'll catch you! He'll kill you! Or worse, he'll take you back and keep you! He will find you!

Run, run, run!