Chapter 2 - Jakku
Hot sand knicks my face as it blows in the sweltering wind. My skin flares and stings, tiny flakes peeling off. The sun beats down on my back, so hot I feel like my cloak will set on fire.
The gray saunters on, ignoring the blistering wind and sand, one thin cloth wrapped around his face, which quivers in the blowing wind. He breathes evenly, not noticing the violent wind. Over his eyes, he wears a pair of pilot goggles, like the ones worn by pod racers. His face is lightly scarred by the hot sand, tiny little dots that tell me that he didn't always have this protection from the storms.
We walk on, wake over wake, ridge upon ridge of sand. As we walk, the sun begins to set, which means it will get very cold soon. I can barely stand without my walking stick, but the gray walks without any help, accustomed to the winds and the pelting sand.
Finally, he stops in front of the first cliff I've seen the entire time I've been on Jakku. It towers upwards, but there are several holes, each one covered with nets of wire, and reinforced with thick cloth. One door protrudes through the rock, painted the same shade and texture as the rock. The gray extends two fingers and opens the door, which slides into the wall with a quiet hiss.
"After you," he grunts, gesturing to the open door.
"Thank you," I nod.
The entryway is dark and musty, and a set of staircases extends upwards through the cliff, constructed entirely of rock. To the left and right, large arches lead to meeting rooms. Up on each landing, two thin doors, one on each side, lead to small homes, some with windows, some without.
"You can take the one on the right side, up 5 landings. It's labeled number 313."
"There can't be 313 rooms in this place," I say.
"There aren't. It's just number 313. Here's your key. It's a small suite, so I hope you don't have claustrophobia." He hands me a microchip, encased in thin plastic. "Dinner is at 0700 hours, be down here in clean clothes, and take a shower."
"What time is it now?"
"0500 hours."
I nod, and start my climb up the stairs. The rough sand is still clinging to my skin, which is slick with sweat. There's sand in my mouth, and my lips are so cracked they're peeling. I feel disgusting, and suddenly, in the shade, I feel a rush of cold.
With a shiver, I turn the handle to my room, and enter the living space.
He really did mean small.
There's a single bed tucked up against the wall, a thin storage unit next to it, which back home they might call a nightstand, and next to that is the door to the bathroom. All that they give me in the bathroom is a small, clogged shower head in the corner, a drain in the floor, a "toilet" that doesn't flush, and a wash basin which substitutes for a normal sink. There's a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, and an old flip-switch on the wall next to the door. I can touch the wood of the door while leaning against the opposite wall, that's how cramped this place is. I suppose I could use the toilet in the shower, if it weren't for the shoddy flow. The bedroom is lit by one circular light fixture fastened to the ceiling, but two of the bulbs are burnt out and so the room is still quite dark. The bed feels like it's made out of rocks, but it's warmer than the floor.
I shed my clothes and take a quick shower, scrubbing the dust and sand out of my skin, before beating out and throwing the same clothes on again. I don't look much better, but I'm cleaner.
There's no point to staying in my room, so I head downstairs early, hoping to catch another resident and maybe learn something about Leon Rambi.
I turn the corner into the cozy sitting room, which hosts a few worn-out couches, an old radio atop a large fireplace; which is lit, a few random coffee tables and bookshelves, and several rugs and blankets to act as throws. In the corner near the door, there's a bar, and opposite the door is an arch leading into the mess hall and kitchen.
The room is silent, there's only one other person here, a Tholothian girl, laying across a couch reading an owner's manual for an old ship. On her head she wears a dusty green headwrap, which tames her teardrop shaped appendages which grow from the top of her head like hair. There's oil on her nose, and a pair of oil-covered gloves rest on the coffee table, which is stained from the black oil. She must do this more often.
In the mess hall, a Quarran man with long and curly mouth tentacles whispers quietly to a Mirialan woman with a diamond-shaped forehead tattoo. Both of them face a silent Rodian guy, who is just sitting there, staring at the fireplace, the flickering orange and yellow light reflecting in his round, starry eyes.
I make my way into the mess hall.
Suddenly, the attention of all three beings in the room shifts to me. They all stare, their eyes fixed on my belt, my cheeks, my forehead, my montrals. Their eyes search me, finding my lightsabers strapped to my hip, calculating my age, and looking back at my eyes, confused.
"A Jedi Knight," mumbles the Mirialan, searching my face for extra years.
"No," says the Quarran. "Runaway Jedi Consular."
"The consular aren't around anymore. We all left after the war broke out," argues the Mirialan.
I feel like I should say something, but if I speak, I think I'll only make things worse. Instead I move to a table near the back of the room, and take a seat, pulling out my lightsabers.
"Two lightsabers," comments the Rodian.
I ignore him, popping open the lightsaber to clean it. It floats in front of me, as I focus the force to separate each part. The inside of the saber is filled with sand and gunk from the last mission and the trip here. The gunk is mainly a mixture of old blood, (which is fried by electricity,) dirt, and tiny bits of metal from the droids I've destroyed.
My crystal stays clean of course, but it glints with a sort of matte texture that it didn't have before.
"A new recruit," says the Quarran, "she hasn't purified her crystal yet."
The Rodian looks over at the Mirialan with haughty eyes. "Green crystal," he says.
"The color of the crystal doesn't mean anything anymore," the Mirialan protests.
I put the saber back together, and pull out my polishing cloth from my belt. I focus completely on polishing the rusted and dirty metal.
"You think she was in the war," wonders the Rodian.
"What a stupid question, everyone was sent to war." Says the Quarran.
"Really," says the Rodian.
I focus now on my short saber, polishing the steel and clicking the button a few times to loosen sand.
"Quiet, isn't she," remarks the Quarran.
"Brons, leave the girl alone," says the Mirialan. "Maybe she doesn't want to talk."
"We didn't exactly invite her to," says the Rodian. "Hey!"
Now he looks at me, expecting me to reply.
"Hello," I say, trying to divert attention.
"Welcome to the homestead," he says, smiling. "My name is Hoonji. The Mirialan is Norrissa, and the Quarran is Brons."
"Hello," I say again, focusing back on my sabers.
"What is your name," he asks, not letting up.
"Ahsoka," I say. "I'm Ahsoka Tano."
Norrissa smiles. "Why are you here?"
"I had to leave the Jedi order. They accused me of a crime I didn't commit and didn't trust me enough to convince me to stay."
"What kind of crime," pries Brons.
"Murder of a citizen awaiting trial. It wasn't me. It was my friend."
"Wow. And they pegged that on you," says Hoonji.
"I was the only person in the room when she died. They thought I choked her, but my friend was in the next room, and choked her. Then they thought I was involved in the plot that the citizen was involved in, which was the bombing of a clone hangar."
"And they didn't have any confidence in you, not even your old master?"
"No, he believed me. He actually helped me get out of the situation, he found out that it was my friend."
"Well, I'm sure that the Jedi lost a great Knight that day," says Norissa.
"Actually," I say, "I wasn't a knight."
"A Master, then," she asks.
"A padawan. I turned in my braid when I left."
The reassuring smile she once wore suddenly disappeared, and she looked at me with sadness in her eyes.
"Just a kid," sighs Brons.
"They didn't send you out in the field, did they?" Hoonji gets up and sits next to me, taking my hand.
"Yeah. I fought in my fair share of battles."
"No, they wouldn't do that to a padawan," argues Norissa.
"They do. All of us are taken out on the field. Actually, I was technically too young to become a padawan when I was assigned to my master and fought my first battle."
"That can't be, master Yoda could not be that heartless," said Hoonji.
"What do you mean? He thought I was ready, so he assigned me to my master."
"But your master must have not let you fight, he had to have cared for you," Brons exclaimed.
"He did, but he had to worry about himself, too. My master is pretty well known as a general. He's the chosen one."
The three of them stared at me, disbelief in their eyes.
"The one who will bring balance to the force," they ask in unison.
"Yes," I say, uncomfortable with their stares. "His name is Anakin Skywalker."
"Anakin Skywalker, huh," an unfamiliar voice says.
All of us turn to face the door, where a Human man stands, leaning against the door jamb. His face is wrinkled, and his hair is grey, a thin but long beard flowing to his chest. He wears a cloak of grey fabric, worn to the bare bones. Under that cloak he wears a high collared grey shirt with golden trim. At his hip he bears a long saberstaff handle. His eyes are dark with unrest, and there's a certain sadness in his eyes.
The three back off, standing upright, stiff as boards.
"Sit down, sit down," the man waves, walking over to the table.
The Tholothian girl follows him in, the manual under her arm. She looks over at me, curiosity in her brown eyes.
"So, you're the new recruit Logan told me about," he asks.
"I'm not a recruit. I'm looking for Leon Rambi. A friend of his told me I would be safe with him."
"Did she now," he laughs.
"I never said it was a woman."
"Did the old bag run a ship dealership?"
"Yes," I say, more suspicious. "I assume you know this person?"
"I do."
"Then do you know where I can find Leon Rambi?"
The Tholothian girl finally speaks. "You're looking at him."