That fear. That fear of a force much stronger than you, that if you didn't protect yourself and wait for the torture to cease, it would make you all but powerless.

But it was an excitement, too. A moment you're smart enough to not take too much delight in, but you cannot help but remember this...

Your death is giving me life. And so I won't care what happens to you.

All in all, it was a rush. And it had inflicted young Bane with a bad fever, to the point where he was nauseous with it. Once it had occurred to him that he was sick, he let out a curse under his breath. Of all the times for it to happen, it had to be now.

In the middle of his train of thought, Bane felt the butt of a rifle smack the back of his shoulder, and he grimaced.

"Look sharp, youngling," one of the older Humans said gruffly.

Bane snorted and readjusted his bandanna.

"What, this ain't sharp enough for you?"

"Watch your mouth, kid, and remember who's in charge," the Zabrak warned him from the front, where he piloted the airspeeder. It was early morning on the Nar Shaada system, dawn creeping up the horizon of the rotting urban planet. Bane, who had never been to a system other than Duro or Coruscant, had to put up quite a strong barrier to hide his awe at all the new sights surrounding him.

Of course, the six quote-unquote professionals had been here before. To map out their plan. And now their plan was about to be executed. If all went well, within the hour, they would have a stolen jackpot worth fifty-thousand Republic creds from a local Nar Shaada bank.

My first day on the job, Bane repeated in his head. First day being hired...

Damn! This was crazy. Was it only a week ago he was still in that boys' home?

Hoping the fever would subside, he clutched the blaster rifle in his arms. It was one of the cheaper models, but he was used to cheap. Plus, since he was only an extra gunman this time, he couldn't expect much.

"Whaddaya think, boy?" the Human pressed on. "Think you'll be able to look an innocent woman or child in the eye, and raise that blaster to—"

One of the Weequays was about to shut him up, out of exasperation, but Bane didn't want the help. He fingered the ammo belt that hung over his shoulder as he faced the Human head-on, who had several hours ago let out that eight out of ten of their new recruits had been killed on the first heist.

"So what do you want me to prove?" Bane said angrily, looking his accuser right in the eye. He didn't receive an answer, so he went on. "Well? What do you want to see me do out 'dere? You want a show? I can give you a show. You don't? Then can it."

He knew he shouldn't have said that the second it was over. The Rodian chuckled behind him as the designated bank came into view around the corner, as she said,

"You'll sure feel that one from the boss if you survive this, Bane. You may have skill, but that doesn't include your big mouth."

Sure. He probably would feel some form of punishment for getting all snappy.

But even as Bane considered that, it didn't phase him one bit. After all, nothing could be worse than what his father had put him through. Somebody on that level of drunkenness, with that level of creativity as to what he could do with objects as simple as a belt or a meat hook or a can opener, did things your body never forgot.

And his father was dead...for the most part, anyway. He lived on behind closed red eyes.

Bane gave a shudder as the airspeeder landed. This was it.

Damn, the rush felt so amazing - nearly intoxicating as he jumped out of the airspeeder to join the group.

So amazing he never wanted it to stop. Wanted the excitement to always be there, whatever it took to make it that way.

The Zabrak walked alongside him, wielding a pair of blaster pistols.

"All right, this is it. Show us what you can do, little Bane."

You hold on to it. Cradle it. Take care of it. You'll know when to pull it out and make good use of it.

"Oh, I'll show you..."

And when it was over, young Cad Bane had become more than a thief—more than the little boy who stole from the marketplace. More than a liar—constantly telling stories to the headmaster to cover up a wrong he had done so another kid was punished instead of him. And more than the boy who shot his father and, in his seven-year old mind, could only arrive to the conclusion that he had liked it.

He was a murderer.

But he was alive—a survivor, with food to eat, a gun to protect himself, and a newly-discovered drug he called a rush.

That was all that mattered.

Old Training Grounds

...

The juvenile detention center was divided into what the big scary grown-ups called 'divisons'. The big mean-looking kids called them the 'pens'. The kids with scars on their wrists and arms had their own pen. The kids with special flashing ankle restraints had their own pen. The kids with bodies riddled and stained with gang tattoos had theirs.

And then the kids, like seven-year old Cad, who did not fit anywhere else, had their pen.

Don't cry, he constantly repeated to himself.

It was what Mama had told him over and over on those longest nights. Those were the nights Father was drunk, and Father was mad, and there was nothing but yelling and screaming and hurt and severe pain all night long. She held him close, her back against a door she had locked with Father banging on the other side. Don't cry. You're okay. You're okay. It's just a scratch. I'm never going to let you go, Cad. I promise.

But now Mama was gone.

His mind raced, almost unable to grasp it.

How—how could Mama be gone? She promised...

Why didn't he do anything when Father was hurting her? He could have stopped him if he tried hard enough. No, he had just watched. And now he would always regret not looking away.

In the 'pen', food was delivered twice a day through a large sealed door at the front. Stale bread, some vegetables, and water. The biggest kids in his pen always got to the food first and took what was freshest or cleanest, or sometimes all of it.

Cad, one day, had had enough of that. All morning, he had made his way ever so slowly towards the door, about an inch every ten minutes, so the big kids wouldn't notice. Then when the food came, Cad had sprung and grabbed what he could. His plan had worked, but the big kids didn't like it.

And so now, he had retreated to what was now his own corner of the 'pen', pacing around and around to distract himself, so he could be doing something with his body. If his father were here, he wouldn't like to see a son's idleness, or Cad's cowering from the bigger kids, not one bit. Father was gone, too.

That was his fault. He had taken his blaster and...

"I shot my daddy and I liked it. I shot my daddy and I liked it," he sang.

It was not long before he had worn a visible circular path in that corner from all the pacing. All the fighting to hold back the tears, the images, and the burning that had begun inside of him that he did not know what to call.

A burning that got hotter and more intense whenever he was near the big kids who had hurt him, or the grown-ups that had brought him here—as he wanted to make them burn.

And what was that phrase the big kids were always using on each other? "Go to hell, you fuck."