Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars, in any way, shape or form. But I am a fan and this is a fan fiction. So I will create characters, create interactions, and create anything else I damn well please.

A lone figure walked into the cantina. As always, the outdated bouncer droid moved to relieve the subject of all his weaponry. Just as the droid reached the man, it sputtered and sparked. And its head blew off. The bartender noticed this and walked over to the man and the droid, or what remained of it.

"Huh…that's weird, but I guess it was very outdated. I couldn't even find its model in the databanks. Oh well, I guess I'll do its job until I get a new one. Just give me your weapons."

The figure nonchalantly reached into his vest and produced a small blaster pistol. Not an uncommon weapon, but the bartender still was intrigued by its unique shape and markings. Running such a shady place, he thought he had seen almost every weapon ever. From forcepikes to bowcasters. But he had only ever seen one of these blasters once before, on a smuggler who had been "exploring" the Outer Rim while hiding from the new Galactic Empire.

Still, he looked over the newcomer suspiciously. "Come on buddy, anyone who gives their weapon up that easily is hiding something. Hand it over."

The stranger cursed under his breath and pulled out another weapon, this time a small vibroblade. The very weapon caused the demise of at least half of the victims in his bar. The tender chuckled to himself and let the stranger in, who promptly sat at the bar and ordered a Correllian Whiskey.

As he was drinking, a pair of trandoshans walked up to him. The bartender gasped and ducked under the bar and activated the energy shield separating the back and front of the bar. The other patrons ran out as the trandoshans approached the newcomer, hoping to steal a few easy credits, and anything else he had. They tapped his back, and as soon as he turned to inspect his guests, very slowly at that, one spoke to him in a hissing voice.

"You're new here, so we'll make this easy for you, hand over your money."

The man replied in an apathetic voice, "No."

They laughed and hissed again, "We won't ask you again." At this the bartender stood and looked through the shield at the man who had defied the local crime lords, pathetic as they were as "lords."

The man coolly said, "Good, because I'm not listening to you anymore." And he turned back to the bar and resumed his drinking.

Enraged the trandoshans pulled out their pistols, and in sync fired at the man.

And the man stood up, wheeled about, with his hand raised out in front of him. A small metal cylinder flew from his belt into his hand. The bartender watched in awe as the man ignited the one weapon he had never seen: a lightsaber. In one deft sweep of the silver-gray blade through the air, both trandoshans lay smoking on the floor, victims of their own blaster bolts. And the man stood up, threw his payment, plus 10 credits, onto the counter; the man left.

The bartender deactivated the shield, looked at the money, looked at the door that the Jedi had disappeared through. And he wondered.