2 or 3 months after the end of Episode III.
Markus Jaydra peered into the dirty, cracked mirror as he rubbed brown dye into his distinctively red hair. His reflection was fragmented, like his life. He had only vague memories—bits and pieces, really—of his life before the Jedi and, in the seven years he had called the Temple home, he had known nothing else.
Squinting to see if he had missed any stray red strands, he sighed at his bright green eyes. Hair dye was relatively easy to come by—though it had to be reapplied regularly—but coloured contacts were very expensive, and it was difficult to find someone who would sell them without asking questions. He reminded himself that most people never noticed eye colour, and that no one was specifically looking for him personally, although the clone troopers—and the Emperor's apprentice, Darth Vader—were most definitely looking for any Jedi who had escaped the Purge and, if they discovered him, they would kill him immediately.
He turned away from the mirror with a grimace at his dramatic imaginings. The clone troopers would only kill him if they knew what he was—what he had been. He had ditched his initiate robes and cut off his Padawan braid as soon as he left the Temple. The only way anyone would know him from any other child on the streets of Coruscant was if they saw—or sensed—him do something with the Force.
He wrapped his tattered jacket around himself against the rain, and left the abandoned building that was now his home. Over the past months, he had become very good at hiding in plain sight. Falling into step beside a Rodian, Markus deftly relieved him of his wallet. His teachers at the Temple would never approve of this use of the Force, but they were dead, and he had to eat.
Sometimes, Markus wondered what had happened to Master Skywalker—well, technically, she hadn't been a master, only a knight, but all older Jedi had been 'Master' to him. She had saved his life on that last day in the Temple. He guessed she must have died that day with the other Jedi, for she hadn't left with the initiates—she had stayed to fight. The thought saddened him. He hadn't known her well, but he owed her everything.
Many of the initiates had banded together after leaving the Temple, seeking companionship and strength in numbers. Markus understood, but he preferred to be alone—the more Force-sensitives in one place, the easier they would be to find. Besides, he had always preferred his own company to that of others.
He did try to keep track of them, though. They were the only family he had left, and losing them too didn't bear thinking on.
He might have gotten too comfortable, and maybe a little cocky. He didn't notice the cloaked figure who watched him from the shadows until a cold, bony hand fastened onto his wrist as he was slipping the Corellian's purse into his jacket.
Annoyed at himself for not being careful, he looked up into the depths of a black hood, and his heart went cold. The Force warned him this was much worse than the Corellian looking for the return of his money. Markus shrank away from the sinister yellow eyes that seemed to look right through him, but the grip on his arm was implacable.
"Why hello, my young friend." The voice was smooth and honeyed, with an undercurrent of death and decay. "I believe you have something there that doesn't belong to you."
Markus tugged sharply on his trapped wrist, but the gnarled fingers were like iron bands. Terrified, he reached out for the Force, pushing the old man away—but he only laughed, a terrible wheezing laugh, his lips curling into a mockery of a smile.
"Don't worry. I'm not going to turn you in to the authorities." He leaned closer to Markus, who was surprised he didn't smell as bad as he looked. "I would like to offer you a job."
Markus stopped struggling, his eyes wide. What sort of job could this creature want him to do? He had heard stories of children disappearing from the streets into fates worse than death.
The old man continued, "It's nothing so awful as you might be imagining. I'm looking for someone I can train to be my emissary—my 'hand' if you will. You have the skills I'm looking for."
Markus shook his head. "No. I'm not interested."
Another awful smile twisted the man's lips. He gestured with his free hand, and a group of clone troopers appeared from around the corner, weapons trained on Markus. "I would have preferred you to come freely, but you will come." He waved the troopers in. "Take him away."
"Yes, Emperor."
The Emperor! Markus' knees went weak as two troopers caught him up by the arms and dragged him away. This time, Master Skywalker wasn't here to rescue him. He was truly alone.