I - In Medias Res - A Knights of the Old Republic Story Chapter 1 - Prologue, a star wars fanfic

Well, here I am again with an updated version of my fic. I've improved the language (though I can't promise there will be no mistakes at all, I'm still French) and modified some passages.

I hope you'll like it.

Bisous!

Prologue

Darkness. Then, a pinprick of light, growing steadily brighter.

"Corem."

The voice echoed, distant and muffled, as if filtered through layers of thick cloth. I tried to respond, but my lips refused to move.

"Corem Galhor."

My name. They're calling my name. But why does it sound so unfamiliar?

Good gods. What's happening to me?

"Corem Galhor, if you can hear me, do something."

Shut up. Please, just let me sleep.

"Turn on the spotlight. He needs to wake up."

Suddenly, a blinding flash assaulted my senses. It pierced through my closed eyelids, searing my retinas and slicing into my foggy brain like a vibroblade. The pain was excruciating, indescribable.

"The eyelids are contracting. Keep going."

No. Leave me be. I don't want to wake up.

A softer voice cut through the chaos, gentle yet insistent.

"Corem Galhor, you're waking up from a very deep sleep. It's normal that you feel unwell. Don't be afraid, this is only temporary. Come back to us."

Slowly, agonizingly, I force my eyes open. The world was a blur of harsh light and indistinct shapes. Where was I? What was happening?

The voice, once distant, now drilled into my eardrums with shrill intensity. An infernal cacophony. Would it ever stop? Part of me yearned to surrender to its insistent calls, if only to regain the soothing calm of silence. But the choice was being torn from my hands.

Slowly, inexorably, I clawed my way out of the darkness. This sleep had been so deep, so all-encompassing, that my very consciousness felt alien. Was this truly my reality? Or was it merely the product of my unhinged mind, a chaotic dreamscape orchestrated with unsettling precision?

How did I get here?

I forced my eyes open, only to slam them shut again as searing pain lanced through my skull.

"You're doing well, Corem. Take your time."

My breathing came in ragged gasps, each inhalation a monumental effort. Yet beneath the discomfort lay a startling realization – I could breathe. Such a simple act, one I'd never given thought to before, now filled me with a quiet satisfaction. I was alive.

But what had happened? I had to see, had to face whatever awaited me beyond the safety of my eyelids.

Bracing myself, I tried again. The pain returned, sharp and relentless, but I endured. If I let it wash over me, I reasoned, it would eventually tire and recede.

And so it did. After an eternity of agonizing seconds, the pain ebbed away. I blinked, trying to bring the world into focus. Blurry shapes danced before me, silhouetted against a blaze of light. Gradually, one of these forms approached.

A new sensation: pressure on my wrist. Gentle or firm, I couldn't tell. But it was there, grounding me in this strange new reality.

"Well, you're coming back from a long way off."

The voice was right. What I'd thought was a simple coma had ravaged my mind, reducing my mental faculties to mere fragments. The days following my awakening were a hellish ordeal: atrocious migraines pounded relentlessly, the world spun in a nauseating dance, and my stomach rebelled against me at every turn. My body, it seemed, was intent on sabotaging its own recovery.

Yet, as the days bled into weeks, my strength slowly returned. Health, or at least a semblance of it, gradually reasserted itself.

With my memory in tatters, I became a detective in my own life, piecing together the puzzle of my past from the accounts of doctors and hospital staff. The picture that emerged was disappointingly mundane: a traffic accident. Ordinary, if spectacular. By some cosmic jest, I had managed to injure no one but myself.

But the fragments of dreams that clung to me told a different story. In my coma-induced haze, I had been someone else entirely - powerful, dominant, exceptional. Those phantom memories whispered of an extraordinary life, far removed from the banal reality I now faced.

The truth hit me like a bucket of ice water. I wasn't special. I wasn't powerful. I was just an ordinary man, recovering from a stupid, all-too-common accident.

The realization stung more than I cared to admit.

As days passed, fragments of memory slowly resurfaced. My brain, it seemed, was undergoing a meticulous process of cleaning and reorganization. Flashes of my time at Bar'leth University returned, reminding me of the path that had led me to become a skilled interpreter and translator. I recalled my last job, the pinnacle of my fledgling career, where I'd found myself in the rarified air of Onderon's royal court.

But beyond that? A vast, unsettling blank.

My personal life remained an impenetrable mystery. Was I married? A father? Did I have a family waiting anxiously for news of my recovery? Try as I might, I couldn't conjure a single face or name. The realization hit me with crushing force - I was utterly alone. Weeks of interacting solely with hospital staff only reinforced this isolation. Not a single visitor had darkened my door.

I was just an ordinary man. A lonely man. Adrift in a sea of unfamiliar faces.

Yet even this bleak assessment didn't quite fit. Why was I, a civilian translator, recuperating in a military hospital in the heart of the capital? True, I served the Republic, but I had no official ties to the armed forces. Wouldn't a civilian facility have been more appropriate? This incongruity nagged at me, adding another layer to my growing sense of displacement and confusion.

The more I pondered my situation, the less sense it made. Each answer only spawned more questions, leaving me feeling even more lost and isolated than before.

"Hello, Corem."

The familiar voice drew me from my reverie. It belonged to the head of the department, the woman who had been overseeing my care since my arrival. I recognized it as the same voice that had guided me back to consciousness, though its timbre had changed. What once had been aggressive and piercing now felt soft and comforting, wrapping around me like a warm embrace.

With effort, I pushed myself up from my reclined position, turning to face her properly. She stood in the doorway, a woman in her forties with fine features etched by years of dedication to her work. Fatigue had left its mark on her face, and strands of gray threaded through her short-cropped hair. Yet, despite these signs of age—likely accelerated by the demands of her profession—she radiated a quiet dignity and charm. There was an undeniable charisma about her, born of intelligence and a deep sense of responsibility.

"Hello, Doctor," I finally managed, my voice still rough with sleep.

Her eyes, kind but keen, studied me closely. "How are you feeling this morning?"

Morning? The word caught me off guard. I glanced towards the window, where partially drawn blackout curtains allowed a sliver of light to spill into the room. Beyond the glass, I could make out the bustling energy of a city coming to life. The soft glow of early morning light painted everything in gentle hues, its warmth slowly reawakening my dulled senses.

"I'm fine," I replied, meeting her gaze once more.

She nodded, seemingly satisfied with my response. "Perfect. I'm going to proceed with our usual tests, Corem. After that, I'll let you wash up and get dressed." She paused, her expression shifting slightly. "A naval non-commissioned officer wishes to speak with you."

The last sentence hung in the air, pregnant with implications I couldn't quite grasp. Why would a naval officer be interested in me? The question added another layer to the mystery surrounding my presence here, but before I could ponder it further, the doctor was already moving towards me, ready to begin her examination.

"Understood," I managed to reply, unable to keep a note of bewilderment from my voice.

The doctor, seemingly oblivious to my inner turmoil, proceeded with her daily routine of tests. Motor skills, cognitive functions - all checked and rechecked with meticulous care. As always, the results were surprisingly positive. My recovery was progressing at a pace that seemed to astound even the medical staff. At this rate, I was slated for discharge by week's end.

Once the examination was complete and I'd gone through my usual morning routine, I found myself restless. Instead of retreating to the bed or settling into a chair, I felt an overwhelming urge to move. I activated the news terminal, more out of habit than genuine interest, and began to pace the room.

My restless wandering brought me to the window. The view beyond the glass captured my attention, drawing me into a moment of quiet contemplation. Coruscant sprawled before me, a forest of towering skyscrapers bathed in the planet's characteristic white sunlight. Several of the most imposing structures, I knew, housed the Ministry of Defense - explaining the military hospital's proximity.

As I studied the cityscape, trying to reconcile this vast, bustling metropolis with my fragmented memories, a sudden burst of sound from the terminal jolted me back to the present. The news broadcast had begun, its urgent tones a stark contrast to the serene urban panorama before me.

Suspicious activities in the peripheral regions of the Outer Rim and the Taris system have caught the attention of the Republic authorities. Part of the fleet has been chartered to these areas and—"

The sudden roar of a passing convoy outside my window drowned out the newscaster's words, momentarily pulling me from the broadcast. As the noise faded, I caught the tail end of the report:

"—the Chancellery and the Jedi Order have renewed their agreement providing for effective military collaboration. Bastila Shan, credited with the Republic's recent victories, has been placed in a secure location following a Sith ambush attempt. Public authorities report that Lord Malak is now actively seeking the Padawan, whose Battle Meditation power has inflicted heavy losses on Sith forces..."

We were at war. The word hung in the air, heavy with implications. My mind grasped at the broad strokes of recent history: Malak's betrayal of his master, Revan, barely a year ago; his subsequent seizure of control over the Sith Empire. I knew these facts, but they felt distant, detached—as if I were recalling a history lesson rather than lived experience.

Yet, surely I had lived through these events? My mission on Onderon must have been connected to this conflict somehow. But the details remained frustratingly out of reach, like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands.

The name Bastila Shan struck a chord within me, triggering a sense of familiarity I couldn't quite place. As I tried to visualize this woman, so crucial to the Republic's war effort, I felt a strange resonance. It was as if fragments of memory were trying to surface, only to sink back into the murky depths of my fractured mind.

The disconnect between what I knew and what I felt was jarring. I understood the facts, but I couldn't connect them to any personal experiences or emotions. It was a stark reminder of how far I still had to go in my recovery. Regaining my full memory, understanding my place in this turbulent galaxy—it would take time. More time, perhaps, than I was comfortable admitting.

As I stood there, caught between the impersonal news report and my own nebulous recollections, I felt more lost than ever.

A sudden, jarring noise behind me shattered my reverie. I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat, to find a tall figure looming in the doorway. It was a young man, lean and lanky, his hand still gripping the door handle as if unsure whether to advance or retreat. His eyes, though polite, betrayed a hint of discomfort—as if he was acutely aware of intruding upon my solitude.

"Please, come in," I offered, hoping to ease his apparent tension. As I spoke, I fumbled with the terminal, silencing the droning newscast that suddenly seemed trivial in light of this unexpected visitor.

The young man stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click that seemed to echo in the suddenly silent room. As he moved closer, I took in the details of his appearance. His youth was evident, but so was the crisp professionalism of his bearing. The dark uniform he wore was immaculate, trousers perfectly creased and jacket adorned with a smattering of medals that hinted at a career already marked by distinction despite his age. In his left hand, he clutched a data block with white-knuckled intensity—a digital lifeline that I suspected held the key to his presence here.

"Thank you," he replied, his voice clipped and formal. For a moment, he simply regarded me, his gaze analytical as if comparing my appearance to some mental image. Then, squaring his shoulders, he launched into what was clearly a prepared speech.

"Sir, we regret having to solicit you under your current conditions," he began, his tone as stiff as his posture. "I was sent to inform you that your next assignment is still effective."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My next assignment? Delivered by a military officer? I felt my brow furrow in confusion, a thousand questions suddenly clamoring for attention in my mind. What assignment? When had I agreed to this? And why was the military involved in the affairs of a simple translator?

As I struggled to make sense of this bombshell, the young officer stood there, ramrod straight, awaiting my response. The air between us seemed to crackle with tension and unspoken implications. Whatever this "assignment" was, I had a sinking feeling it was about to turn my already confusing world completely upside down.

"As soon as you've finished care here, you will be expected at the B96API Academy, the entity to which you belong."

The words hung in the air, each one a puzzle piece that refused to fit into my understanding of reality. A shrug escaped me, involuntary and telling. I shook my head slightly, my face a mask of bewilderment. The young officer's eyes widened, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features.

"Well, Sir..." I began, my voice faltering before I found my footing. "Thank you for this information, but... if I may, I'm not a military man. I don't see what I have to do with any of this."

The officer's gaze sharpened, a mix of surprise and suspicion evident in his scrutiny. He activated the data block, his eyes flicking rapidly over its contents before meeting mine again. In that moment of locked gazes, I sensed a shared confusion, a mutual grasping for understanding.

"Sir, you are indeed Corem Galhor?" His voice carried a hint of doubt now.

"That's me, yes." The words felt hollow.

"Well, Mr. Corem Galhor," he continued, his tone a blend of formality and growing concern, "I confirm the announcement I made to you. Four months ago, you agreed to collaborate with the Ministry of Defense, which assigned you to the Academy I mentioned."

The revelation hit me like a physical blow. My mouth fell open, words evaporating before they could form. The officer, seeming to grasp that my confusion was genuine rather than evasive, softened his approach.

"I know, sir, that your health is not at its best," he said, his voice tinged with patience. "However, we have received the results of all the tests you regularly undergo, which clearly indicate your ability to respond to your next assignment. You are expected at the Academy of sector B96 as soon as you are out of here. You will receive a short training there, and then you will be sent elsewhere."

My mind reeled, grasping for something familiar, something that made sense. "I hear what you're telling me, but I'm a translator," I managed, the words sounding feeble even to my own ears.

The disconnect between what I knew of myself and what this man was telling me was vast and terrifying. Had I really agreed to this? And if so, why couldn't I remember? The implications of his words began to sink in, each one adding weight to the growing realization that the life I thought I knew might be nothing more than a fragile illusion.

"It's as a translator that the Army called on you," the young man clarified, his tone softening slightly. "Anyone working within our armies is expected to receive military training. Don't worry, it will only involve basic knowledge for you. You will only be solicited militarily if the situation is desperate."

A cynical grimace twisted my lips. What choice did I have? Clearly, I had committed myself to this path before my accident, and the Ministry wasn't about to release its grip. The Republic's precarious situation demanded contributions from every citizen, even translators.

A hazy memory surfaced: I had indeed undergone some military training before. The volatile political climate on Onderon had led the Republic to arm its officials with basic combat skills. I recalled performing well in those exercises, but that hardly made me a soldier. The disconnect between my perceived identity and this new reality was jarring.

I heaved a deep sigh, resignation settling over me like a heavy cloak. "Alright," I conceded, my voice tinged with defeat. "I will report to the Academy as soon as I'm discharged."

The officer nodded, a sober smile flickering across his face. "Perfect. I'm leaving you a card with all the elements related to your file."

He deftly extracted a small data card from his block, holding it delicately between thumb and forefinger. I stepped forward, accepting the object that somehow held the keys to my forgotten past and uncertain future. As I slipped it into my pocket, its weight felt disproportionate to its size.

"Mr. Galhor," the officer said, his tone unexpectedly warm. "I wish you a speedy recovery."

"Thank you," I replied with a nod, struggling to match his cordial tone.

As the door closed behind him, silence engulfed the room once more. I stood there, mind reeling, wondering what labyrinth of intrigue and duty I had unwittingly entered. My hand found its way back to my pocket, fingers tracing the edges of the data card obsessively.

Finally, driven by a mix of curiosity and dread, I approached the terminal. With trembling hands, I inserted the card, watching as the screen flickered to life. The first file opened, revealing details about me and my future assignments - information that should have been familiar but felt alien:

Last name: Galhor | First name: Corem | Age: 35 years old | Birth planet: Deralia
Personal status: Single, no children
Occupation: Translator, interpreter
Place of education: Bar'leth University

[-]

Military rank: Cadet
Location of military training: B96 Sector API Military Academy
Expected duration of training: 2 months
General officer in charge of the agent: Commander Bastila Shan
Restrictions: not specified - refer to the responsible officer
Last position: Interpretation, Republic Embassy on Onderon | Duration: four months, two days

[-]

Current place of assignment: not specified - refer to the responsible officer
Affected by: not specified - refer to the responsible officer
Assignment validated by: not specified - refer to the responsible officer
General officer in charge of the agent: Commander Bastila Shan
Duration of assignment: not specified - refer to the responsible officer

[-]

Suffers from retrograde amnesia following a violent shock. However, this does not pose a problem with current and future assignments. Nevertheless, requires medical follow-up.

Psychological state: Satisfactory

[-]

Tests conducted by the Republican Military Academy of Coruscant - B96API
Extraordinary session requested by Commander Bastila Shan, validated by Admiral Forn Dodonna
The Republican Military Academy B96API deems the agent fit to receive training.
Corem Galhor #894

I stared at the screen, my eyes darting from line to line, each new piece of information sending a jolt through my system. The clinical detachment of the file contrasted sharply with the turmoil it stirred within me.

Thirty-five years old. Born on Deralia. Single, no children. These basic facts should have felt familiar, comforting even. I found myself desperately searching for some emotional connection to these details, but came up empty.

My gaze snagged on a particular line: "General officer in charge of the agent: Commander Bastila Shan." The name echoed in my mind, triggering that same vague sense of familiarity I'd felt earlier. But why would a celebrated Jedi be personally overseeing my case? The implications were both thrilling and terrifying.

As I continued reading, more questions piled up. Why was my current place of assignment classified? What kind of translator needed such secrecy? And the duration of my assignment - also undisclosed. What had I gotten myself into?

Then the medical assessment hit me like a punch to the gut. "Suffers from retrograde amnesia following a violent shock." There it was, in cold, unfeeling text - the reason for the gaping holes in my memory. But the next line chilled me to the bone: "However, this does not pose a problem with current and future assignments."

How could my memory loss not affect my work? What kind of assignments could I possibly undertake in this state? The casual dismissal of my condition felt almost sinister.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts. There was no use in tormenting myself needlessly. After all, I had just emerged from a months-long coma with significant memory loss. It was only natural that I wouldn't have all the answers or details about my situation.

"Everything will eventually fall into place," I murmured to myself, though the words rang hollow in the quiet room.

As I stood there, staring at the terminal screen, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was standing on the edge of something much bigger than I could comprehend. With a mixture of apprehension and resigned determination, I realized that the only way forward was through. I would report to the Academy as instructed and undergo the training.

For now, all I could do was prepare myself for whatever lay ahead. The future stretched before me, a blank canvas filled with uncertainties. As I turned off the terminal, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was stepping into a story much larger than myself, one whose outline I could barely glimpse.

Whatever awaited me at the Academy, whatever role I was meant to play in this war, one thing was certain: nothing would be as simple as it seemed.