Motivation is what gets you going. It's the constant threat of a slow death that keeps you going.
Year 0
——————
I don't classify myself as an adventurer. I never seek a thrill, never disobey my father, never go against the path that life put before me.
But here, there is no path, other than to survive. So, once I have my survival as secure as it can be on this planet, I start to grow restless. Which is crazy, because I don't get bored. My mind goes too fast for that. I can sit in silence and think up inventions and stories, envision battles I've read about. I never feel bored in my own mind.
Nonetheless, I am as bored as those slow-moving beetles on Chandrila. It isn't all day, every day...but it is like clockwork. I'm just starting to wonder if it's some sort of anxiety when I realize what happens to the planet at roughly the same time.
I'm sitting up high, having become somewhat of a climber in my solitude because getting high means seeing more and seeing more means eyes on more ground. The sun is overhead, and I simply stare into a bubbling pit of lava. If it was water, one might call it a small pond. Pond doesn't feel right to say, in this case. River though...rivers can be calm, but they can also be violent. Like lava. I don't think ponds can rage like the open seas or the crashing of waterfalls.
My eyes narrow and I put my macrobinoculars to my eyes. The lava pond fills my view, expanded and enhanced. I adjust them to zoom out a hair and verify what I noticed.
The lava no longer appears to be in a boiling frenzy. A second ago, however, the bubbles popped with such violence, molten lava splashed as far as ten meters—more than the tiny pond's diameter. Now, it just...rocks back and forth.
I drop the binocs and stand, taking in the lava closer to the compound. Yes...If I wasn't watching, I'm not sure I would have ever noticed the change. I look at my wristlink. 1307. The day previous, I felt my daily boredom around 1200.
My brows furrow as I look back out onto the lava river that runs down the east side of the complex to my left, the pond to the south, and the cliffs to my right with various streams of lava hugging it tight. It is all relatively calm. Instead of giving the appearance of being on a planet that is volatile to the core, it leaves me feeling as if I'm standing in the eye of a storm, the chaos muted.
I wait. I barely move. I stare so long that I can not tell if it is growing in intensity or not. Until a large bubble pops to my left, and I shift in time to see its spray hit long-dried lava.
My wristlink says 1645.
The next day is the same, about three hours of calm. Or, as close to calm as it gets. Except, it is almost an hour later. It begins around 1400 and ends closer to 1800.
The third night, same pattern, three or four hours, ending around 1900.
I study it for two weeks. I write down everything. I speculate why it happens. I know how my father recorded research, so I work to emulate him, leaving out no detail.
But when the lava begins to cool at 0814 one day, I pull on the pack I prepared the night before and set out.
And it is almost fun that first day, when I see no predators and bring enough water. Adventuring, to my surprise, is exciting. And the excitement is...new. When have I last felt it, the thrum of something between anxiety and thrill?
On the second day, I leave at 0920. When I peer over a ledge I plan on climbing down and see two lava fleas below, red and twice my height, my heart thumps harder in my chest.
I can practice shooting and try to exercise myself into having stamina all I want, I am not a fighter. I am invisible. Shadows don't fight.
But clearly, I'm not actually invisible, and these things are not just a threat to my present existence. They are a pest, and their population numbers will grow fast unchecked.
Honestly, it should have taken me longer to make the decision to take a life. I should have hesitated, should have mulled over the choices, even for just a second.
But I don't. I lift the blaster rifle, only pausing to steady my breath, and shoot the one facing my direction, then the one facing away. Both shots, to my minor surprise, hit my target: one in its large eye and the other on the back of its neck where its exoskeleton doesn't cover. I shoot them again, and when they are both immobile—dead or dying, I don't know which—I feel no remorse.
I feel alive. I was scared—and that's the truth. It's why I didn't hesitate, why they had to die. But as the fear starts to work its way out of me, something...new takes its place. It isn't adrenaline, though that's there too. I suppose it is thrill, perhaps, similar to the momentary pit in my stomach when a ship drops suddenly, or when my father would pick me up and hang me over his shoulder as a kid. Similar...but bigger, more pleasant.
The third day, I see no predators, but I misjudge how much hotter it gets just an hour later in the day. It is 0110 and I have about twenty minutes left before I'll be back, and forty until the lava will begin boiling again. But I'm out of water, and I'm drenched in sweat. I drop things I don't need because the energy expended for every step is enormous. Lighter pack...easier walk. I can be a survivalist.
But when the complex comes into view—I'm south of it, walking uphill to reach it—I begin to doubt I will make it. Fear nudges its way between my excitement at my journey, until I almost let myself panic and begin running in hopes my legs don't give out until after I make it behind the safer walls of the compound. But it is still almost a klick away; I'll collapse from exhaustion before I make it. I'm not a runner.
I do make it. I go to the closest water source, which is farther than I hoped—I'll have to start leaving jugs by the gates—and collapse. I drink heavily, pour it over my face and chest until my clothes are soaked, and then I take them off and pour more water on my naked flesh.
I hear a couple of crackling pops from outside and grin. The lava is at dangerous activity levels again. But I made it, barely. I laugh, then keep laughing. I choke after a minute and begin chugging more water, then plop back to the floor to close my eyes. A smile dances on my lips because I made it. I could have died, but I made it.
I am alive.
———
It's three months before I see another human. Well, I think it's a human. At first, I thought it was a Jedi. I'm not totally naive; I watched the HoloNews a few times during the war, and I read. A lot. It is part of being unnoticed, people hesitate to interrupt a person reading.
The hooded man steps off a pristine, sleek black ship and walks across the magma. I watch the surveillance feed for a long time. After a while, I wonder if it is broken as he just stands there, unmoving. It is ten, maybe twenty minutes before he shifts and walks off the screen. I check other cameras but I don't see him again. Which seems impossible.
Then, the lights go out.
Fear isn't my initial response. It's irritation, figuring I need to go fix something. Before I can decide my next course of action, however, something in the air shifts. It feels like the day Father disappeared, as if the air is somehow thicker and lacks adequate oxygen. My chest feels tight and I wonder if I'm going to have a panic attack. It's pitch black, as where I live is the center and no windows to the outside exist.
I stand, cursing myself for having AN13 shut off and on the charging port. I fumble for something, anything I can use for light. I hadn't yet experienced this issue in the center, so I've left myself unprepared. I make a mental note to keep an emergency bag near me at all times.
My hip knocks the corner of a table and I groan in pain before continuing. I reach the door and, thankful I restored the backup generators, the door opens. I stand there as it opens slower than usual due to the lack of power.
Feet. That's the first thing that registers. Large black boots. As my eyes lift, part of me comprehends it is the hooded figure. And that's when the fear finally takes over, pulsating through my veins.
My body does not feel real. It is pitch black, but somehow the massive figure standing before me is easily visible. Just as the door clicks into its open position, my eyes hit what should be a face, but is a black mask.
The scream that leaves my throat is inhuman, though I feel it more than hear it. I stumble back into the room and fall, landing on something that clashes backward and clatters with a deafening noise. I'm fairly confident my heart has left my body, sure I'm about to die.
But when I look back toward the open door, there is nothing but darkness. My eyes are trying to adjust, but it just creates various shades of darkness—none light enough to give me any direction. The silence is louder than the crash I caused. I can hear my breathing, my own heartbeat.
I'm trembling, especially my hands, and take a slow blink, trying to calm my racing adrenaline. Somehow, I must have imagined that—right? My mind is playing tricks on me. Months without contact with sentient beings will do that to someone.
I don't know how long I sat here, staring at the spot where the masked figure, real or not, had stood. I think it's a long time. I want to look at the cameras to see if the ship is still there, but I can't unless the electricity returns on its own.
Finally, I shift slightly and pain registers through my hand. Both are flat against the cold permecrete flooring, but my right one, I realize belatedly, has shards of something beneath it. I lift it to my face, my eyes adjusted as much as they would to the darkness, and can barely make out the three pieces of dark glass sticking out. The blood is less obvious, but it is hot and wet, beginning to drip down my wrist. The sound of a drop hitting the floor is enough to make my fear spike once more.
Suddenly, the door slams shut, causing me to cry out in alarm and jump to my feet. I have no idea what to do—instinct says run. Flee. But the thought of opening the door again fills me with dread. There are two other exits: one leads deeper into the maze of unused labs and offices, the other leads to the kitchen area which trails into the living quarters and an exit to the outside. However, the backup generators only work on the designated emergency escape route programmed for them. I knew I should have fixed them all.
It won't matter either way, because I'm not alone. A crash rings out from the other side of the room, eliciting a clipped shriek from me before slamming my good hand to my mouth. Fear grips me completely, seeping into my bones and dripping out of my soul. Of all the ways I could die on Mustafar, I hadn't seen this one coming.
"Who are you?" I manage to croak into the blackness. Another crash is loud to my right, so I whip around. There is nothing for me to see without light. Nothing.
Fear is the only constant within me. To my left, the direction I just turned from, comes a voice. It swallows me, feeling like the sound is inside of me, vibrating with life.
Coming from directly next to me, baritone and modulated with no emotion, it is more terrifying than the mask. "Who are you?" it snaps. The words are clipped, and precise, sounding out every word with control—but so loud.
I turn roughly to the voice, but there is another smaller crash across the room—behind me. It is happening so fast, there must be multiple people.
I stutter because I don't know how to answer the question. I'm too scared to think, to breathe. Panic surfaces; I have enough time to recognize it. But as I try to bumble out that I am a nobody, no threat to anyone, I feel someone grip my hair and yank me back. Except I don't stop, pulled by my messy bun as my feet drag across the floor. I'm screaming again, more from fear than pain. It hurts though, and my throat is raw. As I reach up to try to claw at my attacker, they let go and I fall into what I thought was, before my body smashed through it, a desk.
The air leaves my lungs with force. I can't believe I'm going to die on this giant lava rock. At least I won't have to actually see it.
The hands release me as I fall, but that only means I no longer know where to look. "My father worked here," I cry once I suck in a breath. "Clones took everything except me!" Tears are streaming down my face. I don't bother to stand.
The following silence is deafening, my choked sobs the only noise. The suspense is worse. "Please, I'm nobody," I try. When still there is no response, no crashes, nothing, I scream. It's a loud, frustrated shout and I slam my hands down with it. The noise turns into a cry as the glass embeds deeper into my hand. The pain...it feels like shards are jutting out of my entire arm.
Before I even finish crying out, the lights flick back on. I do not dare close my eyes from the shocking change, but I manage to scramble to my feet. The rubble around me moves as I do, crashing and causing more stuff to tumble to the floor.
My stomach is twisted like I might be sick, my mind unable to keep up with the chaos—but I look around the room anyway. There are no hooded figures to be seen. I'm shaking violently now, trying to find hidden enemies. But there are none. The space is the same as it was, just messier. The hatches are all closed.
A small sound escapes my lips, more a cry than anything, but it isn't quite that either. With an unsteady step forward, I work my way toward my computer setup, still eying every part of the room.
No amount of my fear subsides, but when I reach the consoles, I choke on a sob when I see it's off. I reboot it, unable to sit, my eyes constantly on the door.
It finally pops up two minutes later. Two minutes of my teeth clattering, my body shivering.
The ship is gone. I let out a cry of relief before understanding that the ship may have been a coincidence. The platform is a ten or fifteen-minute walk away from my location, on a good day. Today isn't good—storms are brewing, high winds and acid rain coming and going. The cloaked man I saw on camera wouldn't have made it here fast enough to be the same one I saw—or thought I saw.
I pour over every live feed, all twenty of them, but there is nothing to be seen. A Xandank is fighting two Roggworts along the edge of the building I reside in, but that's it. By the time I decide there is nothing for me to see, my heart has begun to slow. The adrenaline is beginning to fade and exhaustion is taking over.
Finally, I fall into my chair and stare at my hand. It isn't normal glass cutting into the skin, I realize. They're extra shards of obsidian I'd used to make daggers out of. They're not the same length as each other, and as a result, they don't balance quite right in my hands, but I smoothed the hilts to perfection and wrapped them with strips of leather. I was quite proud of them, but now as I debate how to properly remove shards from my flesh, I'm regretting not cleaning up after myself.
It takes me a long time to move again, but once the shock begins to clear out of my mind, I shake myself and stand to find a med kit.
A week later, the construction began.