No Man Is an Island

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Hal slid forward on his seat, paw extended to take the offered hand in a firm and gregarious shake. "Kyle Rayner," he replied. His pearly-white, animalistic teeth were on full display in his smile, glistening almost as much as the hair oil in his impeccably-combed headfur.

So this was the problem child of the new batch. It was easy enough to surmise from the bruises, limp and exhaustion, but what sealed the deal was Jeryd's complete and utter ignoring of the newcomer once he sat down. Hal couldn't believe his luck - the troublemaker and the uppity snot of the group, both at his table. This was going to be fantastic.

His reconstituted lasagna momentarily forgotten, Hal studied the contrast between the two boys, and it couldn't have been wider unless one of them had been of a different gender. Everything about Jeryd spoke of ambition, self-disipline and conviction, while Nebbil looked more like he had accidentally shown up here instead of at the comic books and candy store. Hal was going to like Nebbil, he was sure of it. "I was just talking to your classmate, here, Nebbil. But I'm rather curious: how'd you two wind up in the program? Everyone has their own reasons for joining the Imperial Knights, after all. As for me, well, the opportunity to become the first Nehantite in the Knights was one that I just couldn't be allowed to pass up."

Couldn't be allowed because if you'd resisted, you'd be dead. His brain muttered inside his own head.

Oh, shut up. They don't have to know that. His base natures grumbled.

[Jeryd Redsun]

“You’re also the first Nehantite I’ve ever met,” Nebbil confessed, “It’s funny. I expected you to have a really exotic accent, but you sound just like everyone else.”

He spooned up some stew and started blowing on it. The faint whistle of his teeth was annoying, but it did little to disguise the long silence filling the space between them. And, despite his own grim determination to distance himself from the friendly exchange, Jeryd gave Nebbil the most fleeting of looks. He was still blowing, still staring at the thick heap on his spoon. It was strange. No stew was that interesting. At last, Kyle cleared his throat.

“Fine.” With some reluctance, Nebbil lifted his gaze, “I used to valet for a hotel near the Hanna Wild Game Reserve. It was all fancy types. Big business, mostly. Conferences, safari trips… some even thought of themselves as big game hunters, and turned up dressed like army commandos.”

In place of the hesitancy, there was mischief. Nebbil smiled with his mouth closed, as if there were secrets hidden on the other side. “Some were real buttholes. And all buttholes were lousy tippers. So, I… helped myself.”

For such a weedy kid, when Nebbil snapped his fingers, they really snapped. It was like the resounding crack of dry wood. Jeryd stared at the space above the table where Nebbil’s hand had been, wondering what exactly had possessed him to do such a thing. It wasn’t until he returned to his meal that he found out. In his left hand, where once there had been a fork, there was a knife. And in his right hand, the knife had been replaced with the fork. Once his brain caught up, the utensils were swapped with an angry clatter. Twisting to confront his amused neighbour, Jeryd brandished the knife with menace, “Don’t… ever do that to me again!”

Before Nebbil could respond, he returned his attention to his dinner tray, and slid it, and himself, a whole arm’s distance away down the bench. After an awkward beat of silence, the conversation resumed without him.

“Of course, they caught me in the end. I’m not proud of it, but times were hard. Besides, it’s not like they couldn’t afford it.”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Were Hal free to be Hal, he knew he'd be slacking off and not paying a lot of attention during a meal, and the quick, yet effective mind-trick Nebbil pulled - complete with hand-wave - would have surely caused Hal to swap his own flatware. But the precarious nature of his false persona and continuous deception necessitated the Nehantite be on highest alert at all times, and so he simply watched and laughed as Jeryd did exactly as he was instructed. A mind-trick was no small feat, especially for a youth who had apparently learned it on his own. Nebbil would be one to watch out for in the future, should he get training to hone, perfect and amplify his basic technique into something truly impressive.

"Easy with the knife, there, Prep School," Hal reached out and pressed the blade down with two fingers. "That was a good trick, Nebbil. I've only seen a handful of newcomers who are able to control a Force ability that well on their first day."

His fork returned to the mess that was his meal, and he worked on putting away another bite, barely needing to chew before washing it down with what passed for a drink. "I went to a game reserve not too long ago, on a mission. It was me, Khoovi, Lady Vissica, and a platoon of Stormtroopers. Protected the Empress's suitor from an attack by some deranged dark-sider. That's where I got this," he tapped at his duty ribbon. "And this," he then pointed to the mostly-healed scar over his eye. Another week or so of bacta treatment and it should disappear entirely.

[Jeryd Redsun]

“The Empress’s suitor?” Nebbil’s peaked eyebrows crashed with a nod of approval, “Damn! They sure know how to upscale your responsibilities around here, huh?”

By this point in time, Jeryd had discovered that Nebbil Hoob was either easily impressed or eager to please. In all likelihood, he decided, it was a combination of both. For his part, he had no interest in fanning the flames of Kyle’s ego, so he held his tongue. He’d met his sort before: full of nothing but tales that none-too-subtly hinted at the list of achievements they couldn’t wait to bore you about. Sometimes it was wealth, sometimes status, sometimes it was women, but, whatever it was, guys like Kyle Rayner always had a story to tell. And, when the first words to spill out of a person’s mouth were nothing but idle gossip, it told him to take their words with more than just a pinch of salt.

So he kept his head down, and soldiered on through the rest of his meal. And that, in itself, was no small feat anymore. Nebbil’s trickery had put him on edge. When he thought of himself carrying out his commands against his will, his stomach turned. It wasn’t right. He was strong, he was smart, he was disciplined, and yet, he danced to this scrawny kid’s tune all the same. The shame of it painted his face pink, and his knuckles were coloured by a white hot flash of anger. Why couldn’t he just be left alone?

“...seen a lot of action, then,” he was still talking, and, sensing he was about to touch on something sensitive, his voice suddenly became low, “What’s a dark-sider?”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Hal's left eyebrow went up as his fork paused halfway to his open mouth. "You... don't know what a dark-sider is?" he asked. The question was pointless, as it only verified Nebbil's lack of understanding, so Hal moved on, his fork being set down as it was education time, not mealtime.

"The Force is a living thing, and its what we here in the Imperial Knights Cadet program are here to learn how to master," he began. "It's a form of energy we can tap into in order to do amazing things. Like you, Nebbil, with what's known as a 'mind trick.' That's from the light side of the Force, and was a common Jedi skill. The Jedi used the light side, which can heal, inspire, create and defend. The light side is the side of good, and typically one of selflessness, respecting the will of the Force, though there are always times you can simply use it to save your butt. The dark side is one of chaos, harm, destruction and deception. That's the side that the Sith used, and it can be devastatingly powerful, but also can harm yourself in the process as it eats away at your body, mind and soul as it wishes to control you, instead of allowing you to co-opt its abilities and work within its will. You could say that both sides are inherently flawed, as they're unbalanced. Personally, I prefer the light side because there's less drawbacks, and quite frankly I don't like to hurt people unless I absolutely have to. Here in the Knights, however, we rather run a line down the middle of light and dark. Some call it grey, but I just call it being a Knight. We're here to keep peace and order, so normal people can live safe, normal lives. Some think of us as living weapons, but I like to think of us as how the Jedi used to be long ago: selfless peacekeepers. This whole facility used to be the great Jedi temple, if you didn't know."

[Jeryd Redsun]

“You sound rather taken with these Jedi Knights, Rayner.”

As he spoke, no effort was made to make eye contact with the alien cadet. Nehantite, was it? Whatever that was. Instead, he allowed his remark to drift down to earth under the weight of its implications. Once he was satisfied the point had sunk in, Jeryd turned to Nebbil, and spoke in an undertone, “The Jedi are nothing but traitors. You’d do well to remember that.”

“Oh, I know. My grandpa told me all about the Jedi, and how they tried to assassinate the Chancellor, and take control of the Republic.” Nebbil considered his pitiful lump of bread for a second, then tore a piece off, “Made him sad to talk about it, too. Some of his best friends were Jedi.”

While Jeryd almost choked, he explained, “They fought together during the Clone Wars, y’see. He was there from the start, at the Battle of Geonosis.”

The scrawny boy transformed, swelling with pride. And it wasn’t hard to determine why: if there was one thing Jeryd knew, it was military history. His father saw to that long ago. It was accepted that the Battle of Geonosis marked the moment the Clone Wars began. And if Nebbil’s grandfather had been there from the start, and had survived to father children, then that meant…

“Your grandfather. Was he-”

“A clone? You bet. CT-2468. Evens, they called him.” That made him smile, “Big guy. Like you.”

Historically, clone troopers were known to be 1.83 meters tall. Jeryd stood at 1.85 meters, but to be compared to an actual clone trooper was enough to buoy his spirits. The sag in his shoulders lifted a fraction.

“My grandfather fought at Ryloth, Felucia, and Mygeeto. He retired a Major of the Imperial Army. Coran Redsun. Heard of him?”

“Afraid not,” Nebbil confessed, and brightened, as he said, “Hey. Perhaps they knew each other.”

“Yeah.” Jeryd gave a nod, “Perhaps.”

“What about you, Kyle?” Nebbil prodded a spoon, first, at Kyle, then at his stew, “Got any family in the military?”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Hal listened with interest as the boys spoke. He hadn't been around for the Clone Wars, as they were well after his time, but he'd read about them, and had heard Reverend Solomon speak about them first hand. It was all a giant mess that the Jedi of the time were too blinded by Yoda to see. Yoda had been the cause of so many problems, it seemed, and had been unable to even prepare that Skywalker kid for what he needed to do. Then again, what did Hal expect from a tiny little freeloader whose IQ was so low he couldn't even speak correctly?

Plowing through his lasagne, the Nehantite shook his head. "No, not really. Maybe some second cousin, or something, but my family's not really had a military history. Dad was a research engineer. Grandpa built cars," he replied with a shrug.

An idea suddenly occurred to him, and it was too good to pass up, so he pauses his fork where it was, and looked directly at Nebbil from beneath his mostly-healed brow. "Though I'd be careful what you say about Jedi. We've got a cadet here who says he was trained by one. Was telling Jeryd here about him, earlier, but Jeryd doesn't seem too worried."

[Jeryd Redsun]

“You don’t say!” Nebbil’s eyebrows took flight. When he glanced at his neighbour, and saw the dark look he was wearing, his enthusiasm was deflated. With a tilt of the head, he decided on a more diplomatic approach, “Well, if he’s here, it doesn’t matter what he was before. I was a thief. He was a Jedi apprentice. Now we’re both cadets.”

The whole thing was set aside with a shrug. Content, Jeryd started mopping up the remnants of his stew with the last chunk of bread. However, it seemed Nebbil Hoob had a curiosity that was not easily sated. Bright with intrigue, he leaned forward on his elbows, and muttered, “So, who is this guy?”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Hal's nonchalance faded away while Nebbil's curiosity blossomed. Setting his fork down, Hal looked about as if wary he might be overheard by the wrong ears. Leaning in as well, he glanced from Jeryd to Nebbil, and whispered, "Me."

[Jeryd Redsun]

The response to such a simple word was stark and instantaneous. Nebbil jolted upright as if he’d just received an electric shock, and stared at Kyle, slack-jawed. Jeryd looked like he’d just heard a blaster shot. There was alarm was written on his face. Alarm, and readiness. It was the reaction of someone trained to face danger. Except, when Kyle didn’t spring into action with a laser sword, the alarm turned into anger. For the first time, he knew he was telling the truth. No-one in their right mind would ever say such a thing inside the Imperial Citadel unless it was true, and, even then, to make such a confession here was plain madness. His eyes swept the length and breadth of this strange furry alien, measuring him for the first time in a whole new light. And then, he left.

Without any fuss or theatrics, Jeryd removed himself from the bench, gathered his things, and walked away. It left Nebbil, who had watched the whole thing unfold, dumbstruck, with nought else to do but try to play it off cool. The silence was broken with a hiccup of nervous laughter.

“Heh. Don’t sweat it, man. I’m sure he’ll come round.”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Everything about the reactions of both boys was telling. Nebbil, the curious, inquisitive puppy lapped up all of the mystery, not looking for an angle but simply in awe. There was good in him, and with the right words and the right support, he could be a good ally. But Jeryd was proud, independent, and noble. To be made a fool was the most damming thing one could do to him, and Hal had just pulled the rug out from under his feet in front of the whole class, as it were. If he were to be saved from the Imperial machine, he'd have to be broken, first.

None of it was spoken aloud, or even so much as hinted at, as Hal maintained his smug smile, watching as Jeryd made his exit. It didn't matter that Jeryd knew Hal was trained by a Jedi, he'd surely find out before bunking down for the night anyhow. The Jedi who shot down eight TIE fighters. The Jedi who escaped capture multiple times. The Jedi who Rossos Atrapes himself had put into the Cadet program because he believed a Jedi could be reformed. The Jedi who got his own private room, with his own en suite refresher and sonic shower, up in one of the towers of the old Jedi temple. Yeah, the rumor mill liked to feed on that one prettyhard.

Leaning back, the Nehantite took up his fork and cut the last piece of his lasagne monster in two, loading up a mouthful. "Well, he'll try to come around, but we don't have to let him," he replied. "After all, this is the cool kids table. Not just anyone can eat here, y'know."

[Jeryd Redsun]

Two Years Ago…

“You’re stalling. I know you’re stalling.”

“No, I’m thinking.”

“Thinking about your rancid hand. You’re hoping for a shift.”

“Aryn,” Jeryd surfaced from behind his cards, “For the last time: that is not how it works. The shifts are random, and happen only at the start of a round. Trade.”

The Commander of Coins spiralled onto the growing pile of disposed cards. On the periphery of his vision, Jeryd saw his brother shuffle in his seat, restless with anticipation. He had a winning hand. Again. He reached out tentatively, and drew a new card from the top of the trade pile; it hit him like a hammer blow. The Evil One. He was doomed. Aryn knew; his eyes were smiling in the same way Father’s did when he had you at a disadvantage. He poised like a viper, ready to strike. The buzzer buzzed.

“Call!” he barked, as bright as the midday sun. His order was punctuated by a familiar fizz-crackle that had a remarkable effect on his face. The horror was bathed in blue, from the stark glare the cards produced whenever they changed. “No. Nonono… that’s not fair. That’s not fair!”
Jeryd’s eyebrows gave a lift that was half sympathetic, half inquisitive, and wholly insincere. “Your move, big bro.”

“Trade!” Aryn spat, as if the word tasted like dung in his mouth. Jeryd knew it pained him to say it; he dared a smile while he watched his brother toss a card onto the pile, and replace it with another. Oh. He brightened when he saw it. And then, slowly, smugly, he revealed his hand: the Master of Sabers, the Ten of Flasks, and the Queen of Air and Darkness.

“Twenty-two,” he said, making a meal of his words, “Your move, little brother.”

“Stand.”

That made Aryn clench. And, as he unveiled his new hand, he fixed his brother’s gaze with unflinching cruelty. The Idiot. The Two of Flasks. The Three of Staves. Aryn bellowed like a dying dewback, and Jeryd soared out of his seat like a rocket, fists punching through the glass ceiling of brotherly one-upmanship.

“That’s right!” he crowed, and blew a kiss to the sky, “The Idiot’s Array! Nobody expects the Idiot’s Array! Now then, big bro… show me the credits!”

While Aryn drowned beneath the storm clouds of his defeat, Jeryd unleashed a vigorous volley of pelvic thrusts, “Show… me… the credits! Show… me… the credits! Show…”

With an almighty crash, the table was upended, scattering cards and credit chits all over the floor. Aryn was on his feet, as rigid as frozen carbonite. Behind his wild eyes, Jeryd saw a spark – sometimes, a spark was all it took.

####

Later, when the bleeding stopped, the shouting began in earnest. Aryn caught the brunt of it, having retreated to his room with a busted nose, he found himself under siege from both their parents. Jeryd heard Father’s fist pummelling the door, and he imagined Mother, pacing, with the finger of damnation held aloft.

“What in the seven hells were you thinking?” his father said, “He has a big game coming up, you cretin!”

“Fisticuffs! On Family Day!” trilled Mother, “The Minister of Familial Harmony would be appalled!”
“Have you seen what you’ve done to his face? If he needs surgery again, it’s coming out of your pocket!”

“…playing sabaac, like a couple of rotten scoundrels. And gambling! Under our roof! If your grandfather was alive to see this…”

“If I find out he is unfit to play, I swear, on the Emperor’s bone’s, you’ll-”

“Weximan!”

On and on, it went. And soon, following another controversial choice of words from his father, his parents turned on each other. Meanwhile, Jeryd was left to clean up; first, himself, then, the room. There wasn’t much left standing, and the upturned table was now broken in half – it had belonged to Grandfather. Just looking at it made his back ache. He went to work, righting chairs, sweeping up glass, re-potting plants. Then, there were the sabaac cards, all 76 of them.

With broad sweeping motions, Jeryd gathered them up in his arms, until an intimidating pile sat in the centre of the floor. They were reorganised into five separate piles: Sabers, Flasks, Coins, Staves, and the Face cards. Thoughts of the fight, and of the things he’d like to do to pay back his brother, they all faded; there was pleasure to be found in repetition, and fixing even the simplest of things. His mind cleared. It was just him, and the sabaac cards.

“The Six… of Coins…” he said, under his breath. And, sure enough, when he turned the card over in his hand, it was, indeed, the Six of Coins. A flutter of alarm sent shudders down his spine. It went to the correct pile. Tentatively, he picked up another, “The Commander of Flasks.”
His heart sank. Right, again. This went on for some time, slowly stripping away the illusion of coincidence, until…

“Officer on deck.”

His father, Captain Weximan Redsun of the Imperial Navy, appeared in the doorway. Jeryd rose with a snap, and stood at attention. His heart was throbbing so hard it sounded like turbolaser fire in his ears. For a moment, there was silence, as his father took stock of the room. He was a tall man, but slender, with perfect posture. His thick hair, still naturally dark, was muscled into immaculate submission with a gel that made it shine like black glass. And his moustache, trimmed and uniform, was teased at the tips with just a hint of styling wax; it ticked whenever he was about to say something serious.

“Jeryd,” he said, and pierced him with his watery glare, “Why do you let him do it?”

“I don’t… let him. Did you see the state of his-”

“Don’t… mess me around, son.” With one hand up, to keep at bay what, undoubtedly, would’ve been a familiar series of self-pitying objections, Captain Redsun, turned his disbelief skywards, “That is the language of a loser, and I want to believe you’re better than that. Aryn!”

At his call, Aryn entered the room. He was as tall as their father, and about half as wide again in the shoulders, and where their father’s nose was long and hooked, Aryn’s nose was broad, misshapen, and discoloured. Jeryd’s chest swelled with pride. When their eyes locked across the room, their father intervened, striding into No Man’s Land, and with a firm finger, he summoned his boys to either side of him. His hand clamped onto Jeryd’s shoulder like a vice, and he saw the flicker of discomfort in his brother’s face, too.

“I’m going to say this once: you have been gambling in my house, you have ruined your grandfather’s table, and you have upset your mother. If either of you so much as look at the other the wrong way, I will personally summon the Deviant Correction Unit. Do you understand? This… is Family Day!” he hissed, “Now, act like it. Shake hands!”

Hands met with a forceful clap; the shake was vigorous, and went on long enough to make Jeryd’s knuckles hurt. One day, he was going to be bigger than his brother, he promised himself, and then he’d crush each of his chunky fingers, one-by-one.

“So, all set for the big game?”

Suddenly, Jeryd had his father’s undivided attention. He gave a nod, “Yes, sir.”

“Yes, you’d better be,” his father’s unbroken glare probed for doubts, “The eyes of many important people will be on you that day. Don’t mess it up. And remember, it’s not enough for a man to beat his opponents – you have to break them. Trample their spirits so far into the dirt that they will fear to even look you in the eye. Become the apex predator, for the law of the wild, son, is also the law of gods and men.”

Jeryd braced himself, and then…

“It’s like when I won the Imperial Youth Rally Championship.”

“You won the championship?” On cue, Aryn waded into the fray, all smiles, clapping his father on the shoulder, “More like you seized it, like a true champion! The stories don’t do it justice, little brother…”

The stories of his father’s stunning victory over reigning champion, Hondo Magaffi, were not unknown to Jeryd, who had shared the same house as his brother his entire life, and had heard the same tales with startling regularity. And they always began the same way.

“There I was, three points down and with one minute to go.” His father hunkered low, eyeing his imaginary opponent with practiced intensity, “Weximan Redsun, the young upstart from Manarai Military Prep, about to become another notch on Magaffi’s belt. He was wearing this stupid smile, and strutting like he was part of some ridiculous fashion show. Then I gave him the look.”

It was at this point, Aryn joined in, lowering himself beside their father, brandishing his own invisible racket. He mimicked the look, which wasn’t half as blood-chilling as Captain Redsun’s. They swayed in sequence, rocking rhythmically from foot to foot.

“It was the look of a hunter,” his father continued, “Sizing up his prey. Magaffi took one look, and he knew it was over. He had been reduced to something less than a man, he was a thing, a morsel to be chewed up and spat out. Still, he had to do something. So, he lined up his shot. Next service…”

In his mind’s eye, his father saw Magaffi send the ball soaring into his end of the court, and responded with a dazzling backhand from his imaginary racket.

“Thwack!” said Aryn, who watched the invisible ball bounce once inside Magaffi’s half, and then out of his reach. He gasped in astonishment. Their father was undeterred.

“There were mumbles amongst the crowd. A flock of babbling nunas, to me. Like all winners, I had my eyes trained on my opponent at all times, and I had the eye of the nexu.”

A spark in his eyes, a flash of movement, the second service was returned. Aryn’s shoes squeaked on the floor as he dashed this way and that, embodying their father’s floundering opponent. He stumbled, and failed to make the return in time, crying out in frustration.

“There was a change in the air now,” said his father, eyes locked with what appeared to be a bust of Emperor Palpatine, “The reigning champ had lost his cool. The crowd fell silent. Twenty-eight seconds on the clock, and I was still a point down. Magaffi had everything to lose… he took his next shot.”

“P-ching!” sang his brother, wide-eyed with disbelief.

“The shot was returned, a vicious forehand. Magaffi tried, but there was just too much power behind it, and all he could do was watch it glance off the rim of his racket. That was when he cried out. It was the sweetest sound.”

Their father rose, and started to pace the room while the Phantom Magaffi replaced his racket. His tongue crept along his bottom lip, and his eyes were as cold and hard as ice crystals. Behind him, Aryn played the part of a spectator, reduced to biting his fingernails.

“Twenty-two seconds left. This was it. The final service.”

First, his gaze tracked up, following the lift of the ball, and then, he moved. A sharp backhand, a shuffle of feet, a forehand, followed by another backhand, followed by a volley, then a forehand, and then, staggering, his father reached out, and sent the ball back towards Magaffi. He watched. Aryn watched. Jeryd waited. And then…

“Yeeeesss!” Aryn cried out, leaping, and punching the air.

“One inch inside the line, the rallyball bounced, and Weximan Redsun became the new Imperial Youth Rally champion. Magaffi was on his knees, crying like a child who dropped his candy. Tarkin was there that day, and that’s why Hondo Magaffi pushes pens for the Trade Bureau, and your father captains a fracking Star Destroyer.”

With a firm hand planted on Jeryd’s shoulder, his father looked him in the eyes, and arrived, at long last, at the point:

“So, I know a thing or two about being a captain, son. And you’re the team captain. Do you know what that means? It means you lead. It means be strong. It means take no crap. It means you will have the biggest pair of balls in that locker room, and all the other shit stains on the team will know it. You are a Redsun. You are a winner. You are the man.”

[Jeryd Redsun]

In the privacy of the cubicle, Jeryd wept into his hands. His eyes stung, his throat was raw, and his chest heaved from the rigors of holding it all back. The walls of his composure were tall, built, brick-by-brick, upon years of denial. Now, a rising tide of fear and panic threatened to overwhelm those walls, and come pouring down the other side. He gasped, and choked, masking the pitiful sound behind tight clenched fingers. Outside, the refresher was empty, but sound carried on its sparse walls, and someone would surely hear if he didn’t get a grip of himself. A sigh rattled about in his throat as he dragged his hands down his face.

What was he doing? No-one cried in school. What a loser!

Angry with himself, he thumped his head with the heel of his palm. He was overreacting, like some hormonal little girl. He wiped the wetness from his eyes and sniffed. It was nothing. It was… it was just a lock on a door. For the longest time, he reconsidered the open latch, the green indicator. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. In the fresh silence, he dared himself to try, just one more time to prove it had been a fluke – just a freak inexplicable occurrence. And, if it was, so what? He didn’t need it explained. He just needed it to never happen again.

“Come on, you bastard,” he muttered, and shook his head, “Come on.”

His hand was trembling. When he swallowed, it felt like duracrete going down his throat. His heart was thundering against his chest. One sharp breath. He reached out, and swiped. Snap. The latch slid shut of its own accord.

“RAAARRGH!”

Jeryd hurled himself at the now-closed cubicle door, and pounded it with his fists so hard that the metal warped. The whole door trembled and groaned on its hinges. When his head rebounded off the ringing metal, he threw himself back at it in frustration, thumping once again. But before despair could take him a second time, Jeryd noticed the approach of footsteps from down the corridor outside, and the sound of voices. He froze, and listened. Had he been heard?

The door to the refresher gasped open and boys’ voices filled the room:

“-transferred on a maximum-security maglev.”

“I can’t believe they also took out that power generator in the Under City, and hit a tractor beam emitter on the surface at the same time.”

“Well, the tractor beam thing is only rumour.”

“Of course, it is. No-one wants to admit that a small team of rebels managed to successfully assault a military installation. But how else do you think they managed to escape?”

Inside his cubicle, Jeryd sank, fetal against the cold hard door. He listened intently while they spoke, he heard the thud of boots, and the sound of piss streams that roared like pod-racers off the long empty walls. Every sound was amplified, and every breath was a risk.

“If it’s all true, then it only goes to prove how dangerous the Jedi can be.”

“The Jedi?” One of the boys repeated, thick with disbelief, “I didn’t take you for a conspiracy nut, Arcus.”

“Okay, so tell me this: who else has mystical powers and carries laser swords, huh?”

“Terrorists, that’s who. These traitors are a disease that needs to wiped out.”

“That’s what they’re saying on the Holonet.” Arcus conceded, “It won’t be long before they start screening for these freaks. Hey, did you see that report about-”

With a clunk, the door slid shut behind them, drowning out their words. He was alone again.
It would be another five minutes before he left the relative safety of his cubicle. The face that greeted him in the mirror belonged to someone else, someone pathetic, and weak. Cold water washed away the offensive redness, and the mopey puffy face was hardened with slaps.

“You’re a Redsun. You’re a winner. You’re the man.”

It was a long walk to the stadium, and the entire school had been decked out in the navy blue and silver of the Manarai Mantasharks; there were posters on the walls, and banners hanging from the ceiling, scarves, shirts, even hats and socks had been pinned onto every surface possible. That the administration even humoured such unconventional decoration spoke volumes of the importance of the upcoming game – if the Mantasharks won, they brought the championship home with them. And, as he wove between the crowds, he was met with cheers of support, whistles, handshakes and pats on the back. He smiled at every one of them, and heard not a word they said.

As soon as he was able break away from the milling crowd, he did. There was still some time to go before the start of the game, but his team would be preparing, and he was expected. He didn’t look where he was going; his feet led him along a familiar route, until he arrived at a large door. On the other side, there were voices, a rowdy din of conversation, even laughter. Good, he thought. They were in high spirits. He could not bring them down at a time like this - they deserved this victory. Fingernails bit into his palms like manka cat teeth. He closed his eyes, pressed his forehead against the cold metal, and counted.

“Officer on deck!”

Jeryd swept into the room, beaming. His arrival turned heads, prompted whoops, and drew the rest of the team into his orbit.

“Where are my sharks? Looking good, Tion.” Tion, the tallest and thinnest member of the team came in for a hug, and Jeryd obliged, simultaneously ruffling the immaculate ginger locks of the guy beside him, “Otoras, my man! Mighty Mox, how’s the arm?”

Jeryd moved on, to clap hands with a boy whose shoulders were broad and covered in freckles. He gave a sly grin and made an obscene gesture with his free hand, “Getting plenty of exercise, chief.”

“Ha! First-class wanker!” All smiles, Jeryd found Gerudo next, “Brought your A-game, champ?”

“A-game’s the only game I’ve got!” He said, and they bumped chests. There were fist bumps, too. On and on, it went: the handshakes, the small-talk, the pats on the arse. And, soon enough, the smiling didn’t hurt anymore. Inside their circus of nonsense and noise, he reclaimed for himself an ember of normality, it kindled in his chest like a fire, spreading out to the tips of his fingers and toes, chasing away all the darkness that had haunted him only moments before. This was who he was: Jeryd Redsun, Captain of the Manarai Mantasharks, about to take back the championship for the first time in five years. Everything else was just bantha dung.

Changing into his wegsphere kit was like shedding his skin for a new one. By the time he’d pulled on his blue shirt and silver pants, laced up his boots, and fitted his knee and elbow pads, his transformation was complete. The corners of his mouth curled, and the mundane troubles of the everyday pinged off him like he was made of durasteel. It wasn’t a new skin, it was his armour. One patrol around the locker room was enough to decide it was time, and it looked like Coach Aric agreed, for he cut through the chatter with a piercing whistle. He stepped aside, giving Jeryd the floor.

“Okay, boys, gather round.” They took a seat or a knee, helmets clunking at their feet, “This is it: the big one. We’ve trained for this. We’re ready, and the championship is within our grasp. But today, I don’t just want to beat the Spacehawks – I want to break them. When we go out there, they will be smiling their smug little smiles, expecting to add another notch onto their belt. Five years, it’s been. Five years. There will not be a sixth – not on my watch. We are going to trample those Sparilli spunk-guzzlers so far into the dirt, that, when we leave, they won’t even be able to look us in the eye.”

There was cheering, and laughter. Gerudo and Mox high-fived, but behind them, Coach Aric was ashen, and was giving Jeryd a look. He had always been more lenient with the team when it came to typical Imperial standards of decorum, but perhaps ‘spunk-guzzlers’ was crossing a line. Jeryd was undeterred: the boys were loving it. He remembered his father’s gaze – the look of concentration in his eyes that was, at once, fire and ice, and he turned it on his team.

“This is survival of the fittest, and we are the apex predators! For the law of the wild, boys, is also the law of gods and men. Now, where the fuck are my sharks!?”

The boys jumped up with a roar; there was fire in their eyes, now - they were ready to win. From amongst the scrum, Jeryd spotted Coach Aric across the room, and grinned. But Coach Aric did not share in his enthusiasm. In fact, the look he was wearing snatched the smile straight from his face, and put a chill in his bones. It was the same look as before: cold, hard, and focused into something so tangible it felt like it could pierce flesh. That was not disapproval in his eyes, it was hatred. As the team moved out, Jeryd tore his attention away from the coach, and led the charge.

It was the last time he played wegsphere.

Present Day…

Outside the dormitory, he waited. The corridor was empty, and there was no sound coming from within. He wasn’t sure how long it had been – a few minutes, maybe. Perhaps, they were out, or even asleep. No, he told himself: it was too early for that. Through the heavy metal door, he imagined his bunk, where it was, and the route he’d have to take to reach it. There were four bunks on either side before his, one belonging to Cadet Thida, another to that Duros kid. He took a breath. His fists clenched. There was the kiss of cold metal upon his forehead. He closed his eyes, and counted.

The doors parted with a grinding hiss, and a final clunk that rolled down the long corridor behind him. Then, all eyes were on him, and the silence hit him like a wall. First to catch his eye was Kass Pheridae, she towered alongside Thida, hugging herself with those long ungainly arms. It was clear, from the way they stood, and the way they stared, that their conversation had just been interrupted. They watched in silence as he walked by, and, just before he was out of earshot, he heard whispering, and a shimmer of laughter. The Duros kid was on his bunk, and, the moment he passed, his bulbous head surfaced from behind a datapad. Did he even blink? What were those red eyes thinking?

Nebbil was sat cross-legged on the floor, next to his footlocker. He scrubbed feverishly at his boots, and didn’t even bother to look up. So, that’s how it was going to be? Fine. He’d been the outsider before, the difference was that he had no interest making friends with the likes of Nebbil Hoob and and Kyle Rayner; they were nothing like him, and he didn’t need them. He wouldn’t change to fit their mould; he would find another way to serve. The Empire was his first love, and that was all that mattered. Even if, sometimes, it felt like it didn’t love him back.