The Ghost

[POV STARKILLER]

Darkness. All I can feel is darkness—heavy, oppressive, infinite.

My body… it won't respond. My thoughts are scattered, like they're caught in a whirlwind I can't control.

Suddenly, it comes back to me. Vader. The blade piercing my back. The pain, the void, the absolute cold of space claiming me. I wasn't supposed to survive that. I couldn't have survived. And yet… here I am.

My eyes snap open, and air floods my lungs as though I'd been drowning. My chest burns, my body trembles, drenched in a cold sweat. My heart pounds in my ears. The air… it's different. It doesn't smell of ozone or fear. The ever-present hum of the Dark Side's power… it's gone.

I try to move, but pain shoots through me like a shock. My arm barely lifts before collapsing onto the mattress.

'Where… am I?' I think, frustrated by my weakness. Every muscle screams in protest. My breathing is uneven, cold sweat drenching me. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to control the anger bubbling within.

A strange sound breaks the silence.

"WOWOWOWO."

My eyes snap open again, alert. It's a droid. At first, I don't recognize it, but as my vision adjusts, I see a small astromech—orange and white, its paint chipped and dented.

"Where… am I? Tell me," I rasp, my voice a hoarse whisper.

The droid swivels its head toward me, emitting a series of quick beeps. 'Annoyance? This thing dares…?'

"Ugh!" A groan escapes my lips as I try to move. "One more step, scrap, and—" The threat dies in my throat, smothered by the pain. The droid replies with more beeps and scuttles off. Too weak to stop it. No… Vader…

'I'm alive. Vader will pay for this.'

"Damn it..." Every movement is agony. I try to sit up, but the room spins. Another groan. Me—the supposed executor of Vader—reduced to this. A broken puppet, discarded in this hellhole. But the Force… a flicker beneath the ashes. It would heal me. Strengthen me. And Vader… he would regret the day he betrayed me.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching. They aren't mechanical or stiff like an Imperial soldier's. They're lighter, human. Forcing myself upright, I ignore the pain. My instincts tell me not to appear weak in front of whoever is on the other side of that door.

The door hisses open. A tall figure stands in the frame, illuminated by the dim light of the corridor. A man, with a short beard and dark hair, his expression calm but firm. He wears simple clothing, but there's something about him… something familiar.

"You're awake?" He asks, his voice calm yet commanding.

I nod slightly, keeping my gaze fixed on him. I won't let him see even a trace of doubt or weakness.

"Where am I?" I growl, my voice rough, barely audible.

"You're on a ship called the Ghost. And you're alive, in case you hadn't figured that out yet," he replies, crossing his arms. There's a flicker of distrust in his eyes. "We found you floating in space. Alone."

I grit my teeth, wanting to snap something back, but something about him holds me back. This man… the connection I feel is undeniable. The Force radiates from him—not as a brilliant flash, but as a steady current. 'A Jedi. Another Jedi alive?'

"Who are you?" I ask, my voice laced with distrust.

He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he steps further into the room, observing me closely. It's as if he's trying to read me, evaluate what kind of threat I pose.

"My name is Kanan Jarrus," he finally says. "But the more important question is… who are you?"

I feel my jaw clench at his question. I look away, avoiding his scrutiny, but my thoughts remain a whirlwind. If he's a Jedi, then this ship is probably full of people just as nosy and distrustful. And if they know who I really am, they'll kill me before I even have the chance to explain myself.

"That doesn't matter," I reply, my voice dry. "I'm not your enemy… at least, not now."

His brow arches, but he doesn't say anything. He just stands there, watching me, as if waiting for me to say more.

'But I won't. I can't. Not yet.'

My eyes shift to the door behind him, where I see a smaller silhouette approaching. A young boy, dark-haired, with curious yet cautious eyes. Another one. How many are there?

"Is he awake?" the boy asks from the hallway.

"Yes, Ezra, he's awake," Kanan replies, still not taking his eyes off me. "And I think he has a lot of explaining to do."

Ezra. Another name. Another presence. I can feel the Force in him too—raw, unstable. A Padawan?

'Who are these people? Why am I here?'

As they watch me, I feel something stir within—a primal instinct, a need to protect myself. They don't know who I am. They don't know what I've done. What I am. But it's only a matter of time before they find out.

The boy suddenly moves closer, and for a moment, I tense. But I'm too injured, and my connection to the Force feels weak—likely because of my current state.

"Hey, my name's Ezra. What's yours?"

His question hits me like a fist. My name? Vader never gave me one. I didn't need one. I was a tool, not a person. A name implies attachment. Weakness. A Sith allows no such luxuries. But now… now everything is different.

"Hey, are you okay?" the boy's voice pulls me from my thoughts. Damn it.

I have no name. The thought is cold, hollow. Starkiller. A label. A weapon. I am not Starkiller. I am… who am I?

A whisper in the darkness of my mind. Galen. The word—distant, almost forgotten, but… familiar. Mine? An illusion? There's no time for questions.

"Galen," I say, my voice calm, controlled. A mask. I soften my gestures, feigning vulnerability. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Ezra smiles. Kanan seems to relax slightly, though distrust lingers in his eyes.

"Nice to meet you, Galen," Kanan finally says, though his tone remains neutral rather than friendly. "Now, do you think you can tell us what you were doing out there?"

The question lands like a hammer, and I feel a flash of irritation. Of course, I couldn't expect them to let me rest or recover before interrogating me. But what irritates me most is that I don't have a prepared answer. I can't tell them the truth.

I take a deep breath, letting the air fill my lungs deliberately, feigning exhaustion.

"It's… a long story." I whisper, my voice laced with false regret. Lowering my gaze, I adopt a vulnerable posture, as though reliving the events is too much to bear.

I lower my gaze, adopting a vulnerable posture, as if recalling the events is too much for me to bear. "It starts with some pirates…"

I choose my words carefully, weaving a lie that must seem as real as the pain I pretend to feel. Each sentence is a brick in a precarious wall, a story that must withstand any scrutiny.

"I was a Jedi Padawan, a survivor of Order 66. I hid in the Outer Rim…" I pause, letting the weight of my words sink in. I see Ezra lean forward slightly, completely absorbed, while Kanan crosses his arms, his expression more serious but attentive. "I survived as best I could, working for freighters that didn't ask questions."

My tone grows darker, calculating each detail to make it resonate with authenticity.

"We were attacked by pirates. My employers were killed. I… was captured, injured. There was a rescue attempt, but it failed."

I let my voice crack slightly, feigning an effort to contain an emotion I don't truly feel.

"They threw me into space, discarded like… like I was nothing."

I lift my gaze slowly, observing their reactions. Ezra's eyes are filled with naive compassion; I can feel his empathy like a warm light that almost makes me uncomfortable. Kanan, on the other hand, remains more reserved, but there's something in his expression—a shadow of guilt, perhaps, or an understanding I didn't expect. I'm unsure if it's because of my story or some burden of his own.

I end with a sigh, feigning exhaustion.

"That's… horrible," Ezra murmurs, his voice full of genuine sympathy. "I can't imagine…"

I turn to him, holding his gaze.

"That's why I didn't trust anyone," I say, planting the seed of my strategy in his mind. "I didn't expect anyone… to help me."

Ezra nods fervently, his eyes shining with a mix of indignation and sadness. The trap is working.

Kanan, however, remains silent for a moment, evaluating me. Finally, he sighs—a gesture that feels like a momentary surrender of his distrust.

"I'm sorry," he says, crossing his arms as if trying to shield himself from his own vulnerability. "It must have been… difficult. Surviving isn't easy… not these days."

"It isn't." I respond, my voice muted, as if the words are a struggle. But inside, I feel the cold satisfaction of victory.

Ezra, for his part, offers a warm, almost disarming smile.

"Well, you're safe now. Here, we take care… of our own."

That word resonates within me. Our own. It feels strange, foreign. All my life, I've been a tool, an extension of someone else's will. To belong… is that even possible for someone like me?

For a moment, the thought feels so absurd I almost laugh. But before my thoughts can delve deeper, Kanan's voice interrupts.

"Rest. We'll talk… when you feel better. Regain your strength."

I nod silently, keeping my mask intact. I watch them as they walk away. Ezra casts a final friendly glance back, as if wanting to ensure I'm okay. Kanan, however, is more reserved. He pauses at the doorway for a second, turning his head slightly toward me, as if trying to decipher a puzzle.

His gaze unsettles me, though I don't show it. I wonder how long I can maintain the facade, how long it will take for him to see beyond my lie.

When the door finally closes, I let myself sink slightly onto the bed. My body still aches, but now the weight I feel is different. That word keeps echoing in my mind.

Our own.

I wonder if, in some hidden corner of my being, that idea could be more than a tactic—more than a tool to gain their trust. Could it, one day, mean something to me?

But no. I chastise myself for the weakness of that thought. I can't afford to fall into such illusions. They are a means to an end, an opportunity to regain my strength, to achieve my vengeance.

I wonder if, in some hidden corner of my being, that idea could be more than just a tactic, more than a tool to gain their trust. Could it, one day, mean something to me?

But no. I scold myself for the weakness of that thought. I can't allow myself to fall into such illusions. They are a means to an end, an opportunity to recover my strength, to achieve my revenge.

But for now, I need to recover my strength, I thought as I closed my eyes once again.

My sleep didn't last long. After closing my eyes for a while, I woke up to voices in the hallway. I got up and headed toward the source of the noise.

"And we'll fix the Phantom."

"Don't worry about that."

"Why would I worry?"

"Maybe because the last time you 'fixed' it, we almost ended up as lu—hey, is it just me, or is the new guy awake?"

"Eh, I think you're right."

"Ezra, what did you say his name was?"

"He told me his name was eh-Galen, I think."

"Good thing you were paying attention, kid."

Slowly, I approached. The darkness in my mind dissipated, and I was greeted by a new sensation: vigilance. Tranquility is a fiction. I am surrounded. A diverse group watches me from different points in the corridor. Their expressions, their postures, even their silence, are a mix of curiosity, caution, and something else.

My eyes moved from one face to another. There was a young man, barely older than a teenager. Ezra. His gaze was full of curiosity and youthful impatience, an anxious energy barely kept in check. I noticed him first because his presence was the most open, the easiest to read.

Next, I saw the Lasat. Big, imposing, his frame almost filled the entire entryway. His stance was less hostile than I would have expected from someone so massive, but there was no doubt he could crush me if he wanted to. His eyes studied me with suspicion, and though he didn't say anything at first, his presence was heavy.

A young woman stood out near him. Her hair was vibrant, dyed in bright colors that contrasted with her Mandalorian armor. Her posture exuded confidence, but not arrogance—calculated confidence, like someone used to handling tense situations. The slight curve of her lips suggested she was measuring my reactions, testing me, perhaps deciding if I was a threat or merely someone worthy of her curiosity.

But it was the Twi'lek who truly stood out. Everything about her bearing indicated she was the leader. Her stance was firm, authoritative, but not threatening. She wore a worn pilot's suit, signs of experience and long hours spent in space. Her piercing eyes analyzed me carefully, searching for something beyond my words or gestures. Even without speaking, her presence filled the room, and it was clear she had the final say in this group.

"Good morning. How are you feeling?" Her tone was kind, but there was caution behind her words.

"Better." I replied, though my voice sounded weaker than I had expected.

She nodded slightly, but her gaze remained sharp, as if she could see beyond my words. She didn't trust me. I understood. She had no reason to.

"Thank you for rescuing me from the void of space, I don't know what would have happened if you haven't found me." I said changing a little the subject.

"You'd probably still be floating in the void." Zeb remarked with a shrug.

Sabine glanced at him, amused. "Wow, Zeb. Always so optimistic.

Ezra ignored the exchange and continued, now with a more curious tone. "Are you feeling well enough to tell us more about what happened? How you ended up out there?"

The moment I had been dreading. They were all watching me now, waiting for an answer. Though my mind was still recovering from exhaustion and nightmares, I knew I had no choice.

"Yes," I lied with a weak smile. "But… could we do it over some food? I'm not sure when I last had a decent meal."

Hera exchanged a brief glance with Ezra and then with Zeb. After a moment, she nodded.

"Sabine, can you take him to the kitchen? Let him eat something before we start asking more questions."

"Sure." The Mandalorian gave me another smile as she stood. "Come on, Galen. I promise we don't just have military rations… though not much more."

With some effort, I got up from my seat, swaying slightly at first. Sabine watched me, ready to help if I fell, but I managed to stay on my feet. Hera and Zeb continued to observe me closely as I walked behind Sabine toward the kitchen. Ezra also seemed concerned, but there was something else in his eyes: an unmistakable curiosity, as if he were trying to read something in me.

As I followed Sabine, the others' gazes weighed on me. I was surrounded by strangers, but I didn't feel outright hostility. Just caution. And perhaps, an opportunity.

I walked in silence behind Sabine, letting my mind focus on the immediate: thinking, eating, regaining strength. Everything else could wait. I needed to decide what to do next. And for that, I had to play my cards right.