II : FIFTEEN

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The pain that jolts the woman is strange, and it comes from her head. Sitting up from the ache, words in her mind she knows aren't her own, she's confused.

Taking in her surroundings seems surreal. She's in a bedroom, some kind of formal living quarters that she's definitely been in before. Removing herself from the confines of scratchy sheets, she walks over to a doorway, finding herself in a bathroom. There, she heads to the mirror.

The woman doesn't recognize herself. Her reflection is one that looks tired, bags under her cold brown eyes to prove it. Her brows are thick and strong, bow shaped lips seemingly indifferent to her. Her hair is pulled back tightly, almost uncomfortably so, in a ponytail. Someone had taken the time to dress her in familiar, dark robes. The fabric just low enough that she can see the scar at the base of her throat.

She tries to drum up a name to put to the face, and the lack of an answer frightens her. She leans on the basin, furrowing her brows as she tries to think.

It starts with a J, that much she's sure of.

However, as soon as she thinks of the letter, there's a painful bolt of electricity running through her system, making her neck spasm in an involuntary response.

It's a J. More letters coming to the front of her mind; Jana.

As she remembers, another, more severe strike of agony.

Jana Cal-

Pain.

She's wrong. She remembers Djarin.

This time, the bolt is so intense the woman cries out, her body tilting itself over as it tries to cope with the punishment. Her mind forcibly empties itself.

She has no name.

When the pain fades, the woman tilts her head to see where the sensation had come from. Seeing a patch of metal behind her right ear, the woman's fingers tentatively prod at it, pressing down gently.

When the dark, blood coloured glass extends and drops in front of her eye, she remembers.

The weight of a blaster in her hands. The confidence of her finger on the trigger. She sees assassinations, rebel leader after rebel leader falling from her aim, entire planets brought to their knees as she infiltrates them, genocides, a red lightsaber, targets, a twi'lek collapsed on Tatooine, more deaths by her hand than she cares to admit.

She remembers Killshot.

Peeling herself away from the mirror, Killshot returns to the main area, her feet carrying her to a high table in the middle of the room. On the surface, weapons laid out so neatly that she almost feels they don't belong there. A series of throwing knives, black vambraces that are unfamiliar to her, and a sheath with a breathtaking dagger laid beside it.

When her eyes land on the holster, her response is automatic; She pulls it from the table and straps it onto herself, her hand reaching for the all too familiar blaster as soon as it's secure. It's familiar in her hands, and as her eyes run over it, Killshot remembers the names and faces of the ones who held it before her, some deadly, some foolish, all remembered by legacy just the same.

After a long moment, she places it in the holster, moving on to place the sheath around her opposite leg, placing the dagger in when she's done. There's even a pair of dark gloves that Killshot pulls on, tucking them under her sleeves.

The way she arms herself is almost rhythmic, a routine she's been through many times though she can't recall them.

"You're awake," A voice says, suddenly.

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