sparky // a padawan story

chapter 65. the survivor.

Early 17 BBY. 17 years old.
"You know, you still have time to back out of this if you want."
I shake my head. "No, no, I want to do this."
Obi-Wan scoots his chair up closer to mine as I anxiously play with the hem of my shirt with my right hand. Although Obi-Wan's kept his traditional Jedi attire, mine is long gone. I wear a dark grey no-sleeve with a high collar that goes halfway up my neck, matching pants, and the same old black belt and boots. My hair's grown just a smidge longer, except for the small chunk behind my ear where my Padawan braid was cut off continues to grow back, which is still a smidge shorter than the rest. The scar at the bottom of my cheek is still visible as ever, but now with these new clothes, you can see most all the scars that were previously hidden by my robes. Sometimes I wish I could still wear them. But the desert is far too hot for them, and I'm out and about in it most of the time.
I always get questions about them whenever I go to the cantina, and every time, I tell them a different completely made up story. The cantina in Mos Eisley is where I spend a lot of my time these days. In a way, I've become Obi-Wan's one-way messenger. I go to the cantina, chat with some folks, get the latest news and rumors, and go back to Obi-Wan and I's little old hut and tell him everything.
But now, Obi-Wan and I are at the tattoo parlor. My bare left arm is held out in front of me as the artist gets his tattoo gun ready. Obi-Wan offers me his hand, and I take it with my free one, holding onto it as tight as I possibly can.
"He hasn't even started yet," Obi-Wan chuckles. "Just don't look at it, okay?"
I turn away from the artist and look at Obi-Wan nervously. "I don't know how the clo— sorry, uh, brothers, did this all the time."
"I'm sure it won't be too bad," Obi-Wan assures me.
"Yeah, right. Sure." I suddenly suck in a breath as I feel the gun hit my skin, just above the crease of my elbow. It doesn't hurt as bad as I thought it would, but the feeling is still unsettling. I keep my grip on Obi-Wan's hand while he softly laughs at me. The whole entire time.
It's done nearly as soon as it started. I look down at my left arm, still holding Obi-Wan's hand with the my right, and smile when I see the simple black tattoo. It reads 3 numbers: two, one, two.
212.
"It suits you," Obi-Wan tells me with a smile as I hold my arm out to him.
"So why that number?" the tattoo artist asks me.
Why? Well, it serves as a reminder.
The scars littered across my body bring back the bad memories of the war. The one across my front reminds me of nearly dying, the Mortis scar reminds me of unwillingly succumbing to the dark side, even if it was just for a short time. The darker mark on my shoulder from where I was shot reminds me of the purge. A few small, scattered scars from Zygerrian whips remind me of the slave camps, of the innocents who suffer in camps like those because of the war to this day. And the purple marks on my side from my father's electrostaff, just remind me of him in general.
Every single day, I'm reminded of the horrible aspects of the war just by looking at myself.
But if I have one good scar to look at, one good scar that reminds me of the happier memories, one that honors the men that I called my brothers, and still consider them as that to this day... it makes it more bearable.
It reminds me of the happy memories covered by my battle scars. The memories that made the war worth fighting.
Obi-Wan and I share a knowing look, then I turn back to the artist and shrug. "Lucky number."
—
Chalmun growls a happy welcome as I walk into his cantina at Mos Eisley the next day. I take my usual seat at the bar in the corner.
"The usual," I tell Chalmun, and he gets to work. A couple of the regulars wave their hellos to me, and I politely nod back. A few moments later, Chalmun places a glass of blue milk in front of me, and I slide over a couple of Imperial credits to him. He thanks me, and then moves onto the next customer as I drink my blue milk in silence.
This cantina is certainly no place for a teenager like me, but I still stick around. It reminds me of Oga's Cantina back on Batuu. It's filled with criminals, bounty hunters, smugglers, and just straight low-lives. Some of the regulars are nice enough, but some of the others, less so. But I put up with them anyway. As long as they don't know who I really am.
"Well, well, look what the Sarlaac drug in today," I hear from behind.
"Bossk. Always a pleasure," I mutter as I turn in my seat.
"Play nice, Bossk," another voice says from behind him. "So, what crazy story did you make up today, Lora?"
"Well, Boba, what do you wanna know this time?"
Boba Fett sits down on the stool next to mine, placing his helmet on the countertop as I down the rest of my drink. "I haven't asked about this one recently." He points to his neck.
My finger barely grazes the scar on my cheek for a moment. "Hm. Well, I got this one battling the rancor underneath Jabba's palace. His claw scratched right through me, but I was luckily able to escape before I became his lunch."
"Yeah, right," Boba laughs. "Speaking of Jabba, Krayt's Claw is about to do a job for—"
"Like hell I'm gonna work for that sleazeball," I grumble.
"Oh, come on, Lora. It pays well, it's worth it!"
"Absolutely not. I'm no bounty hunter."
"Yeah, Boba. If she doesn't want to, don't make her. None of us want her there anyway," Bossk grumbles.
"You're not so pleasant yourself, Bossk," I retort.
"Hey, what's the tattoo?" Boba asks, pointing to my arm. "212?"
"It's my Trandoshan kill count," I say as I glare at Bossk. "And it's about to change to 213."
"Oh, yeah, I'm real scared of you, sweetheart."
"You should be."
"Okay, okay, cool it," Boba says, stopping both me and Bossk from brawling. "We'll head out before one of you two bites the other's head off. See you, Lora."
"Yeah, see you, Boba, Bossk." Boba ups and leaves while Bossk stays behind. "What do you want, Bossk?"
"Why does he like you so much? What, do you all, like, like each other? Because if you do, stay the hell away from us."
I cringe. "Eugh, gross, Bossk. No. Truthfully, I like someone else. I'm just fond of Boba because... I don't know. He just reminds me of some friends I used to know. And besides, he's younger than me, and that's weird."
Bossk glares skeptically at me. "...I'm keeping my eye on you, Lora Kryze. You'd better watch it."
"Whatever, Bossk. I hope Jabba swallows you whole, shits you out, and feeds you to that crazy monkey he keeps as a pet," I tell him. He sneers at me as he walks out the cantina door, and I sigh.
I met Boba Fett a few months ago. I approached him because I thought he was a clone. And he was a clone. An unaltered one. Talking with him almost reminds me of talking with Cody, or Waxer, or Boil, or Rex. Or the other million clones in our army. A small sense of normalcy under my old alias I used so long ago on Zyggeria. Lora Kryze. It's a wonder they actually believe me. But, this is a low-life cantina, so these folks aren't the sharpest tools in the shed.
I stand up and walk out of the cantina, and start my way back to our little old hut alone. It's the middle of the afternoon, the hottest, most miserable part of the day. The people around Mos Eisley are most irritable when the twin suns are highest, so I'm sure to not speak or run into anyone, even the nice looking ones. Never judge a book by it's cover.
Mos Eisley isn't a horrible distance from our hut, so I get there quick enough. I groan as I enter our home and plop Obi-Wan's bed that also happens to serve as our couch.
"You okay there, Arlo?" I hear Obi-Wan ask as he walks into the room. I sit back up so he can sit next to me, and he places a glass of water in front of me as he takes a seat.
"It's hot," I grumble as I take the glass and drink half of it at once.
"At least you're not cold," he tells me.
"I almost miss being cold."
"Oh, I know you don't mean that. Any news from the cantina?"
"Nothing new. Still a shithole."
"Language, Arlo."
"Oh, come on, Obi, I'm 17!"
"Right, and as long as you're living under my roof, I'm going to continue to teach you how to watch your mouth."
"If you haven't been able to in the five years you've been teaching me, I doubt you'll be able to do it now, Master."
"It won't hurt to try."
"It'll just be a waste of your time. What's for lunch?"
"Whatever you're making."
"Obi," I groan, drawing out the last vowel.
"All right, all right. I'll make us sandwiches." I smile, half thankfully and half mockingly, as he gets up and walks over to the kitchen to make our lunch.
—
It's the middle of the night, and I sit alone in my room on my bed in the dark. Obi-Wan let me have the only bedroom when we moved in, he said I needed my privacy. So as much as I tried to get him to take it, I got the bedroom, even though I almost always end up sleeping next to Obi-Wan most nights anyway. Because the nightmares don't let me sleep.
That's why I'm sitting up right now. I had another nightmare. My knees hug my chest as I think about the dream again. Well, it was hardly a dream. More like a flashback. It was about the clones. How they laid down their own lives to protect me. Every single day.
I take deep breaths as I look around the small, crammed room. My bed is small, both ends touching the wall. It's in a small nook of sorts, though the side is still sticking out into the middle of the room. In the far corner is a lamp, and there's also a small dresser to the right of my bed. On top of it sits Waxer's helmet and Boil's shoulder pauldron. In the top drawer of the dresser is where I hide my lightsaber, along with Qui-Gon's saber, Obi-Wan's letter, and the picture. But nowadays, it's hard to even look at them.
I tried to let Obi-Wan take back Qui-Gon's lightsaber, and he tried to get me to take my padawan braid, but neither of us wanted our respective belongings. Because of the memories that come with them. For Obi-Wan, it's the day that Darth Maul killed his master. I didn't know until I tried to give it to him that he refused to even look at the lightsaber when it was still in his room at the temple. As for my braid, it reminds me of being one of the sole survivors of Order 66, and losing nearly all my friends, clones and Jedi alike. I thought it would be easier to keep it, but after I held it in my hands, I automatically had to give it back to him. All the good memories that were in that strand of hair disappeared in the blink of an eye. So we safeguard our traumas for each other. Maybe one day, after doing it long enough, we'll hurt less.
I stand up from my bed and pick up the helmet and armor from off the top of my dresser, examining it. I think about the clones a lot, especially the ones I was closer to. Like Cody, and Rex. Did they die? Did they survive, and now work for the Empire? I'll probably never find out. And all the clones that did die, like Waxer and Boil. They died for nothing now. They died thinking the evil would be gone one day, but now it's taken over the whole galaxy.
I miss my troopers. My battalion. My brothers.
I never want to forget them. I want to remember them, the people they were. I look down at the worn-down shoulder pauldron, and then toss it and the helmet onto my bed as I turn on my lamp in the corner to light the room slightly. I kneel down next to my bed and pull out a small chest of school supplies that normal kids would use from underneath. I found it in here when we first moved in, but I've never used it. There's paper, ink, pencils, and paint. I grab the black paint jar and a small brush, then grab Boil's pauldron and sit on the ground, back against my bed. I dip the brush in the paint and carefully begin to write.
Besh, osk, isk, leth. Boil.
Wesk, aurek, xesh, esk, resh. Waxer.
Cresh, osk, dorn, yirt. Cody.
Wesk, orenth, leth, yirt. Wooley.
Grek, esk, aurek, resh, shen, isk, forn, trill. Gearshift.
Leth, osk, nen, shen, osk, trill. Longshot.
Cresh, resh, yirt, senth. Crys.
Trill, resh, aurek, peth, peth, esk, resh. Trapper.
Trill, resh, aurek, cresh, krill, esk, resh. Tracker.
Peth, esk, esk, leth. Peel.
And I go on, and on, and on, until the entire piece of armor is filled with the battalion I had fought side-by-side with since I was a scared 13-year-old. My handwriting is a little sloppy, but it gets the job done.
I smile slightly as a brief tear runs down my cheek.
It's a good way to honor my brothers.
—
hey guys, and welcome back to sparky! i've been working really hard on part 8 (and it's still not completely done, lol) and i'm so excited for you all to read this!! this book will be a year old on december 11 (crazy right?) and while i would like to have the last chapter out by then, i probably won't, because i really want this to be perfect. but i really think and hope you all will enjoy what i have in store! much love to all of you guys <3
thanks for reading! -a 🪐