Echoes of the Ramadi: A Star Wars Story

1

Almost a thousand years after the fall of the new empire, there is a relative peace between the Jedi and the sith. An understanding that created balance and less violence for the galaxy at large. Every people could choose their side. The republic and separatists stay their course in politics and both separated from the Jedi and sith allowing for them to grow and understand the force to a greater degree. But something is starting to emerge, a way of life that's been in the shadows. A secret hidden away in carbonite waiting for their time to come...

The air shimmers with the intense heat of the lasers as they cut through the carbonite, the icy rock slowly giving way, dripping with moisture. The sound of hissing steam fills the chamber, and the cold stone beneath my feet is rapidly warming. QZ's metallic frame stands vigilant, reflecting the dim, flickering light from the lasers.

"Is he up yet QZ?" I ask emerging from my sizzling cocoon. 

" Yes my lady."

QZ's voice, a smooth amalgamation of synthetic politeness and slight undertones of weariness, fills the chamber. The droid's single, luminescent eye glows faintly in the dim light as it steps closer, its thin, spider-like limbs making soft clanking sounds on the metal floor. The droid's voice carries a hint of programmed affection, a tone specially tuned over centuries of service.

"And brother and sister?" I asked

"Unfortunately no. Both are critical." QZ said. Even his mechanical voice gave a hint of sympathy.

Through the slightly warped glass of the Cura tank, the liquid inside bubbles gently around the inert forms of brother and sister. Their faces are pale, almost ghostly in the greenish hue of the healing fluid. Father's reflection lingers ominously in the glass, his expression hard and unyielding as ever. His silhouette dominates the room, a stark contrast to the vulnerability within the tanks.

" Do you think they will get better? "

Father looks. His cold hard features make it hard for anyone to believe that he ever fathered us.

"Come, you must finish your training."

His voice is a deep, commanding presence that leaves little room for argument. The way he turns away, his cloak sweeping behind him, signals an expectation of immediate compliance. His broad shoulders and stiff posture suggest a man burdened by purpose, driven by a mission only he fully understands.
The exhaustion is all-consuming, dragging at my every step, but I force myself to keep moving, to follow him. The carbonite's chill still clings to my bones, and my muscles ache with the effort of breaking free from its icy grip. Father doesn't slow his pace for me; he never has. To him, pain is just another test, another hurdle to overcome.

As we enter the training room, the vast emptiness swallows us, the shadows stretching long and dark across the floor. The lightsaber in my hand feels heavier than usual, its familiar hum muted by the fatigue that weighs down my limbs. Father's eyes, cold and calculating, sweep over me as I prepare to begin.

"Endurance, discipline—these are the true measures of a Ramadi," he says, his voice sharp and unyielding. "Pain and anguish are not to be avoided; they are to be embraced. They make us stronger, better."

His words strike with the same force as his lightsaber, and I know they're meant to push me, to break me down and build me back up in the image he envisions. But I don't let him see how the fatigue gnaws at me, how the pain dulls my senses. I can't afford to show weakness, not here, not now.

We begin the training, our movements precise and deliberate, but each strike, each parry, costs me. My muscles burn with the effort, and my vision blurs, but I keep going, driven by something deeper than mere obedience. Father watches me closely, his gaze piercing, searching for any sign of faltering. But I don't give him the satisfaction.