I came to—suddenly, as was fast becoming a tradition—jolted awake by a massive impact; by the looks of it, I had finally landed somewhere. Alas, the only screen capable of providing any information about my surroundings was completely shattered, dark, and sparking erratically. As for windows—this little escape pod had none built in, or perhaps they required manual activation and I simply didn't know how; it was all done to maximize structural integrity. I couldn't really blame them for that, but now I hadn't the faintest idea where I was—underwater? In deep space? Had I slammed into an asteroid? Nevertheless, after a couple of minutes—having finally concluded that, in any case, my supplies wouldn't last for any significant length of time, and noting the absence of that characteristic rocking motion one feels on waves—I decided to try my luck.
With some effort, I forced open the capsule's exit hatch. It swung open with a horrifying screech, and I immediately recoiled. At first, I thought I had fallen straight into the caldera of an active volcano, but a moment later, I realized that wasn't the case. Alas, it was even worse. In a volcano, I would have burned to a crisp in a mere ten minutes; instead, I'd had the misfortune of landing in a desert—where the prospect of roasting alive stretched out over a period ranging from a few days to, if I were incredibly lucky, perhaps a week.
Leaning out to take a look around, I saw nothing but dunes stretching in every direction—not a single sign of civilization. I quickly made a firm decision: retreat back into the capsule, seal the hatch, and take stock of my supplies. I'd be better off venturing out at night. As far as I'm concerned, enduring the cold beats this hellish heat any day. And so, the time had come to take inventory. Surprisingly, I discovered two ration packs and two survival kits inside the capsule—now *that* was a stroke of luck. Fortunately, the pictogram on the crate holding all this gear was practically the only splash of color in the entire capsule; thanks to that, I quickly figured out how to open the small lockers where all these supplies were stored. There was bad news, too: originally, there had been two such crates, but the second one hadn't survived the "soft" landing, and its contents had been completely incinerated—nothing could be salvaged.
My possessions didn't end there, however. I myself was clad in the exact same clothes my character had been wearing. They were predominantly dark colors—not exactly the most practical choice for a desert environment—but lacking anything better, I was happy to make do.
Slung across my back was a small backpack—or rather, a bag, much like the kind that had been in fashion a decade ago. It was designed to be worn over one shoulder, allowing it to be easily swung around from my back to my front with a simple tug on one of the straps. I had really gotten my hopes up that I'd find some sort of tear in the fabric of reality inside it—a portal holding all the gear and goodies from my character's inventory—but alas, it was not to be.
Inside, there was only a handful of credit chips—undoubtedly obsolete by now—along with several unidentified radio transceivers (the kind that fit inside the ear, just like in all those spy thrillers), a keychain bearing a peculiar key and a fob that bore a striking resemblance to a car alarm remote from Earth, and a stack of crumpled paperwork which, upon a cursory inspection, turned out to be various IDs and credentials issued in my character's name.
There was also a small data-pad, serving but a single purpose: it contained maps of the planets my hero had explored—maps that, like everything else, were most likely outdated. Furthermore, since there was no connection to the "server," my current location wasn't being displayed; still, it was better than nothing. Most likely, the documents and the data-pad were a precaution—a contingency in case the power grid in an operational zone suddenly went belly-up.
Hauling all this stuff around with me was arrogant—and almost certainly against regulations, since my death would mean all those documents falling into enemy hands—but it was entirely in keeping with the character I had been role-playing. Sheer stupidity and reckless bravery—damn it. And finally, the last things I literally shook out of my bag onto the folding table were various spare parts, a single beautiful, pearlescent stone, and two instantly recognizable cylinders—the very components, by all appearances, into which this electronics gear was meant to be fitted. Obviously, at one time this had been my lightsaber—now, for some reason, disassembled.
That was the moment I really started to ponder the situation, scratching my head in deep thought. The inventory check was complete, which meant it was time to analyze the lay of the land. Here is what we have: I have become my character. The last time I played as this specific character, I was on a mission on Tatooine—if memory serves, I had gone there at Kem Val's request to track down a relative of his. I had woken up after being thawed out, inside a ship that had clearly been sabotaged by a Jedi—and there is Ventress, who knew exactly who my character was. And now, following the evacuation, I found myself on some sandy planet. Furthermore, there were exactly two suns on the horizon. From this, one could draw a simple conclusion: I was in deep trouble.
Who on Tatooine likes freezing people in carbonite? Based on my meager knowledge of the *Star Wars* universe, that would be the local mafia— the Hutts. How exactly did Ventress manage to acquire my frozen carcass from them? God only knows, though one shouldn't rule out the possibility of a forceful seizure—though, personally, I'd think that would be a rather foolish move on her part. Nevertheless, I can barely recall what her actual personality was like in the Clone Wars animated series, so I won't rule anything out just yet.
In any case, I decided to proceed under the assumption that she hadn't acquired me through entirely legal means; consequently, if I were to suddenly find myself standing before the illustrious gaze of Jabba—or whoever runs the show around here these days—they might recognize my face and promptly seal me back inside a carbonite can. Of course, it wouldn't be easy to find a resemblance to my previously frozen body, but who can figure out the Hutts? A healthy dose of paranoia never hurt anyone. Besides, the local beasts would be all too happy to feast on my bones—or better yet, my flesh—so my top priority was to assemble my lightsaber, given that I had no other weapons at my disposal. Alas, the survival kit contained nothing but a puny stun gun—something that elicited nothing from me but laughter. Especially when I imagined trying to fend off a rancor with that miniature contraption.
Alas, a minor snag immediately arose. Based on my meager knowledge—gleaned from some fanfic—if a "lightsaber" isn't assembled correctly, activating it could trigger a localized, uncontrolled *kaboom*—something I'd very much like to avoid, if at all possible. Of course, a fanfic isn't exactly the most reliable source of information, but in the absence of anything better... Actually, no—that particular fanfic wasn't half bad, so I'll put my trust in it.
To start, I tried sitting cross-legged in the lotus position and engaging in some serious meditation, but alas... It just wasn't working. To make matters worse, the energy supply in the capsule ran out, causing the air to grow increasingly stifling; the air purification and cooling systems had shut down, and fixing them was well beyond my nonexistent mechanical expertise. In short: it was sweltering.
There I sat, drenched in sweat, trying desperately to focus—but a single, accursed drop of sweat chose that exact moment to trickle down my forehead and come to rest right on the tip of my nose! I sat there. I held out to the very last moment! I didn't move a muscle; I tried to detach myself... *Detach myself*, I said! Yeah, like hell that was going to happen. And finally, all that pent-up frustration erupted in a sudden burst of rage—yet, surprisingly, it wasn't the rage itself that was the most remarkable thing…
As if acting on muscle memory, I jerked my arm, and a short burst of electrical energy shot out of my hand straight into the wall. At the same moment, it felt as though an explosion went off in my brain—I suddenly realized that I had "stumbled upon" one of the ways to channel the Force. Nevertheless, it was obvious that, in this instance, I had employed the "sloppiest" method of all. It wasn't *me* controlling my anger; rather, my anger had driven me to unleash this burst of power. Which meant I still had plenty of room for growth. That was the conclusion I drew from my fragmentary knowledge. Even so, being able to hurl lightning bolts—however weak they might be—was still quite something. I didn't think it would be much help against multiple enemies, but if I were to suddenly run into some half-dead Tusken Raider who had wandered off to take a leak and wasn't watching his surroundings, I might actually be able to knock him out with a surprise strike. Well, certainly in my daydreams, anyway. I'd done it plenty of times there already.
In any case, I meditated for a while longer but failed to uncover any latent knowledge regarding the construction of lightsabers. I tried doing it manually—the old-fashioned way—but alas: there was no muscle memory to draw upon, which meant that, previously, the saber must have been assembled using the Force exclusively.
After a prolonged session of mental brainstorming, I finally recalled how the healing animation worked in the game—there was a specific skill for it, translated as "Boiling." The character would pace back and forth while an aura of the Dark Side radiated from him. Apparently, he was reminiscing about the "brightest" moments of his life. I decided to give it a try—who knew? Maybe for the Sith, this served as a substitute for meditation.
Alas, in my previous life, I had never been a confrontational person; I'd even been lucky with my job—my boss always paid on time and even raised my salary to keep pace with rising prices, so I had absolutely no grounds for harboring any anger. I just didn't have the right temperament for it—damn it. However, there was no choice; when the brain says "it must be done," the body snaps to attention and obeys. Only the most extreme measure remained. When you want to live badly enough, you can conjure up just about anything. Besides—or so, at least, I kept telling myself—it was merely my imagination. I had to visualize something terrible befalling the few relatives of mine who were still alive in that world—the very ones I truly cherished. It felt much like replaying a recent argument in your mind, fantasizing about punching the offender in the face. You picture yourself hitting them every which way—a straight jab, a hook, maybe even a flying somersault kick. Only my task was far more difficult: I had to conjure up the conflict itself, not just the physical violence. Fortunately, I've always had a vivid imagination, so after about twenty minutes, I actually started making some headway. The stifling, oppressive heat—which only served to heighten my irritation—proved particularly helpful in this regard.
I'm not sure whether I was controlling my rage and irritation in that moment, or if they were controlling me—it's incredibly difficult to speak on the matter without fully grasping how such control is even supposed to manifest—but I achieved my objective nonetheless.
I imagine the ideal form of "control" probably looked something like this: you get angry, drawing strength from that fury, yet your mind remains clear, and you refuse to let your rage dictate your actions. That means, for instance, not blindly rushing into reckless attacks—and everything else along those lines.
Finally, having wrapped up my training, I decided that the moment of truth had arrived. Maintaining my heightened state—which was by no means easy—I reached out toward the sword components laid out before me. But... alas, I faltered instantly. A few fragments twitched; some even managed to lift into the air—yet in that very same instant, everything clattered back down onto the table.
I didn't make another attempt until fifteen minutes later—precisely how long it took me to rein in the fury that had been steadily mounting thanks to the stifling air, that accursed sword, and the entire situation in general. I have to admit, it didn't feel like I was learning something new; rather, it felt more like I was dusting off old skills after a long period of cryo-sleep.
No, seriously: I kept having this persistent sensation that if I just exerted myself a little—just a *little* bit—I'd be able to hurl bolts of lightning around just like a video game character. Yet the moment I actually tried to do it, or focused my concentration on it, I'd just stand there looking like an idiot, unable to figure out what I was doing wrong or why nothing was working.
I glanced outside; the two suns were still shining—though they were now dipping low toward the horizon. I still had some time before nightfall, so I returned to my capsule and began analyzing the data. In a way, it wasn't such a bad thing that I'd ended up stranded here all alone. It gave me the chance to really think things through and get myself back into some semblance of fighting shape. And here is the conclusion I reached after much internal debate: It is evident that any vessel—be it a physical body or the Force that serves as the analogue to a "soul" for beings of this universe —can only accommodate a specific, finite amount of information; there is simply no room for anything beyond that limit within a single individual. To put it crudely, it is akin to a hard drive with a limited storage capacity.
However, during my "intrusion" into this body, I threw everything out of whack; I added my own data—brought in from the outside— that already existed here, and now the body is struggling to adapt to these changes. This even explained why that Jedi hadn't sensed the Sith within me: quite simply, my... well, let's call the Force-component of my being my "soul." In any case, it had completely overshadowed the character's own "soul."
I have no idea how I ended up here, nor how this body and I turned out to be so compatible that we effectively merged into a single entity; yet, even now, the Force surrounding me remained turbulent, striving to compress the information from two distinct consciousnesses into one cohesive whole.
Consequently, the loss of certain knowledge seemed inevitable. Moreover, this applied to both myself and Taales alike. It was a most unpleasant realization, and if my hypothesis was correct, I needed to record everything I remembered about the future of the Galaxy—the *Star Wars* galaxy—onto some form of external storage medium. Just in case. No, I am confident that following such a "fusion," my "soul" within the Force will possess a far greater capacity for information storage, allowing me to retain new memories despite the increased overall data load; however, the brain has a tendency to purge older memories it deems unnecessary—discarding them as superfluous—if they are not recalled with sufficient regularity.
Alas, I possessed no device for recording holograms—nor even a simple pen with which to jot down my thoughts on the documents I carried in my satchel—so I was forced to put the matter aside for the time being and turn my attention back to my lightsaber. And I must admit, it was a truly worthy challenge. The character's body… No—to put it that way would no longer be accurate. With every passing hour, I felt it more and more natural, that now, it was truly my own body. Well, since I don't remember my name, I'll have to call myself Taales. It sounds strange, of course, but it was picked for me by a randomizer in the game, and I'm used to it, so why not.
And then, finally, I did it. I have no idea how much time it took, but at last, I was able to maintain my concentration at a high enough level for the damn parts to start assembling into a cohesive whole. As for the sequence? No clue; it all happened on its own—much like how little Lego figures might build structures in a game, it worked exactly the same way here. I simply surrendered myself to the will of the proverbial Force. That is what my memory suggested, and that is what I instinctively felt was the right thing to do. But the sensations accompanying it were... Indescribable. I felt a distinct sense of the moment's grandeur—a feeling I hadn't experienced even when I sat behind the wheel of a car for the very first time.
Eventually, with a characteristic *click*, all the parts snapped into place; the two halves of the hilt twisted in opposite directions a couple of times before fusing into a single, unified structure. Still not entirely trusting my handiwork, I levitated the device to the far end of the capsule—as far away from me as possible—and used the Force to activate it. Nothing happened.
I waited a moment, then decided to inspect the hilt; picking it up and yielding to some inexplicable premonition, I pressed the activation button once more. To my surprise, with a distinct *hiss*, a beautiful orange-and-black blade sprang forth. Oh right—customization. Damn it. I'd bought a subscription through a reseller for an insane amount of money, and subscribers were entitled to a monthly allowance of premium currency; naturally, I'd used it to snag a cosmetic skin for my sword. And I have to admit, it looked impressive.
Speaking of the sword, by the way: the moment I let go of it, it would immediately power down. Apparently, the hilt contained some sort of touch sensors; to disable that feature—specifically for the classic "lightsaber throw" maneuver, just like the one linked to the right mouse button in *Jedi Academy*—you had to disengage a special safety lock. I don't know if this quirk applies to all swords, but that's exactly how mine worked. And really—what difference does it make? With those thoughts in mind, I poked my head out once again and was finally satisfied with what I saw.
It had already grown dark; so, after gathering my rations into a special backpack—which I'd also found among the scattered gear—and stowing my sword at my belt in its dedicated mount, I finally decided to step out and scout the surroundings. And here is what I can tell you: I no longer have the faintest idea what is going on here.
Just beyond the nearest dune—not all that far away—a cluster of lights was visible, signaling the presence of a settlement. I honestly don't know whether it's a good thing that I didn't stumble upon it immediately—giving me time to get my head straight—or a bad one. And why hasn't anyone come running over here yet? The Jawas—or whatever those cloaked little runts are called—should have surely dismantled my escape pod down to the last bolt by now, yet there has been absolutely zero reaction. Then again, I don't see any telltale flames of a fire coming from the settlement ahead, either. With a sigh, I trudged in that direction, formulating a plan of action: the immediate objective was to ask the locals about the nearest spaceport; and —to find out, without drawing any unwanted attention, exactly how I had been acquired from the Hutt...