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A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away....
You have lost track of how long it has been. They don't dim the lights in your cell, and food comes intermittently, depriving you of any rhythm. Occasionally, they pull you aside for interrogation, but no matter how many times they go over your story with you, they remain convinced of your guilt and of your association with the Rebellion.
But today is different. Rather than your interrogator coming to visit as you've grown accustomed to, you are abruptly ushered out of your cell by a stack of six storm troopers, each silent and ill humored. Hands tied behind your back, they bring you before a rare oddity, an alien Imperial officer; a near-human, blue all over save for his shock of black hair and his glowing red left eye. He wears an eye patch over the other, and his right hand and leg have both been replaced with cheap metal prostheses.
Seated at a cold metal desk, he calmly invites you to sit opposite him, perusing over a datapad while drinking a steamy cup of caf.
"Imperial Intelligence, at your service," says the alien with a slight incline of his head. "Would you like something to drink, something to eat?"
Like everywhere else on the ship, the recycled air is unreasonably dry, leaving you dehydrated and making your porous, amphibious skin itch terribly.
"You know why you’re here, Captain. Caught red handed trying to slip a shipment of trade goods past our blockade. You are inordinately lucky that the Deception’s bridge commander defied protocol to arrest you, rather than blow you out of the sky."
He clicks a finger against a datapad, and begins typing.
"Who was your supplier? What was your egress plan should you have succeeded?"
They already asked you this weeks ago. Had they forgotten?
The alien excuses the storm troopers and leans forward across the desk.
"You've been away from home for a long time," he whispers. "Do you even know the peril your home planet is in? Somewhere on that glittering blue jewel below us are two fugitives. The deposed King, Lee Char, and his former captain of the guard, Gial Ackbar. Now, we know they are down there, but the question is, who are the people hiding them?"
He straightens his back and cracks the knuckles on his good hand, continuing. "We have sources saying that the local government is conspiring to keep them safe, but I would much rather find out that it was individuals committing treason, rather than the planetary government. If you know anything, you'll be saving your people a lot of unneeded pain and suffering if you just tell me, right now."
"Tell me about your family," begins the man. "Did you ever have visitors aboard the station?"
He records your answers and allows you to leave. "You’ve been most helpful, Dara."
"CT-3276, was it?" asks the alien, without referring to his datapad. "One of the initial 200,000 units present at the Battle of Geonosis, served with the Grand Army of the Republic until the rise of the Empire, rounded out your career training clones on Kamino alongside CT-2224, Commander Cody. Very impressive." He brings his cup of caf to his face, inhaling deeply. "You were a hero. Killed a Jedi Master in single combat. The only clone to do so, to my knowledge. With a history like that, you must be proud of your service."
He leans back, grabbing a datapad and switching it on. "What I don’t understand, CT-3276, is why and how someone with your background would simply disappear for so long. No recorded transmissions, no job history, you haven’t even collected your military pension in some years," he taps at his datapad with a long metallic finger. "In fact it says here you have only collected it once. But enough of that. Tell me about this."
The man pulls out your lightsaber and rolls it onto the table. "My understanding was that clones were forbidden to keep trophies," he taunts, sipping his caf. "But this lightsaber doesn’t match Vala Feir’s. Similar in design principle, but an entirely different creature. And then, if it's not a trophy, what is it? Care to explain how you happened across it?"
He is silent for some time, caf held snugly in both hands.
"You must have a guardian angel," he continues at last. "Ordinarily, anyone in illegal possession of a lightsaber is executed. But the Grand Moff has gone to extreme lengths to hide the truth of the matter from prying eyes. He believes you are still of some use to us."
He walks around the table and places his left hand on your temple, running the tips of his fingers across it, feeling for something.
Satisfied, he returns to his seat. "Curious."
He taps a datapad, pulling open an extensive file on you and your family. "Onderon has such significant history for a planet with so few habitable zones, and your family has been there since the beginning. How do you think they’d react to your present circumstances? Their inheritor, wasting his days floating around aimlessly in a luxury yacht, wasting their fortune on gambling and excess, only to run afoul of the Empire, accused of treason. Not well, I imagine."
Shuffling through a stack of datapads, he peers back up at you and continues, matter-of-factly. "They’re planning on killing you, you know. A bit harsh, in my opinion, especially when your only real crime was not having the correct paperwork on hand. You know and I know that you’re innocent, but my superiors, they are convinced your family has some pull with the Rebellion. All nonsense of course, but nothing you have said thus far has convinced them."
He taps his two metal fingers on the table, impatient. "I can grant you a stay of execution," he promises, "but you’d have to work with me. Cooperate. You’d still be our prisoner, but you’d be alive. All I need is to know one thing."
Taking a deep drink of caf, the alien pulls open images of various Onderonian antiques, "I understand," he continues, "that at one point your family had quite the collection of artifacts said to belong to the Cult of Freedon Nadd. Where are they now?"
"I am not here to discuss the Senator with you," soothes the alien. "I want to know about you, Janara Flan."
Regardless of what beverage you did or did not request, a Storm Trooper shortly arrives with the Senator’s tea order. You recognize it immediately.
"You've not done very much with your own life since leaving Coruscant," he comments as he peruses your file. "But you're very well connected back on your homeworld. You've done work for a great number of important people, and organized some very large events. The anniversary party for the CEC, that was all your planning, wasn't it? 120,000 people attended that, isn't that right? Remarkable. You must be very talented at your chosen field," he smiles at you. "Organizing other people's actions."
He clears his throat and takes a long, slow drink from his caf. "Bel Iblis maintained quite the cult of personality on Correlia, even after his position in the Senate was terminated and he became a fugitive of the law. But, see, the Grand Moff believes it was you who guided his loyalists into anarchism. How many Rebel agents do you command, Fulcrum?"
He stares at you blankly as you answer, nonplussed, but taking note of whatever you claim.
After your interviews, you are not led back to your own cell, but a new one, a wide room with five bunks on the walls and a ray shield instead of a blast door.
You cannot move. Have they removed your legs? No, they’re right there where they belong. You try to turn your head or lift an arm but no, nothing.
You briefly register the terminal demanding access to your memory banks.
Search keyword: Jedi.
You stick your head out the top of your AAT and pull your macrobinoculars up to your photoreceptors. That blasted Jedi is cutting down swarms of your fellows, her clones behind her pushing forward with ruthless efficiency.
Artillery, open fire, calls the monotone voice of the T-series Tactical Droid at the end of your comm channel. But sir! you protest, The Jedi is right in the middle of our troops!
It is an order, Captain, insists the voice.
Roger, roger.
The sight of the dead Jedi left to burn on the battlefield still brings you something approximating joy. You have succeeded far past what is expected of you.
The person ransacking your memories reaches around to your front with a three digit metal hand. Magnets lock against your chest, and long needles pierce into your thick, armored frame.
A restraining bolt. The fitting is painful and leaves your senses dulled, your mind slowed.
Your master places the magnet against your chest. Don’t you worry about a thing. It’s fake. Much easier to pretend I’ve reprogrammed you if you’re fitted with a restraining bolt. Only a Jedi could see through our ruse.
You regain control over your legs, but you do not move them. The mere knowledge they work is enough to satisfy you.
You will not move them until requested. You will not surpass the capabilities of your programming. You will serve the Empire.
What? The Empire grew out of the Republic. No. You are sworn to serve the Separatist Alliance!
A Jedi cuts you clean in half at the waist. Normally that would be the end for a B1 Battle droid, no attempt at salvage or recovery. But you are an OOM droid, superior in every way to the cheaper, less adaptable B1s. Not very superior, but superior.
You pull yourself along the battlefield with one arm, the other still clutching a sniper rifle. You will carry out your mission. Cresting the hilltop, you peer down through your scope at the scene below you. There is that same Jedi. He has your commander at the point of his lightsaber, ready to execute him. Several clones unload munition stockpiles nearby.
Carefully, you aim and fire. Your first shot is blocked by the Jedi’s blade, but that’s all part of the plan. With their captor distracted, your commander dives for the ground as you fire your second shot into the munitions stockpiles. A glorious fireball erupts and chaos ensues. You don’t kill the Jedi, but you have rescued your commander. Running up the hilltop, they scoop you up and kiss the top of your head. Mission accomplished.
The surge of memories is dizzying, incalcitrant. What does incalcitrant mean? Oh gods, are they erasing your memory core? You may have rogered your last roger.
"You’re quite the unique specimen," says a voice from behind you. "I have something special in mind for you."
With a glad heart, you realize they are not erasing your memory core. The dizzying sensation, your sudden forced loyalty to the Empire and the hampering of your onboard dictionary all seem to simply be aftereffects of the restraining bolt’s partitioning of your capabilities.
That same metal hand grabs your head and twists you towards the voice. A blue near-human male stares down at you with a single glowing red eye, the other hidden behind an eyepatch. "Where is your master now?" he asks, testing out the Honesty function put in place by the restraining bolt.
Satisfied with whatever answer, he unplugs your droid brain from the monitor and orders you to stand. "You are going to be my personal assistant," says the man, smugly. There’s nothing like you out there."[/b]