The hatch hissed as it unlocked, a sharp, mechanical sound that cut through the tense silence of the shuttle’s corridor. An immense flood of light poured into Julia’s vision, blinding and relentless, forcing her to turn her head away as her eyes struggled to adjust after hours—or days—in near darkness. She squinted, blinking rapidly against the sting, her breath catching as the world beyond the hatch came into focus. It stretched endlessly before her—a vast, sun-scorched desert of cracked sand and jagged cliffs, the horizon shimmering under a relentless heat that hit her like a physical blow. In the distance, carved into the side of a towering canyon, was a massive structure—angular, imposing, its dark silhouette stark against the reddish haze. A hangar, maybe, or something more sinister. Despite her dire circumstances, a fleeting flicker of awe brushed against her fear at the sheer scale of it, though it was quickly swallowed by the pounding of her heart.
A harsh shove from behind jolted her forward, the guard’s armored hand pressing between her shoulder blades with enough force to make her stumble. Her shackled legs, still stiff from confinement, faltered on the uneven ramp, the chains clanking as she fought to regain her balance. She was herded into formation with the others—a ragged group of about a dozen captives, all clad in the same rough gray linen tunics that scratched against her skin, their hands bound by heavy, all-encompassing locks, their legs shackled to restrict movement. Julia’s eyes darted over them, taking in their faces—etched with exhaustion, confusion, and a quiet, simmering fear that mirrored her own. Some avoided her gaze entirely, staring blankly at the sand beneath their feet, while others watched their captors with barely concealed resentment, their jaws tight and fists clenched within their restraints.
The guards moved with rigid efficiency, barking orders in that guttural language she couldn’t fully grasp yet somehow understood in fragments—line up, move. Their armor gleamed a deep crimson under the desert sun, the plates intricately designed yet worn, as if they’d seen countless battles. Their helmets were featureless save for dark visors that masked any hint of humanity, and they carried black rifles—sleek, menacing weapons that looked too advanced for anything she’d ever known. Julia suppressed a shudder, her mind racing to make sense of them. Soldiers? Mercenaries? Something else? Nothing about their appearance or the desolate landscape offered a tether to her old life—no familiar uniforms, no city skyline, just this endless expanse of sand and rock that felt like another world entirely.
Her throat was dry, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth as the heat pressed down, unrelenting and oppressive. Sweat beaded on her forehead, trickling into her eyes, but she couldn’t wipe it away with her hands bound. The air trembled with the low growl of grinding machinery, and she turned her head just in time to see the hangar doors part slowly, their massive metal jaws groaning as they revealed the shadowed interior. Dust swirled in the wake of the movement, stinging her skin and catching in her lungs. From within the hangar, a small procession emerged, marching toward them with deliberate purpose, their steps synchronized in a way that sent a chill through her despite the heat.
At the head of the group was a man clad in a stark black suit, its simplicity a striking contrast to the tans and browns of the desert backdrop. The fabric was crisp, almost too pristine for this harsh environment, and it clung to his frame with an air of authority that needed no embellishment. Two guards flanked him, their crimson armor matching those around Julia, their presence reinforcing his command without a word. As he drew closer, her stomach twisted, a visceral reaction to the sight of him. His features sharpened into view—jagged scars cut across his face like a map of violence, his expression locked in a permanent scowl of disdain and barely contained fury. His dark hair was cropped short, streaked with gray, and his eyes—cold, piercing—swept over the captives with a weight that made her want to shrink into herself.
The procession halted a few paces away, and the scarred man’s gaze raked over the line, scrutinizing each of them as though weighing their worth. Julia’s breath hitched, her pulse racing as she tried to steady herself. She didn’t know where she was or why she was here, but the man’s presence carried an oppressive force, a silent promise of control that demanded obedience. He finally spoke, his voice sharp as a blade, cutting through the dry air with chilling clarity.
“Welcome. You all have the privilege of serving as slaves here at the academy.”
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The words landed like a blow, heavy and final. Slaves? Her mind reeled, struggling to process the term. The academy? What academy? Where was this place? Questions swirled, but no answers came—only the sinking dread that she’d been torn from one nightmare into something far worse. The man paced slowly before them, his boots crunching against the sand, each step deliberate, predatory.
“I am Overseer Torva,” he continued, his tone unwavering. “You will obey without question. You will serve as your betters dictate, whether in labor, training, or simply as fodder. Defiance will not be tolerated.”
Julia stiffened as his cold eyes landed on her, pinning her in place. For a fleeting moment, a shiver crawled up her spine—not just from fear, but from something deeper, something unnatural that pressed against her very being. It was as if his gaze carried a weight beyond the physical, a chill that seeped into her bones. Then, just as suddenly, he looked away, the sensation lifting, leaving her breathless and unsteady. She exhaled shakily, her legs trembling beneath her, though she forced herself to stay upright. Panic wouldn’t help her now—she had to think, to survive, even if every instinct screamed at her to run.
A sudden, derisive snort shattered the tense silence, sharp and out of place. Overseer Torva’s head snapped toward the sound, his aura shifting from cold intimidation to something far deadlier, a coiled menace that set Julia’s nerves alight. She followed his gaze, her pulse quickening as she spotted the source—a towering man, easily the tallest among the captives, standing a few places down the line. His broad chest heaved with barely restrained anger, his dark eyes locked on Torva with a defiance that bordered on reckless. The other slaves tensed, their bodies shrinking away instinctively, yet their eyes remained fixed on the scene, drawn to the inevitable collision about to unfold.
Torva’s expression twisted into something eerily close to amusement as he stepped toward the man, his head tilting in mock curiosity. “I didn’t catch your name… slave.” His voice was low, almost a purr, but it carried a promise of violence that made Julia’s skin crawl.
The towering prisoner barely had time to open his mouth—perhaps to spit a retort, perhaps to plead—before Torva’s hand flicked toward his belt. A sudden snap-hiss filled the air, a sound like gas igniting, and a crimson blade of energy burst to life in his grip. Julia’s stomach dropped, her breath freezing in her throat as the weapon hummed with a low, menacing thrum. It was a sword, but not—not metal, not solid, just pure, glowing energy that seemed to pulse with intent. Her mind scrambled to place it, a flicker of recognition cutting through her confusion. She’d seen this before—not in life, but in stories, in movies, a lifetime ago.
Before the prisoner could react, the blade arced through the air in a blinding slash, swift and precise. The smell of seared flesh hit her nostrils—a sickening, acrid wave that made her gag—as the man’s upper body separated from his lower half with a grotesque thud. His torso hit the sand, his legs collapsing a heartbeat later, the wound cauterized instantly, smoke rising in thin tendrils from the clean cut. Blood didn’t pool—there was none to spill—and the silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint crackle of the blade as Torva extinguished it with a casual flick.
Julia’s heart slammed against her ribs, her vision swimming as bile rose in her throat. She wanted to look away, to unsee it, but her eyes were locked on the body—the lifeless heap that had been a man moments ago. The other captives stood frozen, their faces pale, their breaths shallow. No one dared move, dared breathe too loudly, as if the slightest sound might draw Torva’s attention next.
Torva turned back to the group, his expression unchanged, as if he’d merely swatted a fly. “Let that be a lesson,” he said, his voice calm, almost bored. “Obedience is your only path here. Defiance ends in one place.” He gestured lazily toward the corpse, the motion dismissive, before stepping back to resume his pacing.
Julia’s legs shook, threatening to give out, but she locked her knees, forcing herself to stay upright. Her mind raced, grasping for something—anything—to make sense of this. That weapon—the lightsaber, she realized with a jolt—wasn’t just a tool; it was a symbol, one she’d encountered countless times in the films she’d loved as a kid. The crimson glow, the effortless brutality, the academy—pieces clicked together, each one more impossible than the last. Overseer Torva wasn’t just a cruel tyrant; he was a Sith. The word slammed into her consciousness, heavy and undeniable, dragging with it a terrible truth she couldn’t escape.
Her breath caught, her eyes widening as the realization crashed over her. This wasn’t Earth—not her city, not her world. The desert, the shuttle, the guards, the lightsaber—it all pointed to one place, a galaxy far, far away. She was no longer Julia from the alley; she was a slave in the Star Wars universe, caught in a reality she’d only ever known through a screen.
