We've Met Before

Amber Penglass

An Atton/Exile Snippet

Life after Jaq was a blur. He remembered his 'escape' from the clutches of his former employers, his former friends and comrades. He faintly recalled his flight from that dingy rented room, remembered his goal being nothing beyond getting away from her corpse, neck crushed, face blue, but serene, even in death...

Awareness began to come back to him. He wasn't certain how long after... But it was coming back. That was what mattered, he thought, clinging to his rediscovered sense of self. His first memory, since that rented room and it's occupant, was folding himself into the corner of what had to be a transport ship. Refugee transport ship, to be more specific; no other type of ship would risk fudging safety regulations to pack so many bodies in such a cramped cargo hold.

With his awareness came alertness; the two were tied together the same as breathing and heart beating. There were no seats, only cargo containers, straps hanging from the ceiling that normally held containers in place, now being hung on to by various passengers. Misery coated every face, hopelessness was to be read in the dejected slump of every set of shoulders. Clothes were heavily repaired or else simply in shreds. Few seemed to have possessions beyond what was on their persons, and those that did clutched satchels and baggage to them. Absently, he felt around himself, feeling his own clothes stiff with substances he didn't want to identify; he had no baggage of his own.

He felt the shift of the inertial dampners working harder than before, and instinctively braced himself against the lurch, felt by the entire ship as the gravity of some spacial mass or another -probably a planet- latched on to them. The artificial gravity keeping them on the deck melted into natural gravity, distinctly heavier to boot, and he focused on keeping his breathing steadier as suddenly his lungs had to work a little harder to drag oxygen into his chest.

Somewhere on the other end of the cargo hold, a hatch was opened. Air that was if not fresh, than certainly fresher than the recycled air they were all used to. He waited until the hold was empty; all that remained was the stench of human bodies in close quarters, questionable deposits in various corners (thankfully not his). Not a single forgotten belonging, not a scrap of anything even remotely useful.

Where had he been before this transport ship? Where was he coming from? Not his last memorable...assignment, certainly. That planet may not have been exceptionally wealthy, but there had been nothing to warrant a refugee exodus.

Outside the ship, the atmosphere was hot and heavy, not humid, just...heavy. The sky was dark; no stars were visible. The space port was decidedly dismal; the transport ship was the only ship docked, at least the only one he saw that was space worthy. He stood there, for a long while, taking in his surroundings, memorizing every nuance; the trash scattered around, the thick trails of dust, probably left by a recent dust storm. The buildings looked as if they had never been painted; prudent, since any paintjob would have been worn away by sun and dust in a matter of weeks. There were numbers alleyways leading out from the large circular landing pad between the dissected buildings that ringed the landing area. It was through one of these alleys that he eventually moved, keeping his head down, pulling the stiff hood of his tattered cloak up over the greasy hanks of his shoulder-length, knotted hair. That was his only indication of how long it had been since he'd fled...that room. His hair had been close-cropped, then, per Sith instructions.

He physically winced at the mere thought of the word. Gritting teeth caked with putrid filth, he forced himself to think it again.

Sith.

That was what he had been.

Sith.

It was what he had focused his life around.

Sith.

It was who he had molded himself to be.

Sith.

It had once been what he had loved.

Sith.

He choked back a cry, shoulders shaking with the effort. More aware of himself he may be, but he was no less lost. Fragmented memories and thoughts swirled in his brain, swirled and danced in the maelstrom that was the remnants of his shattered world, his broken reality. Everything he'd once known and held as dear truth, as simple fact, had been shredded and spat on.

The bloody Force. Bloody, flaming Force. Who needed it?

The alleyway was long and narrow, with niches here and there, lumps and piles of something he didn't care to examine closer nestled in those niches. Despite his turning a blind eye, however, one of those piles shifted and moaned as he passed it. He hurried on, beginning to assess his situation against his will, defying his desire to wallow in self pity and deserving misery. The need for survival, as always, took over.

Later, he would think that had he himself not been so filthy, the smell probably would have warned him. As it was, he was caught completely offguard by a hand on his shoulder, whirling him around in the narrow confines of the alley. A knee went into his gut, and the air left his lungs in a hurry. His hands and arms came up of their own accord. Blows struck his forearms and head, landing on bone; painful, but not particularly damaging. It took only a moment for his ingrained training and extensive experience to kick in, taking over his numbed brain. His assailant fell back as his victim suddenly became a flurry of movement, kicking, punching, jabbing sensitive spots. His lower abdomen became a pool of agony, his throat spasming as fingers dug past flesh and muscle and sank into his trachea, retreating as quickly as they'd jabbed. His feet were abruptly swept out from beneath him, and his would-be victim was on his chest, hands around his throat, compressing...

The man fell silent, eyes bulging, fingernails bloody from clawing in futile at his choker's hands, who were in turn a red mess.

He let his shredded hands loosen, letting his attacker drop down to the hard packed dirt. He gazed at his hands, shaking, laughing bitterly. So much for his self-imposed promise to never lay hands on a throat ever again...ever... This time he meant it.

His resolve hardened, and he fell to his knees beside the dead man, going through the pockets of what had once been a very fine ensamble. He'd been prosporous once, this man. For a moment he felt pity for the dead man, a fellow sufferer of the unexpected. The pity was fleeting. His world may have been turned upside down, but he would never sink to mugging...

Then again, he didn't remembering anything from the past four months- it had to be at least that long, given the length of his hair.

His pilfering turned up a few trinkets of obvious sentimental value, a handful of credits, and a half eaten heel of some sort of green-tinged bread. He supposed the green color was intentional, else the man wouldn't have kept the excuse of a mouthful. The clothing was in no worse or better repair that his own, so he didn't take any of it.

The end of the alley met a deserted, dirty street. The only light came from a handful of barely working illumin-stands, as well as neon signs fixed above a narrow door. A cantina. If everything else in the universe changed, the look of a cantina would not. He made his way towards it, thinking of the few credits in his pocket. They were not enough to get a room, or even a decent meal, let alone transport passage. They were, however, enough to play a few low-limit rounds of pazaak.

The interior of the cantina was dim enough that he hoped he didn't look as desolute as he might have in better light. There were also more patrons than he had expected; likely many of them were fresh off the same transport as he, or perhaps the crew of the same ship. He found a table were the pot was substantial, bought in, and began to play. In short order he had a tidy pile in his possession. Not quite enough yet to do what he needed, but better. He quit while he was ahead, and found another table. Again, stopping when he'd won a decent amount, no more. A third table got him the rest of what he needed. Just as well it did; the patrons as a whole, especially the entire company of the three tables he'd played, were not looking overtly friendly.

The bartender directed him to a narrow, somewhat hidden hallway after handing over at least a quarter of his funds in return for a key and a bottle of something he hoped was strong. He'd denied the offer of a glass.

Near the end of the hall found him at the door that the electronic key went to. The room inside was small, barely big enough for a cot, a small nightstand beneath a foggy mirror, and a chair in the corner. Set into the wall was a very small data screen, the access keys worn from too much use and looked like they would stick. A narrow door in the only unoccupied corner led to an even smaller room housing a fresher, sink, and lavatory. His clothes went into the basin of the shower first. There was no soap, but he hadn't expected any. He poured a good amount of the bottle in with the water; better to be free of bacteria and filth than to smell like booze, which he planned on smelling like anyways. He hung the wet clothes over the sink, and stepped naked under the hot spray. The water ran off him in shades of brown and grey, and he didn't look down at what was swirling around the drain after his first glance. More contents of the bottle went over his head, eradicating most of the grease that had accumulated there. He soaked until a light above the shower let him know he'd used up his paid allotment of water.

Miraculously, there was a single towel. Thin and not as clean as he would have liked, but usable. He downed the contents of the bottle orally while he waited for his clothes to dry, not long in the native heat. He pulled his pants on when they were still damp, leaving his shirt, vest, coat and cloak to dry the rest of the way. He pulled on his boots without bothering to lace them all the way, and leaned against the wall by the data screen, pressing the keys to access the data network. He'd been right; the keys stuck horribly. He'd also been right in his estimation of the time that had passed since...since then. Four and a half months.

News scrolled down the screen in every common language, only half of which he knew, which was still more than most others. Revan's fleet, under Malak's command, had been disbanded, finally defeated at Malachor IV. By all reports, it had been a historically horrid battle; the entire planet had died in the attack, along with a good majority of what the Senate and the Jedi Council were calling 'rogue Jedi.' They seemed almost...satisfied at the demise of their own, rebel or no. In the back of his mind, he felt a tickle of his one-time hatred for the peacekeepers.

The information helped solidify his grip on reality. He laced up his boots, pulled on his now dry shirt, and ventured back out into the cantina commons to buy another bottle. And maybe more hot water; that shower had felt nice. Had made him feel...alive. Comparitively, anyways. Feeling anything at all was better than this numb deadness. No, that wasn't true- it was better than not even remembering, it was better than what he'd felt when he'd hands around that neck in the alley. Yes, anything was better than that. He never wanted to feel that sick elation again, even if death was the alternative.

The cantina had emptied somewhat, though some of the persons he'd identified as crew members had been replaced with different crew members. Perhaps another ship had landed? Didn't really matter, so long as they didn't bother him.

He made his way to the bar, flagged the barkeep for another bottle (the stuff had proven nicely pungunt, but he'd wasted too much on getting clean). By the time it came, though, someone had taken the seat next to him. He frowned at the figure, swathed in a black cloak, and debated on moving. But the melancholy he felt denied him the ability to muster up the strength. The only strength and willpower he had went into lifting the bottle to his lips, swallowing what had to be a cleaning acid of some kind, wallowing in the buzz that was quickly deepening into a full drunken stupor. By the time he made it to his third bottle -he was glad they were so cheap- he founds himself peering quizzically at his neighbor, his head down on the cantina bar, hood pulled up so that not even a hair was visible. The barkeep came over for the third time to ask what they wanted, then walked away in a huff when there was no reply.

He nudged his neighbor before he'd realized he'd given his body permission to move. Even the mild motion of the nudge caused his world to sway, and he looked at the bottle with an accusatory glare before setting it aside. Last thing he needed was to be mugged again, this time successfully.

He nudged the figure again. "Hey! If y'don want nuthin, why'd ya com'in t'a cantina?" His words were slurred beyond recognition, yet the figure stirred, and a single green eye peered at him from between folds of thick black fabric. He stared back at that eye, given it a winning grin; the eye looked female, a deduction that seemed to be supported by the glossy lock of deep red hair that fell into that eye. The figure raised it's head, still slumped. A hand reached up and pushed back the hood, revealing short-shorn hair, sweat-dampened forehead -whoever she was, she wasn't used to the heat- and dull green eyes. She did not smile, smirk, frown, or glower. Those lips did nothing. They were simply...lips. Her expression was such that she did not have one; not bored or disinterested, empty or numb. There was simply...emptiness in that face. Her gaze sent a chill down his spine. Abruptly, he held out the bottle to her. Without a word she took it, and downed the whole thing in one long, continuous serious of large gulps. His jaw dropped; she must have an esophogas of anti-corrosion steel!

She slammed the bottle down on the counter, gasping. Her face still seemed empty, but her cheeks were flushed and now her green eyes had a glaze to them. A blatantly severe lightweight, if the alcohol had worked even while she was still swallowing. Her motions seemed mechanical as she reached into the depths of her robe and pulled out a small purse, tossing it on the counter. The clank of numerous credits caught the barkeep's attention. She tossed the empty bottle over the counter to crash on the floor on the other side.

"Another."

He shivered again; her voice was empty as her eyes and her expression.

The bottles kept coming. They kept drinking. She kept up with him, despite her obvious intolerance. He had no idea why she wasn't unconscious at bottle six. But she was. That empty expression never changed. She never said another word, and eventually he gave up trying to talk to her, just drinking in silence.

The credits ran out, and the bottles stopped coming. There was a long moment of confusion while he tried to figure out what to do next, eventually remembering the electronic key his pocket. He stood, and so did she- well, they tried. Leaning against one another proved to be the only method by which they could remain upright. When they reached the hall, they also used the walls to aid their quest of uprightness. After trying three wrong doors, he found the right one, and they stumbled inside onto the cot, the door swinging shut behind them. The smell of alcohol was thick in the air, and became even thicker as they lay there, him beneath her, breathing heavily. She planted an unsteady hand on his chest and pushed herself up, swaying, her eyes glazed and unfocused.

"I've never drank more than ceremonial wine before." She stated, the first she'd spoken since her instructions to the barkeep. Her voice was oddly clear, somewhat slurred but still more than understandable. The wave of noxious fumes on her breath nearly knocked him out where six bottles of strong liquor had not, but even that could not distract him from another fact- her voice had something in it, it was no longer empty.

There was pain. In her eyes now, too- insurmountable pain. He realized abruptly that he was not just seeing it, he was feeling it. Empathic abilities all but forgotten, they attacked him now, burying him beneath a mountain, sucking his lungs empty and wringing every drop of sweat from his skin possible. And he wondered how she still lived.

His stomach heaved, and he rolled her off of him to stumble into the bathroom just in time.

With his stomach empty, his face splashed with cold water after moving the rest of his now-dry clothing aside, his head began to feel ever so slightly more clear.

When he stumbled back into the room, she was asleep. Her cloak was on the floor, along with boots, a short robe that was a deep red in color, along with a thick black belt heavy with various pounches and attachments. He stood, blinking dumbly at her for a moment, before shoving his way onto the cot along with her. Sleep claimed him instantly.

Sunlight, harsh and hot, speared down through the narrow slots in the wall, near the ceiling, that he had not noticed the night before and now cursed passionately. Turning his head away from the visual assault-

His nose bumped something soft, if slicked with a light sheen of sweat. He opened his eyes again, still blinking away the sunspots, to see a field of deep burgundy-red. He pulled back, and that field became hair, over decidedly pale skin. Another blink, a rapid searching of memory.

They were both clothed, and his man-parts lacked the distinct tenderness that came as a result of what normally occurred when he woke up next to a woman. Trying not to wake her -not until he gathered his fragmented memories, anyway- he extracted himself from where he'd been wrapped around her, her back to his front, facing the wall. He nearly tripped in the process, feet getting tangled in the short loop of a thick black belt. Cursing has he fell back against the opposite wall -damn it was a small room- he grabbed the belt and made to throw it-

And he stopped. It was a high quality belt, with many pounches and loops for hanging more pouches. One loop in particular caught his eye. It was bigger than the others, made of a thicker thong of leather, attached to the belt in such a way that it could be disconnected. On the outermost edge of the loop, the leather was rubbed shiny, where something had been repeatedly moved across it- a clip of some kind? Something clipped and unclipped numerous times...

The memory clicked, and he froze, bile rising in his throat as quick as his breath ceased filling his lungs. There was only one kind of belt that had this sort of specialized loop. He looked at the other items on the floor; the boots also fit the criteria he thought of, as did the cloak and the short, sleeveless robe. The pants she wore were deep brown, nearly black. Her shirt had once been a creamy ivory, now heavily stained, the sleeves -loose, to allow a greater range of movement- were torn and dirty. Her hair was cropped short, so as not to get in the way. She had no tolerance for alcohol, and obviously not too much of a clue as to what as a good idea and a bad idea when it came to strange men, if she had willingly accompanied him to his room. It had to be willingly; he wasn't bruised or nursing any broken bones.

His bedmate was a Jedi, sans a lightsaber. That was what the loop was; a type of lightsaber holster. Some had holsters that were full encompassing, long, narrow tubes, but someone of her short stature would undoubtedly prefer a holster that let the lightsaber swing free rather than poking the side of her knee as a full one would have.

He was breathing again, he noticed. He also noticed something else; the complete lack of hatred. One of his few memories from the night before surfaced, and he winced at the mere memory of the pain he had felt from her. She slept now, and his empathy was silent, but he had no doubt that if he opened himself to her, even in her sleep he would feel an echo of that agony. Torture like that did not vanish with sleep.

He stood, still holding the belt. He sat in the chair in the corner, went through the pouches. They were empty, for the most part. No identification, a few more small bags of nondenominational credits, a decent number of small knives and a few medpacs. Questions assaulted him; what was an obviously young Jedi, probably new out of her padawan-ship, doing without her lightsaber, so far from any Jedi-patrolled planet? She was damn near the Outer Rim!

It didn't matter, he decided, standing up and frowning down at her sleeping form. A runaway, most likely. Life as a Jedi too harsh, probably. Didn't affect him either way.

Except, it had.

For the first time since coming into himself since being on that refugee ship, he was thinking clearly. Sure, he had a raging hangover headache. Felt like several bantha's running head first into the inside of his skull, but he could deal with the pain. Somehow, feeling her pain the night before and jump started his emotions, kicked him back into reality.

He stood there for a long while, staring at her. Eventually, he opened one of the pouches on the belt, took out a small bag of credits, weighing it in his palm. It would be enough. And there was more than enough left for her to go where she wanted. He tossed the belt back onto the floor with a muffled thump as it landed atop her cloak.

He'd never taken his boots off from the night before. He pulled his vest over his wrinkled shirt, following it with the tattered -but clean- cloak. He pocketed her credits along with what remained of his, and left the key to the room in her hand. He stood in the door, still unable to quite understand what had happened, only that it had, and that he owed her. That was twice, now, he owed a Jedi, runaway or not.

Next time, he vowed. Next time he ran into a Jedi, any Jedi, he would be at their service. Whatever their need, he would be on top of it. He owed it to the two Jedi women he'd left behind, in dingy rented rooms. He closed the door behind him, exiting the cantina and heading for the spaceport; likely the transport ship that had brought him in the night before wouldn't have left yet, not with as many of its crew as he'd seen in the cantina the night before having drunk as much as he'd seen them drink.

As he walked, he thought. He couldn't use his old name anymore. Not that it was particularly rare one, and it was a big universe, he doubted anyone would ever find him, new name or no. But it seemed the right thing to do.

He'd always liked the name 'Atton.'

End.

Hello all! Been meaning to write another one of these for a while, just ran out of ideas. It's been a while since I've played the game, so my apologies if any of the continuity is off. This is supposed to be set directly after the Exile was disconnected to the Force, and returned to the Jedi Council for judgement, and they exiled her. My idea is that after handing over her lightsaber she hoped on the first transport out and landed wherever the place was that Jaq/Atton ended up, some no name planet.

A little more depressing than I normally do, but oh well. Enjoy all!

-Amber Penglass