A/N: I am going with 2 chapters per day till we reach 15k. Be happy! (that wasn't a request ;p)
------
"…and that's the real trick, isn't it? They tell you the new regulations are for your safety, for order. But what they're really regulating is your spirit." His broadcast voice was on—confident, resonant, the voice of a man who believed every word he said.
Mira's voice joined his, a perfect harmony of conviction. "They bank on our silence. They bank on our fear. They want us to believe that compliance is the only path to peace. But we know the truth, don't we, Lothal?"
There was a soft creak in the background, the sound of a door opening. A beat of silence, then a small, sleepy voice piped up, high and clear. "Mama? I'm thirsty."
The change was instantaneous. The public figures vanished, replaced by parents.
"Hey, buddy," Ephraim's voice was suddenly soft, the broadcast thunder gone, replaced by a gentle rumble. "You're supposed to be in bed. It's late."
"I know," Mira's voice was a warm murmur, all sharp edges gone. "I'll be right there, sweetie. Go back and get under the covers, I'll bring you some water."
"Okay…" The small voice was followed by the sound of small, retreating footsteps, and the soft click of the door closing again.
A long moment of silence followed. I could picture the scene perfectly: the two of them alone in their makeshift studio, the weight of their words still hanging in the air, now mingling with the simple reality of their child in the next room.
A deep sigh, heavy with exhaustion, came from Mira. Her voice, when it came back, was hushed, stripped of its public strength. It was thin, and unbearably fragile.
"Ephraim…"
"Hmm?" His response was low, a quiet rumble of acknowledgement. The fiery orator had vanished completely, replaced by a weary husband, a protective father.
"What if… what if they do catch us?" Mira's voice trembled slightly, the question hanging in the air like a fragile ornament.
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken fears. I held my breath, the datapad clutched tight in my small hands.
Finally, Ephraim spoke, his voice dropping even lower, becoming conspiratorial. "Hey. It's going to be okay. Remember what I told you? When I was in Capital City last week… I spoke with Governor Azadi."
"I know, but he's the Governor, Ephraim. He works for them."
"He's sympathetic, Mira," Ephraim insisted, his tone urgent but quiet. "He pulled me aside after the trade meeting. He said he listens to our broadcasts. He said to be careful. More than that… he said he'd try to give us a heads-up if the ISB started sniffing around too close."
A spark of hope, however flimsy. This was their plan.
"That's why I started bringing the extra water and rations down here," he continued, his voice barely a whisper. "It's a contingency. For us. For all three of us to lay low for a week or two if we get a warning. We wouldn't have to run. Just… disappear for a bit until things cool off."
That explained the stash. It wasn't for a lonely, orphaned kid. It was a family lifeboat. A plan that hinged on a warning that, clearly, never came. Or came too late.
"But he's just one man," Mira's voice was still tight with worry. "And what if the warning doesn't come in time? What if they come when we're not together? What about… Ezra?"
The name hung there, a heavy weight between them. The real heart of the fear. I felt a pang, a sudden, sharp ache of empathy that was more than just pity. This secondhand connection to what these people meant to each other, to their son, felt terrifyingly real in a way those scattered seven-year-old flashbacks hadn't before.
"He'll be with us," Ephraim said, his voice firm, trying to will it into truth. "But if the worst happens… he's a strong kid. He's resourceful. We've taught him to be."
"He's so small," Mira's voice cracked, the dam of her composure threatening to break. "What if he doesn't understand? What if he thinks we abandoned him?"
"He won't," Ephraim soothed, his voice a low rumble. "He knows we love him. He knows we're doing this for him, for his future." A slight pause. "Besides," Ephraim added, a hint of forced lightness in his tone, "we have a pretty good hiding spot, don't we? He'll be safe down there. Snug as a tooka in a rug."
Mira gave a weak chuckle, the sound shaky but genuine. "I suppose so. Still…"
Another long silence. The unspoken worries circled between them like shadows.
Then, Mira spoke again, her voice laced with a quiet determination that sent a shiver down my spine. "We have to keep going, Ephraim. We can't stop. Not when people are listening."
"I know," he said softly, his voice full of pride. "I know. You're the bravest person I know, Mira."
There was a soft sigh from Mira, the sound of her steeling herself.
"But what if—"
The words were cut short by a quiet click.
The hiss of static filled the space once more, and then, nothing.
The recording ended abruptly, leaving only static humming in the small space. My fingers tightened around the datapad as the weight of what I'd just heard settled over me. They had stopped it right before she could voice the fear that had now become my reality
A bitter laugh escaped me. "Well, that's just perfect." My voice sounded too small in the cramped cellar. "Your contingency plan just got inherited by some random guy from another universe."
I scrolled back through the files, my movements jerky. There had to be more - some clue, some instruction they'd left behind. But the other recordings were all polished broadcasts, nothing personal. Just the ghost of their voices preaching hope to a planet that was running out of it.
The datapad's glow reflected off the crates of supplies surrounding me. Their emergency stash. Meant for three people to ride out the storm. Now it was just me.
A cold calculation clicked into place. If I rationed carefully... if I stretched every calorie... how long could I last down here? Months, maybe. Long enough for the Empire to lose interest. Long enough to figure out my next move.
But then what?
I was seven years old on a planet crawling with stormtroopers. No money. No connections. And apparently no Force powers, despite this being a goddamn Star Wars story. The realization hit like a punch to the gut - I wasn't the protagonist here. I was just some kid who'd gotten caught in the crossfire.
The datapad screen dimmed from inactivity. In its fading light, I caught my reflection in the darkened display - wide eyes, messy hair, a face that wasn't mine. Ezra's face.
"Okay," I whispered to the ghost in the glass. "New plan."
First, survive. Then... figure out how to stop being such a useless protagonist.
Because if this was really my life now, I'd be damned if I was going to wait eight years for the plot to find me.
---
---
The Cellar became my world for upcoming days.
Days blurred together. Rationed water, chalky space-potatoes, and the dim glow of my datapad were all I had. I marked time by the faint light creeping through the floorboards—bright meant morning, fading meant night. My life was simple now: eat, sleep, don't get caught.
And meditate.
So I sat. Cross-legged on the rough floor, hands on my knees, chasing that feeling like a junkie chasing a high. Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus. Except focusing was like herding loth-cats—the second I thought I had it, my brain would wander off.
Breathe in—
Wait, did Jedi even need to breathe? Couldn't Qui-Gon absorb oxygen through his skin or something?
Breathe out—
Ugh, this was useless. Maybe I should've been a Sith. At least they got cool lightning.
But I kept trying. Not out of discipline, but sheer stubbornness.
The house above stayed quiet.
Then, on day three, it happened.
And holy shit, was it wild.
My butt was numb from sitting on cold concrete, legs twisted into what I hoped looked meditative. My stomach growled, protesting another meal of chalky space-potato paste. Empty the mind. Feel the Force. Yeah, right. All I felt was hungry, cold, and stupid.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to ignore the mental image of a greasy Corellian burger. Focus. Air. Dust. The hum of the datapad beside me. The scratchy burlap of the potato sack against my knee—
Click.
Not a sound. A sensation, deep in my skull. Like a lock finally turning. A circuit closing.
Then—whoosh.
My body vanished.
Not literally. I was still sitting there. But I… wasn't in it anymore. My consciousness exploded outward, spilling past skin and bone.
Suddenly, I was the cellar.
Not just in it. I was it.
I was the gritty concrete under me. The cool, oily metal crate digging into my elbow. The stale air, thick with the scent of rotting tubers and something metallic. The faint vibrations from the city above, thrumming through the walls.
The scale wasn't cosmic. It was tiny—maybe two meters around, centered where I used to be the center.
And in that space, I was everything.
Dust motes weren't just visible—I felt them. Each tiny particle drifting in air currents I was part of. The floor's texture, down to individual grains of sand. The temperature difference between cold concrete and warmer air near the ceiling. The datapad's hum wasn't just sound—it was vibrations in the air, a current I could feel with terrifying precision.
What the actual flying fuck?!
Panic tried to flare, but there was no me to panic. No lungs to gasp. No heart to race (though I could feel Ezra's heart hammering in the body I wasn't inhabiting anymore—just another part of the environment now).
I was pure sensation. A floodgate had burst in my mind, raw data pouring in with no filter.
Too much!
It wasn't just the overload. It was the loss. The boundary between self and not-self was dissolving. Where did the crate end and the air begin? Where did the floor's vibration become my sole?
I was drowning. My sense of being Alex, being Ezra—it was fraying. I was becoming the cellar. Ceasing to be me.
NO!
Instinct screamed. Not with sound, but a violent yank backward, like an invisible hook in my chest.
SNAP!
The world slammed back into focus. My focus. My body.
I gasped, air burning my throat. My hands—small, grubby—clutched my chest, confirming I was solid again. My heart pounded like a trapped animal, matching the frantic beat I'd felt from the outside seconds ago.
I doubled over, dry heaves wracking me. The overload wasn't gone—just crammed back into a skull too small for it. My head throbbed. My skin felt raw, every thread of my clothes like sandpaper.
"Holy… shit," I wheezed, trembling. Cold sweat prickled on my skin.
What the helling fucking fuck was THAT?!