Storytime: "Star Wars, by George R. R. Martin."

[Lurkily]

I think a departure from that darker phase of my writing would be a good thing.  So here is a story written in response to the prompt: "Write the story of Star Wars, only you are George R. R. Martin."

I'm not deeply familiar with the expanded universe and concepts like Grey Jedi, but hopefully, I didn't delve into enough detail to misstep.

Star Wars, by George R. R. Lucas (But not actually by George R. R. Lucas.)

“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.”

My mind fogged over. It was hard to think. Only one set of words came easily, struggled to escape, a concept that wanted to take root and grow. “These aren’t the droids we’re looking for.”

And it was true. They couldn’t be. I knew something was wrong, but this one concept, this central idea took root in my understanding of the world, fit itself to the core of who I was like a puzzle piece. To remove it would be to leave a hole in my soul.

“He can go about his business.”

This pressure was tied to the first concept, already firmly rooted, and grew. I fought it, and I struggled. My blaster rose, slowly, sweat dripping into the inside of my helmet. The old man in front of me frowned and intensified his gaze. I could feel my mind being crushed by the growing roots of his influence. “They can . . . go about their business.”

“Move along.”

“Move . . . move . . . ” As I struggled, the blaster fell out of my hand, and I bent to pick it up. For a moment, I held it in my hands. It wasn’t the grip by which you held a weapon, I was just retrieving it from the ground, but I was aware of the direction it was pointing.

He’d already won, of course. He had dismissed me from his attention. I didn’t have to break free, not really. Just pull the trigger. But the grip on my mind forbade it, forbade it so thoroughly that I forgot I even wanted to do it. I didn’t need to pull the trigger on a gun. It was just a lever. I needed to operate a lever, didn’t matter why, just operate the machinery.

The blaster fired, leaping out of my hands with the recoil. The pressure strangling my mind was gone. The old man lay dead in his seat, and I cried out for help. “Stop them! The old man was Jedi!” The speeder’s repulsors started up, and I adjusted my grip on my blaster, firing through a repulsor on the side. They all shut down immediately to keep the vehicle from flipping over.  The boy tried to make a run for it, and I shouldered my rifle, shooting him through the calf.  He bled and cried, until a trooper knocked him out.

We searched them, of course, and found no weapons. So the official report said. At home that night, I turned the lightsaber around in my hand, listening to the blade hum. I wasn’t proud of what I did; I had killed a Jedi and his protege. He had probably wanted the same thing I did. But I had known going in that serving light would require an occasional foray into darkness. It was just a part of what it meant to be Grey.

I clicked the light saber off and watched the blade collapse. At least the death had served a purpose. I was getting a promotion, a transfer. I would be that much closer to Vader and the Emperor. And now, when I made my move to kill them, I would have a proper weapon for a wielder of the Force.