A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…
Coruscant – Jedi Temple, medical bay.
Lance Black sat on the edge of a medical bed, bored out of his mind, dark blue eyes flicking around the room for something — anything — to look at.
His light brown Jedi robes hung loosely off one shoulder, and a lightsaber rested against his hip.
White bandages wrapped his head, leaving only a stray section of his Padawan braid poking out behind his right ear.
His left hand was bound too, cradled in a cloth sling across his chest.
A GH-7 medical droid floated nearby, the faint whir of its repulsorlift barely audible.
Its flat metal head housed two glowing blue photoreceptors, and it moved with the unhurried precision of something that had done this ten thousand times before.
It raised one of its slender arms and began unwinding the bandages around his head, layer by layer, until his short black hair came free.
The cool air hit his scalp, and Lance let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Two thin blue lasers swept across his skull.
“The wound has fully healed,” the droid reported.
“No scarring detected.”
Lance reached up and prodded the back of his head — no swelling, no tenderness, nothing.
He nodded, satisfied.
“Good.
Now get the ones off my hand.”
“Removing them now.”
The droid made quick work of the splint, and the same twin lasers scanned his wrist.
“The bone has largely healed, though not completely,” it said.
“I’d recommend thirty more days of rest.” A pause, as if consulting some internal file.
“You’re fifteen, still in a critical growth window.
Sleep, light activity, and proper rest will speed recovery.
Overexertion now could cause lasting damage.”
It kept going, rattling off a list of do’s and don’ts with the patience only a machine could manage.
Lance rotated his wrist a few times, no pain, just a faint stiffness.
“Got it.
Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.
Return to the medical bay if you experience any discomfort.”
The droid drifted off toward its instrument trays, already forgetting him.
Lance slid off the bed and headed for the door, his thoughts drifting somewhere else entirely — back to the dream.
That strange, impossible dream.
A week ago he’d been on Cato Neimoidia, fighting alongside Master Plo Koon to drive the last of the Separatist holdouts from the colony world.
Lance had taken a squad of clone troopers around the flank, cut down the droid line, and broken through into the fortress interior.
Then the tactical droid triggered the self-destruct.
He remembered the sprint — boots pounding across duracrete, lungs burning, the fortress gate just ahead.
The moment his foot cleared the threshold, the whole structure went up behind them.
Flame roared into the sky.
The shockwave picked him up like a ragdoll and threw him through the air.
Something hit his head on the way down.
Everything went black.
When his eyes opened again, he was on the ground, and nothing worked right.
His ribs felt caved in, his bones ground together like broken glass, and blood ran warm down his face.
Through the haze, he thought he saw a Jedi sprinting toward him, white armor pouring in behind him, and his Master’s voice, urgent and distorted, calling his name from somewhere very far away.
He held on for a few seconds.
Then the world tipped sideways and went dark again.
He didn’t wake up again until days later, aboard a Republic cruiser bound for Coruscant.
And every night since, the dream had come back, vivid, uninterrupted, stitched together like a single long thread.
In it, he’d been born somewhere called Earth.
A small blue world, barely a third the size of Coruscant, its people not yet capable of leaving their own solar system.
And yet the civilization there had produced centuries of extraordinary thought — art, ideas, philosophies that built on each other across generations until they became something enormous.
Some of it, strangely, made sense to him in ways he couldn’t explain.
In the dream he couldn’t move or speak.
He simply existed inside someone else’s life, watching it play out from childhood through school, through university, into an unremarkable adult existence in an unremarkable corner of that unremarkable world.
Until, near the end of it, a film came on a screen.
Star Wars.
And there they were — Master Yoda, Master Obi-Wan, Master Windu, Chancellor Palpatine, Count Dooku, General Grievous — faces he knew, playing out a story he didn’t.
Anakin Skywalker, the Chosen One, prophesied to bring balance to the Force.
Senator Amidala — Padmé — the woman he’d secretly fallen for, in direct violation of the Code.
And Palpatine, the Republic’s own Chancellor, quietly working to pull Anakin away from everything the Jedi stood for.
…What an absurd dream.
Lance shook his head as he walked, dismissing it as some misfire from the head injury.
Anakin’s devotion to the Order and the Council wasn’t something anyone questioned, least of all Lance.
There was no version of the man he knew who’d break the Code like that.
Master Yoda had once told him that dreams sometimes carried real warnings — the Force bleeding through, hinting at dangers or attachments yet to come.
But those dreams came in fragments, half-formed and fading fast.
Nothing like this.
This felt whole.
Continuous.
Like watching a film from beginning to end.
Still, buried under the disbelief, a small thread of curiosity refused to let go — a quiet itch to know what happened next.
“Resting?
Not a chance.”
The moment he stepped out of the medical bay, the droid’s advice went straight out of his head.
The front was still active, and his Master needed every hand he could get.
Lance wasn’t about to sit around the Temple while the fighting dragged on without him.
He made his way to the communications room and tapped through the console until he found the right channel.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
A holoprojection flickered to life.
Plo Koon — Kel Dor, born on Dorin, his face hidden behind the antiox breath mask and dark goggles that never came off.
Even compressed into a shimmering blue projection, he carried the same stillness Lance had always associated with him: calm, immovable, quietly commanding.
“Padawan Lance.
How is your recovery?”
Lance straightened without thinking, the old reflex of respect kicking in — this was his Master, a Jedi Master and member of the Council.
“Fully healed, Master.
I can return to the front immediately.”
Plo Koon inclined his head, something like a smile ghosting across what little of his expression showed.
He waved a hand.
“No need to rush.
Rest.”
“What remains of the Separatist forces on Cato Neimoidia are scattered and no longer a threat, not since you took the fortress.
Victory here is close.” A brief pause.
“Once the campaign concludes, I’ll return to Coruscant myself.
To see you.”
“Master…” Lance started, a note of urgency creeping into his voice.
A clone trooper stepped into frame behind Plo Koon, datapad in hand, clearly waiting on something.
Plo Koon cut him off gently.
“It’s decided.” Then, softer: “Use this time well.
Focus on what I’ve taught you.”
A beat.
“When I return, I’ll be testing what you’ve learned.”
The projection blinked out before Lance could answer.
He stood there a moment, the silence of the empty comm room settling around him, a flicker of disappointment rising in his chest.
Then he exhaled slowly, jaw set, hands curling into fists at his sides.
I won’t let him down.
When he gets back, I’ll show him exactly how far I’ve come.