(Continued from Extreme Ways)

Byl.

That three-lettered word had been on his mind for a month. In the cold days of living on the streets in a nameless city on a nameless planet, it was the lifeline of identity that he held fast to. Even if it was a lie, he wouldn't abandon it.

James.

His mind hung onto every memory of her voice. It was all he had. A name and a voice.

The Alliance.

Somehow, his fate was intertwined within the Rebellion. It complicated his existence. If he had a death mark from the Empire, who knew more about him than he did? Possibly everyone.

His plan to reach Bespin had been flawed from the start. The ship he landed in was impounded, and without it, there was only one way to reach the tibanna gas giant. He'd stolen what he needed. Stolen food to keep him nourished. Stolen blankets to keep the bitter winter cold from numbing him as he scratched a temporary existence in a back alley. Stolen credits to pay for charter on any decrepit, flea-bitten transport that might light out for the outer rim mining planet.

A month later, and he was one of many dirty faces crammed into a ship. Most here were poor laborers, doing migrant work in the tibanna fields in hopes of providing for families elsewhere. When the ship finally came to dock at Cloud City, he bled into the throng of millions that called the city home.

His first act was to find a comm. The frequency he'd committed to memory a month ago. His lifeline. James.