Lost in the Echo - 10.040 (Wei)

[Kyle Krogen]

Ossus. A new planet, a new beginning. It had everything needed to support life and with it came hidden knowledge and the opportunity to grow, bond, and thrive. The ancient home of the Jedi was everything he had ever hoped to find. A place where they belonged. No more running, no more hiding. Already a new life had been started. A ship landed, living spaces established, and new discoveries, new knowledge, happen on a daily basis within the ancient library.

So why was it that he could not sleep at night, and could not stand being around other people. Already he had secluded himself, choosing to watch the happenings from the safety of his hill just outside of camp. To a man who had lost everything a blanket was the coziest, warmest bed. His own clothing was a mix of pieces of his prison jumpsuit mixed with whatever fragments of clothing he had managed to scavenge. He had tried his very best to not be a burden on his fellow Jedi, and had done his best to stay out of their way. Weeks curled up in a corner had followed his rescue from his several years in custody, and he was determined to not show that weakness again.

While the other Jedi delved and grew, Kyle was not entirely unproductive. He spent his days alone, on top of his hill. His lightsabre had been recovered from the Inquisition during the raid that rescued him, and with it he practiced almost forgotten techniques passed down to him from his Master so many years ago on Coruscant. His muscles were weak and hardly remembered the delicate motions. His hands moved hard, fast; chopping instead of slicing. He had no grace left. All he had left was anger and a growing desire to see his captors driven before him. He had nothing left.

They held him for years, torturing him. Breaking him. They gave no reasons, no explanations. They just woke him up every day, pushed him down the same corridor to be pricked and poked and then tied to the ceiling and beaten until his entire body ached. Then they patched him up, made him good as new. Whispered sweet nothings in his ear; propaganda, backhanded compliments. Lies. Then into the anechoic chamber where no sound could exist. They would lock him in there until he could hear his own heart beating, the blood rushing through his ears, and finally the very sound of his sanity cracking. Rinse. Repeat. For years.

Just thinking about it made him more angry, causing his sabre motions to become brutal and decisive. The purple blade hummed and sputtered, leaves falling from the nearby trees turning to smoke as they fell into the beam. His blond hair was long and untrimmed, his face a mess of stubble. Personal grooming was something he had not even put a thought to in so many years. The Inquisitors used to take him out and shave his head and face when it grew too long for their standards. Months in the Wheel saw it regrow to the point that it sat in his eyes for the first time in years.

Frustration at his poor form only made his mood worse, and his routine became sloppy as he frequently lost his footing or poorly executed a maneuver he knew he could do better. With a growl of frustration he deactived the energy weapon and tossed it away from himself, letting it skip across the ground until it came to a rest in the grass.