I always felt nervous whenever I went to visit Arlan Galaar. I mean sure, it's understandable - he's a scary bloke and all - but it was different, somehow. Especially lately. At least, I think it's especially lately. I'm not really sure.

Problem is, I don't really have a frame of reference. Before a few years ago, I don't remember anything. Arlan thinks it's amnesia brought on by post traumatic stress. He doesn't know what the trauma was, mind; and he reckons I may never get my memories back.

I don't even know my name. It's Arlan who says I'm called Nen. But I could be anyone. I could be a celebrity. Royalty, even. None of us would know. Arlan says he's looking to find out about my past, but he hasn't found anything yet. I keep wanting to look myself; but Arlan says that it's safer if I don't; safer if he does it. He thinks he can protect me, in case there's anyone dangerous in my past who comes looking.

Yeah, right. Who'd want to hurt me, eh? Everyone loves me.

But anyway. I was nervous as hell, like always, as I climbed my way up the stairs into Arlan's loft. The place was chaos - but that magical kind of chaos where, no matter where you look, your eyes land on sometihng awesome. I always thought that I had the ultimate gadget pad, but there were tools and gizmos and components and all manner of mind-numbingly cool stuff everywhere. Arlan was a Professor, or something. Not entirely sure where from, or what of; that Vhiran jerk told me he was a Mandalorian, and that he was a Professor of Art, or something stupid like that. Now admittedly, I don't know that much about Mandalorians, but I'm pretty sure that 'art' isn't really their thing. Not like they're a bunch of pacifist pansies, or anything like that.

Settled atop a pile of research notes transcribed onto flimsy, nestled an incredibly inviting box; one of those self-pressurising airtight things. It looked innocent enough, and yet, I couldn't help but feel drawn to it; couldn't help grabbing it, peeling back the corner of the lid -