It was difficult for Tyrin to tell exactly where his Lucrehulk had crashed. Someplace with at least one forest, that much he knew. Maybe it was a jungle. There was plenty of green to be seen outside of it, and plenty of animal noises to accompany it. Not that he had enough off-hand knowledge to distinguish one or the other.
Presumably this place wasn’t well-inhabited either. No large groups had come to investigate the wreck.
The crash had jostled him from the cryo-pod. It had worked briefly for a few days, then broke down entirely. There was nothing to be done to fix it, so Tyrin crawled several feet, found the wall, propped himself up against it. Then he waited, quite earnestly, to die.
It was taking an awfully long time.
Must have been the Force doing that. That’s what it usually boiled down to. The fact that he was more metal and synthetics than flesh and bone could have also helped. Figures. It had taken decades for Tyrin to finally reach that happy place where he no longer cared about keeping himself alive, and now he found that he just couldn’t.
He had worked this out a long time ago. Darth Adekos would never die screaming on the battlefield or through some other perverse act of homicide. He’d go out like Vectivus did: old age. Pass away peacefully, naturally, surrounded by friends, family, and a worthy legacy.
So far, Tyrin had failed to come by friends, family, or a worthy legacy. Ultimately he settled for just peacefully, but even that was getting harder and harder to come by. At some point after the crash he started getting visitors. The first one he remembered. It was some Jedi. Or he assumed it was, since his lightsaber hadn’t been… You know. Red.
“Darth Adekos.” Came a harsh, piping voice, rousing Tyrin from whatever passed for sleep these days.
He had rolled away from the wall to get a better look at the trespasser, silhouetted as they were against the hole in the wall. The photoreceptors of his mask focused and adjusted, struggling to identify the figure.
The figure – some callow boy, it turned out, had taken a step forward, blue lightsaber ignited, only to stop. Dumbfounded. “What?”
“Oh. No, that’s not you,” Tyrin sighed and rolled back over, facing the wall. “Wishful thinking. You can leave now, thanks.”
That had got him angry, and so there was a whole tirade about who he was. Parents dead, killed in a battle Tyrin didn’t remember fighting. Could be that he just gave the orders, or maybe he’d done it directly. Didn’t much matter to the Jedi, apparently.
When his guest was done carrying on, Tyrin politely showed him the door. The door, in this case, being the giant hole in the wall and the subsequent fall down however-many-stories – and politely here-meaning with the assistance of an inordinate amounts of lightning.
Maybe he survived that fall. He hadn’t come back either way. Good for him. A nice boy like that had better things to do then scream at old men in abandoned starships.