As
Kael and
Alyssa carried her limp body through the veiled path toward the temple, something
broke open in the unconscious chambers of
Sommer's mind.
The mist of Bakura's ancient energy seeped into her thoughts like ink dropped into water… and deep below her awareness,
a door creaked open.
Memory — Corellia
Rain pelted the duracrete rooftops of the industrial block. The Corellian skyline was a jagged teeth of metal towers and corroded power grids, flickering orange in the stormlight.
A young girl — thin, soaked to the bone, maybe
eight years old — ran barefoot across slick rooftops.
Sommer.
She clutched a sack of stolen ration packs in one arm and a bent metal rod in the other. Her hair was short then. Her eyes… not yet hardened.
She stopped under the frame of a broken antenna dish, panting hard.
And then—
"You again," a voice called from behind her. Male. Older. Mocking.
She turned.
A local
spice runner — maybe seventeen — blocked her escape. Face tattooed. Knife out. Eyes sharp with hunger.
"Told you last week not to take from Sayer's turf."
Young Sommer didn't speak. She stepped back, fists clenched.
He stepped closer.
"What, cat got your tongue now, alley-rat?"
And then—something happened.
The rain slowed.
No. Not time…
her perception of it. The boy's voice sounded deeper. Slurred. Echoing. Her ears rang.
Her pupils widened.
She screamed, a sound not quite human — and the metal rod in her hand
ignited with sparks.
The boy stumbled backward. The knife dropped.
But she didn't stop.
She struck him—once, twice, three times—until blood mixed with rain.
She ran.
Ran until her lungs burned. Until her legs collapsed behind an old scrapyard, under a tarp that smelled like rust and motor oil.
She cried into her knees, rocking back and forth, whispering something over and over…
"I'm not like them. I'm not like them. I'm not like them…"