Holocron 03 = Private = Security Encryption = Eyes Only
It starts like all the others, I’m being chased. The other dreams, my usual nightmares, are labyrinthian but varied, winding from location to location, ship to building, every time the locale is different, only the chase is the same. This dream is always the same, the scar of memory back to torment me as it has for years.
Always the same, I am once again there, the dank, small cargo hold turned bedroom on that cursed ancient freighter. He’s dragged me here, bruised and bloody. My angry tears a traitor to my stoic glaring hatred. I won’t cry. I won’t beg. He used to hold a knife to my throat, as if he needed to. He’s not a big man, but even an average sized adult is giant to a nine year old. When his hands begin to grope me I go slack; numb. He’s taken the fight from me, many months of his frequent vicious abuse has taught even my stubbornness that lesson. Fighting back now would only add more bruises, another broken bone for the droid to mend later. It was in these moments I discovered the Force; as he brutalized me I let the numbness slip and let the rage take it’s place. I couldn’t stop it, but I could endure it, and every time it left me a little stronger, a little more determined. He could for now claim my body as his prize, but one day I would be avenged.
Holocron 02 = Private = Security Encryption = Eyes Only
I watch him as he sleeps; for months he’s slept fitfully, chased by nightmares he wouldn’t discuss. Not tonight, tonight he sleeps peacefully. I doubt it was just the sex that lulled him into this calm. It’s surprising actually that he sleeps so well in my bed when less than 8 hours ago I nearly choked the life from him…
Holocron 01 = Private = Security Encryption = Eyes Only
I asked them to keep a record, these ‘sisters’ of mine. Conspirators more like. Our undertaking may shape history if we prove successful, and if so, then history should know us through our own words rather than some propaganda or dramatic interpretation. We are real, citizens and servants of The Empire, loyal to our cause, and lest history forget; real, flawed, and shaped by our experiences.
I don’t recall much of my childhood, I’d prefer not to. It was brutal, it taught me much. No surrender, no mercy. The scar that crisscrosses my face is reminder enough of what I endured. I’m told parents find force sensitive children difficult to control, to direct, to force into obedience. That was certainly true of me.
I loved her from the moment I saw her. Peering over the rooftop’s edge down at her in the market’s courtyard, her small figure facing off determinedly against a pair of attackers. Their loud voices interrupting my clandestine studying, the boys’ jeering and angry shouts pulling me from my arcane world on the roof of the abandoned shop.
I stowed my recently liberated book in it’s hiding place with the others; quite a collection I’d amassed over the last year, stolen from various stalls and schools around the spaceport. I reasoned I wouldn’t have to steal them if my worthless father would pay for tuition instead of drinking his meager wages away, chasing the memory of my once beautiful but long dead mother.
I hadn’t seen her around before, she was Zabrak, like me, but from her clothing and weapon I assumed she was one of the wealthy youths that came to the port to shop or cause trouble. There was a large Zabrak community here for such a small port city, but rarely did I encounter them. Most of them worked in some official capacity for the government and lived in their walled, secure enclave. My father and his low status ensured we never rubbed elbows with the well connected. The private Academies were filled with Zabrak students, but I’d never even been to the grounds. All of my knowledge and fighting skills (meager as they were) came from the dusty streets.