A/N: I am going with 2 chapters per day till we reach 15k. Be happy! (that wasn't a request ;p)
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"…and that's the real trick, isn't it? They tell you the new regulations are for your safety, for order. But what they're really regulating is your spirit." His broadcast voice was on—confident, resonant, the voice of a man who believed every word he said.
Mira's voice joined his, a perfect harmony of conviction. "They bank on our silence. They bank on our fear. They want us to believe that compliance is the only path to peace. But we know the truth, don't we, Lothal?"
There was a soft creak in the background, the sound of a door opening. A beat of silence, then a small, sleepy voice piped up, high and clear. "Mama? I'm thirsty."
The change was instantaneous. The public figures vanished, replaced by parents.
"Hey, buddy," Ephraim's voice was suddenly soft, the broadcast thunder gone, replaced by a gentle rumble. "You're supposed to be in bed. It's late."
"I know," Mira's voice was a warm murmur, all sharp edges gone. "I'll be right there, sweetie. Go back and get under the covers, I'll bring you some water."
"Okay…" The small voice was followed by the sound of small, retreating footsteps, and the soft click of the door closing again.
A long moment of silence followed. I could picture the scene perfectly: the two of them alone in their makeshift studio, the weight of their words still hanging in the air, now mingling with the simple reality of their child in the next room.
A deep sigh, heavy with exhaustion, came from Mira. Her voice, when it came back, was hushed, stripped of its public strength. It was thin, and unbearably fragile.
"Ephraim…"
"Hmm?" His response was low, a quiet rumble of acknowledgement. The fiery orator had vanished completely, replaced by a weary husband, a protective father.
"What if… what if they do catch us?" Mira's voice trembled slightly, the question hanging in the air like a fragile ornament.
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken fears. I held my breath, the datapad clutched tight in my small hands.
Finally, Ephraim spoke, his voice dropping even lower, becoming conspiratorial. "Hey. It's going to be okay. Remember what I told you? When I was in Capital City last week… I spoke with Governor Azadi."
"I know, but he's the Governor, Ephraim. He works for them."
"He's sympathetic, Mira," Ephraim insisted, his tone urgent but quiet. "He pulled me aside after the trade meeting. He said he listens to our broadcasts. He said to be careful. More than that… he said he'd try to give us a heads-up if the ISB started sniffing around too close."
A spark of hope, however flimsy. This was their plan.
"That's why I started bringing the extra water and rations down here," he continued, his voice barely a whisper. "It's a contingency. For us. For all three of us to lay low for a week or two if we get a warning. We wouldn't have to run. Just… disappear for a bit until things cool off."
That explained the stash. It wasn't for a lonely, orphaned kid. It was a family lifeboat. A plan that hinged on a warning that, clearly, never came. Or came too late.
"But he's just one man," Mira's voice was still tight with worry. "And what if the warning doesn't come in time? What if they come when we're not together? What about… Ezra?"
The name hung there, a heavy weight between them. The real heart of the fear. I felt a pang, a sudden, sharp ache of empathy that was more than just pity. This secondhand connection to what these people meant to each other, to their son, felt terrifyingly real in a way those scattered seven-year-old flashbacks hadn't before.
"He'll be with us," Ephraim said, his voice firm, trying to will it into truth. "But if the worst happens… he's a strong kid. He's resourceful. We've taught him to be."
"He's so small," Mira's voice cracked, the dam of her composure threatening to break. "What if he doesn't understand? What if he thinks we abandoned him?"
"He won't," Ephraim soothed, his voice a low rumble. "He knows we love him. He knows we're doing this for him, for his future." A slight pause. "Besides," Ephraim added, a hint of forced lightness in his tone, "we have a pretty good hiding spot, don't we? He'll be safe down there. Snug as a tooka in a rug."
Mira gave a weak chuckle, the sound shaky but genuine. "I suppose so. Still…"
Another long silence. The unspoken worries circled between them like shadows.
Then, Mira spoke again, her voice laced with a quiet determination that sent a shiver down my spine. "We have to keep going, Ephraim. We can't stop. Not when people are listening."
"I know," he said softly, his voice full of pride. "I know. You're the bravest person I know, Mira."
There was a soft sigh from Mira, the sound of her steeling herself.
"But what if—"
The words were cut short by a quiet click.
The hiss of static filled the space once more, and then, nothing.
The recording ended abruptly, leaving only static humming in the small space. My fingers tightened around the datapad as the weight of what I'd just heard settled over me. They had stopped it right before she could voice the fear that had now become my reality
A bitter laugh escaped me. "Well, that's just perfect." My voice sounded too small in the cramped cellar. "Your contingency plan just got inherited by some random guy from another universe."
I scrolled back through the files, my movements jerky. There had to be more - some clue, some instruction they'd left behind. But the other recordings were all polished broadcasts, nothing personal. Just the ghost of their voices preaching hope to a planet that was running out of it.
The datapad's glow reflected off the crates of supplies surrounding me. Their emergency stash. Meant for three people to ride out the storm. Now it was just me.
A cold calculation clicked into place. If I rationed carefully... if I stretched every calorie... how long could I last down here? Months, maybe. Long enough for the Empire to lose interest. Long enough to figure out my next move.
But then what?
I was seven years old on a planet crawling with stormtroopers. No money. No connections. And apparently no Force powers, despite this being a goddamn Star Wars story. The realization hit like a punch to the gut - I wasn't the protagonist here. I was just some kid who'd gotten caught in the crossfire.
The datapad screen dimmed from inactivity. In its fading light, I caught my reflection in the darkened display - wide eyes, messy hair, a face that wasn't mine. Ezra's face.
"Okay," I whispered to the ghost in the glass. "New plan."
First, survive. Then... figure out how to stop being such a useless protagonist.
Because if this was really my life now, I'd be damned if I was going to wait eight years for the plot to find me.
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The cellar became my world.
Days blurred together in a monotonous cycle of rationed water, chalky space-potatoes, and the dim glow of the datapad. I marked time by the faint light filtering through the floorboards—when it brightened, I counted it as morning. When it faded, night. My life had been reduced to the essentials: eat, sleep, don't get caught.
And meditate.
That strange moment—that flicker of being more than just myself—haunted me. It wasn't like the Force I remembered from movies. No glowing energy, no whispered guidance. Just… expansion. For one heartbeat, the boundaries of "me" had dissolved, and the cellar's cold walls, the stale air, even the hum of the glowrod had all been part of some larger whole. And then it was gone.
I needed to feel it again.
So I sat. Cross-legged on the rough floor, hands resting on my knees, chasing that sensation like a junkie chasing the first high. Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus. Except focusing was like herding loth-cats—the second I thought I had it, my brain would veer off into some ridiculous tangent.
Breathe in—
Wait, did Jedi even need to breathe? Couldn't Qui-Gon like, absorb oxygen through his skin or some shit?
Breathe out—
Ugh, this is useless. Maybe I should've been a Sith. At least they get cool lightning.
But I kept trying. Not out of discipline, but sheer, stubborn desperation. That one moment of connection had been the only thing in this nightmare that didn't feel like a downgrade.
The house above me stayed quiet.
Twice a day, when the light through the floorboards dimmed to near-darkness, I'd risk cracking the trapdoor open just enough to peer out. The interior was frozen in time—overturned furniture, slashed cushions, shattered datapads littering the floor like broken bones. The Empire hadn't just searched the place; they'd gutted it. But the dust settling over the wreckage told me they hadn't been back.
Good. Let them stay gone.
I retreated back to the cellar each time, the trapdoor's soft thud sealing me in my makeshift bunker. The Bridgers had prepared for the long haul—crates of supplies, tools, even a portable sanitation unit tucked in the corner. Prepper paradise. Too bad their contingency plan hadn't accounted for their kid being replaced by a clueless adult stuffed into a seven-year-old's body.
A bitter laugh escaped me. "Sorry, Ezra," I muttered to the empty air. "Guess you drew the short straw twice."
The guilt hit unexpectedly. Not just survivor's guilt—thief's guilt. Because that's what this was, wasn't it? I'd woken up in this kid's life like some cosmic squatter. His body. His memories. His parents. Even if I hadn't asked for it, even if there was no ghostly Ezra screaming in the back of my skull… I'd taken something that wasn't mine.
And the worst part? I couldn't even promise to do better. I was just some guy. Not a hero. Not a Jedi. Just Alex, who'd once rage-quit a Call of Duty match and was now somehow responsible for a dead kid's legacy.
The datapad's screen flickered as I scrolled through the news feeds again. Still nothing about the Bridgers' arrest. No outcry. No protests. Just the Empire's usual propaganda—new mining quotas, curfews, the glorious benefits of Imperial rule. Like they'd never existed.
But one name kept popping up: Governor Ryder Azadi. Forum chatter accused him of being "soft" on rebel activity. Official bulletins praised his "cooperation" while subtly reminding citizens that planetary governors served at the Emperor's pleasure. The subtext was clear—he was on thin ice.
A plan started forming, fragile as a soap bubble. In the show, Azadi had helped the Bridgers. If he was still free, still sympathetic… maybe he was the key. Not just to surviving, but to finding Mira and Ephraim.
Assuming they were even alive.
I shoved the thought away. Of course they were alive.
The datapad's glow reflected off the cellar walls, painting the crates in pale blue shadows. Eight years until the Ghost crew showed up. Eight years of hiding, of waiting for a story I already knew to start.
Screw that.
I wasn't going to be the kid who cowered in the dark while the galaxy moved on. If this was my life now—if I was really Ezra Bridger—then I'd do better than survive.
I'd get strong. I'd learn. And when the time came, I wouldn't need Kanan Jarrus to save me.
I'd save myself.