The twin suns of Tatooine beat down with an oppressive, personal hatred.
Under a heavy coat and a full-face helmet, Ezra felt like he was being slow-cooked. The custom-built exoskeleton beneath his clothes whirred softly, its cooling system already losing the battle against the planet's relentless heat.
Each step was a deliberate, slightly stiff motion, the servos in the joints emitting a faint, high-pitched hum as they compensated for the massive, gear-stuffed pack on his back.
He'd barely made it from the landing pad into the dusty labyrinth of Mos Espa's back alleys when two figures blocked his path. The one in front, a burly Weequay with a network of jagged scars across his face, had the lazy, confident posture of a man who did this for a living.
The other, a twitchy Rodian, circled around behind him, a vibroblade humming to life in his hand.
Ezra let out a long sigh, the sound tinny and filtered through his helmet's speakers. "Oh, come on, guys. It's not even been an hour since I landed on this godforsaken rock."
The Weequay grinned, a disgusting display of yellowed teeth. His eyes roamed over Ezra's gear, lingering on the large pack and the cloth-wrapped spear-axe. "Big bag, little man," he grunted, gesturing with a rusty blaster pistol. "Looks too heavy for you. We're just concerned citizens. Why not let us help you with that burden?"
"Big man, small dick energy," Ezra shot back, his voice flat and artificially modulated. "I don't take help from your type. It's bad for my complexion."
The Weequay's grin vanished, replaced by a practiced scowl. "Funny. You're a funny little bantha shit. Real tough talk from inside that bucket." He took a half-step forward, his movements casual. "Now, I'm gonna count to three. You're gonna drop the bag and the stick. Then we'll see what else you've got."
The tip of the vibroblade pressed against the small of Ezra's back, a clear, buzzing threat. "He talks too much, Grent," the Rodian hissed. "Just slag him and let's get on with it."
Grent ignored him, his focus entirely on Ezra. "One."
"The thing is," Ezra said, his posture not changing in the slightest, "I'm already angry. And hot. And generally irritated with this entire planet. So you've really picked the worst possible time for this."
"Two."
With another theatrical sigh that was pure performance, Ezra slowly began to raise his hands in a gesture of surrender. The movement was unnaturally smooth, accompanied by the distinct whir of a small motor in his left shoulder. "Fine, fine. You win. No need to be so dramatic about it."
The metal pauldron on his shoulder clicked open.
Thwump.
The sound wasn't a gunshot. It was a dull, meaty impact, like a nail gun punching through plywood. The Weequay's eyes went wide in shock for a fraction of a second before a neat, dark hole appeared squarely in his forehead. His head snapped back, and he dropped like a sack of grain, his blaster clattering on the dusty ground.
"What the—!" the Rodian shrieked behind him, the surprise turning instantly to rage. He lunged forward, raising the vibroblade to plunge it into Ezra's back.
Ezra didn't even turn. With a powerful hiss of pneumatics, the base of the staff in his left hand shot backward, a piston-like strike far faster than any human could manage.
CRACK!
The butt of the staff connected squarely with the Rodian's groin, producing a sound that would make any sentient male in a ten-meter radius physically curl in on themselves. The alien let out a choked, wet gurgle, a noise no living creature should ever make, and his charge dissolved into a spasming stumble.
Using the rebound from the impact, Ezra's suit whirred. He spun the long weapon in his grip with a seamless, inhuman rotation, the heavy, cloth-wrapped head of the spear-axe swinging around in a perfect arc. It slammed into the side of the dazed Rodian's skull with a sickening, hollow crunch.
The alien staggered sideways, his one good eye rolling back in its socket.
Ezra's turn was stiff and mechanical, his feet planting themselves with audible clicks on the hard-packed dirt. His right hand emerged from the folds of his coat, now holding a heavy-looking gauss pistol.
Thwump.
The second thug collapsed in a heap on top of the first.
For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of his exo-frame's systems and the distant chatter of the city. Ezra rubbed his right shoulder over the thick coat. "Damn recoil is still a bit much," he muttered to himself, the words echoing inside his helmet.
His gaze fell on the DL-18 blaster pistol lying in the dust. He knelt, the suit's joints groaning in protest, and picked it up. It felt good in his hand. Solid. He checked the power pack. Mostly full.
"Nice," he snickered, a note of grim amusement in his voice. "Here I was wondering where to get one of these, and this dumbass delivered it without me even asking."
A projectile weapon was precise and packed a punch, but the recoil was a problem for his lanky, barely-teenage frame. A blaster had none. Perfect.
He clipped the new prize to his belt before turning his attention to the bodies. He quickly and efficiently patted them down, taking the vibroblade from the Rodian first. The Weequay had a handful of credits and a cracked datapad. "Pathetic." The Rodian had even less.
"Well, look at that," Ezra said to the silent alley. "I'm the robber now. And the pay is terrible."
The brief, violent commotion had drawn some attention. A Twi'lek merchant poked his head out of a nearby doorway, took one look at the two fresh corpses, and disappeared back inside. A pair of Jawas scurrying past paused, their glowing eyes assessing the scene, before chittering to each other and hurrying on. A human leaning against a wall further down the alley just watched with dead eyes, took a long drag from his cigarra, and turned away.
No one screamed. No one called for the authorities. This was just another Tuesday in Mos Espa. Life was cheap, and interfering was expensive.
Standing up with another mechanical whir, Ezra adjusted the heavy pack on his shoulders and continued on his way, leaving the bodies to the desert flies.
___
The "motel" I stumbled into was basically a stack of sand-blasted duracrete boxes glued together and optimistically named the Dune Drifter. Judging by the way its flickering neon sign buzzed like a dying mynock, it had already drifted too far and was halfway through sinking into oblivion.
Inside, the heat of Satan's personal sauna instantly gave way to stale, over-chilled air that smelled like a life support unit one system update away from crashing. Peak luxury. Five stars. Would recommend.
The counter guy was a Dug, the kind of face you see once and immediately think: Yeah, this dude's been bored since birth, and life only made it worse. He looked up from his datapad with the kind of energy that said, I already hate you, stranger.
Every step I took toward him echoed across the room. Clink-whirr-clink. My cobbled-together gear wasn't exactly designed with stealth in mind.
The Dug's snout twitched. "What's that noise? Got a clanker under that coat?"
"Prosthetic leg," I said, my helmet speaker flattening the words. "Old model. Doesn't like the heat."
Simple, believable, and bonus points: makes them feel like an ass for asking.
The Dug grunted in a way that managed to say both "don't believe you" and "not my problem." Customer service, peak edition. "Room's fifty credits a night. In advance. No droids, no bounties, no questions. You break it, you bought it."
I slid a credit chit across the counter. Daylight robbery, but what choice did I have? He swiped it without even blinking and tossed me a flimsy key card. "Room seven. End of the hall. Lose it, replacement's double." By the time I picked it up, he was already back to ignoring my existence.
Room seven was… something. A cube, basically. A mattress that looked like it had been used in a vibroblade demo, a fresher that smelled faintly of depressed machinery, and a single overhead light that buzzed like a dying bug. Five-star squalor.
I kicked the door shut, and the magnetic lock clunked into place. That sound was better than music. Not actual safety, but the illusion of it, which was good enough for a night.
First thing was unloading the hardware. The metal pauldron on my shoulder wasn't just decoration—it latched straight into the exo-frame under my coat. I found the hidden quick-release, popped it loose, and hefted the whole mount onto the room's excuse for a table. Heavy as hell.
The gauss-rifle barrel pointed at the ceiling like it was pretending to be innocent. "Activate watchdog mode," I muttered.
A blue light flicked on, the mount whirred to life, and the barrel began sweeping the room in a slow circle. Not enough to stop a squad, but if some idiot thought they'd sneak in while I was asleep… well, rip to them.
Only then did I strip off the overcoat. Three layers. On a desert planet. With two suns. Who even greenlit that idea? Past me was a clown. A very sweaty clown. Base layer was supposed to wick away sweat—it had given up hours ago. The padded layer was there to keep the exo-frame from grinding my skin into hamburger. And then the heavy overcoat, my portable disguise.
Thank the Force for the exhaust fan in my helmet, or I would've face-planted in the sand before even getting here. Mental note: upgrade frame with cooling fans. Version 2.0: not a walking sauna.
I dropped my massive pack with a THUD that shook the room, then unsealed the helmet. The rush of cool, recycled air on my face was divine. If I could've married that first breath, I would've.
Underneath it all was my pride and curse: the exo-frame. Not some sleek superhero suit with shiny paint and a snarky AI. More like a scrapyard nightmare—a skeleton of droid parts, welded servos, and durasteel struts. A steampunk forklift jammed onto my back. Ugly, uncomfortable, but it let me haul more than my bones could handle.
The unstrapping ritual took forever. Careful, deliberate. I'd learned that lesson after misaligning my elbow once—the servo didn't care, but my joint did, and it left me feeling like I'd lost a fight with a blender. Not an experience I was looking to repeat.
The moment the last strap gave way and the rig clattered against the wall, I felt my real size again—small, scrawny, and wrecked.
I collapsed onto the mattress. The springs screamed like I'd just committed war crimes against them, but I was too far gone to care.
Old Ben, you gonna get a disciple soon...Better hope you hid those lightsabers real tight...
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A/N: Thank you to readers for patience and also apologies for not updating on 26th. Exams had gotten very hectic at the end, and after going 48 hours without sleep, I ended up getting fever.
And it was a bitch. takes away all the energy and motivation to do anything.
Well, good news its better now.
We are also in a new phase of story now, Tatooine, the home of chosen ones, right where Force fucked an women without consent and dipped to buy milk.
Vote with your stones to give me more motivation!
I am hoping to upload another chapter tomorrow.