I came to quite suddenly, roused by a sharp sound and flashes of light. My mind was in utter chaos, yet two thoughts stood out in jarring dissonance: I simultaneously realized that I was a citizen of the Russian Federation living on planet Earth, yet just as distinctly understood—at that very same moment—that I was a cyborg, a Sith Inquisitor of the Sith Empire named Taales.
This latter realization was particularly baffling, for that was the name I had given the character I played in *Star Wars: The Old Republic*—or *SWTOR*, as it is colloquially known—a game I had downloaded only recently. I had enjoyed the game immensely and become completely hooked; consequently, during the couple of days of leave I had taken from work, I had raced through the main storyline, leveling up my character until I reached Tatooine, where I had paused to work on a side quest.
The sharp sounds that had roused me rang out again, and I decided that I had, in all likelihood, finally and completely lost my mind. This seemed particularly evident given that the auditory stimuli sounded exactly—and I mean *exactly*—like clashing lightsabers from that very same galaxy far, far away.
In an attempt to gather more data on my mental state, I opened my eyes—only to immediately squeeze them shut again, wiping away the tears that had welled up. No matter how hard I squinted, I couldn't make out anything more than two spots of light nearby. One was a pure, vivid blue; the other, red.
You didn't have to be a genius to put two and two together and figure out the general trajectory of my sanity's descent. Not that I was particularly upset about it, mind you. After all, having hallucinations centered on a franchise I actually care about is far preferable to suffering through some sleep-paralysis-style nightmare. Even if it turns out to be some rat-brained version of the "canon." It's still better—I said so!
However, the "insanity" hypothesis soon took a backseat in my mind, gradually being supplanted by another—far less probable, yet infinitely more desirable: "transmigration." Such a sweet, cherished word... Better to think of myself as a hero transported to the *Star Wars* universe than as a raving lunatic. Besides, there was a way to uncover the truth even without my eyes—purely through tactile sensation. To put it simply: by feeling myself up. And the result came back... Exactly the one I had both dreaded and, at the same time, eagerly anticipated. I really *had* been transported! So, what was there to be afraid of? Well, even if it is a bit of a cliché trope, ending up in a galaxy far, far away is definitely—and I mean *definitely*—better than winding up in *Warhammer 40,000* as some Servitor named Vitaly.
Also w,hat can I say about my "new" body... Well, I definitely wasn't my old self anymore; that much was obvious—the physique, the musculature, the ports scattered across my body for plugging in cables—just like in *The Matrix*, only not on the back of my head, and in far greater numbers. Particularly jarring was the half-mask that covered part of my chin and neck.
Generally speaking, I've always devoted a lot of attention to character customization in every game I play, and I certainly wouldn't have called *this* specific character ugly; I'd made him as handsome as the editor would allow—he had perfectly regular features, not a single blemish, blue eyes, and blond hair.
Still, if anyone had asked me, I wouldn't have wanted to trade my old body for this new one anyway. Or to get *transported* anywhere, for that matter. Come to think of it now, I probably had it pretty good sitting at my computer. Why go through all the hassle of trying to save my own skin in the DDG when I could just live a steady life, go to work, and enjoy my adventures strictly from the comfort of my couch—with a bag of chips in hand and a good book to read? But no, of course not…
Suddenly, I felt a surge of bitter resentment—I wanted to scream, just like Anakin: "I haaaate you!"—but I quickly calmed myself down. The last thing I needed right now was to draw any more attention to myself. Especially since I wasn't even entirely sure I *could* escape; my body felt... Hell, it really didn't feel like my own! And it responded accordingly—as if I were controlling a robot.
My movements seemed to execute, sure , but there was a delay—as if the signal from my brain took far longer than usual to reach my nerve endings. Actually, the "robot" comparison wasn't even a joke; my character was, in fact, a human-cyborg. That had been one of the available choices during character creation in the game, just so you know. I'd certainly removed all visible signs of implants from my face during the process, but I had absolutely no clue where else on my body they might be located—those connection ports studded across my arms and ribs clearly weren't there just for show.
And so, after another couple of seconds spent in bewildered introspection, my vision finally cleared, and I saw the cause of my sorry state... They had—damn it—frozen me! Or rather, unfrozen me—though that didn't make things any easier. I was currently inside the very same device used to "thaw out" the infamous Han Solo after his carbonite freezing. I found myself in a room clad entirely in metal—steaming, hissing, and generally feeling as though it were "alive," as numerous pipes and hoses hummed and even shuddered slightly under the immense internal pressure.
And there, in the background, a couple of figures were gleefully brandishing their lightsabers: a man—presumably a Jedi—with long dark hair, whom I definitely didn't recognize from the canon; and a certain Dathomirian witch, whom I knew all too well from *The Clone Wars*: Asajj Ventress. I'd recognize that bald mug anywhere and in any condition—especially since, in real life, it looked even creepier than it did in the animation.
However, despite her appearance, she was driving her opponent back on every front. Her vast experience in killing Jedi was plainly evident, as was the inexperience of her adversary. A couple more seconds passed, and with a kick, Asajj knocked the blade from his hands; it went flying to the side, clattering against the floor several times before deactivating and rolling in my direction. It seemed like my chance had finally arrived—but was I a fool? Like hell was I going to jump into that brawl; I could barely even move my arms as it was. Meanwhile, the witch had already drawn back for the killing blow when, suddenly, everything around us gave a violent lurch. She was instantly flung against the opposite wall, while the Jedi—who had dropped to one knee—managed to grab hold of a pipe with one hand, left dangling as the floor tilted to an angle of roughly sixty degrees. I was jolted as well, but fortunately, there were metal supports on either side, and I managed to brace myself against one of them with my shoulder. Before long, everything leveled out, and I was even able to get back on my feet.
To be honest, I had felt minor shifts in gravity and tremors earlier, but I had dismissed them as mere dizziness; now, however, there could be no doubt—we were on a ship, and what's more, we were under fire. A voice ringing out from the speakers moments later only confirmed it: " All crew members are to evacuate the ship immediately. I repeat: All crew members..." It was a deep male voice speaking in a language I didn't recognize, yet—surprisingly—I understood, more or less, what was being said. Or rather, the part of me that *was* "Taales" understood it—however strange that might sound.
Then a thought struck me: I couldn't, for the life of me, remember what my "real" name had been when I was alive. A name hovered on the tip of my tongue, yet I couldn't recall it. Alas, my attempt to fathom how such a thing—forgetting one's own name—was even possible was cut short by a shout from the Jedi:
"Hey! Are you back on your feet? Quick, come with me! Unless, of course, you'd rather end up a captive of that 'sweetheart'..." he called out, his voice dripping with irony. *Sigh.* He's still so young—I almost feel a little sorry for him... Well, what can you say? He stands little chance against a Dathomirian.
Nevertheless, adopting a stance with his lightsaber already drawn back, he positioned himself directly in front of me—as if to shield me—while Ventress laughed maliciously from her corner:
"You boy! You have no idea who I was ordered to transport! All these 'frozen' sentients... Do you think they're just ordinary civilians?" she hissed, alluding to the fact that the body my currently inhabited—the one I'd had the misfortune of "ending up in"—had once belonged to an Inquisitor of the Sith Empire.
But it wasn't her words that unnerved me; it was the fact that, right before my eyes, a classic trope was unfolding: the good old "stop and chat with your opponent while the ship literally falls apart beneath your feet" scene! I remembered from the TV shows: this kind of nonsense never ends well. So, good luck to them—as for me, I think I'll just hobble as far away from here as possible. Having reached this conclusion, I stumbled off on shaky legs toward the only visible exit.
As I made my way across the room, I wondered how the Force-users would react. Surprisingly, neither of them even turned to look at me. They simply stood there, glaring daggers at one another while bickering about something.
Meanwhile, I mused to myself about the wisdom of getting involved. Alas, if I had truly merged with this character, then the path to befriending the Jedi was effectively closed to me. If that guy knew who my character really was, he would have lopped off my head ages ago... Though, since I was unarmed, he probably wouldn't have killed me; he would have simply disarmed and apprehended me, then presented me to the Council. As a "great and terrible" practitioner of the Dark Side. Yeah—and then *they* would decide the terms under which to lock me away... and how many life sentences to hand down. For absolutely no reason at all. Fanatics—what can you expect from them? That scenario certainly didn't appeal to me. On the other hand, there were the CIS forces. With my foreknowledge, in theory, I could have teamed up with Dooku and thrown a wrench in Palpatine's plans—though even that sounded ridiculous. Who was I to go toe-to-toe with such a seasoned strategist? So, that option was a bust, too. Even if I were to march right up to Sidious himself and beg to enter his service, that restless old geezer's sidekick—the one who can read minds—is constantly hovering around him. It's unlikely anything productive would come of it; he'd probably just have me quietly eliminated by sticking the Order on me, and that would be that.
And so, my path now was to leave those two lovebirds to their cooing and try to find an emergency escape pod for myself. To get the hell away from all this infighting... Or, at the very least, to figure out my next course of action in a more suitable environment.
Fortunately, I soon made it out into the corridor—whole and relatively unscathed—though I immediately started coughing as the sudden stench of burnt metal and raw sewage hit my nose. As I trudged through the corridors, with nothing better to do, I tried to—as they say—"feel the Force." My objective was rather greedy: to see if I could potentially snag something small and useful once I reached the surface, since I certainly couldn't carry anything out in my hands right now. Alas, I didn't feel a thing.
Thankfully, I could—with some difficulty—make out the labels and pictograms on the walls. So, after about five minutes of moving in true C-3PO fashion (and not much faster than his standard pace, either), I finally reached my destination. I practically collapsed onto the hard seat of an escape pod, letting out a sigh of relief; every muscle in my body was throbbing from such "monumental" exertion. No wonder—just think how many years this body had been in deep freeze! I won't even attempt to count.
Somehow forcing myself to press a couple of buttons—acting more on muscle memory than conscious thought—I finally strapped myself into the seat; and with the ensuing jolt, I instantly blacked out…