Tomb Spyder
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Lekku. LOG-003. Foundling.
🕑 Added 2025-05-14 17:18:31 +0000 UTCLOG-003. Foundling.
Time passes.
I burn my name in a bowl full of carbon scoring and lies.
It doesn’t go up quick. The cloth’s too worn, too soaked in sweat and skin and memory. Takes a few seconds for the flame stick to catch, and then it sort of limps along the edge like even the fire’s not sure it wants to be here.
I watch anyway.
It’s just a piece of scrap. Nothing special. Used to be the sash my mother tied around her waist when she danced. Cheap. Dirty. One of the few things that followed me from that collapsing little hovel to this cold, humming ship cave they call a home. I’d had it wrapped around my arm at the time.
I should feel something. Guilt. Pain. Loss. Some dramatic swell of identity collapsing under the weight of change.
Instead, I feel...empty. Hollowed out.
Like something else is watching me from deep inside my ribs, taking notes on how to finish the job.
The elder doesn’t speak while I burn it. He stands with his hands tucked behind his back, armoured plates scuffed but clean. His helmet’s off. Gray beard. Sharp eyes. The kind that look like they’ve seen planets die and didn’t blink.
He waits until the flames eat the last black shred.
“You’ve given up your old name?”
I nod.
“Speak it for the last time.”
I don’t want to. I really don’t. But I do.
“Ki’ari.” I whisper. It comes out like ash. Feels like swallowing a nail.
“Ki’ari is dead.” He states.
Yeah. No shit.
“You are No Name now. Until you earn one.”
I clench my jaw, but I don’t say anything. That’s becoming a thing lately.
He steps closer. Hands me a datapad, thin, rectangular, unmarked.
“Resol’nare. Read it. Recite it. Live it.”
I glance down. The screen lights up.
Six tenets. Mandalorian law. Way of life. Foundational commandments from a culture that adopted war and welded it to survival instinct.
Wear the armour.
Speak the language.
Defend yourself and your clan.
Raise your children as Mandalorians.
Contribute to the welfare of your clan.
When called upon by the Mand’alor, rally to their cause.
I read them once. Then again. Then a third time.
No gods. No prophecies. No saviors.
Just a code. Built for people too angry to die.
…Guess I can work with that.
—
I’ve been moved planetside, somewhere.
The training ring is less a ring and more a slab of permacrete with blood stains no one bothers to clean anymore.
I count six other foundlings, all older than me. Bigger, too. Most human. One Zabrak with half a horn snapped off. They’re armoured in layers, nothing fancy, mostly leathers and training plates, but enough to make it clear that I’m behind.
I’ve been here, what, three days?
Still sore from the gunship. Still raw from the fire.
Still breathing, though.
That’s something.
“Line up!” The drill sergeant barks, a woman with a voice like a stun baton to the back of the neck. No helmet. Scars on her jaw. Sharp teeth. Doesn’t look like she blinks.
We do. I try to copy the posture of the kid next to me, feet shoulder width, arms loose, chin up. I look like a sad little scarecrow trying to impress a firing squad.
The instructor points at me. “No Name, in.”
The others snicker. Real original.
I step forward.
She points at another foundling. “Jarre, in.”
He’s twice my size. Probably three times if you count ego. Human kid with dirty blonde hair, smug mouth, and the kind of face that just asks to be broken.
I clench my fists.
“First to pin, or bleed.” The instructor declares.
That’s the only warning we get.
He lunges. No hesitation.
I barely dodge. He catches my shoulder anyway, spins me into the dirt. My knees bark on impact. I roll. Fast.
Instinct. Survival.
He grins. “You sure you’re not a dancer?”
I don’t reply. I just spit sand and idly ponder how the fuck he’s been raised if he’s asking a five year old that kind of question.
He charges again. Goes for a shoulder check this time. I duck low, let him clip my side, use his momentum to spin.
Then I bite him.
Right on the wrist. Hard. My teeth sink in through the soft armour. He yells. Tries to yank back.
I don’t let go.
He punches me in the side of the head. Twice. Third time’s the charm, I go down hard, head ringing, mouth full of blood. Not sure if it’s mine.
He comes in for a stomp.
I bring my knee up between his legs and twist, hard.
He screams. Drops.
I scramble forward (desperately repressing a sympathetic wince in the process), grab a handful of his face, and slam it into the permacrete with a satisfying crack.
Blood. Definitely his this time.
The instructor yells something, drags me off him before I can do it again.
My nose is bleeding. My lip’s split. My knuckles look like they’ve been dragged through a meat grinder.
…Totally worth it.
Varin’s standing at the edge of the circle. Watching. Helmet on. Arms folded.
He doesn’t say a word.
Just nods.
Bastard.
—
It’s night when the world finally stops spinning.
I lie on the roof of one of the outer buildings, wrapped in a salvaged cloak. Still hurts to breathe. Jarre’s gonna piss blood for a week, though, so that’s something.
The stars are brighter out here. Sharper. No light pollution. No smog. No neon signs screaming flesh prices in Huttese.
Just silence. Cold, endless silence.
I look up and wonder if the Jedi are as real as my mind makes them out to be.
I think they are.
I remember them. Not clearly. But enough.
Swords of light. Big speeches. Moral compass pointing straight into a black hole.
They’d never come here.
And if they did?
They’d probably walk right past me.
I close my eyes. Try to breathe steady.
That’s when I feel it. Just a flicker. Like someone touching the inside of my skull with a wire.
It’s not pain. Not noise. Just...pull.
Like something’s waiting.
Waiting for me to ask.
I don’t.
I just stare harder at the stars until my eyes burn.
—
I don’t sleep.
Not really.
I wait.
I wait for the base to quiet. For the lights to dim. For the clank of boots and snoring foundlings and humming doors to settle into the background drone I’ve memorized over the last week.
And when I’m sure, really sure, I move.
Quiet. Careful. Slow.
I took the knife earlier that day. Nothing fancy. Just a training blade someone left half jammed in a target dummy’s throat. It’s dull and crooked and probably made from recycled speeder parts. But it’ll do.
I hold it the way Varin showed the older kids. Backwards grip. Blade down. My fingers twitch like they remember what it felt like to drive that shard of metal into sand and bone and blood.
Now they want a repeat performance.
His door isn’t locked. Because of course it isn’t.
I slip inside. Dark room. No windows. Just the low red glow of standby systems and the sound of armour plates shifting slightly with every breath.
He’s on the bunk. Not armoured. Just something that sort of looks like a flight suit. Chest rising. Helmet off and hanging on a hook.
His face is…older than I thought.
Not old, exactly. Just worn. Faint scars. Cropped hair. Jaw like he chews beskar for fun. He looks like a man who’s never asked for forgiveness because he doesn’t believe in it.
I step forward.
One foot. Then the next. Like I’m floating. Or maybe sinking.
The knife shakes. Just a little.
I bring it up.
I don’t scream. Don’t cry. Just raise the blade and move in, quick, straight for the throat like I’m supposed to.
And then I’m on the ground.
I don’t even see it happen.
One second I’m about to stab him, the next my face is kissing the floor and my wrist is caught in a grip that could probably crush carbonite.
The knife clatters.
I snarl and twist, kicking and spitting like a cornered animal. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't squeeze. Just holds me there.
We freeze like that.
His breath is steady. Mine isn’t.
Then he lets go.
I roll away. Grab the knife. Try to lunge again-
He disarms me again. This time with one hand. A pivot. A twist. And suddenly the blade is in his grip, and I’m just staring at him like an idiot.
“I should kill you.” I hiss.
“You should.” He agrees.
Silence.
He tosses the blade back onto the bunk and crouches in front of me.
“You came in too loud.” He corrects. “Footsteps gave you away.”
I blink.
“If you want to kill someone in their sleep, you watch their breathing. Time your steps to it.”
He adjusts my wrist. Guides my hand back into the proper grip.
“Don’t go for the neck if you don’t have control. Aim for the liver. Deep, then twist. Always twist.”
I stare at him. I don’t know what this is. A trick? A test? Some kind of weird Mandalorian bedtime story?
But he’s not joking. His voice is flat. Controlled. Precise.
Like this is just a Tuesday for him. Probably is, in all honesty.
He stands again.
“Don’t come at me with emotion.” He reproaches, turning toward his bunk. “Come at me with intent.”
Then he lies back down.
Closes his eyes.
And leaves the door open when I leave.
