The convoy inched through the small, devastated streets of Vexar's capital, the battered speeder thumping over broken, uneven pavement strewn with wreckage. Two lines of Republic soldiers lined the vehicle, armor dented and scuffed from years of fighting and the constant weather. Grim faces and intent eyes, they swept over each shadow, each alleyway, for any sign of threat.
Jalen Korr sat rigid in the tight cabin of the speeder, his eyes fidgety and bright as he swept the wasteland before him. The city was a cemetery of abandoned hopes. Buildings that had risen tall once now stood as empty husks—windows blown out, walls cracked, metal structures twisted and rusted with time and strife.
Outside, tattered forms observed the slow movement of the convoy. Scavengers with sunken eyes and tattered garments, smugglers hiding in shadowy backstreets, begging families crowding together in ramshackle shelters constructed out of scraps and dreams. Their eyes were cautions, some of them suspicious, a few of them curious, but none willing to come near openly.
A soldier, a young recruit called Taren, hunched closer to Jalen's window. "Governor, you ever visit a place like this before?"
Jalen's gaze didn't waver from the streets. "Not like this. Worse than I thought."
Taren nodded tightly. "They say Vexar's cursed. No one can claim it."
Jalen's mouth compressed into a line. "Whether cursed or not, it's mine to claim now."
The speeder bounced over a pothole, and Jalen's eyes spotted a glint of metal underneath the dust—half-buried under wreckage. He leaned forward, his heart racing.
"See that," he whispered. "Under the rubble. there's promise. Minerals, equipment. factories to be remade."
Taren eyed him dubiously. "You actually think you can repair this place?"
Jalen smiled weakly, yet his eyes did not. "I don't have a choice."
The convoy finally came to a stop in front of the governor's palace. The palace was once majestic but now half-ruined, its white stone façade cracked and discolored, vines sprawling through shattered windows. Heavy wooden doors creaked awry on their hinges, and the courtyard was filled with smashed statues and weeds.
Jalen emerged, the bright sun instantly scorching his eyes. The air was heavy with dust and the smell of rust and rot. A mixed militia of locals stood watch about him—locals who manned makeshift shields made out of scraps of metal and salvaged blaster components. They were eyes keen and guarded, measuring him.
A woman stepped forward, her black hair graying with silver, her eyes tempered with years of fighting. Her voice was gruff but firm. "Governor Korr," she said, nodding once. "I'm Mara, commander of the Vexar Resistance. We don't trust the Republic, but if you're truly committed to rebuilding, you'll have need of allies."
Jalen reached out his hand without hesitation. "Then let's begin by earning that trust."
Mara paused for the space of a heartbeat, then gripped Jalen's hand solidly. "Don't hope for it to be smooth."
One of the guards growled, "She's not forgiving."
Jalen disregarded the remark and instead met Mara's unflinching stare.
As they entered, the interior of the palace showed glimmers of its past glory—dust-filled floors, decaying tapestries, and faded murals showing when Vexar had been wealthy and proud. The stillness was oppressive, interrupted only by creaking old wood and the far-off howl of the wind outside.
Mara nodded toward a big room. "This will be your living space. It's not much, but it's secure.
Jalen nodded, scanning the room. Beyond the dust and rot, he could see the skeleton of something worth saving.
That night, Jalen sat alone at a beaten table, a datapad glowing with schematics of the planet's mines and power grids. The images were rough but detailed enough to show the scope of the job before him.
He drew out a small tool kit from his pack—a collection of tools and parts he had brought from Coruscant. While he didn't have the Force, he did have something else: an engineering-minded brain that was schooled in design and creativity.
As he tinkered together a small device—a scout droid prototype intended for reconnaissance and repair of damaged infrastructure—his mind returned.
'How did I get here?' he asked himself.
A soft voice whispered in his head, the recollection of another existence.
Months before, on a world distant from Vexar, Jalen had been a different person altogether. An engineer named Jason, living on Earth—an unremarkable world of blue skies and green forests, where technology advanced but magic and the Force were mere legends from tales.
He recalled the brief burst of light, the debilitating dizziness, and then finding himself here, in this alien galaxy, in the form of a noble who should have controlled the Force but didn't.
"I am not merely a governor," he murmured to himself. "I am a transmigrator. Someone who has been given a second chance."
His hands moved fast, assembling circuits and sensors. He smiled weakly, hope rising in his chest.
'If the Force won't guide me,' he told himself, 'then I will create my own way.'
Outside, the wind raged in through shattered windows, bringing the remote noise of turmoil. But Jalen's determination was unshaken. This world was rich in difficulties—but also possibility.
And he was prepared.