Duncan was four when he figured out his parents were criminals.
Not the murdering kind. Not even the violent kind, really. But Joran came home with credits that didn't match the work he claimed to do, and Sarila had calluses on her hands that spoke of weapons training no legitimate job required. They were careful. Quiet. But Duncan had served in courts where everyone lied, and he knew what guilt looked like when it tried to hide behind normalcy.
He didn't care.
Half the people in their building broke laws just to survive. The other half broke them for profit. The difference was academic when you lived six levels below anywhere the authorities cared about.
"Duncan, come here."
He looked up from the broken datapad he'd been trying to fix. Sarila stood in the doorway, arms crossed. She'd cut her hair short again, dark strands barely touching her collar. Made her look harder. Sharper.
"What'd I do?"
"Nothing. Yet." She jerked her head toward the main room. "But you're getting sloppy."
That got his attention. Duncan set down the datapad and followed her out. Joran sat on their excuse for a couch, cleaning a blaster with practiced efficiency. He didn't look up when Duncan entered, but his hands slowed fractionally.
Sarila moved to the center of the room, bare floor creaking under her weight. "Show me ready stance."
Duncan fell into position without thinking. Feet shoulder-width, knees bent, weight forward. Echani basics, drilled into him since he could stand properly.
"Good. Now first form, slow."
He moved through the kata, each motion precise. Flow from guard to strike to guard again, the pattern second nature by now. Sarila watched without expression, which meant he was screwing something up. Duncan finished the sequence and waited.
"Your breathing's off," she said. "And you're anticipating the fifth move. I can see it in your shoulders."
"I—"
"Again."
He went through it three more times before she was satisfied. By the end, sweat stuck his shirt to his back despite the apartment's chill. Four years old and already training like he was preparing for war.
Maybe he was.
"Better." Sarila grabbed a rag from the table, tossed it to him. "You're strong for your age, Duncan. Faster than you should be. People are starting to notice."
Duncan wiped his face, stomach sinking. "I've been careful."
"I know. But careful isn't enough when you're this obvious." She glanced at Joran, some silent communication passing between them. "How tall are you now?"
"I don't know. Tall?"
"You're the size of a seven-year-old. You're four." Joran finally looked up from his blaster, expression neutral. "That draws attention. Attention draws questions. Questions are dangerous."
"What am I supposed to do, stop growing?"
"Watch your mouth," Joran said, but there was no heat in it. "We're not blaming you. Just... making sure you understand the situation."
Duncan understood. He was a freak. Too big, too fast, too good at things kids his age shouldn't even attempt. And in a place like Nar Shaddaa, being a freak made you valuable. Made you a target.
Made you disappear.
"I'll be more careful," he said.
Sarila nodded. "See that you are. Now get washed up. Dinner's in twenty."
Dinner was protein paste and something that might've been vegetables once. Duncan ate without complaint. He'd learned early that complaining about food in a household that sometimes couldn't afford it was a quick way to feel like shit.
Joran scooped the last of his portion onto Duncan's plate when he thought his son wasn't looking. Duncan pretended not to notice, but something hot settled in his chest. These people gave him everything they had, even when they had nothing.
"Uncle Rosel's coming by tomorrow," Joran said around a mouthful of paste. "Wants to meet you properly."
Duncan's head snapped up. "The bounty hunter?"
"That's the one."
"Why?"
Joran shrugged. "He's family. Wants to see what kind of kid I'm raising."
Translation: Rosel had heard about the too-tall, too-competent Synn boy and wanted to assess whether Duncan was an asset or a liability. Duncan had never met his uncle, but he'd heard enough stories. Rosel Synn didn't do anything without calculating the angles first.
Made sense. Survival trait.
"Should I be worried?" Duncan asked.
"Only if you've done something worth worrying about." Sarila smiled, sharp. "Have you?"
"No, ma'am."
"Then you'll be fine."
Rosel Synn was built like a brick wall and moved like smoke.
Duncan clocked the weapons immediately. Two blasters, visible. At least three knives, probably more. Body armor under his jacket, the slight bulk giving it away. Scars on his hands, his neck, one running through his left eyebrow. This was a man who'd survived things that killed other people.
"You're tall," Rosel said by way of greeting.
"Yes, sir."
"Polite too. Joran, you going soft?"
Joran snorted. "Give it five minutes."
Rosel circled Duncan slowly, assessing. Duncan held still, letting himself be examined. Running would mark him as scared. Posturing would mark him as stupid. Better to be calm. Show respect without submission.
"How old are you, boy?"
"Four, sir."
"Huh." Rosel stopped in front of him, arms crossed. "You look seven. Fight like you're ten. Your father says you're smart. That true?"
Duncan considered lying, decided against it. "I try to be."
Something shifted in Rosel's expression. Not quite approval, but close. "Good answer. Smart means knowing what you don't know. Stupid means thinking you know everything." He glanced at Joran. "Mind if I test him?"
"He's your nephew. Do what you want."
Rosel pulled a small device from his pocket, palm-sized and blinking. "Tell me what this is."
Duncan studied it. Cylindrical. Power cell on one end. Activation stud on the side. Could be a dozen things, but the weight distribution suggested— "Comlink. Short-range, encrypted. Military grade, maybe five years old."
Rosel's eyebrows climbed. "How'd you know that?"
"The casing. It's durasteel, not plasteel. Only military uses durasteel for comlinks because it's heavier but tougher." Duncan pointed at a small mark near the base. "That's a manufacturing stamp. Corellian. They make good military hardware."
Silence.
Then Rosel laughed, loud and genuine. "Joran, your kid's a goddamn prodigy."
"I know."
"How long's he been able to identify tech like that?"
"Couple months. He just... picks things up."
Rosel crouched to Duncan's eye level, expression serious now. "You want to learn to shoot, kid?"
Duncan's heart kicked. "Yes, sir."
"Then I'll teach you. But you follow my rules exactly, no exceptions. Blasters aren't toys. You screw around, people die. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good." Rosel stood, ruffled Duncan's hair in a way that probably should've been annoying but wasn't. "We start next week. Bring your brain and leave your ego at home."
The nightmares got worse after he turned five.
Same images every time. Summerhall burning. Egg's face. The weight crushing him. The absolute certainty that he'd failed, that everyone he loved was dying while he lay helpless in the rubble.
He'd wake up gasping, sheets soaked with sweat, and Sarila would be there. Always there. She never asked questions, just held him until the shaking stopped.
"Bad dreams," she'd murmur. "Just dreams."
Except they weren't. They were memories, real as the scars on Rosel's face, and Duncan couldn't explain that to her. Couldn't tell his mother that he'd already lived one full life, died trying to save a king, and somehow ended up here wearing her son's skin.
So he let her comfort him and hated himself for the deception.
One night, after a particularly bad episode, Sarila didn't leave. She sat on the edge of his sleeping mat, back against the wall, and just... stayed.
"You carry a lot for someone so young," she said quietly.
Duncan didn't answer. Couldn't trust his voice.
"I don't know what you've seen, or why you look at the world like a soldier twice your age. But Duncan?" She touched his shoulder, gentle. "You're allowed to be a child. You know that, right?"
"I'm trying," he managed.
"I know. Just... don't try so hard you forget how."
He wanted to tell her it was too late for that. That he'd been a knight, a Lord Commander, someone who'd held lives in his hands and watched them slip away. That childhood was something he'd lost forty years ago in a different world, and no amount of wishing would bring it back.
But Sarila was trying. Loving him despite the strangeness, despite the obvious signs that something about her son wasn't quite right. So Duncan nodded and let her believe he could still be saved from himself.
"Get some sleep," she said. "Tomorrow's a new day."
The incident happened three months later.
Duncan was helping Sarila prep dinner, which mostly meant standing nearby and trying not to break anything. Their kitchen was barely wide enough for one person, let alone two, but she'd started teaching him to cook. Basic stuff. Survival skills, she called it. Everyone should know how to feed themselves.
She had something sizzling in the pan, grease popping. Her hands moved quick, practiced, flipping whatever-it-was without looking. Duncan watched, filing away the technique. You could learn a lot by watching people who were good at things.
Then the container started sliding.
Slow at first. Just gravity and a slick counter doing their thing. But Sarila's hands were full, and Duncan saw it tipping, saw the food inside about to spill, saw the waste they couldn't afford.
He reached out.
Not with his hands.
With the thing inside him that had no name but felt like pressure building behind his eyes. The Force, his parents called it, though Duncan barely understood what that meant. He just knew he could sometimes move things without touching them if he focused hard enough.
The container stopped.
Hung in mid-air.
Settled back on the counter.
The sizzling cut off. Sarila had killed the heat, was turning, face blank in that way that meant she was processing something big.
Duncan's stomach dropped. "I—"
"Don't." She held up a hand. "Don't say anything."
She stared at the container. Stared at Duncan. Back to the container.
Then she walked past him to the door. "Joran. Now."
His father appeared fast, blaster half-drawn like he expected trouble. He took in Sarila's expression, Duncan's pale face, and seemed to understand immediately. "How bad?"
"He moved it. Telekinesis. No contact."
Joran's jaw worked. "You're sure."
"I watched it happen."
They both looked at Duncan. He felt small under that scrutiny, despite being tall for his age. Felt like he'd broken something precious and couldn't figure out how to fix it.
"I'm sorry," he said, because what else was there?
Sarila knelt in front of him, grabbed his shoulders. Not rough, but firm. "Listen to me carefully. What you just did? That's the Force. Do you understand what that means?"
Duncan nodded.
"Say it."
"It means I'm... different. Special. The Jedi would want me if they knew."
"Good. And you know what happens if they find out?"
"They take me away."
"That's right." She squeezed his shoulders. "They take you away, and we never see you again. You become theirs instead of ours. Do you want that?"
"No."
"Then you never, ever do that in front of anyone else. Not friends, not neighbors, not anyone. Understand?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She pulled him into a hug, sudden and fierce. Duncan stood stiff for a second, then wrapped his arms around her and held on. Over her shoulder, he saw Joran watching, expression complicated.
"We'll teach you control," Sarila murmured into his hair. "Show you how to hide it, how to use it safely. But Duncan? This stays between us. Always."
"I promise."
She pulled back, studied his face. Whatever she saw there seemed to satisfy her because she nodded. "Good. Now set the table. Dinner's getting cold."
Just like that, they moved on. Because that's what you did in the Synn household. You dealt with the crisis, made your plans, and got back to living.
Duncan set the table with hands that only shook a little.
Training changed after that.
Sarila started teaching him meditation. Boring as hell, sitting still and focusing on his breathing while his mind wanted to do literally anything else. But she insisted, and Duncan had learned not to argue when his mother used that particular tone.
"The Force responds to emotion," she explained during one session. "Fear, anger, joy, love. It amplifies what you feel. So if you can't control your emotions, you can't control the Force."
"You've used it before," Duncan said. Not a question.
Sarila's lips thinned. "A little. I'm not powerful, not like you. But enough to know how dangerous it is without discipline."
"Why didn't you become a Jedi?"
"Because the Jedi don't ask. They take." She opened her eyes, met his gaze. "They came for my sister when I was seven. Said she was Force-sensitive, that she'd be trained, that it was an honor. My parents tried to argue. The Jedi took her anyway."
Duncan's chest tightened. "Did you ever see her again?"
"Once. Ten years later. She didn't remember us. Didn't remember having a family at all. Just... gone." Sarila's voice stayed level, but her hands fisted in her lap. "So no, Duncan. I will never trust them with you. Ever."
He understood then. The fear wasn't abstract. Wasn't paranoia. Sarila had lost someone to the Jedi Order, and she'd be damned before it happened again.
"I'll be careful," he promised.
"I know you will."
Life settled into new rhythms.
Mornings: meditation and control exercises. Moving small objects. Sensing emotions. Learning to feel the Force without being consumed by it.
Afternoons: combat training with Sarila. Echani forms getting more complex, building on basics until Duncan could flow through sequences without conscious thought.
Evenings: tech work with Joran, or shooting practice with Rosel when his uncle was around. Learning the city, learning the streets, learning how to survive.
Duncan grew. Six years old and tall as a nine-year-old, all lean muscle and controlled aggression. He helped neighbors fix their broken equipment. Stood between bullies and smaller kids. Became someone people knew and mostly trusted.
But he never forgot what he was hiding.
The Force whispered constantly now, background noise he'd learned to filter. He could sense emotions off people nearby. Could move objects weighing a few pounds without visible effort. Could reinforce his body enough to run faster, hit harder, take hits that should've dropped him.
It felt natural. Like breathing.
And that scared him more than anything.
Because power this easy to access was power that could slip its leash without warning. Duncan had seen what happened when people with strength lost control. Had watched good men become monsters because they stopped questioning their own judgment.
He wouldn't let that happen. Couldn't.
So he meditated. Trained. Stayed humble despite growing abilities. And tried very hard to be the son Sarila and Joran deserved, even if he could never quite shake the feeling he was lying to them just by existing.
One night, lying in his sleeping alcove and staring at the ceiling, Duncan made himself a promise.
He'd protect these people. His parents. His uncle. The neighbors who'd shown them kindness. Everyone in this forgotten corner of Nar Shaddaa who just wanted to survive another day.
He'd been Lord Commander once. Had failed spectacularly.
But Duncan Synn wouldn't fail. Couldn't afford to.
This was his second chance.
And he'd be damned if he wasted it.
Outside, the neon painted shifting patterns across his walls. Ships hummed past. Someone was arguing three floors down, their voices echoing through thin walls.
Home.
Duncan closed his eyes and let sleep take him, dreams of fire and ash waiting on the other side of consciousness.
But that was fine.
He'd survived worse.