Prologue: Beginnings

     I was conceived during a threesome. One of the males was a frustrated Rebel cadet who had just finished a rather disappointing seven week training exercise with an all-Mon Calamari crew and no shore leave. Like a cold, dead fish those are. The other was an Imperial ensign too drunk on Vasarian Brandy to care. The Muon Gold overdose did not help anything either. During the profane mingling of rivalry that ensued, one of them dropped a bomb and I was created. Minutes later, the other likewise dropped a bomb. This time it was a thermal detonator knocked loose from his grenadier's belt in the throes of passion. The blast tore through three floors of the hotel, an ammunitions cache, a warhead warehouse, a small arms factory, an experimental weapons test facility, a wicker basket manufacturing plant, a sidewalk fireworks stand, a troupe of circus performers, two small towns, and an Artisan convention. Rescuers from all around rushed to the scene, taking only brief stops at restaurants, nightclubs, historical landmarks, five-star hotels, LAN parties, rest areas, fine arts festivals, brothels, and casinos.
     Three days later they arrived and began to look for survivors still conscious enough to hold onto their purses and moneybags but too crippled, weak, or buried in debris to evacuate the area. Due to unfortunate circumstances, these all died of complications of injuries induced at the scene. As the rescue workers unearthed my mother's torso - or rather what was left of it- from beneath the wreckage of the hotel's facade, they beheld a strange and curious sight. A round glittering object, about the size of a small marble or Trandoshan brain, was doing a tap dance on her abdomen. It seemed to be a cross between the Twi'lek Two Step and the Bothan Boogie, with a clearly obvious influence of an unbalanced, uncoordinated species with flat feet and a flatter rhythm. Their hearts were filled with pity. Pity I was not a Wookie embryo: those walking carpets have a stranglehold on the slave market these days, though forecasters speculate that current trends in the economy indicate the Twi'lek will soon give them a run for their money.
     Still, not wasting the prospect of a case of expired ale or moldy muffins, I was scooped up and gingerly flung into a knapsack. After scores of salt mines, labor camps, and soup kitchens declined to purchase me, my captors faced a dilemma: either spend several small fortunes incubating me in a bacta tank until I was old enough to be eligible for foster care, or leave me on the street corner. After consulting their wallets, they quickly chose the latter, placing me in the shade of a folded sign reading "Free to G...Any Home". It was on that fateful corner that I was picked up by a lovely young woman. As she realized what I was she clutched me tightly against her bosom and ran to tell her father of her find. As she pranced merrily through the streets, I was jostled lightly against the warm, soft cushions of her breasts and my embryonic shell blushed two shades of green.
     Her father, a brilliant scientist, realized that my dancing had deteriorated into asynchronous moshing. I had been outside the womb too long in my fragile, exposed state. He considered putting me out of my misery before I spiraled downward into the polka waltz of death. Then inspiration suddenly hit him like a fresh spit wad to the temple. He carefully extracted my genetic makeup (lip gloss and eyeliner I have been told) and poured them into a cloning vat. I was brought to a boil, covered and put on simmer for 15 minutes, stirred occasionally. He opened a Stats Pack and carefully measured, adjusted, measured, adjusted, measured, and again adjusted to perfection. After hours of frustration he finally haphazardly emptied the entire contents into the vat and let the dice roll themselves. They promptly did so. Eleven! "Damn cheatin' loaded dice," he mumbled. He unceremoniously scooped my contents out of the vat with a popsicle stick and placed it into a Rodian mold. The fuzzy, musty mold quickly absorbed my liquid being and formed into a gelatinous mass. 30 minutes in the kiln, or until the crust was forest green, and I was done. Ding!
     When I emerged from the oven, he quickly realized my soft, supple skin was not accustomed to the dry, arid air. He promptly placed me in a durasteel box and stowed me away on a cargo ship with a shipping label to Rodia. The illiterate, inebriated, and illegitimate captain delivered me to Mos Espa, Tatooine. Following the "Fragile, Handle With Care" instructions to the letter, he roughly dumped my unconscious body onto the steps of the starport, keeping my clothes, credits, and the durasteel box for himself. And thus my adventures began.