Earth – Five Minutes Before Flatline
"Bro, I'm telling you—there's no way a Jedi can survive Tatooine longer than a gonk droid."
"Do you hear yourself right now?"
Rush hour on a Tuesday. Horns. People walking too fast. Neon lights bouncing off wet pavement. It was the kind of evening that made you question your life choices—like eating at a strip mall taco place for the third night in a row, or continuing a half-serious argument about Star Wars lore in the middle of an intersection.
"You're telling me some sentient glorified battery would outlast a trained warrior—"
"It's not just a battery, it's an icon—"
The light turned red.
They stepped into the street anyway.
Across from them: the holy grail. The glowing, greasy logo of a Taco Bell/KFC hybrid. Like a beacon from the gods of bad decisions.
They didn't see the drone.
Correction: they saw a drone. A regular little delivery unit with blinking lights and a thermal pizza compartment. Nothing threatening. Nothing noteworthy.
They didn't see the modified prototype racing down the adjacent street, ejected from a tech startup's testing range after a misfire, its GPS scrambled and AI logic thinking it was still in an open-air trial zone in Nevada.
It hit them both at 37 miles per hour.
There was a wet metallic thunk, the sound of a plastic bag popping, and a muffled "oh sh—"
Then silence.
The Roomba from the taco joint nudged one of the shoes left behind.
🌫️ The In-Between
No pain. No tunnels. No angel choirs. Just... static.
Then a voice. Synthetic, genderless. Cold, but curious.
"Cognitive imprint detected. Source: Extra-Galactic.
Condition: Incomplete. Integrity: Low.
Probability of reality destabilization: High.
...Acceptable."
A pause.
"Initiating Reformatting Protocol."
"Wait—wha—"
"Language pack incomplete. Injecting context. Updating timeline."
The void cracked.
And suddenly—
"...Why is this water so clean?"
🌿 Naboo — Present Time
The first sensation was wetness. Cold, clean water that burned in the lungs.
One of them surfaced with a gasp, coughing and flailing like a dog in a bathtub.
The other bobbed beside him, face-up, blinking at the sky like it had betrayed him personally.
"Bro," the first one croaked, "Are we dead?"
There was a moment of spluttering, coughing, and borderline drowning before the second one responded.
"No," he said hoarsely, wiping water from his eyes. "We're stupid. But not that stupid."
They both floated in silence for a beat.
"…Okay, maybe we are dead."
They drifted toward the edge of a marshy lakebank, where gentle waves lapped at soft sand and reedgrass.
Above them, sunlight broke across an impossibly blue sky, with puffy clouds that looked like CGI. The air smelled like damp stone, flowers, and fish.
It was... nice.
Too nice.
Like a cutscene before everything went to hell.
"Where... is this?" one asked, voice low with awe and confusion.
The other sat up, squinting toward the treeline. "Looks like... Italy? Fantasy Italy?"
More silence. They were both soaking wet, dressed in unfamiliar clothes—rough, travel-worn tunics with satchels, boots, even belts that looked suspiciously handcrafted. No phones. No keys. Just... them.
And then came the clicking. Sloshing footsteps. Wet, webbed.
Both turned sharply.
Standing a few meters away in knee-deep water was a lanky creature with long ears, wide eyes, and a fishing pole slung over one shoulder.
A Gungan.
A real Gungan.
He blinked. They blinked.
The Gungan sniffed, scratched the back of his head, and muttered in a thick accent, "Okee day... definitely gonna need more nets."
Later – Gungan Boat, Lake Paonga
They sat in silence as the boat glided across the lake, powered by some gentle hydro-thrusters. The Gungan, who introduced himself as "Bulo," offered them towels and something that might've been smoked eel jerky. Neither accepted.
One of them finally spoke.
"We're in Star Wars, aren't we."
The other stared blankly at the distant shoreline. "...Yup."
"Like, actual Star Wars. With planets and aliens and all that."
The Gungan hummed as he cast a net. In the distance, domed cities shimmered against the sun.
"…Okay. So. Are we Force-sensitive? Do we get lightsabers?"
"Dude, we washed up in a lake with tunic-tier stats. I'm pretty sure we're NPCs."
They both stared at the boat floor for a moment.
"…You think this is like, punishment? Like some weird karmic joke for dying mid-argument?"
"I'd say it was karmic if either of us had done anything meaningful enough to get judged."
"Fair."
Bulo looked between them, unfazed. "You boys got names?"
They stiffened.
Names. Their real ones? They were still there, tucked in memory like old receipts. But... they didn't belong here. Not in this galaxy.
The second one leaned in and said with sudden, suspicious confidence, "Nope. No names. We don't do names."
Bulo raised a brow-ridge. "Okee then. Secret types. That's fine. Just don't cause trouble."
On Shore – The Edge of Theed
After dropping them off outside the city, Bulo gave them a halfhearted warning about pickpockets and "not messin' with them Trade Federation types," then paddled off into the distance.
They stood on the stone path, dripping, overwhelmed, and barefoot.
Before them stretched the grand city of Theed—clean architecture, waterfalls, wide-open plazas. Elegant and orderly.
"…I feel underdressed."
"Bro. I feel underreality."
They turned in sync to the sound of an approaching speeder cart. A local merchant eyed them warily, then zoomed past without a word.
The silence was thick with the weight of What Now?
Finally, one spoke.
"Okay. We need goals."
"Goal #1: survive."
"Goal #2: figure out if this is a dream, a coma, or the afterlife."
"Goal #3: get shoes."
The first one turned slowly. "Wait, you're barefoot?"
"…So are you."
"…Shit."
📡 System Online
As they argued about footwear and existential dread, neither of them noticed the faint glimmer in the air nearby—a distortion, like heat haze.
A sliver of code. A flicker of energy. Something ancient and artificial, watching. Waiting.
Subject Integration: 87% Complete
Memory Lock: Stable
Emotional Calibration: Suboptimal
Suggested Directive: Observe, adapt, survive. Do not seek the Force.
Then it blinked out, leaving behind only the faintest trace of a synthetic whisper in the wind:
"Welcome to the galaxy."