Anakin Skystep // d1 // done
Feb 1, 2014 8:54:01 GMT -5
Post by Kyubey on Feb 1, 2014 8:54:01 GMT -5
anakin skystep
one | male | sixteen | eugene simon
one | male | sixteen | eugene simon
I never asked to be a Jedi. That's what everyone -- that's what the Masters -- seem to forget. They're all to content to chide at me and point their fingers, to accuse me of lusting for power. Like I somehow cheated and clawed to get to where I am. To what I am. I was not born a Jedi.
The Jedi made me.
Do not be mistaken. I have no grudge against the Order itself. As far as Career Academies go, they are morally sound and devoted to justice, not the wanton spectacle of the Games. They have valiantly defended these streets from the Sith gangs for years. But under Master Yoda and his senseless Code, they have become weak. Indecisive. Hypocritical. They espouse the virtues of non-violence while holing away in some bunker, letting innocents die to feed their precious peace. I will not condone inaction, because unlike Master Yoda, I do not have the privilege of a blind eye. Not after what I've been through.
Some don't believe it's possible to be poor in District One. But they have never seen the dusty outskirts of its cities or the mud hovel villages near the fence. They do not know that entire families are exploited, virtually enslaved, in order to fuel the industry. The Skysteps are once such family. For many years, we labored under a despicable man named Tattine, alternately mining precious ore and making cheap wine from old grapes. I was expected to work from the age of six. So was my brother Luke. Every child in our village was a worker-in-training. We never went to school, never had a break, and never had a childhood. And everyday, I got to see our "master" abuse my mother. Powerless to stop him.
But I got my revenge. And in spite of what the Code says about controlling our emotions, I never would have gotten out of that awful place if I hadn't fought back. The Jedi that was around never stopped to talk to me, never looked down as I hauled chunks of metal twice my size. It was only when he saw me take down Tattine and beat his nose in that he took an interest in me.
I was lucky. More lucky than words can say. The Jedi bought both my brother and I's contracts and brought us to the city, telling us only that we'd be cared for. I was twelve at the time -- Luke was eight. They put him in some private kindergarten while I began my real training.
(From a slave to a soldier. Funny. I guess I've always been a tool for others to use.)
From the very start, I was good. Really good. Much better than anyone thought a rural ex-slave could be. I adapted to their weapon -- a flaming sword -- very easily, and it wasn't long before I was chosen to proceed to the next training phase: apprenticeship to an older student and peacekeeping missions in the District. Once my true skill became clear, however, the Masters began to berate me. Told me I was impulsive, rash, and full of anger. Despite proving myself many times, I was not allowed to advance beyond the apprentice level, and still find myself studying under a student who's barely two years my senior.
The Council would keep me as the quivering, starved child from Tattine, but you need only look at me to see that that boy is gone. My training with a saber has toned my muscles and made me strong, yet agile enough to penetrate a foe's defenses. The scared blue eyes I saw so often in the mirror have hardened and transformed. I no longer was mud out of my hair, and if blood mattes the dark blonde strands together, I know it is not my own. I replaced my frayed and discolored rags for black robes, befitting a grown Jedi.
On top of that all, I nearly lost my hand to a Sith and bear the scar to this day. I feel it every time I spar with my Master, and fight all the better for it. My commitment to this Order has been burned into my very body -- and still I am not given the respect I deserve.
In a way, I am glad for the Sith conflict. It finally exposed the Council for the cowards they are and spurred me into action at long last.
I made my official break after the Sith burned down our academy. Yoda suggested we go into hiding, reduce our street presence so that we wouldn't be killed. When I opposed him, he threatened to expel me from the Order. I didn't care -- for once in my life, I didn't care. Only my Master spoke on my behalf and prevented the sentence. It did not matter either way, for though we are all still Jedi in name, my rebellion has split the Order in two.
Thankfully, I am not alone in my cause. Other Jedi, other warriors who are not content to stand by and await the killing blow, have joined me against the Sith. Still others support me from within the Council's domain, and while they hesitate now, I have faith that they will answer my call when this becomes a war, not a simple massacre. They look to me because I am strong. Because I am willing to do what is necessary. Because I am willing to pay the price of peace in blood.
The Masters said I was not ready for power. How blind they are. I have had power all along.
And I will only get stronger.
The Jedi made me.
Do not be mistaken. I have no grudge against the Order itself. As far as Career Academies go, they are morally sound and devoted to justice, not the wanton spectacle of the Games. They have valiantly defended these streets from the Sith gangs for years. But under Master Yoda and his senseless Code, they have become weak. Indecisive. Hypocritical. They espouse the virtues of non-violence while holing away in some bunker, letting innocents die to feed their precious peace. I will not condone inaction, because unlike Master Yoda, I do not have the privilege of a blind eye. Not after what I've been through.
Some don't believe it's possible to be poor in District One. But they have never seen the dusty outskirts of its cities or the mud hovel villages near the fence. They do not know that entire families are exploited, virtually enslaved, in order to fuel the industry. The Skysteps are once such family. For many years, we labored under a despicable man named Tattine, alternately mining precious ore and making cheap wine from old grapes. I was expected to work from the age of six. So was my brother Luke. Every child in our village was a worker-in-training. We never went to school, never had a break, and never had a childhood. And everyday, I got to see our "master" abuse my mother. Powerless to stop him.
But I got my revenge. And in spite of what the Code says about controlling our emotions, I never would have gotten out of that awful place if I hadn't fought back. The Jedi that was around never stopped to talk to me, never looked down as I hauled chunks of metal twice my size. It was only when he saw me take down Tattine and beat his nose in that he took an interest in me.
I was lucky. More lucky than words can say. The Jedi bought both my brother and I's contracts and brought us to the city, telling us only that we'd be cared for. I was twelve at the time -- Luke was eight. They put him in some private kindergarten while I began my real training.
(From a slave to a soldier. Funny. I guess I've always been a tool for others to use.)
From the very start, I was good. Really good. Much better than anyone thought a rural ex-slave could be. I adapted to their weapon -- a flaming sword -- very easily, and it wasn't long before I was chosen to proceed to the next training phase: apprenticeship to an older student and peacekeeping missions in the District. Once my true skill became clear, however, the Masters began to berate me. Told me I was impulsive, rash, and full of anger. Despite proving myself many times, I was not allowed to advance beyond the apprentice level, and still find myself studying under a student who's barely two years my senior.
The Council would keep me as the quivering, starved child from Tattine, but you need only look at me to see that that boy is gone. My training with a saber has toned my muscles and made me strong, yet agile enough to penetrate a foe's defenses. The scared blue eyes I saw so often in the mirror have hardened and transformed. I no longer was mud out of my hair, and if blood mattes the dark blonde strands together, I know it is not my own. I replaced my frayed and discolored rags for black robes, befitting a grown Jedi.
On top of that all, I nearly lost my hand to a Sith and bear the scar to this day. I feel it every time I spar with my Master, and fight all the better for it. My commitment to this Order has been burned into my very body -- and still I am not given the respect I deserve.
In a way, I am glad for the Sith conflict. It finally exposed the Council for the cowards they are and spurred me into action at long last.
I made my official break after the Sith burned down our academy. Yoda suggested we go into hiding, reduce our street presence so that we wouldn't be killed. When I opposed him, he threatened to expel me from the Order. I didn't care -- for once in my life, I didn't care. Only my Master spoke on my behalf and prevented the sentence. It did not matter either way, for though we are all still Jedi in name, my rebellion has split the Order in two.
Thankfully, I am not alone in my cause. Other Jedi, other warriors who are not content to stand by and await the killing blow, have joined me against the Sith. Still others support me from within the Council's domain, and while they hesitate now, I have faith that they will answer my call when this becomes a war, not a simple massacre. They look to me because I am strong. Because I am willing to do what is necessary. Because I am willing to pay the price of peace in blood.
The Masters said I was not ready for power. How blind they are. I have had power all along.
And I will only get stronger.
