SW Gray Tales 32: Cold Morning, Hot Metal

WN folks hit the milestone, so gotta do an update there later. Have this one in advance.

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The roof was wet. The kind of wet where it's not raining, but that sticky, clingy wet that tells you the rain spent all night getting way too familiar with everything and then dipped before sunrise like a bad date. There was a low fog crawling across the nearby rooftops, making the skyline all vague and ghostly.

I, genius that I am, was out here in shorts.

Yeah.

Real smart.

The cold bit at my legs like a pack of tiny, icy piranhas, and my breath came out in these little plumes, like I was auditioning for the role of "pathetic frostbitten child #3" in some survival holo. But I didn't go back inside. I had a mission. A plan. A training arc, dammit.

And didn't old monks on mountaintops do this crap all the time? Meditate half-naked in blizzards to reach enlightenment or whatever? Surely my pale, goosebumped thighs were just part of the ancient Force tradition.

You suffer, then you get powers. Or maybe frostbite. Fifty-fifty.

Anyway.

I knelt down on the old plastimetal crate I'd dragged up here for exactly this kind of dramatic rooftop moment and opened the antique box.

There it was. My weird, half-spear-half-axe Force artifact thingy. Still wrapped like some museum curator's idea of proper preservation: silk-like cloth, some crisscrossed synth-twine, a wax seal that looked like someone had used their toe to press it. Whatever. Ceremony over.

I unwrapped it, and the moment my hand twitched toward it, the weapon jumped up and smacked into my palm like a loyal dog who'd also studied parkour. I couldn't help the little grin that crept up.

Gods, that never got old.

I mean, yeah, my telekinesis was trash-tier most days. Like, "can pick up tools and yank it here and there a spoon if I'm constipated with effort" trash. But the way this thing responded to me? That was power. Not big power. Not sexy power. But still—power.

I turned it in my hands, letting the cold metal whisper through my senses. The shaft had that uneven, handmade feel to it. Thick where it mattered, worn thin where hands had gripped it again and again. The faded grip texture told me it'd been used. A lot. It was old, yes, but not brittle. Experienced. Like an old soldier that could still knock your teeth out if you underestimated him.

One side of the head was this clean, curved axe blade, sharp even through centuries of wear. Small red stains that told a lot of story. The other side? A nasty spike that looked like it was meant to say "stay back" in a hundred different languages, including "ow." If I swung this thing at someone, I wouldn't need perfect form or Jedi grace. I'd just need enough room. Enough intent.

It was built for reach. Control. Probably used to keep multiple enemies at bay, or, if you had the guts for it, dominate a single fight with overwhelming pressure. All of this, of course, was based on extensive research I'd done at 2am while binging spear-fighting videos in past life.

Don't judge. We all have our coping mechanisms.

But the weapon wasn't just metal, the weird part or the special part was that the Force ran through it, quiet, calm, like a still lake under starlight. No aggression, no lingering trauma. Just... serenity. Peace.

That threw me off more than a weapon soaked in death ever could've. Because if this thing had seen real use—and it had—it had also survived in a way most weapons didn't. Then why doesn't it has any negative emotions assosiated with it?

Even a butcher's knife has anguish, not big but still there. Does being imbued with Force makes it different than normal stuff? If I had an lightsaber of some Jedi, then perhaps I could asnwer that question, but if I had that, then would I even be bothering with this 'too big for my small body' weapon?

Well, beggars can't be choosers.

I probed deeper, reaching out with my Psychometry. The signatures were there, but... blurred. Obscured. Like someone had rubbed their thumb across wet paint. The murkiness came due to the force signatures and the temporal ones merging into one, as even the temporal ones are just echoes in the cosmic force, and as such, soluble in Force if i say so myself.

I could faintly fee layers on layers of memory, compressed and warped, like a hundred stories told on top of each other.

Structural analysis also gave some results. The axe-head metal had something strange about its structure too—tightly packed at the molecular level. A lattice so dense it should've made the thing heavy as hell. But it wasn't. It felt right. Balanced.

Whoever made this knew their stuff. Or maybe it was just space vibranium. If I could get an spectro-gram or its star-wars equivalent, I could test if its an rare compound or element, maybe something else altogether.

And maybe, just maybe, if I could peel back those layers without frying my brain, I could see what they saw. Learn what they knew.

I took a deep breath and adjusted my grip. The mist was thick now, the chill numbing my legs, but I didn't care.

Time to see what this thing remembered.

The moment I reached deeper into the weapon's memories, I braced for the usual psychometric onslaught—the flood of images, emotions, and fragmented sensations that usually hit like a speeder to the face. But this time? Nothing. Just silence. The axe-staff sat in my hands, inert as a rock, like it had decided to play dead just to mess with me.

I blinked. "Seriously?"

Then the rooftop vanished.

One second, I was kneeling on cold plastimetal, my legs numb from the chill. The next, I was standing in an open courtyard, surrounded by a dozen other figures—kids, maybe, or young adults, all dressed in identical loose robes. My hands weren't mine. Or rather, they were, but thicker, rougher, like they'd seen more work than Ezra's scrawny fingers ever had. The robe sleeves draped over my wrists, coarse fabric scratching against my skin.

What the hell?

I glanced down. The axe-staff was still in my grip, but different—cleaner, sharper, like it had just been forged yesterday. The others around me held similar weapons, their faces blurred at the edges, like someone had smudged wet ink over their features. I could tell they were focused, tense, but trying to pick out details was like squinting through fog.

A voice echoed, distant but clear, cutting through the murmurs of the group:

"Through exercise... discover the Force."

"...the Force... tranquility..."

"...vitality..."

The words slipped through my head like smoke, half-formed, before the entire group moved in unison. Staffs rose, then slammed down in perfect sync, the butt ends striking the ground with a single, resonant thud. The impact vibrated up my arms, rattling my teeth.

Before I could process it, a new presence stepped forward—a broad-shouldered man with a beard and a stance like he'd been carved out of a mountain. His face was just as indistinct as the others, but the aura around him was anything but vague. Calm. Heavy. The kind of quiet intensity that made the air feel thicker just by him standing there.

He planted his staff into the earth.

The ground shook. More than just some symbolic tremor, this was a full, physical quake, strong enough to make my knees wobble. The fuck is he eating motherfucker!?

Dust kicked up from the impact, swirling around his feet like he'd just commanded the planet itself to pay attention.

Then, without a word, he began to move.

The others followed, mirroring his motions—slow, deliberate sweeps of their weapons, each movement flowing into the next like water.

What the kriff was happening?

Was I inside the weapon's memory? Living through some ancient training drill? Or had I just hallucinated myself into a cult of polearm enthusiasts? I just stood still, confused.

The bearded man's voice cut through my panic, as if not even seeing an person among others standing there like an statue

"Prepare for trials."

Instantly, the group moved in that weird, synchronized way cults and marching bands do when they've practiced way too much. They formed a wide circle, leaving the center empty like some kind of polearm fight club.

I shuffled along with them, because when in creepy-Force-vision-land, do as the blurry cultists do.

The man turned his head—or at least, I think he did, since his face was still about as detailed as a potato—and called out:

"Varin. Prepare."

I glanced around, half-expecting some jacked warrior to step forward.

Silence.

Then I noticed.

Everyone was staring at me.

My brain short-circuited.

Oh. Oh no.

"Uh," I said intelligently.

The man tilted his head. "Varin?"

Right. Okay. So either:

A) I'd accidentally possessed some poor schmuck named Varin mid-training, which was rude.

B) The axe-staff had a name, and I was currently cosplaying as it.

Or C) This was all a sleep-deprivation hallucination, and any second now, Vasha was going to shake me awake while yelling about drooling on her good hydrospanner again.

The man—who was definitely the instructor here, judging by the way everyone else straightened up like he'd just mentioned pop quizzes—repeated, slower this time:

"Varin. To the center."

I swallowed.

Well. If I was gonna get my ass kicked by a ghost gym teacher, I might as well commit.

I stepped forward, gripping the staff like it might save me.

Spoiler: It wouldn't.

Before the instructor could even say anything else, one of the faceless figures stepped out of the circle. Great. Jumping the gun. Real sportsmanlike, buddy.

The guy planted his staff into the ground like it was magnetized to the planet's core. Stood straight. No wobble. Showoff. Then came the fist-to-forehead salute. All very solemn and martial-arts-holo.

Right. Okay. When in creepy ancient Force bootcamp…

I mimicked the gesture – or tried to. Jammed my staff butt-first into the dirt.

Clatter. It faceplanted instantly.

A wave of silent judgment radiated from the faceless crowd. Oh, bite me. It's slippery!

Second try. Wobble… wobble… thud.
"Seriously?" I hissed at the uncooperative stick.

Third try. It leaned precariously, held its breath… and collapsed like a drunk gonk droid. "Oh, come ON!"

Fourth try. Pure desperation. I practically willed it upright. Miraculously, it stayed. I slammed my fists to my forehead in the salute, probably looking like I was trying to knock myself out pre-emptively. My opponent was still frozen mid-bow, radiating secondhand embarrassment. Awkward.

The instructor's voice boomed: "Begin."

Oh, I'm gonna die. Painfully. With an audience.

The rival exploded forward. His staff whistled towards my ribs. I barely parried.

THWACK!

"GAH! Son of a—!" Pain lit up my forearms like live wires. Okay, vision or not, that KRIFTS! Is this OSHA compliant?!

Before I could blink, the other end cracked against my temple.

CRACK!

"Stars above! Is concussing students standard curriculum?!" I staggered, vision swimming. "Yelp review: One star! 'Instructor stood by while Timmy got his brains scrambled!'"

I swung wildly, off-balance in this unfamiliar, taller body. My rival sidestepped like I was moving through syrup. Butt-end jabbed straight into my solar plexus.

THUD!

"OOF—!" All the air left my lungs. I hit the dirt, gasping like a landed fish. "Internal organs… reporting severe dissatisfaction… union forming…"

WHACK!

Across the shoulders.

"OW! HEY! Personal space, pal!"

THUMP!

To the thigh.

"MY LEG! Is this a spar or a tenderizing session?!"

SMACK!

Behind the knee. I crumpled again.

Okay, seriously! Is beating the kriff out of people allowed here? Where's the HR department?! I wanna file a complaint! Violation of the Anti-Face-Bashing Accords!

I scrambled, trying to rise. This body feels like a poorly piloted walker! Two years of being a scrawny kid ruined my depth perception! Another blow slammed into my lower back.

AGH! Fine! You win! Participation trophy! Just STOP HITTING ME!

My rival didn't stop. He was a relentless, faceless machine of pain. Every block sent shockwaves up my arms. Every hit landed with bruising, real force. This isn't a memory, it's a kriffing hazing ritual!

Finally, as I managed to half-rise, clutching my probably-bruised-everything, he committed. The axe blade flashed – a wicked, polished arc cutting through the hazy light.

Oh no. Nononono—

It wasn't a swing. It was a precise, brutal thrust.

The gleaming point filled my vision.

SHUNK.

Agony. Absolute, white-hot, skull-splitting agony. Cold metal punched through bone, through thought, through everything.

PAIN.

Darkness swallowed me whole.

—

GASP.

Cold, wet rooftop plastimetal under my knees. Real air, thick with Lothal mist, burning my lungs. I was hunched over, the ugly axe-staff clutched in white-knuckled hands. My whole body throbbed like I'd been used as a Wookiee's punching bag. My temple pulsed. My gut ached. My back screamed. Even my teeth felt rattled.

I frantically patted my face. No hole. No axe blade. Just sweat, cold, and the lingering, phantom sensation of cold steel shearing through my brain.

I stared at the weapon, breathing hard. "What... the actual hell... was that?!" I wheezed, voice raw. "Some kind of... sadistic training montage simulator?! 'Learn by Getting Your Ass Kicked: The Ancient Edition'?! Zero out of ten! Would NOT recommend! Refund requested!"

The axe-staff sat smugly silent in my grip, radiating faint, peaceful energy that felt like the universe's biggest troll.