Lothal, Outer Rim Territories
6 BBY (Before the Battle of Yavin)
The taste of copper flooded his mouth before consciousness fully returned.
Solomon Anderson's last memory on Earth was the screech of tires, the impact of metal against bone, and then nothing. No tunnel of light. No celestial judgment. Just void, and then this: waking up on a filthy mattress in a decaying tower that smelled like burnt wiring and desperation.
His eyes snapped open to a ceiling of corroded durasteel and exposed circuitry. The pain hit immediately after, a dull, gnawing ache that started in his stomach and radiated outward. Hunger. Real, physical hunger that went beyond missing a meal or two. This was the kind of emptiness that carved hollows in your body, the kind that made your organs cannibalize themselves.
He tried to sit up, and the world tilted.
What the hell?
His hands came into view first. Small. Too small. Dirt-caked fingers, scraped knuckles, nails bitten down to the quick. Children's hands. His breath caught in his throat as he patted his chest, his arms, his face. Everything felt wrong. Too thin, too bony, like someone had shrunk him down and forgotten to adjust the proportions properly.
A shard of broken mirror leaned against the wall nearby. He crawled toward it, every movement sending sharp protests through muscles that felt simultaneously atrophied and overworked. When his reflection came into focus, the air left his lungs in a rush.
Blue eyes stared back at him from a gaunt, dirt-smudged face. Dark hair, longer than he'd ever kept it, fell across a forehead marked with exhaustion lines no thirteen-year-old should have. The cheekbones jutted too prominently, and there was a hollowness to the expression that spoke of months, maybe years, of inadequate nutrition.
Thirteen.
The thought crystallized with absolute certainty. This body was thirteen years old.
Solomon scrambled backward from the mirror, his breathing coming in short gasps. His back hit the wall, and the impact jarred loose something else, something that didn't belong to him. Memories flooded in like water breaching a dam: a mother's smile, a father's laugh, both fading into the cold efficiency of Imperial officers delivering news. An explosion at an Imperial factory. Parents listed as casualties. Suddenly alone in a world that had no safety net for orphans.
Ezra Bridger.
The name surfaced from the jumble of foreign memories, and with it came understanding. Not just understanding. Recognition.
"No." The word came out as a croak, his throat parched and raw. "No, no, no."
He knew this story. He'd watched this story. Late nights on Earth, scrolling through streaming services, finding comfort in animated adventures set in a galaxy far, far away. Star Wars Rebels. A ragtag group of heroes fighting the Empire, led by a cocky street kid from Lothal who discovered he could use the Force.
That kid was supposed to be fictional.
Solomon pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to reconcile the impossible. He'd died. He was certain of that. The impact had been too violent, too final. But instead of whatever came next, he'd woken up here. In a body that wasn't his. In a universe that shouldn't exist.
In a universe where he knew what was coming.
The panic attack lasted maybe five minutes, though it felt like hours. When it finally subsided, leaving him shaking and drenched in cold sweat, something else took its place. Not acceptance, not exactly. More like the survival instinct that had carried Solomon through his own difficult childhood on Earth, now amplified by the desperate cunning already embedded in Ezra's muscle memory.
He was alive. Against all logic and reason, he was alive.
And if he was alive, he could work with this.
Solomon, no, Ezra, he'd have to think of himself that way now, forced himself to his feet. The tower swayed, or maybe that was just the malnutrition talking. He steadied himself against the wall and took stock of his surroundings with fresh eyes.
The comm tower was abandoned, that much was clear. LothalNet designation E-272, according to a faded sign near the entrance hatch. The equipment had been stripped years ago, leaving only the structural bones and whatever scrap wasn't worth the effort to haul away. Ezra's few possessions were scattered around: a threadbare blanket, a battered datapad with a cracked screen, some food wrappers, and a small collection of tools that looked stolen.
Because they were stolen. Ezra's memories confirmed it.
The datapad still had power. Ezra picked it up, his fingers moving with practiced ease through the interface despite his mind's unfamiliarity. The date glared at him from the display: 14 BBY. One year. One full year before Kanan Jarrus and the Ghost crew would arrive on Lothal and change everything.
In the original timeline, Ezra had spent that year alone, scraping by through petty theft and cons, surviving but not truly living. Then the Ghost crew had found him, trained him, made him a hero.
The hunger pangs intensified, dragging his attention back to immediate needs. Survival first. Philosophy later.
Ezra moved to the storage crate he used as a makeshift pantry. Nearly empty. A few protein bars past their expiration date, a canteen with maybe a quarter of water left. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
His gaze drifted to the viewport, where the skyline of Capital City sprawled across the plains. Somewhere out there, Imperial patrols walked their routes. Supply convoys moved on schedules. Markets operated with predictable inefficiencies. And people, desperate or careless or both, carried valuables that could be liberated by someone quick and clever enough.
Ezra grabbed his worn jacket from the floor, shrugging it on despite the way it hung loose on his frame. The pockets had hidden compartments, he discovered, small spaces perfect for concealing stolen goods. Ezra's memories guided his hands through a final equipment check... a small knife tucked into his boot, a makeshift lockpick set rolled into his sleeve, and the datapad clipped to his belt.
He paused at the tower's exit hatch, one hand on the release mechanism. His reflection caught in the polished metal, he still could not believe this was really happening.
The year ahead would be critical. He couldn't just survive anymore. He needed to prepare. Build networks, gather resources, train his body and mind. And the Force, he'd need to learn to use the Force properly, not just stumble into it the way canon Ezra had.
When the Ghost crew arrived, they'd find someone very different from the cocky, reckless kid they'd expected.
Ezra pulled the hatch open, and the harsh Lothal sunlight spilled across his face. The city waited below, full of dangers and opportunities in equal measure.