Cold.
That was the first thing I noticed. Not the brisk, refreshing kind—like opening the fridge at 2 AM to scavenge for leftovers. No, this was the kind of cold that burrowed into your bones, like the universe had tossed you in a freezer and forgotten you were there.
My face was mashed against something rough—concrete, maybe—and the smell hit me all at once: dust, rotting vegetables, that rancid funk of a place that hadn't seen sunlight in years. Classy. And of course, my cheek was wet. Fantastic. I'd been drooling. A brilliant start.
I tried to move, but my arms just flopped uselessly. Noodle limbs. My head throbbed like a drumline had set up shop inside my skull. Great. Either I'd gone on a legendary bender, or someone had roofied me with something industrial-grade.
I forced one eye open. Pitch black. Immediate regret. My headache flared up, offended I'd dared to exist.
Then—BAM.
Memories. Not mine. Someone else's life detonating inside my skull, a whole existence compressed into seconds like a movie downloaded at 1000x speed.
A woman's laugh. Dark hair, warm smile. Mira.
A man lifting me into the air, his beard scratching my cheek. Ephraim.
The tang of something sweet—meiloorun fruit.
Frustration as tiny fingers fumbled with a broken datapad.
Flashes of childhood: first steps, scraped knees, learning to read letters that shouldn't make sense but somehow did. Seven years of memories dumped into my brain like a psychic trash bag.
And then came the last memory. The worst one.
Shouting. Boots pounding overhead. Mira and Ephraim shoving me—no, shoving Ezra—into a hidden compartment beneath the floorboards.
"Stay here, Ezra. Be quiet, no matter what you hear. We love you."
The panel slammed shut. Darkness. Screams. A door splintering. A cold, mechanical voice barking orders.
Then… silence.
The memory vanished as abruptly as it had come. My heart was racing, but the panic felt… borrowed. Like someone else's fear was echoing inside me.
I lay there, trying to process.
Ezra.
Ezra Bridger.
As in Star Wars Rebels Ezra Bridger.
As in orphaned-by-space-fascists Ezra Bridger.
As in oh holy crap, I was in Star Wars—and I was a seven-year-old Ezra Bridger.
I groaned. "You've gotta be space-kidding me."
My voice was too high. My hands were too small. I wiggled my fingers, just to be sure. Yep. Definitely a kid.
So. Let's recap:
I, Alex (RIP), had somehow woken up in Ezra Bridger's body.I had his memories, but they were spotty, like a bad Wi-Fi connection.His parents had just been space-napped by the Empire.I was currently hiding in a basement like the discount protagonist of a horror movie.Oh—and I was in Star Wars.
Cool. Coolcoolcool.
This was fine.
I took a deep breath. Okay. First things first—was this an isekai situation? Because if so, where was my cheat skill? My overpowered system? My tutorial NPC?
I cleared my throat. "…System?"
Nothing.
"Status?"
Silence.
"Inventory? Skill tree? Golden Finger?"
Nada.
I slumped. Great. So no game mechanics. Just me, a traumatized kid's body, and a galaxy full of space fascists.
Wait.
Wait a damn fucking moment!
This was Star Wars. If there was no system… there was still the Force.
How the fuck could I even forget about this so very important thing? That was supposed to be Ezra's whole deal.
The big cosmic cheat code. The thing that made him special...through that guy wasted the gift by not tapping the cheeks of Sabine.
That aside!! This was a cheat skill if I ever heard one.
The deus ex machina that is going to make me go UNLIMITED POWER bwahahaha...
...
...
Now… how the hell did I use it?
I held out my hand—tiny, grubby, and distinctly un-magical—and willed something to happen. A spark. A tingle. A whisper from the universe telling me I wasn't completely screwed.
Nothing.
Okay, maybe I was doing it wrong. Jedi stuff was all about peace and serenity, right? Deep breaths. Empty mind.
Be one with the Force or whatever.
I closed my eyes and tried to meditate.
In. Out. In. Out.
My stomach growled like a rancor.
I groaned. Seriously?
Fine. If calm wasn't working, maybe sheer frustration would. I dug through my (our?) memories for something raw, something angry. Ezra's parents being taken was the obvious choice, but weirdly, it didn't hit hard enough. It was sad, sure, but it wasn't mine.
So, Earth memories it was. I thought about that one time I lost a ranked match because my teammate decided to "test" if he could throw a grenade straight up and catch it. (Spoiler: He couldn't.) The sheer, unbridled rage of that moment flooded back, hot and acidic. I grabbed that feeling and pushed, like trying to shove a door open with my mind.
Still nothing.
I slumped against the wall, the weight of reality crashing down.
No system. No Force powers. No OP cheat skills. Not even a snarky AI to mock my terrible life choices. Just a seven-year-old body, a head full of someone else's tragic backstory, and a front-row seat to Space Fascism: The Home Game. I'd read about guys getting reincarnated as slimes, as swords, even as sentient vending machines, and every single one of them had a better starting kit than this.
The silence in the basement wasn't just quiet—it was heavy. Like the air itself was pressing down on me. The lump in my throat grew until it felt like I'd swallowed a rock. That borrowed sadness from Ezra's memories didn't feel so borrowed anymore. It mixed with my own panic, turning into something thick and suffocating. The dark wasn't just an absence of light—it was a living thing, wrapping around me like a musty, wet blanket.
For one humiliating second, the seven-year-old instincts kicked in. I wanted to curl up and cry for parents who weren't even mine.
I choked it down. Hard.
Alright, Alex. Get it together. Crying in a basement wasn't a survival strategy. Time to think.
First, the good news: I was in a hiding spot. A good one. Built to keep a kid safe from stormtroopers. That meant it was secure. Probably had a way out, too, if Ezra's parents were smart. (And they were. They had to be.)
Now, the bad news: I was seven. Weak. Tiny. My reach was pathetic, my strength nonexistent. I couldn't win a fight with a loth-cat, let alone a stormtrooper. This wasn't the kind of body you used to overthrow an empire.
And then, the worst news: Lothal wasn't just some backwater. It was a backwater with a deadline. The Sienar factory, the TIE Defender project, Thrawn's whole military science fair—this place was about to become a warzone.
But the real kicker?
The Ghost crew. Kanan. Hera. Sabine. They didn't find Ezra as a scared kid hiding in a basement. They found him as a cocky teenager, living in that dumb comm tower.
How old was he then? Fifteen?
Fifteen minus seven is eight.
Eight. Years.
I had to survive eight years before the plot even started.
I let my head thunk against the wall.
Well.
This is going to suck.
For a long moment, my brain just… stalled. Eight years. The number echoed in my skull like a bad holonet connection. Eight years of what? Scrounging? Hiding? Eating space-potatoes until I turned into one? The panic surged again, sharp and acidic—but then something even stronger smothered it: pure, bone-deep exhaustion.
Freaking out takes energy, and right now, I was running on empty.
I dragged in a shaky breath. Okay. No point screaming into the void. Time to take stock.
First order of business: light. Fumbling around like some horror movie extra wasn't doing me any favors. My hands—still weirdly small, still not mine—patted across the rough floor until they hit something smooth and cylindrical. A glowrod. Ezra's memories supplied the name before I could even question it. My thumb found the switch.
Flick-hiss.
Pale light flooded the space, harsh after the endless dark.
The cellar wasn't more than a hole in the ground—it was a survivalist's dream. Neat stacks of crates lined one wall.
Bulky water canisters, dented but sturdy, stood sentinel beside them. Those lumpy sacks? Yeah, space-potatoes. And probably some rotting vegatables too.
A lot of them. This wasn't just a hideout. It was a stockpile. Someone had planned for the long haul.
My eyes landed on the datapad resting atop one of the smaller crates, placed deliberately like a goodbye note.
It felt heavy in my hands. The screen was smudged with tiny fingerprints—Ezra's, probably. I hit the power button.
The lock screen was a punch to the gut: Mira and Ephraim, smiling, with a gap-toothed Ezra wedged between them like the world's happiest sandwich. That phantom grief twinged again, sharper this time. I swiped it away before it could settle.
The home screen was a mess of Aurebesh icons. Thanks to Ezra's patchwork memories, I could sort of read it—not fluently, but like someone trying to remember a language they'd half-learned in school. News feeds.
Technical manuals. A few puzzle games probably meant to keep a kid busy.
I tapped the news feed. The headlines loaded sluggishly.
IMPERIAL CURFEW ENFORCED IN CAPITOL DISTRICT
SIENAR FLEET SYSTEMS ANNOUNCES EXPANSION
REBEL SYMPATHIZERS APPREHENDED IN DAWN VALLEY
The last one made my stomach twist. No names listed, but—
Yeah.
I swiped back to the home screen before I could think too hard about it. Next, the manuals. Dry, technical stuff about broadcast equipment, spliced with handwritten notes in the margins. Ephraim's? Probably.
Then, tucked between a calculator app and what looked like a recipe for nutrient paste, was a file labeled E.B. - PERSONAL.
I stared at it.
…Well.
That couldn't be not suspicious.
I tapped the folder before I could overthink it.
The screen flooded with thumbnails—images, videos, audio files. A lifetime crammed into digital scraps.
The first picture hit me like a stun blast: a baby with wide green eyes, swaddled in a blanket patterned with little Loth-cats. Baby Ezra. His chubby fingers clutched at Mira's sleeve as she grinned down at him, her dark hair messy like she'd just rolled out of bed. The timestamp put it seven years ago. His—our—first birthday.
I swiped.
Ezra, maybe three, perched on Ephraim's shoulders, both of them laughing as they ran through a field of golden grass.
Ezra at five, covered in grease, proudly holding up a dismantled comm unit while Mira shook her head in the background.
Ezra last month, scowling as Ephraim ruffled his hair, the datapad catching the exact moment before he ducked away.
It was like watching a stranger's home videos. No—worse. It was like remembering them. The images tugged at something deep in my chest, a hollow ache that wasn't entirely mine.
Then came the recordings.
Dozens of them, labeled with dates and clipped descriptions. Mostly broadcasts, judging by the filenames—FREEDOM_RADIO_EP17, FREEDOM_RADIO_EP42, on and on. I tapped the most recent one.
A familiar voice crackled through the datapad's tinny speaker –Ephraim's, warm but tired—filled the tiny cellar.
"—coming to you live, or as live as we can manage, from somewhere the Empire would really like to find." A dry chuckle. "Tonight's topic: the so-called 'tax relief' bill just passed in the Lothal sector. Let's talk about what it actually means when the Empire says 'relief'—"
I flipped to the next one after hearing the first. Got to say, this guy knew his stuff.
"…and that's why, Lothal, we need to stand together. We can't let the Empire bully us into silence. They want our resources, our labor, our obedience. But they don't get our spirit. They don't get our loyalty. We are Lothal, and we won't be broken."
It was a good speech. Passionate, inspiring. The kind of thing that might make you believe you could fight a galaxy-spanning dictatorship with just your voice and a handful of dusty broadcast towers.
I listened to a few more broadcasts – Mira's voice, calm and reasoned, Ephraim's fiery rhetoric. They talked about the Empire's exploitation of Lothal, the forced labor in the mines, the families being uprooted and displaced. They spoke of hope, of resistance, of the need to remember who they were.
Part of me was listening for some hidden message, some clue about why they had been arrested or where they might be now. But part of me… well, hearing their voices felt strangely soothing. Even just a tiny bit. It was ridiculous. I was a grown man in a kid's body, a stranger in someone else's tragedy. But those voices… they were familiar in a way I didn't expect, almost comforting. Maybe some subconscious thing, some soul-residue leftover from Ezra's own deep connection to them.
I scrolled further down the list, past the neatly labeled broadcast files, when one caught my eye. It was dated about a year before the others, and the file name was just a string of numbers, not a descriptive title. It wasn't labelled as broadcast and not the stylized Loth Cat was its icon but a simple record symbol. A personal record, maybe?
Curiosity, that irresistible force that always got me into trouble, won out. I tapped the file.
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A/N: Hi Guys! I bring forward my best creation to date, an deeply thought out methodological tale set in Star Wars Universe. As per my plan, while the name of book is Star War Rebels Story, I am a schizophrenic(jk!), this story is going to involve every media of star wars created. Every Series, games and movies that can chronologically fit in the timeline is going to happen.
One Small Leaks for After Story
That aside, currently this is the prequel to the main story, that is before the canon events of Rebels start happening, and also before MC gets himself involved in galactic matters.
Originally I had been planning to wrap up the start in 20-30k chapters before doing an big time skip to start up the Rebels Events, but once I had started writing, I realized that If I want to really show how an actual character would behave if left in a galaxy far far away, he wouldn't be sitting on his ass for canon events to start 8 years in future.
8 years a damn long time for a person who had been adult in last life, and the events of that time need to be expanded upon to show the true personality and traits of main character.
Additonally when given force sensitivity, no matter how strong or weak, a person is gonna tinker with it, especially the type of guy mc is. This prequel is going to chronicle the journey that he would be taking. I won't lie, there would definetly be time skips ahead, long ones too, as I too see how boring it would be to write up story of 8 years without getting cannon involved, but trust the process my brothers and sisters, this is going to be a epic journey.
And trust me not to drop this, because I just can't drop this, even if I want to. Why? Cuz I have already written the full damn book (i am talking about prequel part, so thats 100k word around) and I am writing the main story already.
Spoilers for those who want to peak ahead in the comments. (Don't worry, it won't spoil the story, I am just going to tell you which star war canon event would begin the galactic adventures of MC)
Give me your votes, give me your stones. I am hungry for it this time.
Current Milestone is 100 stone for bonus chapter.