<span class="mu-i">Like a rabid creature, you try to gulp down fresh air. But it is not there. Instead, you are gifted with a stale synthetic air that erupts further panic in your animalistic brain. In a manic fit, you throw off the helmet that imprisons you, clanging as it bounces on the dull dirt-encrusted grey metallic panels and rolls out of your sight, falling off the edge of the floor to fall into the hive of lights and metal and bodies below. Finally, you swallow down fresh air, or the closest thing you can get to it in Coruscant’s sublevels. The HUD in your visor no longer accentuates the world around you or highlights objects, people, or buildings.

The taste of metal, smog and the masses of unwashed beings greet your freed senses. You fall onto the floor and roll onto your back, seeing a maze of massive struts holding up Coruscant’s upper levels filled with branching multitudes of shanty huts which spew thousands of pinpricks of light. With each gasp, you fill your lungs with the fowled air, which doubtless contains toxins that poison the denizens of the lower levels, stunting their development. The heart locked in your chest thunders with pounding irregular beats.

A blaster lies beside you, it fell free of your hands as you went to remove your helmet. It is now your oldest companion, your longest friend, and your most reliable partner. The torso plate of your armour rises and falls as you heave in desperate breaths, the once polished silver durasteel is coated in black scorch marks and smeared gore. One of your gloved hands reaches for your torso, as if the hand could steady both your chest and your crazed pants.

Finally, the full force of the panic subsides, leaving you still filled to the core with fear and grief. Scrambling, metal screeches as your armour scratches the ancient floor, you reach for your highly customised blaster as your climb to your feet. Wild eyes scan for your removed helmet, but it is not with you on this secluded walkway. Once again, you try to ignite your thruster pack, praying to Hod Ha’ran, dreaming of escape. But the damaged pack remains silent, refusing to spring to life. With another push of different button, the heavy jetpack falls unceremoniously from your back.

A sound of metal slapping on metal begins to grow behind you. Resuming your sprint, you flee from the sound, from your pursuer, from your hunter. Loosening a plasma grenade from your belt, you fling it behind yourself without sparing a glance. Running into an alcove, you exit the empty walkway onto a maze of shabby shacks that leak dulled yellow light from partially tinted windows. An explosion sounds behind you, but you keep running. It can’t be dead, you were never a lucky one, and today is proof of that.
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