My great-great-grandmother landed here on Lothal. It was difficult for her to get through customs, as she was not the same as the current residents of the planet. She was a Twi’lek, escaping a life of slavery under the Federation. Lothal was a new potential home—a place where she could live in peace. At a young age, she had been taken from Ryloth and forced to serve as a personal servant to a member of the Separatist movement.

Eventually, she found work as a waitress at a local bar called The Silver Shine, which was popular among Lothal’s government workers. After months of saving, she bought a small home near the central transport station. It was there that my mother was born. My mother grew up and later had two daughters—my sister and me. We were twins and the best of friends, inseparable. That kind of bond is something unbreakable.

Life on the Outer Rim was quiet and calm, far removed from the bustling tourism of other planets. My sister and I spent our days playing, getting into trouble, and playing some more. When I turned 16, I started working at the same bar my great-great-grandmother had worked at when she was my age. The residents became like family to me. Business on Lothal, however, was struggling.

The local government invited the Empire in, hoping for economic stability. They didn’t realize that the Empire would seize control of most commerce. Imports and exports became heavily regulated, and new taxes were imposed. I had only been at the bar for three months, and considered myself lucky compared to so many others. The Empire forced many business to shut down, ours was allowed to stay open. What was once a failing economy collapsed entirely under the weight of Imperial rule. Within months, the local government workers who frequented The Silver Shine were replaced by Imperial officials.

One by one, I watched the residents I had grown to love lose their jobs. Then came the new laws—curfews, restrictions on gatherings, even rules dictating who we could serve. The Empire stripped away our identity, renaming our bar Rest Area #4 and replacing our vibrant uniforms with dull, gray and black pantsuits.

Teth-aron, the bar's owner, had a heated argument with the Imperial manager overseeing our district. After that, I never saw him again. Our new manager was Selina, a cruel human woman loyal to the Empire. She demanded I arrive at 4:30 a.m. each day; if I was even a second late, I wouldn’t be paid. I worked long hours on my feet until the night shift took over at 7:30 p.m.

At home, things were no better. I shared a cramped house with my sister, her husband, their two children, our mother, and myself. We had only three beds, so I shared one with my mother. I was the sole provider for my family since the Empire had stripped everyone else of their livelihoods.

Things only got worse when the blockade began. Security increased tenfold. We were only allowed outside when heading to or from work. Troopers roamed the streets, harassing anyone they pleased. If they  found you attractive, you could be deemed "suspicious" taken to a nearby private Imperial checkpoint, and detained for an hour—or or shorter depending on the trooper. I was no exception. Every time it happened there was nothing I could do. The first time, after crying to my manager, Selina blamed me for the harassment, saying "your uniform is too tight.” or "Consider it payment for their protection" But I had grown numb to it all. This was life. This was prison.

Lothal, once beautiful, had become a polluted wasteland. The air was barely breathable. The streets were empty, save for patrols. Darkness hung over everything.

Rumors occasionally spread about a group resisting the Empire, a team capable of driving them off the planet. But they were just that—rumors. After years of torment, hope felt like a distant memory. Still, something in me refused to give up. Maybe it was my stubbornness or the faint belief that things could get better. I just had to endure a little longer.

One morning, on my way to work, the air felt tense. Patrols glanced nervously at the sky, as if waiting for something. I arrived at the bar and was cleaning a table when the city’s loudspeakers blared a chilling message: Protocol 13. The words echoed loudly in the small bar. The personnel we were serving got up and quickly left. I knew something was deeply wrong when Selina sent me home, warning me to show up on time the next day.

As I waited for the transport back to my apartment, I heard it—a crash, followed by screams. Then another crash, and more screams. The town flooded with sounds of explosions, and cries of pain. The Empire’s star destroyers were firing on the city. Buildings crumbled, flames engulfed streets, and chaos erupted. I ran, unsure of what else to do, back toward the bar. Jumping over rubble, and around running civilians. 

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When I turned the last corner, I saw the dark sign of Rest Area #4 through the smoke and dust—just as it was struck. A green light quickly pieced everything around me, and the building collapsed. The explosion threw me back. Amid the destruction, I heard a scream I recognized. My sister. My heart sunk, and my pace quickened. 

I rushed toward the flaming rubble to find her pinned beneath, a massive piece of the building collapsed on her leg.

“I was coming… coming to tell you we were free, They were leaving” my sister whispered, fading on the last line, her voice trembling "The Empire left, all of them." As I cried Smoke and dust choked the air, making it nearly impossible to breathe.

Reaching down, I summoned every ounce of strength and lifted the debris off her lower half. What was once her leg was now a mangled, bloody mess. Knowing little about medicine but desperate to act, I tore off my tie and wrapped it tightly around her leg, trying to stem the bleeding. The tie became a poor excuse for a tourniquet, but it was all I had. I screamed for help, my voice raw, praying that someone—anyone—could hear me and come to save her.

My sister’s trembling hand reached up, cupping my soot-covered face. “It’s okay,” she rasped, her voice hoarse and weak. “They’re flying away, leaving our home.” She pointed toward the sky, her eyes locking onto the silhouette of a star destroyer above us.

I followed her gaze as the massive cannon beneath the ship moved, its green glow beginning to intensify. Time froze. My hearing failed, and the world became eerily silent. The weapon’s charge pulsed through the thick, smoky air. This was it—the end of my family line, the final act in our nightmare.

Clutching my sister tightly, I sobbed into her chest. She had passed out from blood loss, her faint heartbeat the only sign she was still with me. Her fragility broke something inside me, but her presence also anchored me.

“I love you,” I croaked, my throat dry and raw from soot and despair.

I held her close and braced for the inevitable. I waited and waited. But nothing happened.

Lifting my head, I wiped the grit from my eyes and looked around. Then I saw it. The city’s shields—glimmering and cascading across the horizon—had sprung to life. The star destroyer’s cannon fired again, its blasts futile against the protective barrier. My heart raced. This was our chance.

I tightened the makeshift tourniquet around her leg and hoisted her onto my back. My legs trembled, but I forced myself to move, stumbling away from the wreckage. We made our way toward a nearby park, where the scattered survivors gathered. Screams and sobs filled the air as people sought refuge in the open grassy clearing.

My sister remained unconscious throughout it all. The bleeding had stopped, but there was no undoing the damage to her leg—it was beyond saving.

The shield held firm as the star destroyers ceased their bombardment. And then, before our eyes, the skies came alive. Massive, glowing creatures appeared, their movements majestic and otherworldly. They pulsed like the engines of a ship, and one by one, they tore through the Imperial fleet. The destroyers fell, broken and aflame, their wreckage crashing down toward the city. For a moment, panic surged through the crowd. But the shields absorbed every fragment, sparing us from further devastation.

When the smoke finally cleared, the sky was empty. No Imperial ships, no oppressive shadows—just the soft glow of Lothal’s two moons high above, and the warm hues of the setting sun in the distance.

A local doctor found us amidst the chaos and offered assistance. My sister laid still on the grass, her breathing shallow and raspy. The doctor helped me position her more comfortably before hurrying off to tend to others.

I reached down and grasped her hand, clutching it tightly against my chest. Tears streamed down my face, falling freely into the dirt below. “We made it,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “The prison is overthrown. We’re free.”

And then I cried—years of fear, pain, and helplessness poured out of me in a flood. I let every tear fall, my sister’s small hand the only thing grounding me as waves of emotions swept over me.

“It’s over,” I murmured, repeating the words like a mantra. “It’s over.” Hope, love, gratitude, and fear warred within me, fighting for space in my heart, but for the first time in years, hope won.

Three months passed. My brother-in-law got his old job back as an accountant for the mayor. My mother passed away peacefully, and we gave her a beautiful service surrounded by friends, family, and neighbors. My sister discovered a love for painting, selling her art at the market each week. After her leg was amputated, she used a wheelchair to get around. My nephews returned to school, where they were finally given a proper education, free from Imperial propaganda.

As for me, I went back to Rest Area #4. Brick by brick, I rebuilt the bar, tearing down the old Imperial sign with my own hands. It took everything I had in savings and several loans, but the day I hung up the Silver Shine board was the day I reclaimed my life.

I never saw Teth-aron again—like so many others, he vanished during the Empire’s occupation. But I knew deep down I would honor his memory and my great-great-grandmother’s legacy by running the place that had once given her a chance.

No one on Lothal ever forgot that day, and we remain forever grateful for when the shields protected.