“You here for more torture? I won’t break.” Just the man clasping his hands within the bundled, puffy sleeves of his robe.

It’s coming from the strange man-the man whose age is hard to tell, the one with the dark striations that aren’t quite wrinkles. The dream he was in-a dream of being out in space in a broken fighter, the oxygen failing, his astromech blown to slag, the ship drifting through the void-falls apart in his hands like wet sand gone suddenly dry. Wedge, magnetically shackled to the table, startles awake. Sinjir peeks past and says: “I think that thing has seen better days, boy.” Temmin makes a sad sound in the back of his throat. Then a shower of sparks erupts from its head. Jas wonders if that’s pride she hears in the thing’s discordant voice. “I PERFORMED VIOLENCE,” the droid warbles. “Bones!” Temmin says, throwing his arms around the droid. It raises its one arm (the other is now missing), and all the little animal bones that dangle from it rattle and clack. The droid, painted red and black, laughs maniacally: a warped, mechanized sound. Rain hits the servomotor in its exposed skull, sparking and turning to steam as it does. The B1 battle droid-the bodyguard Temmin calls Mister Bones. A droid stands there in the early-morning rain.

B1 battle droid voice