The silence that greets them isn’t the peaceful kind. It’s the kind that sits heavy in your ears, pressing in from all sides like the universe is holding its breath. Then, like a cue straight out of a blockbuster, the ground trembles. A sound rips through the stillness—low, rumbling, definitely not a truck backfiring.

Y/N’s eyes snap open. They’re staring at dirt. Actual dirt. And when they push themselves up—slowly, because their limbs feel like they’ve been through a blender—the first thing they see is sky. Not the familiar gray-blue of home. This sky is wrong. Too vast. Too purple at the edges. And moving across it, cutting through clouds like knives through butter, are ships. Real, actual, starship-sized ships.

Somewhere in the distance, an explosion cracks open the air like thunder with a grudge. Y/N flinches hard, dust scattering around them as they scramble to their feet.

“Okay,” they breathe, voice rough, heart slamming against their ribs. “What the hell—where am I?”

People are running past. Not jogging—running. Full sprint. Humans, near-humans, and species Y/N’s brain can’t even begin to process, all wearing matching uniforms, all gripping weapons that look way too sci-fi to be props. Someone shouts something in a language that definitely isn’t English. Another explosion rattles the ground.

Y/N stands there, frozen for exactly three seconds. Then recognition dawns—slow, horrible, undeniable. Their face goes through a journey. Confusion. Denial. Dread. And then, finally, a flat, exhausted acceptance.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

They know this. The ships slicing through the sky. The desperation in the air. The distinct lack of Starbucks on every corner. This isn’t some random alien planet—this is Star Wars. And if the explosions, the panic, and the very specific aesthetic are anything to go by, this is not the fun, cantina-music part of Star Wars. This is the part where things explode and people die.

Another blast hits, closer now. The ground shudders beneath their feet. Someone yells again, more urgent this time. But Y/N? Y/N doesn’t run. They don’t duck. They don’t even flinch this time.

Instead, they brush the dirt off their clothes with an expression that screams this is fine, take a slow breath, and—with the energy of someone who has absolutely no survival instincts and even less patience—start walking forward. Straight toward the chaos.

“Out of everywhere I could’ve ended up,” they mutter, voice dry as the dust around them, “it had to be here.”

They pause. Look around. Take in the smoking wreckage, the screaming soldiers, the ships screaming through the atmosphere like something straight out of a fever dream. And then, with a deadpan sigh that sums up the entirety of their situation in one exhale:

“Cool. Fine. Great. Let’s make this everyone else’s problem.”

And just like that, Y/N takes a step—right into the middle of a space war, without a weapon, without a plan, and with absolutely zero intention of playing it safe.