Andreus Makaryk

Andreus Makaryk

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Who am I?

I honestly wish I knew. My identification lists me as "Andreus Makaryk," but I know that is not my true identity. It is not a lie, nor is it truth, for my identity is unknown and my identification obtained under an adopted name and attestation to that fact. I know my identification is a falsehood; yet, it is not forged. Entirely, legally proper.

The last thing I remember about who I am is waking up, mutilated, my mind in approximately thirty-seven trillion little shards that had just blown into something remotely resembling an asteroid field by some mental version of a Death Star doomsday device. I awoke in a dark, unlit room, with no idea where I was, other than that it was a very bad place to be. My brain in far too much disarray to string together even a simple sentence, the sheer, visceral instinct that I needed to get out of wherever I was took over. Had I been raped? My head sure felt like it, even though at the time I am sure I lacked the cognition to be able to form such violated feelings into so much a moan or cry for help. My arms flailed about on their own, as if searching for an exit through which they could detach themselves from my wretched body.

They found an air conditioning vent. My wretched body moved through. Only when I got outside could I have seen I was naked--but my brain was so fried I had no hope of recognizing this. I could only recognize the imperative to get out of there as fast as I could.

Somehow--I have no recollection how--I managed to squeeze into the semi-pressurized cargo hold of a freighter. I knew not where it was going, or what in the Force I would do when it got there; I didn't even know that I needed to find some clothes. I am pretty sure that at some point, I passed out due to hypoxia. At least that is almost completely painless.

Fortunately for me, the Customs agent at the destination spaceport thought I had been dumped in the cargo hold by someone else. He could certainly tell I had been the victim of some kind of crime, though at the time I had no hope of possibly comprehending such. He asked me who I was. I couldn't answer. He asked me who had put me on that freighter. I didn't know it was me (which worked to my benefit because Customs couldn't prove I had willfully tried to enter its jurisdiction).

Finally, puzzled by my complete inability to answer, the Customs official brought in a protocol droid, which tried several other languages, but to no avail. Finally, it made an observation:

"Observation: The subject appears to have had no exposure to language at all."

Which meant I was doomed to foster care.

At least it meant a medical examination to find out what in the Force had happened to me. Among other brutal, nasty things, my mind apparently had been torn asunder by some Sith mind-ripping technique. At one point, I had had a command of language, but it had been torn from me. As I had no identification, no clothes, no nothing, the doctor had to estimate my age--which he did, to be eight. I would have to relearn everything all over again.

It was also during this doctor's examination that I saw the tattoos for the first time. It had been the first chance I had had to look into a mirror since the...incident--and who the kriff did that to my face?

Good thing I had the good fortune to land on a relatively civilized planet, like Corellia.

Of course, "good fortune" is relative, and in this case simply means I didn't land on a planet where I would immediately be shot as either an illegal migrant or a burden to the state. Corellia actually had something called "asylum," and there was little for them to do other than put me through their legal system, appoint someone to help me (since I very clearly had no clue what was going on), and process the asylum claim that the representative filed on behalf of one John Doe #385. Something about legal conventions to treat children fairly under the Galactic Federation of Free Alliances?

And then bounce me around from foster home to foster home, apparently in the vain hope that a foster parent would have the patience, training, or wherewithal to teach a complete mute Basic all over again. It didn't work.

At least not for the first few months, until my seventh foster parent. Said foster parent--I forget who--had done little differently than the previous six. It appeared whoever had ripped my mind out had doomed me to be a retard the rest of my life. We had been doing something completely unmemorable--probably going to the market to get dinner--when I stopped.

Another one of those gut feelings, like the one I had had earlier of get out of here. Only for this one, I turned around to see a relatively old man cursing at his stalled landspeeder. Fortunately my hands still worked...

"You can have him for five credcoins."

I will never forget those words. Some foster "parent." Though I still only had a vocabulary of about forty words, I let my hands do the talking as they rigged together a bypass of a fried circuit board controlling power to the speeder's repulsorlift engine. The man flipped my "parent" the five credcoins. The very next day, he filed adoption papers.

He named me Andreus. I still am not sure why. I know his last name is Makaryk, so I took that.

And then my education began...

He let me work in his machine shop; I certainly had the aptitude even if I could not communicate it. However, he wasted no time in communicating with me. "You look like you were just released from the pen, boy! Now, git workin' an' studyin' so you can make somethin' of yourself other than a gangbangin' street urchin!" Then he proceeded to enroll me in school--by my estimated physical age, not the mental cognition I had left over after the mindrape.

Which meant endless teasing, bullying, and the like concerning how doomed I was to fail at life. I was a retarded person with Sithlike tattoos, what a great combination! Every day, I had failure beaten into me. Every day, I was politely informed of my worthlessness, my inability to contribute to anything.

Over a period of weeks, a concrete thought coalesced in my brain, the first recognizable flicker of cognition since I had lost my identity. I must, above all, prove those who slam me into school lockers, pin me to the ground and smother my face in duct tape to "pull" copies of my tattoos, and various other vile things, wrong. The passing thought coalesced into durasteel will, and my durasteel taskmaster of an adoptive father seemed more than happy to pour that will through his own sieve.

Though he "only" ran a machine shop, it supplied parts to the Corellian Engineering Corporation, so he began providing me with volumes of aeronautical schematics. The words meant absolutely nothing to me, at least not at first--however, the technical drawings, the blueprints, and the like, I intuitively understood. He began teaching me what the jargon meant, helping me understand by linking words with what they meant on the schematics. He drove me to study--not only aeronautics but Basic--relentlessly, and my vocabulary expanded from that of a toddler's to nearly grade-level within a year. And "nearly grade-level" included at least a couple hundred words my teachers at school did not know existed.

I paid for my first gliding lesson at the age of fourteen, from wages paid me for my work in his machine shop. For the last six years, I had vaguely known I wanted to prove my detractors wrong about my contributions to society, and now I knew how I was going to contribute to society. I would become a commercial space line pilot, come hell or high water.

Those who had known me in middle school could not believe me when, in my last year of secondary school, I announced I had received a full scholarship to flight school. At least two of those who had beaten me for my previous mental incapacitation fainted in disbelief. I simply smiled back, for the first time in my life that I can remember, finally satisfied that I had proven myself. I still look back on that day, and smile, having fulfilled my dream. I am now a first officer for Corellian Space Lines; soon I will be eligible to check-ride for my captain's promotion.

Though I still have yet to prove my identity.

Who am I?

Because sometimes it feels the only thing I know about my true identity is that these tattoos are pretty kriffing effective when it comes to staring down an unruly passenger into complying with crewmember instructions.

Corellian Space Lines
Personnel File

Name:Andreus Makaryk
Species: Human
Gender: Male
Age (estimated): 30
Height: 1.92m
Weight: 97.4 kg
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Hazel
Distinguishing Marks: Facial tattoos of unknown origin
Medical Certificate: Class I
Flight Hours Logged: 11,752
Rank: First Officer
Force Sensitivity: Unknown (out-of-character: yes)

OOC: Character is for new timeline. His choice of faction affiliation will be RPed shortly after the timeline starts.
 
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