Djak Mikos
SWRP Writer
- Joined
- Nov 19, 2010
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So, you want to hear my story?
It’s not finished, you understand. Of course it’s not—I’m still alive, aren’t I? And hopefully with a long and glorious life still to come. But I digress.
My name is Djak Mikos, and I was born on Corellia. I’m 22 standard years old, just graduated from the Corellian Flight Academy a few months ago. I’m more than qualified to fly anything from snubfighters to overblown freighters.
The sketch above was made by a friend of mine. Ex-friend, actually. She’s still on Corellia. Haven’t spoken to her in years.
So how, you’re probably wondering, does a handsome young man with such promise end up as a drifting pilot?
It’s simple, really.
You’ll have to go back to when I was born. I know, that’s a long time, but bear with me. See, Mom was single at the time. There’s no father’s name on my birth certificate. I don’t care—a bastard who impregnates a girl and runs off doesn’t deserve the title of ‘Father’. That goes to the man she married four years later.
Dad was a really cool guy. Took me hunting a couple of times. He’d been a performer in a circus act, where he killed flytes on a volunteer’s nose using a neuro-whip. Taught me everything I know about that weapon. Anyway, we were a happy family till Mom died.
Yeah, she’s dead. A drunken speeder jockey rammed our family speeder truck, killing her instantly. Dad and I were off on our last hunting trip when it happened. Shab, the look on his face when he received the call. Worst day of my life.
Things went downhill after that. Dad tried to hold up, but couldn’t take the stress. He started drinking. Started with Golden Whiskey, downgraded to cheaper stuff when he lost his job. My adolescence was spent in the slums of Corellia. Ugly, rough years.
Dad couldn’t hardly look after himself, let alone me, so I spent as much time as possible in school or on the streets. Learned how to fight, how to knife fight (don’t ask), got arrested a couple of times but they never got any charges to stick. Dad didn’t care, he was wasted all the time.
Anyway, I graduated with honors and enrolled in the Corellian Flight Academy on a scholarship. Couldn’t afford to live on-campus, so I had to keep putting up with Dad. Home was a pretty tragic place.
Never had a steady girlfriend. Never could find the right one. Had a lot of fun with all the wrong ones, though.
So I graduated the Academy with acclaim in everything. I had to—I wanted a good excuse to leave Dad. See, I always figured he used me for an emotional crutch. I figured that once I’d left he’d get his act back together.
Well, I was accepted into the Republic Navy. Got an offer to fly gunships straight off the bat. I was all excited, came home, and told Dad all about it.
I guess he relied on me too much. Anyway, he sort of freaked out. Accused me of abandoning him, hating him. Said he wouldn’t share me with the rest of the world. Kinda creepy, since I doubt I spent more than a week’s time in his presence out of any given year. We were both yelling away, and I didn’t think stuff would get out of hand till he started throwing bottles.
He had quite a collection, and they hurt where they hit. I dodged a couple of them, caught one in the jaw, and threw another back. That ticked him off, so he started breaking them first. That’s how I got this scar at the corner of my mouth.
That was when I realized it. Dad was trying to kill me.
I’ve had people try to kill me before, but this was different. The betrayal burned through me, and I guess I wasn’t too different from Dad, emotionally anyway. Instead of leaving, I moved in.
I always carry two vibroknives. One of them is in a sheath up my left sleeve, the other is a spring-loaded wrist knife that comes out of my right sleeve. I won them both in bare-knuckles fights.
I’ll never forget the look on Dad’s face when I jammed those blades into him.
Three hectic days later, I was handed back my weapons and kicked out of the local justice center. They ruled ‘provoked self-defense’, which I guess is lucky for me.
So now I’m a drifter. The Republic Navy refused to honor that gunship slot, so I quit. Didn’t desert, I was dishonorably discharged after striking a superior officer. He deserved it too.
I’ve done some stuff I’m not proud of. Flew a slaver and his wares to Tattooine, but stole his whip when he was taken down. Stole a big-game slug rifle from some shopkeeper on Thrusta (where I was involved in some wild-nek-chase).
Oh, and I have a friend now. Really got lucky on this one. She’s a Twi’lek dancer, shorter than I am (which is impressive, I’m only 1.76 meters tall). This holo was recorded by a guy named Giolon).
Giolon after we touched down on Thrusta.
Like I said, lucky, right? Maybe when I'm taking a break from chasing every cred opp I get, we’ll sit down and have a chat. She’s the sort I’d like to get right, know what I mean?
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