As an Anzat, the youngling normally breathed with such subtlety as to be neigh imperceptible, even with medical scanners. It could make people around him uncomfortable, for the notion that he [i]didn't[/i] breathe. The fact that his heartbeat was likewise undetectable made it seem as though Sor-Jan was precisely the monster that the legends made his species out to be. Now, as he ran, the young boy was palpably aware of each breath, as it seemed to stick in his throat with a sensation of ice, as tension and anxiety squeezed every breath he took back out of his lungs. The luminous blue eyes were wide with terror, even as he plunged out into the mezzanine on the heels of his youngling clan. His training saber was in the grip of his left hand, because his right was holding fast to the Nautolan boy. And neither was willing to let go.

The sounds of blaster fire echoed through the halls, growing louder even as the pair of boys rushed headlong toward the sound, pushed onward by the hands of the Mon Calamari weapon master behind them. And then, they were there. Blue bolts of charged ions went searing through the air, most at eye level to the youngings, sending a series of terrified cries through the gathering of small ones as they were urged out into the corridor. The other weapon master was standing there, wielding two lightsabers as he moved to deflect the incoming rain of terror. As he turned his head, feeling the direction in which the crowd was being directed, Sor-Jan could see the Thisspiasian master out in front of the younglings, the bearded snake's yellow lightsaber weaving a golden thread through the air...

...as it cut apart men in white armor, their blood evaporating into a pinkish steam as their bodies were bisected by the Jedi's indiscriminate blade.

Sor-Jan gave a yelp as the panic overwhelmed him at the realization that people were dying. He had never seen death before. Not like this. Certainly not here, and yet, the nightmare was real. Tears slipped down the boy's face as he turned his head, and saw the Zabrak youngling - a kid his age, from his clan - lying still on the floor, a smoking hole burned in between his shoulder blades. He saw an armored man separated into three pieces, before being violently cast aside by the Thisspiasian's incessant press forward. The child's breath shuddered then, as his mind was slow in comprehending what it had just witnessed. Defenders of life, protectors of liberty, sentries of democracy were all very heroic ideals... cast now into bloodshed and violence, things he would have attributed to evil but committed by the Jedi he loved the most.

He didn't understand. As he looked around, as he [i]struggled[/i] in the midst of surroundings intimately familiar, [b]his home[/b], yearning, desperate for anything familiar he could hold onto, the youngling was overwhelmed by the singular realization that he understood [b]nothing[/b]. And, as his mind reeled in lack of comprehension for the sight of things mirrored in his eyes, Sor-Jan realized... he didn't want to understand.

From all sides, the youngling was overcome by waves resonating through the Force like an explosion, pummeling his body as though being assaulted by a hundred fists at once. Numbly, the child could see in his mind the weapon master being struck down as the hail of blaster fire overwhelmed the Jedi. Zak, the Nautolan tightened his grip on Sor-Jan's hand, as though fearful that the Anzati was letting go. The sensation bolstered something within the youngling, as the raven-haired youth raised his head back up, catching his breath as he continued to push his body to keep going at the maddening pace set by the serpent-like Sentinel up ahead.

A series of tremors tore through the temple, noticeably more violent than those he had felt before. Azul Gol just stopped, the younglings skidding to a halt behind their master, as the bearded snake seemed to peer upward as though gazing somewhere beyond the ceiling. That was the first time that Sor-Jan had realized how few of them now were, as fully half of his clan was missing.

No, not missing. They were back there. Like the Zabrak boy that he had seen.

"Azul, we cannot stay here!" the Mon Cal weapon master shouted hoarsely, as the orange-skinned amphibian moved in a blur of motion and energy, deflecting blaster bolts back toward their attackers behind them.

"The hangars... they're gone," the Thisspiasian was heard to whisper, as he turned his attention back to the corridor before them, as more of the white armored soldiers poured out into the hallway before them. Blasters to the left of them. Blasters to the right. The Thisspiasian coiled his body tightly as he seemed torn between the right course of action, until there was no more time for meditation. "We stand. We fight. FOR THE REPUBLIC!"

With that, the serpent launched himself at the encroaching soldiers before them. Gone, in a moment, leaving Sor-Jan and Zak bewildered as blaster bolts began sailing by from both sides. Reluctantly, the boys let go of one another, taking up positions with one behind the other, back-to-back, lightsabers ready. It was as thought this was what they had been training for...

...but really, what had they been training for? Certainly not this.

Pulling his training saber into a tight orbit, the youngling felt himself lifted up by the force of impact as the blaster bolt connected with his blade. A shot from behind him strayed too close, splitting open the shoulder seam of his tunic as he felt a searing pain run down his arm. Squealing, in pain and in terror, the boy staggered to his right. But there was no stopping them. No time out. No second chances. All around him, the people he had thought of as brother and sister were falling down under the rain of blue blaster bolts. And that was when Sor-Jan had an epiphany, a single moment of clarity where he felt as though he were one with the Force.
And a voice whispered inside his mind and said, [i]I'm going to die now.[/i]

But it was all right. Somehow, the youngling was at peace. As though he were waiting for it to happen, or even [i]wanting[/i] it to.
Behind him, the Mon Cal weapon master pivoted around on one foot, holding out his free hand toward the two remaining younglings - the Anzati and the Nautolan boy. With the simplest of applications, the Jedi instructor lifted both boys into the air and flung them into a ventilation grate. As the grate gave, the younglings tumbled down into darkness, with only a single word spoken.

"Live."