1100hrs Washington DC - June 16th, 2012
Jacen awoke in a pile of rubble. His head was still coated with a sticky coating of blood from the first explosion and he was in a lot of pain from passing out not just once, but twice, in less than six hours. He had no idea where he was, only that he was somewhere in what remained of Washington DC.
The remnants of buildings stood out in the barren wasteland of rubble. As Jacen picked his way through the destroyed city, he began to notice black marks on the ground.
They were burn marks.
Burnt outlines of people.
Jacen felt suddenly ill and began to vomit all over the wrecked concrete. He would have stayed there then to die, but the fierce urge to survive filled him up and left no room for any doubts or semi-suicidal notions. In a land of emptiness, he would be the one thing that remained.
With this new goal in mind, Jacen continued wandering aimlessly through the deserted city. He was hurt, exhausted, thirsty, and had no shoes. His feet were cut up like they had been through a meat grinder, and still he staggered along on his deathly march.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Jacen heard voices somewhere nearby. He raced towards them, but he could hardly see for the sweat and blood that covered his eyes.
A desperate race, to reach them before they disappeared into the nothing, the nothing that was the entire world.
"Help!" he cried in a raspy voice.
There was no answer, only an echo carried by the wind.
He heard them again, and he walked in repetitive circles. Again and again he heard them, and time after time he followed their incoherent words.
At last Jacen fell on his knees, for even strength of spirit cannot endure the weakness of the mortal body. With weary eyes he looked up and saw what remained of the Lincoln Memorial.
An amorphous shape that vaguely resembled a body looked down upon him.
And a hand grabbed his mouth while another grabbed his hair.