“Unstable.”

“A danger to himself and others.”

“Unfit for frontline duty.”

“Needs medical help we cannot provide at this time.”

Aron had been fired before, but never from something he volunteered for and was actually sort of competent at. Who knew the fledgling Republic actually could afford being picky enough to kick out a decent paramedic willing to fight in the front lines?

And so “soldier” got added to an uncomfortably long list of previous occupations that never went anywhere. Joining civilian paramedic, bodyguard for the rich and famous, private security guard and Coruscant medical student. Just to name a few. Just another path he set out to follow, never to be finished. Only this time it was different. This time it wasn’t because he didn’t have the will to see it through. It wasn’t because he found something new and more exciting to do with his life. Or something easier. This time it was because of the visions.

At first, his superiors had tried to help him. Took him off front-line duty. Ran some tests. Kept him over night for observations. But his condition had deteriorated fast.

He had always been a dreamer. Never one to keep his mind on where he was or what he was doing. Always with his head in the clouds, as his parents used to berate him about every time the school sent them his seasonal marks. It was a wonder he even got into medical school with his grades. He always suspected that his parents used some of the vast wealth they had accumulated through their work in the financial sector to pave that particular road. Despite their effort, or perhaps because of it, medical school wasn’t really the place for Aron, even before the visions ever became serious. So he moved on. Well worth getting cut out of the will for.

Although he didn’t have his first real vision until he had joined the Republic armed forces, out on the front lines of a planet so dry water had to be shipped there, fighting for resources vital to the war effort, he soon realized that the visions had always been there. They were just getting more vivid every time it happened.

The first time it happened, Aron had been staring down into a cup of instacaff. That had made it easy to imagine he'd dozed off; that he'd let his mind go just a bit too blank, that he'd gotten just a bit too absorbed in the dark, placid surface of his drink, and he'd fallen ever so lightly asleep. At the time, it had been easy to explain away as a dream, though in retrospect, the ripples which disturbed his drink were a bit too on the nose and related to his waking life, the shake which caused them perhaps a bit too physical to explain away. He'd heard a rumble, the distant echoes of blaster fire, as dust and bits of foliage which ought not to have been there rained down on his table… and then a sound which could only be described as hiss-snap-buzzz, a droning hum which cast his caff in some sickly red light he couldn't explain. Some voice shouting: "No!" and then, with a jolt, he was back to reality.

Later that night, Aron Marr had found it difficult to sleep. Even under his blankets, he had felt… cold. Anxiety, scratching at the back of his mind, had kept him up. Dread. A sense of loss.

That had been the first time, but not the last. Some truly were dream, but, mostly, it became harder and harder to explain away what was happening to him as an overactive subconscious. Not when roots would snake out from somewhere behind him as he walked, overtaking the path in front of him as he watched until he was on a dirt path. Not when, looking up from that horror, he would see, in the place of his destination, some vine-choked work of stone, some yawning black door through which that resounding "no!" echoed as though trapped in time. Not when sadness would wash over him in the middle of the day. Not when he felt the very real pull towards a place that should only be a dream.

Hallucinations, however minor, became an almost daily occurrence. Trying to ignore them made them worse. Trying not to think about them, to empty his mind of any thought in the effort to unshackle himself from that part of his mind which had turned traitor only summoned them. When his eyes unfocused, they would refocus again on some alien forest world, or, worse, the bodies of the fallen. Not the recent dead of unresolved conflict, but forgotten. Left, not just behind, but with no one to remember them or acknowledge the loss. It was a melancholy sight, those bodies, and Aron was always prompted to a forced sympathy, a mourning he did not choose but which was thrust upon him all the same. When his thoughts were empty, odd notions would rise to fill his head, and he would find himself thinking of walking, the experience of steps that his body was not taking, the knowledge of winding forest paths that were burning their place in his mind and the understanding of coolly shadowed halls which felt far too empty and hungry for his presence. When he would find himself distracted, he would catch an odd symbol crawling into existence on a wall in his periphery, or see one of those bodies at the edge of sight, or become aware of incongruous birdsong and the distant sound of a waterfall only to blink and have those things disappear.

Burying himself in work seemed a good option at first, but even that could not remain a refuge for long. Occupying and focusing his mind helped prevent the worst of his symptoms, at least… and yet, they still intruded. He would hear his name, only to inquire of those around him and discover that no one had called for him. He would feel that reverberating hum in his chest, that dreadful energy whine, and have to pause his work as all of him tensed in anticipatory fear from that echoed, remnant sound.

Oddly, he would become aware of some loamy scent, old and rich and thick with nature, and he would hear a word, one word, whispered all too clearly, as though from right next to him and all around him all at once: "Ushara."

It meant nothing to him, some word in a language he did not speak or else some name he could not place. Ushara. Aron did not know what it meant, but he began to hear it frequently. He would think he would hear it in conversation, only for all involved to become confused when he would ask. Ushara. He would check some data, some written work, and see the word there where it did not belong, only to disappear when he tried to focus on it. Ushara. He would hear it in his dreams, as his feet trod earthen paths and he overlooked a basin lake glittering in sunlight, as he navigated endless stonework halls in his sleep, as he chased that word and its want for him, the intimate caress of its whisper, to the center of some grand edifice: Ushara.

Did it want him, or did he want it? It was impossible to say but the wanting, which was constant and real and came more strongly as every day passed. Something wanted. Some role which was now unfulfilled. Was it dread and horror, or was it hope and light? That was impossible to answer, save to conjecture: "both." It was or would be or had been something awful, something which ground against and mirrored the exhausted, worn down state of things lately. And yet, if his thoughts lingered too long on it, if he let his chest harbor that want without fighting it off, he began to feel like there was… promise hidden there. A step aside from the deadlock of current affairs. Something, not quite comforting, but bright. Did it represent something real, or did it mean he was going crazy? That was an easier answer, perhaps, but not one that was easy to think about.

And yet it did not matter if he thought about it. The visions came, regardless. He saw himself walking among the trees. He saw mountains on the horizon in his waking hours. And he dreamed: he dreamed of those corpses, their unfamiliar wounds as though wrought with a blade and a blaster all at once, laid out as thought for triage, tagged with information he could not know. Names he did not recall, vital data which was purposeless, and a location, for each, which read, in spine-crawlingly familiar script: Ushara.

Desire: Belonging. Aron has never really felt like he belonged. He's always been the odd one, the one people don't really want to be associated with. The fuckup. The failure.

Fear: Losing his mind. Aron fears nothing more than completely losing his mind, and fears he may be well on his way getting there.

Strength: Adaptable. Whenever Aron fails at something he always lands on his feet, his next step somehow obvious.

Flaw: Self-Doubt. Aron has never finished anything in his life. Partly because of crippling self-doubt.

Morality: 50

Strength: Enthusiasm

Aron has failed at a lot of things in his life and yet always managed to maintain his enthusiasm for whatever happens next.

Weakness: Recklessness

Never one to think overly much about the consequences of his actions, Aron is at time reckless, which has gotten him in trouble throughout his life.

Aron Marr is quite tall at 189 cm, athletically built and handsome, after a fashion. As the son of an Arkanian couple far from the racial ideal as maintained by the pure-bloods, he can usually pass for a human. He has high cheekbones and a strong jawline, dark-brown eyes and a straight nose. He usually keeps his hair quite short and tends to leave it at its natural black color most of the time.

Never particularly picky about his outfit, Aron tends to wear whatever suits the job at hand. When lounging about that might be athletic overalls but when going out fashionable clothes in the Coruscant-style. When expecting trouble he’ll usually wear thick padded armor and carry his blaster pistol openly on his right thigh.