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Chapter Text

The atmosphere in the back room of what passed for an upscale dining establishment was charged with a tension as subtle and tenuous as the thin haze of faintly pungent cigarra smoke tinged with a hint of marcan herb that hung in the air above the burgundy baize-topped antique Sabacc table of figured kriin-wood from Alderaan, now probably worth more than the net income of the city of Mos Espa for historic value alone. Flat shafts of brilliant sunlight slashed through the gloom from the slatted windows, their contrast increasing the shadows around the perimeter of the room lined with seated or reclining figures from a dozen worlds and at least as many intelligent species, all focused on the three remaining players seated at the table; a Mandalorian in cobalt blue and red metal armor to my immediate right, inscrutable behind the visor of their helmet, who was acting as an impartial dealer, and a Hutt directly across the table, mottled yellow-green with a burnished scarlet protocol droid, designated T-5K1, at their elbow to serve as translator. And me, a dark-haired androgynous Coruscanti human with heterochromatic eyes, one green, one blue, dressed in clothes at least a decade out of style.

This had begun hours earlier, me with just over three hundred credits to my name and not much more to call my own but the clothes on my back. Over the course of several hours and as many games, the field of potential competition had dwindled from more than twenty to just me and the slug. That the Mandalorian dealer only had to shoot one cheater so far was considered unusual, or so I’d been told.

The betting pots on the table held considerable sums, over a hundred thousand credits in various currencies in the unclaimed Sabacc pot alone. I had several impressive neatly piled stacks of standard credits and miscellaneous Outer Rim coinage near my right elbow. The Hutt had been reduced to a paltry handful of house betting tokens.

“Option?”, the vocorder-modulated voice of the Mandalorian inquired.

Calmly accepting the fact I was about to get wiped out, in fact had planned to bomb out in style having claimed enough of my winnings from earlier games to buy a ticket off this dustball, I'd placed my two cards face down on the table, locking their values, and lifted an index finger off the table, just slightly. “One card.”

The Mandalorian flipped one card off the top of the draw pile on the table, sliding it face up across the soft fabric towards me. “Sylop", they announced, creating a stir of multi-lingual chatter from the surrounding observers.

“Koochoo", the Hutt chuffed in amusement, the dual pupils of their huge eyes widening in amusement as the protocol droid translated the comment as ‘The Idiot' a heartbeat later.

Flicking the digits of their left manipulator impatiently, indicating they wanted to use the traditional low-tech Corellian chance cubes, the Hutt rumbled “Kapa magi stupa!”, rolling the two dice and scoffing with disgust at the unwelcome result.

“Place your bets", the Mandalorian dealer announced.

I shrugged, feeling a flicker of hope that I might actually survive this encounter, pushing my entire stack of winnings into the center of the table with both hands. “Bolla porko bolla bunko!”, I challenged the Hutt in their own language, flashing a cocky grin. “All in! Go big or go home!”

Tail thrashing and thumping on the tiled floor in annoyance, the Hutt signaled to a reptilian underling who scurried over, placing a small object in the demanding grip, which was then tossed on the table in the wager pile, a thumb-long chip of transparent orange plastic inlaid with a tracery of golden circuitry.

“What’s that supposed to be?”

“Pushee shug niboba. Che twirlee", the Hutt grinned.

“Master Kibbun offers you a slave manumission key for the trained Twi'lek dancer”, Tee-fyve relayed, indicating a slender female of that species seated near the door, looking uncertainly at the crowd of gamblers surrounding her.

A feeling of certain, unavoidable impending doom settled on my shoulders , and I rubbed the right side of my face with an open palm. “Fine", I agreed unwillingly. I hated slavery and those who kept slaves, but this wasn’t the time to make a scene. “Call.”

“Granka weet-eebah pankpa!”, the Hutt smiled predatorily, spreading the narrow hexagonal cards that composed their hand on the worn felt, reaching greedily for their winnings.

“Full Fleet", the scarlet protocol droid announced with a mocking, superior tone.

I let out a smug chuckle. “Not so fast, rookie”, I announced as I turned over my cards, laying them next to the Sylop beneath the suspensor lamp light. A positive Two of Discs, and negative Three of Discs.

“Oh dear…”, the protocol droid intoned, dismayed.

Kibbun the Hutt blinked, golden double-pupil eyes going wide in astonishment.

The tension in the room went from tenuous to crystalline in a heartbeat.

‘So this is it’, I thought to myself as I slumped in my seat. ‘I’m going to die.’

Booming laughter as Kibbun rocked back on their tail. “Grancha panwa! Chooba panwa twirlee!”

An echo of the laughter fluttered nervously around the room, the inhabitants unsure how they should be reacting as they watched me clear the table of the considerable pile of winnings, pocketing the manumission key, sweeping the various currencies into a cloth carry-all provided without comment by the Mandalorian dealer.

“Master Kibbun thanks you for a most enjoyable game, and hopes you enjoy the Twi'lek as much as they have", Tee-fyve bowed politely, following their slug-like employer out of the room.

Stepping out of the restaurant into the bright heat of a double sun Tatooine midday, shouldering the carry-all, I shaded my mismatched eyes under a hand, looking at the slender figure who had followed me out into the dusty street.

The young Twi'lek was only a hands width under my own one point eight-five standard meters, gracefully sleek and curvaceous to my whipcord leanness. Light olive green skin, bright amber eyes, and a mouth that suggested it smiled frequently, her overall expression hesitant in her new circumstances. A split bantha suede headdress in soft dark olive green ornamented with brassy metal traceries wrapped around her high forehead and lekku, and a matching miniscule bikini-style dancing costume adorned with contrasting purple scarf cum loincloth. Soft, flat heeled dancing boots and an assortment of flashy lateen armbands and bracelets completed her suggestive outfit.

“Got a name?”, I inquired in Basic, hoping she understood me.

“Ruuna, if that’s permitted, master. It’s what my damma called me, on Ryloth.”

“Okay. Ruuna”, I nodded. “Call me Arn.”

“Yes, Master Arn", she nodded, lekku bobbing.

“No. No ‘master'! Just Arn!”

Ruuna looked…confused.

“Look", I explained, digging the manumission key out of my pocket and putting it in her hand. “I don’t want a slave, I don’t like people who use slaves. You’re your own person. You’re free.”

“You don’t want me?” Her lower lip trembled. Not good.

I rubbed my face. It still didn’t feel right. “Look, let’s get you some food and some clothes, and we’ll figure it out from there, okay?”

Ruuna tucked the manumission key under the edge of her headdress, just above her right temple, nodding. “Okay", she smiled hesitantly, meekly clasping her hands in front of her hips.

This was getting us nowhere fast. “Come on. Maybe there’s a place with something that imitates decent gruvaan shaal kebab in this dustbowl”, I offered, waving a hand to lead Ruuna along the street, looking over my shoulder at her startled yelp.

Don’t ask me how, but Ruuna had managed to get the rear scarf of her dancing costume caught in the fancywork of a droid-pulled repulsorlift rickshaw, and was now quickstepping backward to avoid being stripped nude from the waist down.

After I managed to catch up with the ‘shaw and got it to stop, I tugged the thin cloth free from where it had gotten wedged, releasing Ruuna, who thanked me while blushing profusely. At least I think she was blushing.

“Don’t worry about it.” I straightened up with a sigh. “Change of plans. Clothes, then food.”

Ruuna cocked her head at me, quizzical.

“Come on…”, I waved for her to walk beside me.

I’ll admit it. I loathe wandering around the backstreets of any urban area. They remind me of where I grew up, and that depresses me. But the backstreets are where you find the out of the way shops that sell second-hand merchandise, honestly just as good as when they were first pulled out of their shipping crates, but with the bugs worked out and for a better price.

The trick is appreciating what you find.

“They’re ugly", Runna complained, looking disdainfully at the dust grey surplus mil-spec multi-pocketed trooper fatigue pants, plucking them away from her skin.

“They’re practical and hardwearing”, I pointed out, holding a saffron-colored knitwear shirt in my hands, arms crossed.

“They’re heavy. And I can’t move in them", she pouted.

“Ehh, I have some exercise gear, almost brand new", the aged Toydarian proprietor suggested in his gravelly voice. “Fell off the back of a transport, I swear!”

The black stretchy tights delighted Runna. Paired with a white sleeveless top with narrow shoulder straps and a deep neckline, she was decently covered and simultaneously more alluring.

Shaking my head at the thought, I paid for two more similar changes of clothes, and then a wrap-around skirt in rich purple that Ruuna squealed in delight over when she discovered it.

“You need a blaster", Ruuna mused aloud, looking down into a transparisteel-topped case.

“Don’t like ‘em", I pointed out, handing Ruuna the string bag containing the new-to-her clothes and dancing costume.

“Just about everybody has one in ‘Espa", Ruuna countered. “It’s probably a good idea if you carry one.”

The speculative, predatory gleam in the Toydarian's eye as he regarded the cash-filled carry-all slung over my shoulder gave me second thoughts on the matter. And I’d only need the damn thing until I was back in the Core Worlds.

I looked in the case Ruuna had pointed out, which contained half a dozen of the lethal devices. I indicted one that looked uncomplicated, sleek and serviceable. “Let's see that one.”

The Toydarian fluttered over, unlocking the case and handing me the weapon. “Ehh, you have moy guud taste. Is BlasTech model RA-4C”, he bragged. “Very accurate!”

“Did it fall off the back of a transport too?”, I inquired, noting the reddish greel wood grips worn smooth by repeated use.

“Ehh", the merchant shrugged. “The last owner, a bounty-hunter I think, he did not need it anymore.”

Fantastic, I thought sarcastically to myself. A weapon with provenance.

“Got a holster for it?”

He did. A low-slung gunslinger rig with a thigh strap.

I buckled it in place, adjusting the fit, slipping the blaster into its leather home, fastening the thumb break release.

Ruuna smiled. “Very intimidating!”

I briefly looked askance at the pale plaster ceiling. “I look like somebody spoiling for a fight.”

“Ehh, a gram of precaution…”, the blue-grey non-human shrugged, naming a price that was only slightly extortionate.

“Fine", I sighed, surrendering to the inevitable yet again. “That price had better include a fully charged power pack, with two spares, a charger, and the maintenance kit.”

Grumbling, the Toydarian handed over the items.

“And a complimentary gas filling", I insisted.

“Are you sure you're not a pirate?”, the junk-dealer protested gruffly.

I had to grin. “Nope. Just an out of work personal courier.”

The Toydarian waved us out of his shop, annoyance at being outsmarted plainly visible.

It took another mark on my wrist-chrono to find an eatery that served humanoid compatible food.

Ruuna poked dubiously at the thick blueish paste in the shallow square paperboard bowl with her utensil, unsure if it was in fact, edible, while I reset the charge tingles and palm ident security sensor on my new-ish blaster as we sat at a table inside in the shade, enjoying, if that was the word, the reedy cool breeze wheezed out by the environmental unit.

“Tell me about yourself", I suggested to Ruuna as she made a wry face at the blob of foodstuff she’d excavated with her utensil.

Ruuna shrugged prettily. “Not much to tell, mas—I mean, Arn. I was born on Ryloth, started my dance training when I was five, sold to my first master when I was ten or so, and had my debut showing when I was, oh, sixteen?”

My curiosity had been piqued. “Kibbun wasn’t your first master?”

A shake of her head, her left lekku flicking a negative, frowning slightly. “Baron Moff Durr Askell, the former Tatooine garrison commander, was my first master. He was…okay? He didn’t mistreat me or make me do things the other slave women did for him. When Kibbun said they wanted me to be their palace dancer, Moff Askell traded me for a sail barge.”

“And Kibbun?”

Ruuna shivered in the heat, paling slightly. “I always felt like they were judging if I’d gotten…plump enough. To…umm…go to the kitchen.”

Something snapped, and we both looked down at the pieces of broken plastic utensil in my right hand.

“Sorry”, I mumbled, discarding the broken pieces in the table’s disposal slot.

I checked the charge indicator on the blaster power pack, then seated it in the well in the grip, and set the safety, holstering the weapon and securing the thumb break.

“So how old are you?”

Ruuna scraped more of the blue paste out of the bowl. “Nineteen standard? I think? I never could do the conversions”, she admitted with another pretty shrug.

I did the calculations in my head, based on what she'd told me, and nodded agreement as I started in on my own meal. Nineteen sounded right.

“You…actually enjoy this…stuff?” Ruuna was regarding me with a cautious look.

“I’ve had worse", I shrugged, scooping up a glob with a new utensil. “Beats living off escape pod rat bars for six months.”

Ruuna made a face, her lekku twitching in disgust. “Ew!”

We sat in silence for a moment as I ate.

“Can…can I have dessert?”, Ruuna inquired shyly.

I tossed her a couple of deca-credit chips. “Enjoy!”

She almost skipped to the counter to place her order, returning carefully with two bowls, one in either hand, her face a mask of concentration until the bowls were safely resting on the table with only minor spillage. “Mando oranges in syrup!”, she announced proudly as she seated herself, pushing a bowl toward me. “My favorite!”

The spicy sweet scent of the dish was almost cloying. I rubbed the right side of my face again, trying not to feel ill.

Ruuna poked at her serving of the sweet fruit, preoccupied. “You keep doing that. Are you alright?”

Dammit. Truth time. I hated truth time. It complicates things.

“Mostly", I admitted. “My face…doesn’t feel right. Hasn’t since I woke up.”

Ruuna brightened. “Oh, that happens to me when I sleep on my lekku wrong!”

“No, Ruuna, you don’t understand", I attempted to explain. “It’s hibernation sickness. I was in carbonite for the past ten years, and I was only freed three days ago. I was decanted from the clinic bacta tank late last night, and I’m very tired. This is literally the first thing I’ve eaten in a long time.”

Ruuna’s utensil clattered on the table, both hands to her mouth in shock, amber eyes wide, lekku rigid down her back. “Oh-I'm-so-sorry-I-didn't-know!”

“No, no, it’s alright", I reassured her, making patting motions in the air with my right hand. “I’m just…still getting used to things, ‘kay?”

She nodded, slowly relaxing, picking up her utensil. “You must think I’m so stupid, wanting dessert…”, she said in a small voice.

I tried a bite of my own dessert. Not as overpoweringly sweet as I’d feared. “Honestly, Ruuna, it’s the most normal thing in my life right now.”

She spooned up a bite of her dessert. “Oh.”

Silence for a moment as we ate.

“Umm…”, Ruuna glanced away, embarrassed. “How did…why…who put you in carbonite?”

I drank the last of the tangy syrup straight out of the bowl before answering.

“Let’s just say delivering unwelcome news to a crime lord is a bad career move for a personal courier", I smirked. “I’m a kilo-parsec and ten years away from where I got slabbed, okay?”

She nodded, unsure.

“Are you gonna leave me behind? Don’t you like me?” Earnest amber eyes stared at me, more than a little frightened. She was biting her lower lip nervously.

Dammit, Dammit, Dammit.

This was going to get so stupidly complicated. I just knew it.

“Okay", I sighed. “Okay, okay, okay. What else can you do, besides dance?”

Ruuna looked at me, utensil in hand, uncertain. “I can read Basic, a little bit", she admitted. “And I’m good at remembering things. Damma said I was good at that.”

I’m not a violent person, really. But right then I wanted to beat whoever sold Ruuna into slavery into a bloody rag. For a moment I swear I literally saw red. It was a bad sign, and it meant that I really needed some sleep. I get really cranky when I’m overtired.

Decision made. I was taking Ruuna with me.

Chapter Text

Mos Espa might have applied a veneer of near-respectability during the ten years I’d spent in carbonite, but you could still rent a decent room at one of the spaceport hostels if you waved enough cold, hard credits at the flesh and blood staff in lieu of required identification.

I thumbed on the light and keyed the sliding door closed, flipping the privacy bar down as soon as the door seated itself in the dust seal. The third floor room wasn’t large by any standard, barely three meters by four, but it had its own reclamation chamber, and the sealed window above the bed was shaded by external slanted louvers, admitting light but not unwanted heat as the evening faded into a deep lavender twilight.

Lights from the city glittered in the gathering shadows, Mos Espa's nightlife making itself known.

Ruuna stood near the bed, staring at the furnishings and entertainment terminal, turning a small slow circle, lekku twitching nervously.

The cash-filled carry-all landed on the bed where I'd tossed it with a muted rattle from the contents. “Well, what do you think?”, I inquired as I switched on the room’s environmental unit, setting it just slightly cool.

“It’s huge!”, Ruuna whispered, amber eyes wide, hands self-consciously stroking her right lekku that she’d drawn over her shoulder. “We're staying here?”

I nodded as I shrugged out of my jacket and utility vest, tossing both on the bed, followed by the gunbelt. “For now. Depends how quickly I can get ident and travel documents for both of us. Mine are probably long since expired.”

Ruuna sat experimentally on the bed’s scarlet coverlet, away from my clothes and the carry-all, testing the mattress, not quite believing she was allowed to experience such luxury. Perching on the square stool I pulled from the cubby under the entertainment terminal opposite the foot of the bed, I pulled off my boots, noting they could use a polish.

“How long will that take?”, Ruuna asked cautiously, bouncing slightly on the bed.

I clenched and flexed my toes against the ochre-painted adobe floor while I powered up my new tablet computer and linked to the local info-net. “Under the Empire, depending on how much squeeze you could afford, maybe a week, or a bit more. These New Republic kriffers? No idea.”

“Oh.” Ruuna stared at the floor, silent for a moment, frowning slightly. “Where are you from?”

“Me? Coruscant. Originally.”

“Oh.” She paused. “So you're an Imperial?”

“Technically", I admitted.

“Oh.”

Silence for a moment.

“Can I watch some holo-vid?”, Ruuna asked, quiet and hesitant, her expression expecting denial.

“Uh, yeah, go ahead", I agreed. “Just not too loud?”

I stood up and moved my clothes and the carry-all off the bed, nudging Ruuna to shift herself so I could stretch out while she sat cross-legged, soon engrossed in a re-run about space pirates that was already old when I was still junior academy age, while I tried to catch up on galactic history.

Left hand tucked behind my head, I thumb-scrolled through the entries. The Battle of Yavin and destruction of the Death Star, that I knew about. Hell, I’d marched in some of the protests that popped up on Coruscant after the slagging of Alderaan. Hmm, the siege of the Mako-Ta Docks…the Mid-Rim Offensive…Coyerti Campaign…Battle of Hoth. Ice world, remind me not to visit.

“Huh."

Ruuna glanced over her shoulder at me, curious.

“Han Solo got slabbed on Cloud City, on Bespin", I explained.

“Lord Jabba hung General Solo's carbonite containment unit as a decoration in his throne room", Ruuna nodded. “It was…scary.”

I raised an eyebrow. Even I had heard of the Hutt crimelord, Jabba Desiljic Tiure, and had done my best to avoid attracting the attention of his operation. It almost worked, which is why one of his far-flung associates had me slabbed on Kijimi.

“You were in Jabba's palace?”

Ruuna shifted on the foot of the bed, turning to face me, arms and lekku wrapped around herself to ward off a chill only she could feel. “Eight years ago, not long after I’d been bought by Baron Moff Askell. He was part of Lord Vader's retinue when Vader was on Tatooine to negotiate Jabba's cooperation on supplying raw materials for the Empire.”

I put down the data tablet and rubbed the right side of my face. Great. Wonderful. I was keeping company with someone who had literally brushed up against some of the most powerful entities in the galaxy.

“You met Darth Vader?” I wondered if Ruuna could hear the quiet terror in my voice. I hoped not.

She shook her head. “Saw him, from across the room. Baron Moff Askell didn’t bother to introduce an insignificant slave girl to Lord Vader.”

“Be thankful for small mercies…”, I murmured. Ruuna nodded in agreement.

“I had nightmares for weeks afterward", Ruuna whispered. “They got worse after I heard what Lord Jabba did to Oola.”

“Oola?”, I inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“One of Lord Jabba's dancers. Twi'lek, like me. Jabba fed her to his pet rancor.”

I shuddered. There are bad ways to die in the universe. Being eaten by a rancor was near the top of that list.

“I was glad when I heard Princess Leia strangled Lord Jabba with her slave chain”, Ruuna continued. “Jabba's palace shut down for a while when Bib Fortuna closed the droid pool, before taking it over for himself. It didn’t matter though. Boba Fett returned from the Pit of Carcoon and shot Bib dead in the throne room two years ago.”

“Wait", I said, more than a little confused. “Princess Leia? Senator Leia Organa of Alderaan? She killed Jabba the Hutt?!”

Ruuna nodded, eyes wide and earnest.

“The last time I saw her was her address to the Imperial Senate, just before Palpatine dissolved it", I reminisced.

Ruuna stared at me, wonder in her eyes. “You met Princess Leia?!”

Kriff. Now I’d done it. More truth time. I hate truth time.

“’Met' would be an exaggeration”, I admitted, lying there. “She was a hundred meters away in the Senate Chamber.”

Ruuna's eyes darted, searching my face for deception. “Why were you in the Senate Chamber? Aren’t you just a courier?”

I stared at the pale plaster ceiling, letting out a long breath. “Had to be there. Family obligation.”

“Who are you?” I could hear the faint note of fear in Ruuna’s voice.

“My name is Arn Des'kov Etal”, I explained, trying to reassure the skittish Twi'lek. “I was born on Coruscant to a minor noble family, and yes, I’m just a courier, nobody special.”

“I’m scared, mas—Arn…” Ruuna’s lekku trembled. “You don’t want me, and I’m…I'm...just a dancer, it’s all I know how to do.”

I sighed, sitting up and scooting my back to the wall. “I said I don’t want a slave”, looking into Ruuna’s amber eyes. “But I could use a friend. We’re in this together, you and me, alright?”

Ruuna nodded, a shy smile appearing on her lips, tips of her lekku twitching. “I think I’d like that. I’ve never had a friend. Not a real one.”

I glanced at my new wrist comm-chrono. “It's getting late.”

Watching a trained dancer get up is witnessing grace. Or it should be. Ruuna fell off the bed, limbs and lekku flailing. I rolled to see if she was alright.

“You okay?”

“Owie…”, Ruuna whined with a pout, rubbing at her hip where she’d landed in an inelegant sprawl. “Dobrah koochoo…”

“You’re not an idiot, Ruuna", I said, extending a hand so she could pull herself up. “Maybe a bit clumsy or unlucky occasionally, but an idiot wouldn’t have lasted as long as you have in your position. Give yourself some credit, eniki?”

Chagrined, Ruuna nodded. “Okay.”

“You know Huttese?”, I inquired.

A look of guilt on her face, lekku flicking. “A bit. Some phrases”, she confessed. “Enough to follow orders.”

“Huh.” I filed that little nugget away for later. “It’s going to be a long, stupid, bureaucratic day tomorrow. We should get some sleep.”

Ruuna nodded, pulled off her dancing boots and pushed her string shopping bag containing her new-to-her clothing into a vaguely pillow-ish lump on the floor before removing her head-dress, placing her manumission key on top of my data tablet.

“What are you doing?”

She glanced at me, hesitant. “Getting ready to sleep?”

I put the data tablet on the small bedside table, making sure not to lose the manumission key in the process. “Not on the floor. You’re not an animal.”

Ruuna stared at me in disbelief. I scooted over close to the wall, under the window. “You’re skinny, I’m tired, and it’s late. G'night.” I rolled over, facing the wall, punching my pillow into a comfortable dent.

Movement behind me, then bedclothes rustling as Ruuna slipped under the covers.

I closed my eyes, trying and failing to quiet the noise in my head. I had so much to catch up on, and a lot of explaining to do to certain people. The only sounds in the room were breathing, mine and Ruuna's.

“Arn?”

“Yes, Ruuna?”

“Thank you.”

I smiled, crossing my arms and settling in. “S’okay. Go to sleep, twirlee.”