Chapter Text
Hanalai had had a simple life as a slave. Simpler than most. She was not physically strong enough to be a heavy lifting slave, nor was she beautiful enough to be a sex slave. But her master, a minor crime lord who went by the name of Strike Quick, still had use for her.
He had her read. He disliked reading for long periods of time. Especially literature. He loved knowing the narrative, but didn't like staring at something long enough for someone to try shooting him. Or lengthier reports from his underlings. He taught her to read and write. He taught her that the outside world would destroy her if she left him. He sculpted himself a free secretary. She had begun this duty at ten years of age and by age twenty, Hanalai's literary prowess far outweighed Quick's.
"Hana," his voice slurred from the couch, "Sing the...th-the song. The war song."
"The drum song, master? Republic or Imperial?"
"Pub...pubby-wuuuuuubby Republic, Hana darlin'."
She sighed, knowing her master had let his past as a Republic soldier haunt him out of his usual bravado. Enough to get himself drunk. Hanalai took a deep breath before starting to sing softly, "Roll out the drums of war. Roll up the cover of the killing floor. Roll out the drums of war and let's speak of things worth fighting for. Roll out the drums of war!"
"War!" her master echoed her, raising up a fist and holding it to the ceiling. She cut back her worry as her master's green eyes were glassy, staring at his fist.
She waited a moment for him to calm down. She started the marching drum beat against her thigh with a hand, keeping to the rhythm he had taught her. "Time comes when everything you ever thought you knew comes crashing down and flames rise up in front of you. Roll out the drums of war. Roll up the cover of the killing floor. Roll out the drums of war and let's speak of things worth fighting for. Roll out the drums of war!"
"Waaaaaaaaaaar! Bloody war," he interrupted her again, grumbling as he chucked his empty glass at the wall. "I hate this war, Hana darlin'. Those who can be competent, do and are. Those who fuckin' can't...well, they appaaaaarently fuckin' run the place. Both sides, s'why I'm neutral. S'why I went to the Hutts. Ain't no hope for change. None. Just gotta survive their bloody hiss-fits. Keep goin', Hana darlin'."
"Whatever you believe the necessary course to be, depends on who you trust to identify the enemy. Who beats the drums for war? Even before peace is lost, who are the profits for? And who are they who bear the cost when a nation takes the low road to war? Who gives the orders, orders to torture? Who gets to no bid contract the future? Who lies, then bombs, then calls it an error? Who makes a fortune from fighting terror? Who is the enemy trying to crush us? Who is the enemy of truth and justice? Who is the enemy of peace and freedom?" She sang all the questions of doubtful Republic soldiers, the ones who wrote the song a decade before she was even born. "Where are the Jedi, now when we need them? Why is a treaty not on the table? We better stop them while we are able."
"Can't stop this war. Jedi, Sith, their dark side light side shit. Can't have dark without light, no light without dark. Simple fuckin' philosophy. Fuck, I keep interrupting, sorry Hana darlin'. Keep goin'."
"Roll out the drums of war. Whatever you believe the necessary course to be, depends on who you trust to identify the enemy. Who took this nation to war? Long before the peace was lost. Who are the profits for? And who are they who bear the cost and who lay down their lives? And who will live with the sacrifice of our best and brightest hopes, the flower of our youth, of freedom, and the truth?"
"Damn fuckin' right, who are they. They're the fuckin' leaders, that's what. Never be a leader, if ya get free after I die. Not a political leader. Fuck Politics. Capital P, like a big ole ugly penis."
"Your diction is as colorful as ever, master," she whispered. "Would you like me to turn down the lights and bring the bodyguard droids into the room?"
"Yeah. Get the hangover shit ready, I'm philosophical enough to out-philosophize a Jedi. Hell of a hangover's comin', Hana darlin'," Quick answered. He ran a hand through his messy blond dreadlocks. His weathered face, adorned in scarred brown skin, showed that he was distant and exhausted.
Hanalai stood from her seat across from his reclining couch, getting the cleaning droid to clean the glass shards from her master's thrown cup and then getting the bodyguard droids back to the room. She went to her modest office, organizing a few papers before contemplating sleeping herself.
Before she could, however, she would have to deal with whoever was trying to call her master.
She clicked the answer button of her master's holocommunicator, answering, "This is the office of Strike Quick, how can I help you?"
"Little Kore," the caller cooed, "It has been so long since I last saw you. You were fifteen at the time, yes?"
Ah, it was Quick's Sith friend. The two had a light business relationship that sometimes escalated into a physical one. Hanalai didn't know the Sith Lord's name. Quick always referred to the woman as the Sith or her Sithiness, even in person. She didn't seem to mind. If she did, Hanalai would have had a new master a long time ago. Sith don't tolerate annoyances, Quick taught her. Best behavior, no questions.
"I believe so, my lord," Hanalai replied, "Were you calling to make an appointment? I'm afraid Master Strike Quick isn't available at the moment."
"I'd love an appointment, little Kore," she replied, "It's a business appointment. I'm going to make an offer to buy an object from Strike Quick."
"Alright," Hanalai replied, typing at a computer, "He has an opening tomorrow evening, at seventeen hundred hours. Would that be good for you, my lord?"
"Perfectly so, little Kore," the Sith Lord purred, "Thank you for scheduling me into your master's busy schedule. How has he been treating you?"
"Master Quick is a fair owner, from what I have heard of other slave owners," Hanalai answered, "He does not whip me or use me for physical needs. He allows me to read and write where others do not. He protects me from the outside world, a world where I would die in."
"Oh, he's told you that you wouldn't make it without him?"
"Not that bluntly, but yes, he has."
The Sith Lord made tutting sounds. "Such an abusive tactic, convincing you that you would die out there," she replied. Hanalai was surprised with how...how motherly the Sith was sounding. Then again, Hanalai's only experience with mothers were those in holo dramas or in books.
"I don't think so, but you probably know more about the world than I do. I am a slave-scribe, hence inferior to your status," Hanalai replied, hoping she didn't sound disrespectful.
"The slave disagrees with me so openly? Interesting, interesting...I like your gall, little Kore. A few adjustments...yes, yes, I can see Praxidice Desponia in you now, little Kore. I will see you and your master tomorrow evening, at seventeen hundred hours." The Sith Lord cut off the call suddenly, leaving Hanalai confused. She slowly shrugged and went to arrange the hangover medicine in the kitchen for the next morning.
Then she slept. And dreamed of seeds being planted.