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Bail Organa was tired. No, scratch that, he was fucking exhausted. Turns out being a member of the Imperial Senate while moonlighting as one of the leaders of the Rebellion was bad for his blood pressure, who’d have thought.
Gathering his thoughts as he walked back to his quarters, he recalled the most recent Senate meeting with no small amount of despair. Chancellor, no, Emperor Palpatine seemed to take a sick type of pleasure in blocking every single motion he and his allies tried to put forward for stability and reform. It was almost like he could guess all their moves before they’d even truly thought of making them; if he didn’t know better, he’d say the man was some kind of force-sensitive! And that’s not to make any mention of his Lord Vader shaped shadow. The... creature who stood behind the Emperor’s throne seemed to seep malice into the senate floor, like he had a vendetta against the air itself. And Space Hells the being was tall – the only man Bail had ever felt short next to was Anakin Skywalker, but he reckoned Lord Vader had at least 2 feet on his old friend.
Finally reaching his assigned quarters, Bail entered and collapsed in his desk chair, head hitting the imported Alderaanian wood with a solid thunk. He’d have to check his comms soon, both his regular comm and the secret rebellion one he kept hidden in a safe (too risky to keep on his person, what with the Emperor’s random bag checks), but for now… he had silence.
“Senator Organa, you have 33 missed calls and 2 scheduled meeti- “
“…I’m begging you, not now.”
“- I will come back later.”
The door clicked shut and Bail let out a heavy sigh. Resigning himself to no nap, he pulled out his rebellion comm and saw-
Oh shit.
He had 15 missed calls from Obi-Wan. Oh, fuck.
Steeling himself, he tapped on the unread messages. The first one simply read ‘We have a situation.’ The most recent message was dated 5 hours previous and said, ‘please please call me bail’.
Oh, shitting fuck.
Bail hit re-dial before he’d even fully comprehended the words, holding his breath as the blue fuzzy image of one Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Master and Leader of the Open Circle Fleet, appeared hovering over his mahogany desk. To be frank, he looked like shit. He had very clearly been drinking for quite some time, and to call his robes dirty and his hair unwashed would be a kindness few would have the mercy to bestow.
“Bail! Bail my, my old friend, my… friend? …Are you old? Bail, are you… oh shit, am I old? Bail am I- “
“Obi-Wan,” Bail looked at him with muted shock, “are you well?”
“Am I, am I well? Well, I’m not, not well but I’m also not, you know, well.” Obi-Wan was clearly putting great effort into pronouncing his words correctly, and Bail muffled his groan behind his hands.
“Obi-Wan my friend, you commed me in great distress multiple times, has,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “has something happened to Luke?” Please let nothing have happened to Luke, he prayed fervently to any passing gods who might take pity on him.
“Bail my friend, why are, why are children so slippery? I mean- I mean emotionally speaking but also, you know, uh- physically.”
“… Obi-Wan, where is Luke.”
“Jedi children weren’t nearly so difficult, we would just say ‘Trust in the Force!’ and they would, they would meditate on it! Jedi younglings used to sit still! Anakin- Anakin never sat still…”
Bail tried to recapture his friend’s attention, but Obi-Wan was thoroughly in his own world now, staring off in apparent deep thought.
“Maybe, maybe it’s his hair- like butter, his, his hair makes him slippery, Bail have you thought- grease? Is that grease? Butter?”
“Obi-Wan, have you ingested any unknown substances recently?”
Obi-Wan was off in his mind again, muttering to himself about motor oil of all things, so Bail tried one last time.
“Obi-Wan!’ he hissed, enunciating clearly. “Where. Is. Luke.”
“Luke? Oh, Luke! Luke is, uh… he’s… kidnapped?”
And with those words, Bail felt his day truly spiral out of his feeble control.
“What do you mean Luke is kidnapped!”
Obi-Wan snapped to attention, all wild eyes like a greyhound at a starting whistle, if that greyhound was currently in the middle of an alcohol induced mental breakdown.
“Bail, you have to come here, you have to come to Tatooine! Bail, Bail, please- Bail you have to, Bail- “
Bail’s jaw dropped. “Obi-Wan, I can’t come to Tattooine right now, you haven’t even told me anything other than an incoherent statement about Luke being kidnapped!” He took a deep breath and glanced around nervously. “I’ll ask Mon to send some Rebel Troopers to help with whatever you’ve gotten into, but I’m in too precarious of a position to go myself, you must understand.”
“Bail please, please Bail- you, you have to, Bail- “
Bail felt his tight grip on his temper loosening.
“Obi Wan there is no fucking way I can go to Tatooine, I have senate meetings! I’m right under the Emperor’s nose! I’m sorry, but No.”
Obi Wan said nothing, but made a distinct wet sniffling sound.
***
22 hours later, Bail’s personal ship was touching down on Tatooine, dust kicking up maliciously to ensure the vehicle could never be considered ‘white’ again. A poetic mind might have declared the rolling dunes and crystal clear sky a paragon of beauty and tranquillity, but Bail was practical to his core and only saw a sea of coarse and heatstroke inducing wasteland, which bore in his mind a worrying resemblance to that one holonet production Breha and he had watched for date night, with the exploding mountain and the scantily clad male fighters that had a surprisingly large death count for a film marketed as a romance. Did Tattooine have volcanoes? Should lava be another concern of his, along with the state of one Kenobi? Blast it all I don’t know; I am a politician not a geologist. Bail drew himself up and set his shoulders. Besides, Obi Wan would only be so lucky to have a volcano wipe him out before I am through with him. Thus determined, Bail unloaded his speeder from the ship and set off in the vague direction of Obi Wan Kenobi’s flickering comm signal.
Three hours into the journey, Bail was rapidly approaching the Kenobi household and had gained very firm opinions on the planet of Tattooine in that same time; namely, that to step foot on the planet once more in his lifetime would be far too soon, and preferably a volcano or other such explosion will put him out of his misery if he has to spend any longer than a day or two on planet sorting out Obi Wan’s mess. He had also come to the realisation that this all explained rather a lot about one Anakin Skywalker and his vehement dislike of sand; really, you ask a jedi knight on a beach trip with his secret wife and your family one time and never make the same mistake again. Thinking of beach trips, he was lucky he’d had the foresight to contact Breha and have her take Leia for an impromptu vacation; at least he did not have to worry about them being under the Emperor’s nose on Coruscant (not Imperial Centre, never Imperial Centre in his mind).
Bail finally came to a stop outside where the signal originated from and examined the homestead before him with politely concealed distaste. In truth, ‘dilapidated shack’ might have been a better description, and- was that a cave it led into? Obi Wan Kenobi, living in a cave. Who could’ve predicted that? Once again, he cursed Obi Wan in his mind. He had no business being in the Outer Rim! Obi Wan had rather unceremoniously cut the comm call after his announcement, and no amount of ringing him back had allowed him to find out any more information. He had immediately contacted the other Rebellion leaders, only to be informed that they apparently had ‘no-one available’ to investigate, which has somehow led to him, Bail Organa, senator and politician, traipsing through the Outer rim deserts on a ‘Rebellion House Call and Wellness Check’. Unbelievable. He knocked on the door cautiously, taking a step back when the door instead partially collapsed, swinging off its hinges ominously. Poking his head round the wooden frame, Bail called out softly,
“Obi Wan my friend, are you here?”
Receiving no reply, he ventured into the homestead, wrinkling his nose at the distinct smell of sweat and strong alcohol. Walking further in, he nudged aside a pile of unwashed robes with his foot, and promptly shrieked in a surprisingly accurate imitation of his 5-year-old daughter when the pile of robes grabbed his ankle, revealing itself to be none other than Obi Wan Kenobi.
“Bail, my dear friend! You have excellent timing! I appear, my friend, to be- to be on the floor, and I am- I am admittedly unsure… why exactly. I was, looking for something I believe, and now I’m- now I’m on the floor.”
“Perhaps,” Bail said, shock giving way to deadly calm, “you were looking for Luke? Who you informed me earlier is missing?”
Obi Wan’s eyes unfocused slightly, then cleared. “Ah yes, that was it! Helpful as ever old friend.” He smiled slightly dopily and made no motion to remove himself from the floor.
Bail decided to leave him where he lay for now, instead examining the room for clues as to why he had been summoned from Coruscant so urgently. The house was unremarkable, the paint peeling (in the few places painted at all), the floor ankle deep in clothing and other miscellaneous rubbish. Bail made his way over to the far wall, which was almost entirely covered in chicken scratch scrawled notes in varying degrees of legibility.
“Obi Wan, why do you have so many stuck up notes on your wall?” He leaned forwards and plucked one off its pin.
“This one says… what even is this?”
Obi Wan peered languidly over from his reclining position. “That, my friend, is a matter of grave importance to my continued wellbeing, and through me the fate of the entire remaining Jedi Order.” His gravitas was rather ruined by the aborted wiggle he had made in order to face Bail’s direction.
Bail peered closer, and finally deciphered the sloppy handwriting. “Obi Wan my friend… this is the name of a tequila brand with an addendum that reads ‘my favourite’.”
“Yes, exactly.”
Bail pinched the bridge of his nose, already mourning the money he would have to spend on a facial to smooth out the worry lines he was accumulating this trip. He dropped his hand after a minute and, sparing a glance to the pile of boneless and dishevelled Kenobi giggling on the ground, he bent down to slowly lever Obi Wan into a sitting position. He placed the former Jedi Master on a nearby chair after clearing it of the tower of Jedi robes it had been home to, idly narrating his thoughts aloud in the process.
“Why do you still have jedi robes, surely you no longer have a use for them- “
“- just in… case, my old friend.”
“…How incredibly depressing.”
After several minutes, he deemed Obi Wan upright enough and no longer in danger of imminently falling over and thus began his interrogation.
“Now Obi Wan, I need you to concentrate. What, exactly, happened to Luke?”
***
2 days previous
Obi Wan Kenobi, admittedly, had been better. Despite no clear occasion coming to mind, this fact he nevertheless was sure of. Perhaps when he had relented and taken Anakin to see the new speeder showcase as a padawan – that had been a good day despite his youngling’s incorrigible exuberance – but this thought in turn only reminded him that his little bother of a child was now in fact a rather large bother, and a Sith lord to boot, and- and he was getting off track. Focus Obi Wan.
This whole mess, he had concluded, was entirely Anakin’s fault. Of course, it would be his child who would disappear like this; was he doomed to forever be running after rampaging Skywalkers until he died? Would the Force even allow him rest, or would he continue wrangling Skywalkers even after he had shuffled off this mortal coil? The Skywalker in question, Luke, was remarkably like how he would have imagined a 5-year-old Anakin to be; small, blond, and sporting a beaming smile that was only dwarfed by his complete and utter lack of self-preservation, a trait that meshed horribly with his over-active drive for adventure. He had known- he had known! - that he should’ve refused when the Lars had asked him to watch over Luke in his hut for a couple of days. They were farmers for pity’s sake, he was sure there was no real danger to their activities despite what they had mentioned about ‘important logistical meetings’, and he could confirm from his many depressed wanderings around the dunes that there were no hiking trails to be found, nicknamed ‘Freedom Trail’ or otherwise! Really, sometimes he did wonder at Master Yoda’s decision to place the boy in their care, they seemed strange and solitary people indeed.
Nevertheless, he had taken the boy in out of the kindness of his heart, and almost immediately realised that what he deemed ‘important supplies’ (namely, strong alcohol and plain noodles), would in fact not be suitable for a growing boy. Subsequently, he had made the executive decision to venture out to Mos Espa, to pick up some blue milk or some such - whatever children eat these days. Perhaps more successfully, he had been able to teach Luke the basics of shielding himself in the force; the boy was a natural truly, and anything that further prevented his Sith Lord of a father from finding him was worth the time spent teaching in Obi Wan’s opinion.
Perhaps though, he conceded, he should’ve waited to teach Luke the art of ‘hiding in the force’ until they in fact returned from the crowded and exciting spaceport. He had turned his back for 5 seconds to argue with a trader about the price of bantha meat and Luke had vanished completely, from both Obi Wan’s eyesight and the Force. Turns out crying alone in a desert hut for 5 years leaves one a little rusty at Force shit, hmm? Said a voice in his head that sounded irritatingly like his former padawan.
Obi Wan can admit- he can admit that he panicked. He searched the entire space port from top to bottom, he went into every shop, he meditated in the middle of the market (and may or may not have been shat on by a bantha in the process) but to no avail. Luke had vanished.
This led him back to his current occupation, namely sitting and crying in the middle of the market stalls, regretting every single decision he had ever made that brought him into contact with children by the name of Skywalker. He was studiously ignoring the dirty looks he was receiving from passers-by – it turns out that the reputation he had so carefully nurtured as a mean unapproachable hermit who lived alone in a cave made people rather wary and uncooperative when he asks them if they had seen a child that had run away from him, who would’ve guessed.
In truth, Obi Wan had never felt more alone in his life. Even in the darkest hours of the Clone Wars he had had men he relied on, the Temple and its welcoming aura to return to, his padawan to make him smile and despair in equal measure – now all that was left was him, and his slow creeping fear that he, himself, was not enough. He had no records, no diplomatic immunity, no lightsaber to flash and no more ‘Negotiator’ charm to fall back on; he had nothing and no one and nowhere to begin, on a planet that only Anakin had ever seemed to truly understand. If Luke indeed was like his father, he was likely halfway to the heart of the Empire on a freighter already, and Obi Wan only just resisted the urge to wail in despair right then and there in the marketplace. Damn the boy, Obi Wan thought, and damn his father too.
Oh shit.
Oh shit.
Luke’s father. Anakin Skywalker.
Luke’s father, Darth Vader.
Oh, may the sweet, blessed Force have fucking mercy.
Obi Wan had to get to his comms, now, and inform the rebellion that Luke Skywalker is halfway to his father, and they’re all fucking doomed.
Dumbass, you are, whispers Master Yoda’s voice in his head.
In a sudden whirlwind of motion (and one that his bones will make him regret later), Obi Wan sprinted to his abandoned speeder and set course for his cave hut, ignoring the ominous clanking sound coming from the engine (Anakin had always fixed his speeders, and he had never quite got the hang of it since-) and mentally drafting his comm to Bail. My only goal remaining in life was to watch over this child, and I have failed. The least I can do is warn the others of my failures.
***
A few hours later, Obi Wan had reached his house, and sufficiently spiralled into enough of a panic that his first port of call was his extensive alcohol stash, not his comm set. Downing a glass of the finest tequila Mos Espa imports (which admittedly was still utter shit), Obi Wan paused, assessed… and reached for the bottle again.
3 generous glasses later, Obi Wan had begun his search for the top-secret Rebellion-only comm set, and therein ran into a rather large problem; namely, that apart from the room he cleaned for Luke, his house was a fucking mess. Empty bottles and instant noodle packets littered the floors, and he struggled to even see the wooden planks under the mountain of clothes and blankets that appeared to be an artist’s rendition of some kind of nest. Obi Wan poured himself another drink, and began to wade through the piles, searching for a comm set that he was fairly sure he had left in this room. 10 minutes passed. He poured himself another glass.
And another.
And another.
2 hours in, he had decided the glass was in fact hindering him from imbibing quicker, and thus started to drink straight from the second? Third? Bottle.
An hour longer passed, and Obi Wan finally hit the jackpot, unearthing a small and rather battered comm set from underneath a stack of Mos Eisley take-out menus (don’t bother, trust him they’re all disgusting). He had done it! He had found… his personal comm.
“Holy mother of Yoda’s tits, you piece of fucking SHIT!” Obi Wan howled, and forcefully punted the tiny comm across the room, where it landed in a pile of discarded robes and promptly was swallowed up.
That set the tone nicely for the rest of the evening’s disaster, which consisted of 3 more hours, two more bottles of tequila and one oddly muted on-again-off-again buzzing noise that only served to darken his mood further. But all terrible things must come to an end, and Obi Wan finally, finally, found the top-secret Rebellion comm set, hidden in a small tin can on his top shelf, cleverly marked ‘speeder repair money’. No wonder I couldn’t bloody find it, Obi Wan thought mulishly, I wasn’t looking for- for fucking… speeder shite.
Swaying slightly where he stood, Obi Wan made an attempt to straighten his robes, blearily found Bail’s number, and hit dial.
***
Obi Wan’s tale finished, Bail leaned back in his chair, slowly, and pointedly refused to look at the dishevelled mess of a man in front of him.
“So, this occurred… when, exactly?”
Obi Wan said nothing, but slowly flopped the hand not currently blocking out the light from his eyes up to show Bail two outstretched fingers.
“Two days ago… of course.” Bail inhaled, deeply, eyes closed.
“At any point, my friend, did it, perhaps, occur to you, to inform the Lars? Hmm? Maybe, just maybe, they would have liked to know that you had Lost! Their! Nephew!”
He punctuated each word with a sharp jab in Obi Wan’s direction. Bail got up to begin pacing, then thought better of it and whirled around, still pointing. “I cannot believe you!” he hissed. “I travelled from the Senate to be here! Where is your personal comm, we are contacting them right now!”
Obi Wan stared, mouth open, from his slumped over position, doing a remarkable impression of a beached whale. “My- my friend- “
“No Obi Wan, tell me where it is!”
“But you must understand, I was stressed! I had to contact you, the- the Rebellion! I would’ve told them eventually, I- “
“Obi Wan. Where. Is. Your. Comm.”
Giving up his already feeble protests, Obi Wan silently gestured in the vague direction he remembered throwing the damn thing. Bail carefully picked his way through the refuse, unearthed the comm and found the last contacted channel, one ‘Lars Homestead’. Taking a breath, and returning to the table, he hit redial.
It rang.
It picked up.
There was no one in view for a second, and so Bail started with his best politician’s smile. “Hello, is this the Lars Homestead? I am Bail Organa, here with- “
“Is that that damned Kenobi!” roared a sudden voice, one which was swiftly accompanied by an irate man, who – despite being blue and poor quality – was clearly of a farming persuasion.
“I am here with Obi Wan Kenobi, yes- “
“-Damned fool leaving a child alone in Mos Espa! Where is he! I’m gonna kill him, you see if I don’t- and who the flying fuck are you?” The man gestures rudely at Bail, who allowed that in the present circumstances his anger was more than justified.
“I am Bail Organa, a… colleague of Obi Wan. I was ringing to resolve the unfortunate lapse in judgement that my friend has made in not informing you- “
“Ooooh he’s a colleague, ringing with his fancy Imperial Centre Comm code to mingle with us common folk- you hear that Beru, think I ought’a curtsey?”
Bail bravely tried again. “I assume you are aware then, that Luke’s whereabouts are,” he stifled a sigh, “- unknown?” He resisted the urge to glare back behind him at Obi Wan, who was doing his very best attempt to become one with the dirty laundry on the floor again.
“Unknown he says! Do you hear that dear, the fancy politics man says Luke’s whereabouts are unknown! I’ll show him unknown, that damn Kenobi’s corpse will be unknown when I get my hands on the little- “
There was a scuffling sound, and a muffled argument, then the comm changed to display an outwardly calmer, but no less steely eyed Beru Lars. She smiled; despite her pleasant demeanour, it was not a friendly smile.
“I believe I can clarify a few things, if you are willing to do the same?”
Bail mutely nodded, ignoring Obi Wan gasping and mumbling behind him. Beru smiled once more, and the two men both shivered.
“We received a comm in the early hours of yesterday morning, from a friend in Mos Espa, who had noticed Luke about to sneak onboard a ship bound for the Corellian System. Luckily, this friend was in the shipping ports for,” she paused, delicately, “an unrelated matter, and they were able to intercept Luke before the ship took off.”
Bail breathed a heavy sigh of relief, as the world seemed to stop collapsing around him. There was a moment of silence, interspersed only by the faint shouts of Owen Lars still cursing ‘that damned Kenobi’ in the background.
“So… you have Luke then, yes?”
Bail sneaked a glance behind him to see Obi Wan apparently midway through experiencing the dulcet song of the Force itself, judging by the look of euphoria and terror combined on his face.
“Yes, we have Luke. He is luckily no worse for wear, but this is likely more a testament to his resilience than a comment on the experience itself. The ship which he was attempting to board had… rather upsetting cargo. It is unlikely he would have been able to leave if spotted.”
Bail swallowed. He understood what she was so carefully skirting around – Luke had attempted to sneak onto a slave ship, and likely would have been captured himself. He felt another rush of relief that this was averted, quickly followed by a wave of despair and anger both towards Obi Wan. Bail wondered at her careful language for a moment, then realised – Luke must be within earshot. Better to remain vague, for his innocence’s sake.
Beru continued. “They took Luke back to their home and watched him until I could arrive to collect him. Unfortunately, this trip used up the remainder of fuel for our speeder bike – we are but poor farmers, you understand.” Her smile had turned sharp, and Bail felt Obi Wan’s wince; there was history to that phrase, clearly. “As such, we were unable to go any further out to understand what happened to… Mr Kenobi.”
‘Damn idiot man, I was happy to leave him to rot! All our fuel gone! Beru stop this nonsense let me at him- ‘
“Luke arrived home very excited about seeing the ships, and so we thought to ourselves, perhaps it would be best to comm Ben Kenobi, and see what had happened. After all, he had promised Luke would be safe in his care, and he is an honourable man at heart, hmm?” Bail sucked a breath in through his teeth; he was no force sensitive, but even he could feel the palpable sting that only came from having one’s own words thrown back at them. He winced internally, for Obi Wan’s sake.
“Imagine our surprise, however, when Mr Kenobi does not pick up his personal comm! Why, Mr Organa, we tried ringing, and ringing, and ringing, but after a few hours we were forced to assume something terrible had befallen him, and thus gave up. Our connection is so poor, out here all alone in the wastes.” She smiled prettily, but Bail could hear Owen Lars bark a harsh laugh in the background: another jab, clearly. At this point, he truly didn’t begrudge them their anger or their mockery. Instead, he turned, slowly, towards Obi Wan.
“Obi Wan, my friend… did you in fact notice your personal comm going off?”
To call Obi Wan sheepish in this moment would be like suggesting Padme Amidala was fond of jewellery, or calling Emperor Palpatine ugly: in other words, a gross under exaggeration. He hid his face, bright red, in his trailing sleeves and mumbled, “…there may have been… a buzzing noise… occasionally.”
“Hmmmm.” Said Beru Lars.
Despite his embarrassment, this conversation seemed to have returned some life to Obi Wan, who rather desperately said “Please can I just see him- see Luke. Please, can I see him and know he is alright…”
‘THE FUCK HE CAN- ‘
“Luke has had a very trying and exhausting couple of days.” Said Beru, a tad more diplomatically than her husband. “I think that is not the best idea at this time. I do hope you understand, Mr Organa.”
“Of course, Mrs Lars, that is completely understandable,” said Bail, studiously ignoring the indignant, confused squawks of the drunken man behind him. “Please, do let us know when and if that situation changes.”
Beru Lars looked behind her, to her still raging husband, then behind Bail, to the sad little pile formerly known as Obi Wan. She did not look sympathetic.
“We shall see, Mr Organa.”
***
12 years later
Biggs Darklighter had, in fact, never been so bored in his whole life. He was lying on the floor of Luke’s room, as the boy in question jumped up and down on his bed in the manner of a child with undiagnosed, unregulated hyperactivity issues. It was the heat of the day, no farm work could be done, and it was far too hot to run around in the dunes, no matter what Luke was trying to argue.
“No Luke, I literally don’t care how bored we are, I am not going out back with you to shoot womp rats! If I never shot another bloody womp rat in my whole life it’d be too soon! So don’t go on giving me those, those golden retriever eyes now, I refuse.”
Upon hearing this, Luke drew himself up with all the undeserved dignity of a just turned 17-year-old, and said, importantly, “Golden retrievers don’t exist.”
“Yes, they do!”
“No, they don’t!”
“They do too! I saw them, on the holonet, when I was last sneaking round the spaceport cantinas! I saw them on those fancy holoscreens they have! And you look just like one so there!”
“I simply don’t believe in dogs.”
“Wh- whadd’ya mean you don’t believe in dogs! You’ve seen a dog!”
“Nooo, I’ve seen the Massiff’s, and the slaver’s hounds, but those aren’t proper dogs like you’re talking about! You never saw one of those in real life, admit it!”
Biggs puffed up with self-righteous disbelief. “Luke, I just told you I saw one! On the holonet! They have all kinda dogs off Tatooine!”
Luke looked triumphant. “Nobody ever tell you not to believe everything you see on the holonet, Darklighter? I think you saw one of the sci-fi movies they’re all showing and were stupid enough to think it’s real, that’s all.”
“I’m not stupid, take that back!”
“Yeah, you are, stupid. Everyone knows dogs don’t exist. They’re like swimming pools, all made up.” His message delivered, Luke nodded with satisfaction and flopped backwards onto the bed, bouncing once.
Biggs gave up, returning instead to their impending and inevitable death from boredom. “Well, what should we do then? If I lie here for one more second- I’m gonna die, you see that I don’t. You’ll look over to ask me a question and Biggs Darklighter will be dead from boredom, and you’ll sing so nicely at my funeral, but it won’t bring me back I tell you.”
Luke leaned over the bed and shoved him, laughing. “You have any ideas?”
“Well… I have heard this old hermit guy lives up on the outskirts of Mos Espa. Rumour says he kidnaps children and steals them away – maybe he’ll take us off world to explore!”
Luke looked excited for a split second, then his face fell. “Up near Mos Espa? Do you know his name?”
“Uhhh, I think its Old Ben Kenobi? Why’d you look so mad for?”
As he spoke, Luke had gone into his best impression of a dying swan (not that either had seen a dying swan, but it’s the principle of the matter). “I can’t Biggs,” he wailed, one hand dramatically hiding his face. “It’s in the rules! I don’t even know why it’s a rule, but it is.”
Biggs sat up and stared. “What fucking rules?”
“Quiet! Aunt Beru will hear you! You gotta whisper when you swear, idiot.”
“Oh, sorry.” Voice quieter, he said, “What fucking rules?”
Luke said nothing, just got up in a huff and gestured to follow him.
The two boys went down the stairs, past where Luke’s Uncle Owen was cursing outside over the vaporator – ‘damn things broken down again’ – and Aunt Beru was standing next to him and pointing at the damage. Reaching the door leading to outside, Luke gestured again to an old, weather-beaten note pinned to the wall, with a theatrical flick of the wrist.
“You should’ve been in theatre.” Biggs muttered, and heard his friend laugh behind him, softly. He took a step forward and examined the handwritten scrap.
LARS HOMESTEAD RULES
RULE ONE: Do not take the speeder out without permission
RULE TWO: Do not leave the outer backdoor open when fixing the moisture tank, or you’ll let in the sand
RULE THREE: Do not under any circumstances go near Old Man Ben Kenobi. If he comes round, inform him we are DEAD and/or GONE OFF PLANET.
“Huh.” Said Biggs.