Chapter Text
Frelld Bavirl heaved a sigh of relief as he forced the window of his diner’s kitchen open with a screech, dabbing at his forehead with a damp rag and inhaling a breath of fresh evening air. The Sullustan’s kitchen was near silent behind him, stoves cold from lack of use thanks to another dead evening, and yet the space had kept a level of damned heat that had confounded the aging cook since he had bought the place. He huffed, resting his elbows on the windowsill and rolling his pipe around in his fingers—not that he planned to smoke it, of course. He’d promised his wife, and he was a man of his word if nothing else.
Another graveyard shift pulled by his lonesome. Sometimes he wondered why he had settled on a twenty-four hour diner—Frelld considered posting another flier in the window, hoping maybe to snag one of the handful of youth still living around town, even if he didn’t think any hirees would take it. Doltera’s fringe settlement of Nal Burr wasn’t a hub for… well, anything; and definitely not for any aspiring fry cooks or hash flippers. Most of the young folks took to the stars as soon as they came of age, and the ones who didn’t would take up farming like their families. So, here he was, pouring his hours into a diner that was supported by the local population out of familiarity more than desire, even if they wouldn’t say it.
And of course, the Imperial presence didn’t help the local attitude, even as light as it was.
He frowned, the jowls hanging over his mouth curling downward as he pushed back from the window, stuffing the pipe back in the pocket on the front of his grease-stained apron. Patrons or not, The Cavern still needed to be maintained; there had to be a table that could be wiped down for the dozenth time that night. Table twelve still had a stubborn stickiness to it, no matter how hard he scrubbed.
Frelld hooked the spray bottle to his apron string, a clean rag in hand as he pushed through the swinging doors of the kitchen, and was no more than five steps from passing the counter when he caught the silhouette of someone sitting at the far end, leaning on the surface and peering out the windows into the night beyond.
The cook stifled a shocked splutter, dropping the bottle and the rag for later and making his way towards them with heavy footfalls, clearing his throat.
“Sorry ‘bout the wait. S’been a slow night, not a lot of customers.” He tried to play it off lightly, internally kicking himself for losing the first patron of the shift with his lack of attention. The figure turned to him, devoid of the ire he feared and waved him off casually.
“It’s fine, really. I didn’t want to rush you.”
Frelld finally got a good look at his potential customer, and realized that she wasn’t a local. She seemed young, at least in his eyes, although she probably had a few years on the rest of the pups around town. Dark hair framed her face, darker eyes watching him carefully, but not unkindly, a fading scar splashed across her forehead as the sole blemish on her expression. She had a jacket on, thick fur cascading down her back; it was a cold night, the turn of the season, but not cold enough for protection like hers; she must have just made port recently.
She cleared her throat, and he realized he must have been looking a little too intently. His spine prickled, and Frelld quickly dipped his head in apology.
“Didn’t mean to stare, just… we don’t get a lot of off-worlders these days. Did you just arrive?”
“A few rotations ago,” she replied with a smile that seemed to hide more than she gave. “I was just transferring routes, but my arrangements changed. I’m just making my way from the capital city.” He gave a small ‘ah’ and nodded, even if there was something still prickling in the back of his distracted mind.
“Well, I hope Nal Burr hasn’t disappointed too much. S’not really a tourist spot.”
“No. It’s quiet. Seems… nice.”
Neither spoke for a beat, until Frelld cleared his throat, pulling a pad from his back pocket and clicking a pen from behind his ear.
“What can I getcha?” She frowned, and squinted down at the holomenu displayed on the counter, as if for the first time. After a moment, she glanced up, sounding almost nervous.
“Two Vorzyd sliders, and a bowl of topato stew?”
He jotted the order down, and clicked his pen again, giving an affirmative ‘back in ten’ before heading back into the kitchen. He turned the dial of the stove, four clicks ringing out to break the silence before the low-blue flame sparked to life, and after setting a pan to heat, he began gathering ingredients with a low hum in his throat.
As he set the sliders down with a sharp hiss, oil bubbling on contact, and began spooning the prepared stew into a pot to heat, he stole glances at the mystery customer through the service window. She had returned to staring through the darkness beyond the windows surrounding the eatery, unmoving as she rested her chin on her palm.
Strange girl, he thought to himself. There was a faint worry that maybe she wasn’t all she seemed. The criminal element in the Outer Rim was vast and diverse, not to mention the whispers he had heard of ragtag rebellions across the sector beginning to take up arms against the Empire. Still, she didn’t seem… nervous, at least; just distracted. Maybe lingering thoughts on her travels.
He could understand that much. Frelld frowned again, grabbing a spatula and flipping the sliders to finish cooking, killing the heat on the toppings and noting that the stew was approaching a pleasant simmer. Vagabond or otherwise, if you came to the Cavern hungry, the Sullustan would feed you—he had tasted the alternative far too often in his years. He pondered for a moment, before grabbing a handful of wedges out of the cooler and setting them to fry. An aroma wafted up to his deep-set nostrils, signaling the completion of the sizzling meat, and he busied himself with plating the meal, drizzling a spoonful of sauce across the sliders and spooning a portion of stew into the nearest available bowl. Grabbing the fries with a dexterity that betrayed years of experience, he poured them onto the side of the plate and pushed his way back out to the counter.
“Here. Threw some fries in, as thanks for stoppin’ in so late,” he commented gruffly, setting the meal down in front of the stranger.
“Thank you—you really didn’t need to,” she said, even though her eyes seemed to already be devouring the plate ahead of her stomach. He grunted dismissively, setting a glass of chilled water in front of her.
“Please, take ‘em. Prepped ‘em last night, ‘n I hate to waste food.” Seeming satisfied, she tentatively lifted the sandwich up to her mouth, taking a small bite; and then another, with more enthusiasm. Frelld scratched the salt-and-pepper hair that wrapped around the back of his skull, and began walking away, intending to leave the poor girl to her meal when she spoke up around a mouthful of food.
“It’s delicious. What are the strips on top?” He stopped, caught off guard by the question; most of his regulars didn’t bother to ask about his craft. He turned, hand absentmindedly grabbing at the chest of his apron.
“...kibi. Vorzydiaks like it, goes good with the mushrooms.”
“I’m not familiar. Is it an old recipe?” She asked, genuine questioning in her tone. He took a few steps back towards her, pulling an old stool from under the counter and easing himself down onto it with a groan, the weariness in his legs suddenly catching up to him with a dull pain.
“‘Spose so. Dunno. Picked it up from a Basilisk out on Coruscant. Visited it when I was younger, explorin’ the galaxy m’self.”
“It’s amazing.” She took another bite, finishing the first slider and chasing it down with a handful of wedges. He grunted again, reaching into another cooler to his left and pulling out a bottle of orange-ish sauce, setting it in front of the woman.
“Try the wedges with this. Sernpidalian.” She eyed it, glancing up at Frelld before slowly grabbing it and squirting a dose onto the side of the plate, trying another wedge and letting out a euphoric hum. He scratched the stubble poking through his chin in uneven patches, trying not to note the fervor that the girl ate with.
“...what’s your name?”
She stopped entirely, spoonful of topato stew inches from her mouth as she peered up through the swoops of her bangs, which had fallen out of place as she ate. She cleared her throat, speaking carefully in a low tone.
“...Lottie. Why?”
“Frelld,” he gestured to himself, before leaning over to the edge of the counter. “Just figuring out a name for the tab,” he chuckled, tapping a few keys on the nearby register as he tallied up the food. “Not charging someone for a meal they needed, not wanted.” She shook her head at that, hands patting at pockets for what he assumed to be credits.
“No, I… I don’t plan on being here for that long.”
“Tell you what—you just get me back next time y’come through here,” he grunted again, the register chiming with the addition of her name to its registry. The woman—Lottie—looked like she wanted to protest, but whatever she wanted to say died in her throat; she instead settled on a quiet ‘thank you,’ barely above a whisper.
Another silence, broken only by the sound of content chewing, or a spoon scraping against the ceramic of the bowl. The Sullustan busied himself with tallying a ledger of the rest of the day’s transactions, a comfortable rhythm filling the air between cook and patron. She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a cloth, glancing around the diner again.
“It’s an interesting name.” He glanced over, dark eyes peering quizzically.
“Frelld?”
“The Cavern.” She corrected with a small smile. “I just couldn’t help but notice the rest of the planet isn’t very cavernous.”
“Ah,” he said with a tired smile, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning back slightly. “S’probably because it’s a hand-me-down. Kept it from my first restaurant back on Sullust. Reminds me of home.”
She nodded, her eyes closing for a moment, her brow furrowing into something that seemed like concentration before she spoke again.
“It was hard when you left.” Frelld was startled, her words framed more as a statement than a question. Or maybe he wasn’t as good at reading tones as he used to be. Humans were so hard to read sometimes; still, he obliged, which almost startled him more.
“...it was. Not really my choice, but… my home isn’t my home anymore. Same story as most of the galaxy, I s’pose.” His words were careful, wary of the prying ears of dangerous forces even here, in the sanctuary of his own place. Lottie nodded again, looking down at her plate and picking at the handful of remaining wedges and slipping back into silence. She didn’t say anything else, which he assumed meant the end of the conversation, until his mouth started moving on its own.
“They came down hard on Sullust,” he continued, weighed down by each word. “Thought we had enough of it durin’ the Clone Wars, but… I guess our ore was just too valuable to pass up. Didn’t take long ‘til the Empire took our population n’ made it a labor force.”
“I’ve seen what they do. To their workers. I can understand leaving, even your home.” Lottie spoke softly, her voice low and gentle on the old cook’s ears, and he believed it; he believed she had seen the galaxy, saw the hurt apparent on her face. Frelld was startled in how much it matched the hurt that he kept burying under his work here, burning away over the stovetop.
“I might’ve stayed. Tried to tough it out, keep the ol’ place open s’long as I could,” he grunted, clearing his throat from the knot rising from examining memories he hadn’t thought about in years. “But, uh. M’wife, Turella. We were havin’ a kid, and we just… couldn’t. Took the first transport we could book off-planet, ‘fore they could take that from us, too.” Lottie nodded, brow furrowed in concentration, scrunching in a faint pain, but she said nothing. The cook cleared his throat again, fist pressed tight against his mouth before going limp against his chest again.
“It was… a lot. Seein’ m’home like that. But s’not so bad here. We’re making do. Might still have a future for the young’n.” Words he didn’t truly believe, but he suddenly feared souring the meal with the bitter taste of resignation, until she spoke once more.
“I… I think you do,” she smiled, face seeming to relax from its tensed expression, and suddenly Lottie was looking at him again, reassuring eyes reflecting his own, wide and dark, and trembling. “I can see it.”
Frelld had just opened his mouth to ask what she had meant by that when a chime broke the air, the door to the diner swinging open as a tall Nautolan woman shouldered her way in from the night. A shawl hung across her broad shoulders, hat clenched in her hands as she stopped and glanced warily between the cook and Lottie.
“Late night patron. Drifted through from the port, don’t mind her,” Frelld waved off, gesturing for the woman to step further in. “What’s wrong, Sarutt? Y’look like the reek gave y’the horns.”
Sarutt stepped in, giving a polite nod to Lottie, who returned it carefully, before the farmer turned back to Frelld.
“Troopers. Out on patrol from the garrison, heading this way. Probably stopping in for some caf, but… you know how they can be.” Lottie snapped up, twisting her head around to stare hard at Sarutt.
“Stormtroopers?” The Nautolan woman’s face twisted sympathetically, cooing an apology.
“Oh, kid, sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you. They can be rough, but they’ll probably just hound you for identification and leave you alone.”
“I don’t have identification,” Lottie stammered out. Sarutt frowned, opening her mouth before Frelld quickly cut in.
“She was just complainin’ about how they lost her bags at the port. Loading droids these days—half of ‘em are crosswired.” He cleared his throat, standing up from the stool and tucking it back under the counter as he cleared the woman’s dishes. “Have a seat, Sarutt. I’ll give you a drink on th’ house if you keep me company. M’friend here was just using the ‘fresher.” He gave Lottie a pointed glance, gesturing with his head to the corner of the diner where the facilities sat. She caught on fast, thankfully, and excused herself, striding across the dining room and slipping into the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Sarutt slid into the barstool, resting her elbows on the countertop and rubbing her temples. She glanced up, pinching the bridge of her nose and sighing.
“What’s going on, Frelld? You know how dangerous it is these days, with the Imps cracking down on ‘rebel activity’ and all. Who is she?” The cook grunted, setting the dishes on the other side of the service window and putting on a fresh pot of caf.
“Dunno. Just showed up tonight.”
“There has to be more to it than that.”
“Does there?” He frowned, straining his neck to look back over his shoulder at the woman. “S’far as I know, she’s just travellin’. I don’t need to know more’n that.”
Sarutt gave up fighting, grumbling and asking for a meiloorun juice, which he set about grabbing from the back. While rummaging through the refrigerator in the kitchen, he heard another chime from the door. The cook groaned, grabbing the pitcher and turning to make his way out to the front.
Skull-faced plastoid greeted him. Two troopers, one wearing the wide-brimmed visor of a scout trooper, the other in the more standard armor of the Empire’s footsoldiers. Frelld carefully eyed their service weapons, stowed in holsters at their hips, before moving towards Sarutt and pouring a glass out for her.
“Evenin’. Late night?”
“Standard patrol,” the stormtrooper barked back. He stepped forward, stalking across the tile-set floor. He was trying to intimidate Frelld. Typical for his kind—but a tactic the Sullustan had seen countless times before, in his travels, in the caverns beneath his home planet. He’d long-since steeled himself against it, and forced a chipper face, his jowls raising into a half-smile.
“Well. There’s a fresh pot of caf, if y’need. Free to the soldiers of the Empire, ‘course.” A growl slipped out past the trooper’s modulator, before the scout trooper put a gloved hand on his comrade’s shoulder.
“We’re not here for pleasantries. We had a report of a dangerous person making their way in this direction. A human woman, young adult, dark features—you see anyone with that description?”
The cook let out a long, deliberating groan, leaning back as if lost in thought as he scratched at his chin. He waited, giving pause until he was on the verge of testing their patience before responding slowly.
“Mmm… can’t say I have. Not a lot of folks out here. Fewer out-of-towners. Sarutt here’s the only one I’ve seen all night.”
“Is that so.” The stormtrooper loomed, trying to make himself as large as possible as he loomed over the Nautolan. “What about you? Can you back that up?”
Sarutt grunted in response, stretching her arm across the countertop to show her own physique in turn as she sipped from her glass.
“...can’t say anything beyond the last half hour. I just got in from the fields—but I haven’t seen anyone, besides Frelld here. Didn’t see anyone while coming into town, either.”
Frelld half-listened to the conversation, casting a glance towards the refresher. It wasn’t hard, his lack of pupils giving him the advantage of most folks not quite knowing where he was looking. He hoped the girl had made her exit by now—the window in there wasn’t particularly large, but she hadn’t seemed big enough for it to be an issue. When he turned his attention back to the troopers, he froze when he saw the scout trooper looking in the same direction. The trooper turned back to him, goggle-like visor reflecting his blanched expression back at him.
“Is that the ‘fresher?” He grunted through his helmet, gesturing with a gloved thumb. Frelld almost forgot to nod, jostling his head up and down without responding. The trooper turned to his companion, clapping his plastoid-clad shoulder again.
“Be right back.” He turned back to the door, boots tapping along the floor before becoming muffled as he slid the door open and stepped inside.
The air was silent, Sarutt’s barely-contained glower clashing with the expressionless visor of the stormtrooper, both unmoving. Frelld hoped he wasn’t sweating more than usual, clearing his throat and moving along the counter.
“Let me pour you that caf. In case y’need it.”
“Don’t move,” the trooper commanded, and Frelld obeyed. The soldier stepped towards the counter, one hand on the countertop—the other drifting worryingly close to his holster.
“I’ve seen it before. Backwater worlds that think they’re beyond the eyes of the Empire. Lowlifes and scum grow out here like parasites, waiting to be stepped on.” His voice was low and dangerous, made more-so by the scratching texture caused by his modulator as he glowered from behind the terrifying visage of his mask. “Maybe you’re a part of it.”
It took everything the Sullustan had to keep himself steady. Maybe it was the late nights compounding together, mixed with the fear of this mystery patron being found out in the adjacent room, held up by the agent of the Empire that had crossed the threshold of his establishment; whatever it was broiling inside of him, he found himself not filled with fear, but with a desire to smash the pot of burning-hot caf against the troopers head for everything he had done in all of the years of the Empire.
Instead, he did nothing.
“I pay my taxes. I’m… protected by the Empire,” he said carefully. “What reason would I have to jeopardize that?”
Any response from the stormtrooper was interrupted by a flushing off to the side, the door to the facilities sliding open and the scout trooper stepping back out, making his way to the door, pausing briefly by the stormtrooper.
“We’re done here. We have to hit two more sectors before morning.” The stormtrooper grunted, pulling back from the counter and stalking back towards the door with an unseen sneer. Before following, the scout turned his helmet back to the cook.
“Get that ‘fresher unclogged. Looks like someone dropped a couple of credits in and didn’t feel like fishing it out.” And then he was gone in the night.
Sarutt and Frelld sat in tense silence, half expecting the troopers to come bursting back in with binders in hand, but the air outside remained still. Only when they were certain did the pair release the tension that had built up in their bodies, exhaling a joint sigh of relief.
The cook moved finally, busying himself with pouring a cup of caf and peering into the dark liquid as it filled his mug.
“Spit it out, Sarutt. I can feel you glaring.”
“That was stupid, and you know it,” she spat, out of anxiety more than anger. “Think of Turella. Of Kief. You just put your whole family at risk, over what? Some—kriffin’ stranger?”
The Sullustan grunted, slipping around the counter with his mug in hand and taking a seat next to the Nautolan, shoulders slumping with exhaustion as he soaked up the heat through his palms.
“...you didn’t hear her, Sar. Didn’t talk t’ her. It was like… she could see what I went through. Like she shared it. I had t’ help her.”
Sarutt’s expression stayed firm, until with a sigh, it finally wavered. She slumped next to him, swirling her drink around in its glass before speaking.
“Fine. Well. Wherever she is now… I just hope it was worth the risk.”
Frelld sipped from his mug, wincing as the beverage burned his tongue, and couldn’t help but wish the same thing.
Lottie Matthews laid quietly in the grassy plains surrounding Nal Burr, bathed in the light cascading from its twin moons, suspended in their place among a sky of stars. As soon as she had slipped beyond the town’s borders from the diner’s window, she had pressed her body low to the ground, waiting patiently for the sound of the Imperials’ speeder, only daring to move again after hearing it howl out into the night and fade out of earshot. Even given the circumstances, she appreciated the chance to catch her breath, basking in the soothing coolness of the night air.
She brought a hand to her nose tentatively, pulling it back to find a dried redness and little else; the bleeding had started shortly after slipping out of sight of the cook and the farmer, brought on by a sudden wave of anger by the Nautolan, anxiety from Frelld, and a cold, infectious fear from both. Waves of emotion endlessly crashing upon her senses, already worn thin from the long voyage aboard the refugee transport that had brought her to Doltera, and the feelings that had embroiled the passengers around her.
It had always been like this, though. Always would be. She had been ripped from the only people in the galaxy that could have trained her to control her abilities, only for them to be snuffed out completely by the dark wave that had followed. Those days had been the hardest, and she stifled the nausea that stirred up from remembering them.
She turned her thoughts instead to her conversation with the cook. The vivid images still lingered in her mind, fragments of the destruction of his home. Friends and neighbors escorted away in the uniforms of miners, thrust into the dangerous jobs the Empire was unwilling to do themselves—and a deep sadness while looking out the viewport of a starship, the last image of home fading into a pinprick of light. The weight on his heart shared by her own, his experiences adding themselves to Lottie’s memories like so many others; scars left on him that were far too similar to her own.
And yet there was warmth there, too. A glimpse of a hand not her own, stroking the face of a newborn child, eyes tightly closed, shielding it from the darkness of the galaxy. Pride and joy, no matter how long forgotten, welling up while gazing upon a new restaurant, a new beginning, a new attempt at something stolen away by forces far beyond one’s own control—and for a brief moment, no matter how much it had hurt to have her senses strained like they were, Lottie had seen something else in the stranger’s life, something new. A future that had forgotten war and tyranny, and the pain that they both brought. A possibility, albeit among thousands.
She felt a faint tug of envy, and stared wistfully up at the ringed belt orbiting overhead. Sometimes she wished she could see that for herself, too.
The Sullustan would be fine. She had to believe that; and she believed that even with her near-brush with the forces that had taken away so much from her, she had done good here, lessening some of the pain he had carried with him for far too long. Now, she had to worry about herself again. Lottie stood up from the ground, dusting herself off and staring off into the horizon.
The next port would take her the rest of the night to reach. She desperately wished that she could know what face would be waiting for her there, ready to take her to her next safe haven, but knew that wouldn’t be the case.
She did say she had other business, after all.
She would have to rely on the local cantinas, for someone looking for a few credits in exchange for a short jump to the next system. She hoped she still had enough, after trying to leave something for Frelld’s hospitality. It would have to be enough.
Putting one foot before the next, Lottie began the trek towards her next destination. As she left a trail of broken stalks behind her, she kept sending a silent prayer to the Force that wherever it took her, she would finally be able to catch some well-needed rest.