Chapter Text
Greez lives in a world in which every story Cal has ever told about Bracca makes him sad while simultaneously not knowing everything makes him feel vaguely ill. He’s only heard a handful of tales and all of them have left him feeling nauseous, stomach rolling. Or maybe that was mostly the way Cal told them—casually delivered as though it was just another day, strolling through the cantinas on Mos Eisley.
Then again, it probably was just another day for him. Either way, Greez learned more or less quickly not to ask about Bracca if he didn’t have a bucket nearby or a stomach of steel. Yet as he’s passing where Cal sits in the lounge, tinkering with his saber, he notes the tattoo on the inside of the kid’s wrist. He’s seen it before, but he’s never been as curious as he is now.
Maybe it’s a Jedi thing. He thinks to himself. Please let it be a Jedi thing.
"Hey Cal."
“Hm?” The kid sits up and blinks slowly, like he’s coming out of a trance. He probably is. Cal really pours all of his attention into working with BD-1 or his saber that Greez wouldn’t be surprised if everything else around him just…faded away. “Yeah?”
Greez gestured to his arm. “What’s that?”
“Oh, the tattoo?” Cal ran his fingers over the dark ink. “Ah, identification.”
Please, please please just be a Jedi thing. “They start handing those out during the war?” Greez asked, heading over and leaning in a little closer to get a better look at it. “I don’t think Cere has one of those.”
“Oh, um, no she wouldn’t.” Cal is getting insecure, squirming under Greez’s close gaze and tugging on his sleeve to try and hide the markings. His voice becomes softer as he explains, “Um…it’s from Bracca.”
Well kriff , you’d think Greez would have learned by now to stop asking. Or better yet, ask Cere about the tattoo to determine if it’s a Jedi thing and if she says no, then he’d know not to ask Cal. But, well, he’s come this far then he may as well ask for the story, right?
No!
“So uh…like a planetary requirement or something?” He asks. “Like every citizen needs one?”
“No, uh, it was for the Guild,” Cal replied. He not so subtly covers the tattoo with his other hand. “Um, we used them to check in and out of a shift at the beginning and end and they were used to identify our bodies, too, if we died or passed out during work. It also, um…”
Oh boy. Well, here comes the part Greez isn’t going to like. “Alright, kid, lay it on me.”
“Look, Greez, there’s a reason I wasn't like…super mad after everything with the Haxion Brood and Sorc Tormo and Ordo Eris.”
Oh, it’s really bad if Cal isn’t immediately telling him. “Come on, Callie, I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”
Cal huffs, but gives in. Greez wonders in situations like this, sometimes, if the kid wants someone to ask. If he needs to have someone to talk to, vent to—cry to, on one memorable occasion—about the horrors he experienced for five years after witnessing the death of his teacher when he was barely thirteen.
“When you join the Guild, you start with a debt,” he begins, avoiding Greez’s gaze. “They give you the uniform and supplies you need and that’s where the debt begins. It’s free , but you have to pay them back for it. According to Prauf–” his voice cracks and he looks away, clearing his throat, and Greez knows without a doubt that this Prauf is almost definitely dead and the kid almost definitely watched.
Nice going, Dritus. You always know exactly what part is most sensitive and make the kid talk about it.
“I’m sorry, Cal.”
Cal just waved him off, taking a breath and moving on. “Anyway, uh, they use this to monitor your debt and to add and subtract credits as the years go by.”
“They can add credits to your debt?” Greez asked, eyes wide.
“Well, yeah, like medical expenses,” Cal explained. “Or, like, if you screw something up really really badly, they’ll usually add a couple thousand credits. Although I knew one guy who destroyed some property and they added almost two million to his.”
“Is that even possible to pay off?”
“No.”
Greez shuddered at the short and simple reply. “Right.” Starting to regret asking.
You always do .
“You don’t have to ask, Greez,” Cal says, as though he can sense Greez’s thoughts. Maker, maybe he can . If he can pick up the past out of a random napkin off the streets, who's to say he doesn’t know what’s going on in Greez’s brain just by looking him in the eyeballs? “I know it makes you uncomfortable.
“Nah, it doesn’t make me uncomfortable.” Greez avoids his gaze while he lies, just in case. “If you lived it, I think I can stomach hearing about it.”
“Uh huh.” Cal’s disbelief was obvious in his tone. Offended, Greez moved on to the next question he had that he was almost definitely going to regret asking.
“So uh…did it hurt?”
Cal blinked. “Did it hurt,” he repeated. “Did getting a tattoo when I was thirteen and in mourning hurt ?” He leans back, grinning, while Greez feels his face heat up. “No, Greez, it was like a little tickle.”
“Oh shut it, you brat ,” Greez snapped, kicking Cal’s ankle without any real force behind it. Cal laughed, softening a bit as he asked,
“Do you really want me to tell you?”
“No, not really.” Greez’s honesty shocked even himself. “But I honestly think I’m gonna feel worse if I don’t, so…” he sighed. “Break it to me gently.”
“Come on, Greez, it’s Bracca,” Cal said. There’s a smile on his face that doesn’t meet his eyes. “Nothing about that place is gentle .”
………………..
Cal clung to Prauf’s hand, sticking close on the wet streets as they weaved between people. Despite Prauf’s large size and the decent width of road, everyone walked shoulder to shoulder here, hardly caring about anyone else’s personal space.
More than once, someone slammed into Cal and it was all the boy could do to keep his hold on Prauf and not let go. If he lost sight of the Abednedo, he was pretty sure he’d get immediately trampled to death.
“Doin’ okay down there, kid?” Prauf asked.
“Uh huh,” Cal replied, before remembering his manners. “I mean, yes Mr. Prauf
Prauf sighed but didn’t push it. He’d been asking Cal to just call him Prauf for weeks, but the kid was stubborn as all hell and refused to drop the polite title so the older scrapper had just learned to live with it.
Glancing down at the kid once more, Prauf cleared his throat and asked, “Hey kid?”
“Yes sir?”
“You ever…had a tattoo before?” Cal just blinked up at him, eyes wide. Oh boy. “You know that’s what you have to get, right? To be part of the Scrapper’s Guild?”
“I know,” Cal chirped. “You told me.”
“Yeah, but…like, do you know what it is?”
“It’s permanent ink on your skin.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“My friend Siylan…” he trailed off, expression dropping like it always did when he started talking about his life before Bracca. Prauf’s heart clenched but the boy brushed it off quickly and kept going. “He snuck out once and got one. His master was so angry . Luckily they were able to get rid of it.”
“Okay, but…” that’s it, Prauf’s gotta have a real talk with this kid. Pulling over into a less busy part of the street, Prauf crouched down to the tiny boy’s height. “Cal, you know this tattoo you’re getting is permanent, right? You can’t get rid of it. Even in the future, if you ever get enough credits to pay off your debt and leave Bracca–” and that was a big if. “–you’re still going to have it. It’s going to be a part of you for the rest of your life.”
“I know.” Cal, despite his age, suddenly looks decades older than he is. “Bracca is my life now. I’m not leaving, Prauf.” He took a breath and murmured, “It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.”
Thirteen years old and crash landed on one of the worst planets for kids in the galaxy, jumpy and clammy about his past and only speaking occasionally about a few friends or his master—yeah, Prauf isn’t stupid. He knows what slavery is and based on the weird clothes the kid was wearing, it was definitely some sort of cult, too—this kid is far too hardened beyond his years.
Prauf wonders how much of the war he saw. He hopes not much. That isn’t something a kid should ever be exposed to. Well, neither is slavery but here they are. Sighing and knowing that there’s nothing he can do to talk Cal out of this—he’s spent the last two weeks trying—he stands and takes Cal’s hand again.
It’s only another few minutes to Tortirk Oidarrind’s, a ‘medic’ employed by the Guild to give new Scrapper’s their tattoos and chips. The thought makes Prauf curse himself and he quickly turns to Cal.
“Kid, I told you about the chips, right?”
“Uh huh.” But Cal sounds a little less brave than he did before. Prauf doesn’t blame him. Anesthetic is expensive on Bracca and the kid is already a few thousand credits in debt just from the uniform—which he’ll outgrow, which means that every time he needs a new one, more credits will be added to his total—and that’s not counting the extra two or three thousand he’s going to be charged today just for the tattoo and chip.
Maker , but this kid really is going to be stuck here the rest of his life, isn’t he?
They make it to Tortirk’s and head inside. It reeks of antiseptic, blood, and what Prauf is almost certain is a chemical for dissolving bodies. He doesn’t point anty of that out to Cal, though, the kid is already gripping his hand tight enough to hurt if he were anyone else.
“What do you want?” Tortirk is a rough, gruff Aqualish with absolutely no sense or humor or time for fun and games. He’s cold, callous, and gets paid more than every single Scrapper combined.
And that’s a lot of Scrapper’s.
“This is Cal,” Prauf introduced, proud of the kid for stepping up and straightening his back even though Prauf is sure he wants to shrink away and hide. “He’s a new Scrapper.”
“Needs a chip and tattoo.” Tortirk wasn’t asking. “Alright, come on kid. Let’s get a move on, I don’t have all day.”
“I’ll be waiting here for ya, Cal,” Prauf said, moving to take a seat against the wall. The kid hesitated for only a second before scampering off after Tortik and down the hall.
*****
Almost all of Cal’s bravery dies as soon as Tortirk slams the door behind him. The room is tiny, barely enough room for a table, two trays, and a chair. A chair with restraints, Cal notes. His hands shake a little as Tortirk shuffles over to the table and barks,
“On the chair, now.”
Cal scrambles to obey. It’s been four months since Master Tapal died and he’s learned in that time that Bracca is not nice. He’s also learned that staying here, getting employed here, is his only chance of survival.
There’s no other option here. He thinks to himself, trying to see what Tortirk is preparing and wondering last minute if he actually wants to know. This is all I have.
“Alright kid,” Tortirk grunted as he turned with the tray in hand, baring a scary looking needle, jar of what must be ink, and two different kinds of tiny, square chips. Sort of like the type that went into droids, except these would be going into Cal. “I don’t usually offer this but I’m in a pretty good mood, so I’ll give you the choice. Want me to knock you out before we get started?”
“I thought anesthetic was expensive,” Cal said quietly.
“Oh, it is, and you wouldn’t get that anyway,” Tortirk replied.
“So how–”
“I’d punch you in the face until you passed out.”
Oh. Cal feels sick. “No thank you,” he replied weekly. Tortirk just shrugged, placing the tray on the taller one next to the chair.
“Suit yourself.”
Cal stays still as Tortirk secures his arm to that of the chair—heavy-duty leather straps bound so tightly around his elbow and wrist that it almost breaks the skin. Cal winces but doesn’t say anything, trying not to shake or pull away as Tortirk picks up the huge needle.
“Prauf tell you exactly what’s happening?” He asked.
“N–no.” Cal hates himself for stammering.
Tortirk sighed. He sounds irritated. “I’m gonna get the company tattoo on your arm. This is special ink so it’ll also be inserting some micro-probes into the lower levels of your flesh. This is what the Guild uses to check you in and out of a shift as well as increase or decrease your debt. Got it?”
Cal nodded. “Yes sir.”
“After that, you’re gonna roll over onto your belly and I’m gonna put the chip in.”
That had Cal’s brow furrowing. “Not in my arm?”
“Nah, you can reach that. Can’t risk you digging it out later or in the future, if you ever plan to try and escape,” Tortirk replied. “No, it goes in the small of your back. Much harder for you to access there.”
Cal feels sick. “What’s the chip for?”
“Tracking,” Tortirk replied, shrugging. “They’ll know if you leave the planet.”
Though he offered nothing else, Cal had a really big feeling that that was not all the chip did. He didn’t comment on it though. Maybe it was better that he didn’t know. Instead, he fought down the urge to squirm again as Tortirk painfully pinned his hand to the chair.
“Brace yourself, kid. This is gonna hurt lie hell.”
…………………
Greez is going to throw up. He inhales sharply, thousands of opinions waiting on his tongue, but Cal seems to expect this and tries to intercept him.
“Greez–”
“No no, it’s fine, I asked.” Greez forces himself to breathe in order to settle his stomach but still can’t help but point out that, “You know that’s child labor, right?”
“I know.”
“It’s illegal on most planets.”
“Actually, it’s only illegal in the inner rim,” Cal supplies ‘helpfully’. “Bracca is mid-rim, so it’s more of a gray area there.”
Yeah and don’t even get started on the outer rim. Especially planets like Tatooine and Zygerria. Greez thought sullenly. He didn’t say that though. Instead, he took a deep breath and reached out to place a hand on Cal’s knee.
“Cal.” His tone was serious. Enough so that the kid actually sat up straight and looked over, a slight furrow to his brow. “You know that’s traumatic, right?”
“No it’s not. I lived, didn’t I?”
Greez’s heart hurts. “You can survive something and still have it be traumatic,” he murmured. “You were a kid who saw only one way to survive and at the time, yeah, you probably felt like you didn’t have any other choice. But you were essentially forced into it, Callie.” Cal opened his mouth to object but Greez talked over him. “When your only other option was starving to death, then yes. You were forced into it.”
Cal is silent for a long, long time. Eventually, slowly, he turns his head away and Greez knows it’s because he’s trying to keep his emotions in check. The Latero almost feels bad, but the truth is that maybe it’s for the best that someone point out that what the kid went through was traumatic.
Yeah, maybe he wasn’t kidnapped by Imperials and had to know he was the reason his apprentice became evil but, like, it was still traumatic.
They sat in silence for a long time. “Greez?”
“Yeah kid?”
“It really really hurt.”
Greez’s chest squeezed. “I know, kid.”
“Prauf said it’d hurt but…but I didn’t realize it would be that bad, I–I just thought–”
“I know.”
“I thought it’d be easy. I’d been through worse, I’d been through war– .”
“It’s alright, Callie, deep breaths.”
Cal’s breath was not deep, but at least it was a breath and it seemed to be what he needed to help him settle down. Greez let them sit in silence for as long as the kid needed to pull himself together. Though he felt bad about it, he couldn’t help but be thankful that Cere hadn’t been witness to the conversation. It was late enough that she’d gone to bed hours earlier but early enough that neither Greez or Cal had.
That wasn’t to say that Cere wouldn’t have been helpful in the conversation but, well, she would have approached with the a Jedi’s eye and from what Greez had learned, that wasn't always helpful and what Cal really needed was just someone to listen .
Enter Greez Dritus.
“Sorry,” Cal murmured, trying to subtly wipe his eyes to prevent Greez from noticing he’d been crying. Greez had been very aware he’d been crying, he just chose not to mention it, patting the kid’s back as he stood.
“No need to apologize, kid.” Cal stood as well, slowly, and reached for his saber. “You gonna head to bed or you want to stay out here for a bit?”
“I’m tired,” Cal replied.
Yeah, I don’t blame ya. “Alright then. Try and get some rest. And uh…if you can’t…well, I don’t mind if you want to wake me up. If you need to talk anymore, I mean.”
Cal gave a small smile. “Thank you, Greez. For the offer and for, uh, listening.”
“Yeah kid…” Greez watched Cal head back towards the engine room. “No problem.”
Even after he was sure Cal was asleep, Greez stayed up for another few hours in the cockpit, watching the lights of hyperspace dance on the ceiling.
Just in case.