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He doesn't remember Bracca being this cold.
He remembers it being this wet when they were down here fighting off the Separatist droids, because he remembers having to wipe the rain from his face as he fought. He remembers when he got back to the medical tent, one of the clones had teased him for looking like a drowned tooka and had to brush his hair up off his damp forehead to check how bad the lump he'd taken to the bucket was. He remembers how his Master had the worst of it, his fur heavy and smelling vaguely earthy when he joined them and carefully patted Cal on the head.
Oh. He's never going to feel that again, is he.
He doesn't have time to cry about it.
He had managed to get out of the pod and head into the nearest half-deconstructed ship, planning to seek shelter and call home for help. Instead the first scrapping crew he'd come across were listening to a broadcast from the Emperor saying that the Jedi Order were traitors to be hunted down.
He'd stood there, dripping wet against the wind and rain battering the exposed innards of some old derelict, as the scrappers whistled at the bounty that had been issued for Jedi, blue zeroes popping up on the holo.
“More than we'd make in a month,” one had said.
“Too bad they left already,” said another.
“Nah, their ship was still in the sky this morning,” yet another spoke up. “Blew to shit, but you know warships. They never completely break up when they make landfall even if they're damaged. And there's always plenty of escape pods.”
“You wanna waste time trudging around out there looking for them?”
“For that kinda money? You bet I do.”
“Some debris went down not too far from here. We can start there.”
Cal had taken a step back and his foot had connected with a forgotten tool, sending it skittering loudly across the floor. He froze as the conversation ended abruptly and he felt their attention move as a whole in his direction. For a moment, no one said a thing as they all stared at each other in wide-eyed surprise— Cal dripping on the floor with his Master's lightsaber in his palm, the scrappers still huddled around their holoprojector.
Then, “Hey, kid, that one of those Jedi laser swords you’ve got there?”
He ran.
He's still running.
They're still chasing him, because while Cal is small and nimble, his limbs are chilled to the bone from the rain and he's getting clumsy for it. He doesn't know the shipyard the way they do.
He bangs his knee when he turns a corner and knocks into a crate, only catching the small warning in the Force a moment too late to change his course. He goes down, wincing, his Master’s lightsaber falling from his numb fingers and sliding over the floor.
Cal bites back a curse he learned from the clones and dives for it, ignoring the pain in his knee. He manages to stretch his fingers out to grasp the cold hilt again, hugging it to his chest, and bites back a sob.
It's too big for him. He can't fight with it. All he can do is— “This way, I heard something!” —run.
He shoves his legs upright under him, but his left leg isn't cooperating anymore. He limps, speed cut down even further, and starts to try and think of other options as he stumbles away from the sound of the scrappers pursuing him. Their boots are loud on the durasteel when they chase after him, echoing in the carcass of the ship where the walls have been stripped of their electronics.
He can't keep this up. The sound of them is drawing closer with his aching leg not bending right or holding his weight the way it ought to. They've split into two groups and he's running on empty— he's injured, he's weak, still raw from shock and unable to control the Force like he's been trained to.
Worse, he realizes with a pang, they've driven him further into the ship. Unless this one's already been sliced in half by the giant laser cutters he remembers the clones pointing out to him when they'd flown down to Bracca to remove the droids, he's eventually going to run out of space to run to.
No, he thinks, he already has. That broadcast hadn't been some local holo. Even if he gets out of this bit of trouble he's fallen into, he's still going to be on the run from other people who saw those blue zeroes and will see him and decide—
“Gotcha.”
A gloved hand closes around his arm. Cal twists his wrist to shove it off, adrenaline and instinct taking over and telling him to push the moment his hand is free. He does.
The scrapper is knocked back with the heavy, invisible weight of the Force, thrown clear of Cal and into one of the walls that hasn't been completely stripped of parts. Cal has a moment to stare into the man's wide eyed expression of surprise before it goes strangely slack.
He pants, hand outstretched, and realizes that he just Force-pushed him right into more than just a wall. There's a conduit box, not completely cleaned of its components yet, the colorful wires exposed in the dim light of the ship's emergency lighting— the only illumination save for the headlamps the scrappers have —that has made what Cal can only assume is a deadly dent into the man's skull, given the way he goes limp but stays hooked on the corner of the box.
Cal looks at the way the man's feet don't quite touch the ground and feels violently ill.
He's only fought droids.
He's never killed anyone before everything went wrong up on the Brave and now he's done it again.
Boots in the hall. He doesn't have time to be sick. He doesn't have time to try and pull the man down, see if there's any chance of helping him. He needs to run.
Cal hears when a group of them find the body. The noise filters up through the ventilation shaft he's crammed himself into, just like on the Brave. His knee is leaving a wet trail of blood on the durasteel from how it stings when he crawls forward, but he's sacrificing speed for stealth now, wary of the outrage he hears from below.
If he was worried about them catching up to him before, now he's terrified. The threats are angry and violent, not too dissimilar from what he's heard the clones throw at droids on the battlefield, but aimed at him they suddenly seem far more frightening.
It's one thing to promise to sever a clanker’s legs off. Cal's done that and hasn't felt a bit of guilt; they're repairable after all, if the rest of the droid is salvageable. Some of the planets he's been to have repurposed the droids left behind by the Separatists, reprogramming them and swapping out the broken parts so they can help clear out the rubble that was left behind.
But hearing that threat aimed at him is altogether different. Has his already panicked heartbeat kicking up another notch in panic he has to stifle so he doesn't give away his position in the vents. The threats they make drift in through the grills of the vents as he slowly and steadily crawls over them, quiet as he can, flinching at the promises they're making.
That bounty had been for live Jedi. The condition he's turned over in was apparently less specific, and they're now very intent on exploiting that particular loophole in revenge.
They don't know where he is yet. If he's careful, if he's lucky, they won't.
His Master's saber is tucked into his belt along his spine so he can crawl forward with his hands unimpeded, but it makes navigating the corners difficult. He has to stop a few times to hold his breath, his hands clamped over his mouth so he won't make a sound, when they're directly beneath him.
They're in groups of two, now.
He could take them on if he wasn't already injured. If the image of the man he killed going slack wasn't flashing behind his eyes every time he closes them. If he wasn't absolutely certain they wouldn't make good on that promise to break every bone in his traitor body for killing Harv if he failed to take them down first.
Cal keeps crawling. He crawls away from the threats and the sound of boots. He's not sure if he's further in the ship or further out. Some of the vents he turns down are drier than others and the dust there plumes out in small clouds he has to close his eyes against and tuck his face down to get through, holding his breath for as long as he can.
If he coughs or sneezes, they'll find him, he's certain. If his Master's lightsaber scrapes the top of the vent, they'll find him. If his knee drips blood down any of the grates, they'll find him— though after awhile he thinks maybe the bleeding has slowed down a bit, or at least started to clot with all the dust he's dragged himself through. It still stings, but when he risks stretching a hand down to check it, it's tacky and dirty, only a bit of fresh red in all the grime.
Eventually, he runs out of energy. He's so cold, still soaked with rain and now sweat, the metal around him only making it worse. He keeps struggling not to cough on the dust, choking as silently as he can, even though he hasn't heard anyone stomping around below him in awhile.
He's not completely silent anymore, he knows. Lifting his shivering limbs is too difficult. He's shuffling more than crawling and he's possibly audible from below when he gets near the grates. The adrenaline that kept him going has all but run through him. He startles and bites through his lip when he lifts his head up at the next junction and sees eyes staring back at him.
The creature occupying the next vent is smaller than he is. Beady-eyed and tusked and grey, watching him just as warily as he watches it. Its ears are perked in his direction, but swivel back and go low when he drags himself forward another inch towards it, and then it skitters away, tail thumping against the vent.
Some kind of rat. It's creepy looking.
Cal probably looks as grey and scared as it does, caked in dust and crawling on his belly. He drags himself up in the next junction that's a bit larger so he can curl up around his shivering limbs for warmth, his Master's lightsaber an icicle of cold at his spine. The rat— or another like it —peeks in at him warily and moves away when he reaches towards it.
That's a good thing, he thinks. If they don't like people, then the fact that he's seeing them now means he's probably far enough away from the scrappers hunting him. That wherever he's crawled to is a section of the ship they aren't in.
The beady eyes gleam slightly in the dark, a reflective blue flare that tells him that the creature's vision is better than his is. It's ears and nose probably are too.
When he doesn't make any move towards it, it eventually climbs back into the same section of vent he's curled up in. Cal watches it and it watches him as it tucks into a bit of loose wiring from a panel, a quiet gnawing sound as it strips at the coating on the wires with it's tusks, eating away what it peels back. It seems to have determined his presence isn't a threat and has gone back to its dinner, though Cal can see that one of its grey ears is still swiveled back towards him, listening.
Cal shoves his face into the dirty mess of his robes and tries valiantly to get a bit of rest while he can, immensely grateful for the strange bit of company he now keeps, nervously skittering with its claws around him in their shared space in the vent as it feasts on the ship. Listening to it move around means there's no one else here.
If it runs away, then he'll know his time is up, too.
He's pretty sure he's going to be doing a lot of running or hiding, for the next few days.