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Smoke wafted through the air as Owen brushed through the crowd of half-drunken gamblers. His fist clenched tightly around his son’s wrist, his eyes scanning the area. Focused and vigilant. Alert. Anything else would warrant a quick demise in a place like this. The acrid smell of death sticks bit at his nostrils, causing the young boy to cough into his sleeve before pinching his nose. Owen suppressed a sigh. “Come on,” he urged with a rough growl. He could see the hairs on the back of Luke’s neck stand on end, just as afraid as his adopted mother behind him. He couldn’t blame the boy, nor could he blame Beru. Deep down, he felt the same. This wretched place was far busier than the gambling dens back in Mos Espa, or even Anchorhead. Still, even as the family of three passed a group of shady-looking Weequays glaring in their direction, he knew better than to turn around. There was no returning to Tatooine at this point.
“Are you sure we’re in the right direction?” Beru asked in her sweet, gentle voice. Her eyes scanned her husband’s face, fully aware of the knot forming in the pit of Owen’s stomach. Owen could tell. Despite her careful words, it took quite a rare occasion for Beru Whitesun to question Owen’s guidance. For the first time since they left the homestead, he could sense the worry in her voice. The thought felt heavy on Owen’s shoulders, even if he knew she’d follow him to the end.
“I’m sure,” he replied, just loud enough to be heard over a nearby table of Rodians, arguing over a heated match of what seemed to be Corellian Spike. He drew Luke closer to him upon making eye contact with one of the Twi-Lek pimps circling the area. The last thing Owen wanted was for Luke to get lost - and given the shady surroundings, something told him that happened to younger patrons quite often. Tatooine may be dangerous, but Nar Shaddaa was somehow worse.
Sensing his unease, Beru drew close as well, drawing her long, white cloak around Luke’s shoulders like a Bonegnawer hiding her young. Owen nodded approvingly. The boy shouldn’t have to see any of this - he’d have left the two back at the hangar if he thought it would be safe. Unfortunately for all three of them, Owen knew that wasn’t the case here on Nar Shaddaa. He just needed to get to the Pazaak tables. Sabacc had never come easily to him, even in his reckless years. Pazaak, he could strategize with, or, at the very least, predict the outcomes of.
“Keep your eyes off the dancers, Luke,” Owen snapped as they pulled in through one of the mazelike doorways marked “PAZAAK” in large, painted letters. Beru let out a breath of relief before pressing her hand against the side of Luke’s face. Of course the boy would disobey whatever Owen had to say. Owen was once a boy as well. Enslaved or not, the scantily-clad Twi-Lek dancers were, of course, beautiful. That’s why Hutts “employed” them here, positioned on platforms to be gawked at and lured by. Supposedly, it attracted more customers - it was the Lucky Lekku, after all. Owen knew where they came from, however. His stepmother, Shmi, had not been the first slave to escape through their home, nor had she been the last. It was his only regret at this point. He knew the Empire would discover his family…if not soon, then eventually. Owen couldn’t let that happen. Despite being far closer to Coruscant, Naboo would at least be hospitable for Luke and Beru. They could change names. Start anew. He could give them the life he had always wanted for them - all if he just won a few games of Pazaak.
He drew towards the table, eyes sharp and jaw clenched. The Ithorian behind it stood in return, his T-shaped head tilting down towards Luke. Luke silently studied the stranger. “This is him,” Owen whispered to Beru. He pushed his son behind him, blocking the Ithorian’s view with his cloak. “Eeloor Chal…”
Like Luke, Beru remained silent.
“You’ve brought your half of the deal?” the Ithorian asked in his native tongue. His voice rumbled from within his curved throat, the twin mouths on either side of his neck vibrating like a jett organ. A network of intricate white tattoos ran down his unnaturally green skin, beady black eyes glancing between Owen and his ward. Luke drew back, suddenly content with clinging to his mother’s cloak. Owen tried to ignore the tense moment, instead continuing to look Eeloor dead in the eyes. “I have,” he replied in broken yet serviceable Ithorian, lowering his voice. “Imperial. And authentic.” Even if these men turned out to be scammers, Owen would rest easy knowing he’d had nothing to be ashamed of. Not even in the casino capital of the galaxy.
The Ithorian nodded in return, humming softly as the other players began to arrive. “Good, good…I’m afraid I’ll have to ask to examine your product before we begin. So many counterfeits have circulated here lately…” he trailed off, moving around the table as a red-skinned Devorian with hoop earrings made himself comfortable. Eeloor motioned towards Luke and Beru with his long, fat fingers, turning back to look at Owen with what Ithorians would call a shrewd expression. “Unfortunately for you all, you will need an additional element to ensure that the stakes remain…balanced during the game. I’m sure you understand.”
Owen’s heart skipped a beat as the alien’s gaze focused on his wife and son, eying them greedily. Owen had seen this before. Best-case scenario, Owen would either be subdued or killed, allowing Luke and Beru just enough time to escape unharmed. The likely outcome would be far different, however. Beru would likely never see their son again…and galaxies knew what would happen to Luke. He had heard what had happened to Shmi’s son…to Luke’s biological father. The thought stirred within him a burning, deep-seated anger - one that threatened to override his fear. His eyes hardened with an immediate intensity, turned away from Beru to avoid alerting her to the situation.
He shook his head. “That wasn’t your asking price. The stakes were agreed on. Ten thousand is more than enough.”
The Ithorian let out a laugh. “Enough? You come to my table, begging to play for our money…yet refuse to offer leverage?” Eeloor let out a snort. “Your clothes suggest you are farming folk. You have nothing else to add to the true risk in the game.”
“Owen?” Beru said, reaching out to grasp her husband’s shoulder. The muscles in his back tensing, Owen took one last shallow breath before answering the dealer directly.
“Stay away from my family. If it’s slaves you want…you can take me instead. I’ve worked enough years…my wife and boy are worth nothing to you,” Owen replied, extending a solemn hand. “More trouble than they’re worth.” Deep down, he knew he was lying. No amount of strength or work ethic could ever make up for what Eeloor was looking for. On Kessell, maybe…but not here on Nar Shaddaa. “That’s my final offer,” Owen firmly reiterated, this time in Basic. Across the table, the wealthy Devorian suddenly perked up, making eye contact with Owen for the very first time. He smiled. Owen refused to reciprocate.
A long, tense silence passed over the small group, each member of the respective parties listening to the surrounding chatter and loud, lively cantina music. With a sudden, deep chortle, the Ithorian middleman let out a sound similar to the song of a space whale. Gesturing towards the table, he widened his arms in welcome, moving aside to invite Owen to have a seat. “You offer a stubborn bargain, offworlder. We’ll see if your luck matches your strength.”
Returning Eeloor a curt nod, Owen sat down, revealing his Pazaak deck and purse from his cloak. The Devorian across from him flashed a sharp-toothed smile. Sensing the energy shift, Luke simply stared on, frightened, yet curious. “Luke, stay back,” Owen spoke to him, refusing to turn his head. Seeing Beru’s expression would only distract him. “Owen Lars,” he said as he set his coin purse on the table. “Ten thousand credits, plus collateral on behalf of myself.” He glanced back at Eeloo, not wanting to relay his bargain in front of his family. He’d tell them later. After he’d won.
“Jalon Karr,” the Devorian replied. His eyes twinkled like his shiny gold earrings, his black taloned fingers accepting Owen’s firm gesture. His voice was low yet smooth, like the purr of a cat as opposed to the regular rasp of the casino’s regular clientele - a sharp contrast to Owen’s own gruff voice. With a flick of the wrist, the devilish gambler tossed his share of money on the side of the table, setting down the top card from his custom-engraved deck before slipping another four into his palms.
“And now we roll,” Jalon hissed, offering Owen a small die carved from bone. Focusing on its twin sitting in Jalon’s opposite palm, Owen rolled the small, crude orb in his hand, narrowing his eyes. He reached forward to return it. “We’ll swap,” Owen stated, still cautious. It was a command rather than a question. “I can’t risk ‘em being weighted.”
Jalon paused, then nodded his head, conceding. “Clever for a mere moisture farmer…a shrewd indeed…” he purred. The two men cast the dice across the table as Luke watched on, eyes transfixed. He was too young to understand the game. Owen planned on teaching him eventually - if they ever made it off Nar Shaddaa, at least. Owen tried his best to will the dice into his favor, fully aware of the advantages of going second. To his dismay, the dice landed on a lower score, causing him to clench his fists, just like his son. Chit, he thought, reluctantly accepting the unfortunate outcome. He’d make do - he just needed to be strategic and to meet Jalon’s bluff with an act of his own. It couldn’t be harder than raising Luke, he reminded himself.
The first card on Owen’s side revealed itself to be a nine - a high number for such an early round, but one Owen could still work with. With only a brief moment of hesitation, he set down a five, adding the number up to a calculated fourteen. A bit aggressive for his tastes. He’d watch Jalon’s move and back down the next round - wait to see how he’d react.
“So tell me…where did a moisture farmer like you learn to play an ancient game like Pazaak?” Jalon asked as he set down his own card - a seven. The score card chirped accordingly on Jalon’s side of the table, pressing his nail against the button labeled to end his turn. He leaned a bit closer, causing Luke to tremble - a reaction he seemed all too pleased to incite. Feeling Luke’s grip tighten on his cloak, Owen tried to relax. Jalon’s intimidating gaze would set anyone on edge…but right now, there was more going on than just fear. Fear had taken a backseat to the current situation by several light-years.
“My grandfather was old. That’s all you need to know.” Owen replied. He pressed the button next to his stack. Eighteen. The chances of getting a one or a two in the next round would be slim. A sly expression crept over Jalon’s face as Owen’s hand hovered over the “stand” button. With a flick of his wrist, he set down a card. A nine. The Devorian pressed the button again, setting down another card from the top of his deck. This time, it was a four. He smirked as the board rounded up to twenty, signaling the end of the round and Jalon’s first point in the game. Convenient. Perhaps too much so. Owen tried his best to hide his concern.
The board chirped once more as Jalon shuffled his cards, watching Owen as he did the same. He could sense Beru’s worried stare burrowing into him, still intensely aware of Luke standing at his side. Part of him wished they weren’t here. He needed to stay strong - to protect them no matter the circumstances. It’s what he had promised her. It’s what they had both promised Ben. He had been so, so careful, up until this moment. He couldn’t let them down.
He drew a four from his deck. Jalon drew another nine. Owen drew out a six, then a three, then four. Jalon played another card from his hand, bringing his tally up to nineteen. Owen watched as Jalon ended his term, choosing to continue despite the improbable odds. Holding his breath, he set down another card. A seven. Owen immediately followed the move with a stand, hitting a perfect twenty. His opponent stayed calm. To Owen’s horror, Jalon drew a one, instantly tying the round. His stomach dropped. The house was against him.
Suspicion silently rose in Owen’s chest as Jalon took the next round, ending his turn at nineteen. He could almost feel his future tracker chip being jammed into his neck - the same technology he and Beru had removed countless times. Perhaps this was karmic - the result of choosing his family over the runaway slaves who had once sought their home. As he took a glance towards his son, the middleman, Eeloor, watched closely, greed in his eyes. Owen should have known this was a setup. No one made a bet like this with poor farmers.
“One last chance, Moisture Farmer,” Jalon taunted. He shuffled his deck across the table, three cards still perched in his hand. Curious, Luke stared at Owen’s hand, despite knowing nothing. His youthful eyes squinted, trying - and failing - to read the cards’ symbols. Across the table, Jalon’s grip loosened, taking his turn and setting down a five.
The same guilt from earlier grasped Owen’s throat as he continued to watch his son. Young, innocent. Blind to their inevitable fate. “You can draw the next card,” he whispered as he drew out a four, hesitant. For all his ignorance, he knew Luke could sense his deep stress. He’d raised the boy long enough to recognize the frown on his usually eager face. As Jalon played out a six and a three, Owen took the chance to pull Luke in close. He still regretted bringing him here. Still…this could easily be their last time together. He couldn’t just cry, nor give up. Lars' boys were strong. All he could do now was hold his arm around Luke, watch, and press on.
Following his father’s hand, Luke set out the next card, his tiny, soft fingers pressing the flat metal plate against the table’s glowing surface. Owen looked down with surprise. An eight. He hadn’t remembered putting that card in his deck. Confused, he ended his turn and watched as Jalon put down a sudden, rare card - a double. Few had ever been manufactured. Even fewer still survived. As Jalon’s sum settled at eighteen, Owen tried not to panic. He could still tie. Motioning Luke to back away, he waited for Jalon to declare his stand, playing his next card with intense trepidation. To his astonishment, he lay out a seven. He set down one of his last two cards, abruptly stalling the game. For the first time, Jalon’s grin faltered. Something had shifted - and it wasn’t just the flickering lights above them.
With a twinge of new confidence, Owen played out the next round. Jalon stood at nineteen. Owen subtracted down to twenty. The game was now tied.
With only one card left in his hand, Jalon snarled. “Your wife, she’s cheating!” he angrily accused. “Make her step back - and the boy, as well!”
Beru stood her ground. Despite her soft nature, Owen knew that calm, quiet strength. She was kind, yes - the most gentle negotiator he had met aside from the boy’s true mother - the woman whose planet they’d hoped to set out for. He turned to look at her with pride in his chest. It took everything in him to nod in agreement, signaling her to move back with their son.
Despite the shift in the game’s atmosphere, Luke’s eyes watered with tears. None of this made sense to him. None of it made sense to Owen himself. Still, he reached across the table and put down a card, starting off the round with a confident huff. Five. Three. Nine. Owen laid out his last card, rounding the sum up to nineteen. As Jalon glanced at his own cards, he let out a snarl. Swiping his fingers across his deck, he laid out a seven, bringing his score to sixteen. Before Owen could even react, Jalon slammed his palm down to stand. The stack of pooled credits scattered a bit, the Devorian’s last card dropping onto the table. Owen’s eyes widened ever so slightly. A two. Jalon had held back a two. His mind raced as he scooped in the credits, barely able to register Beru’s arms wrapping around his chest from behind. Luke skipped with joy as Jalon swore in Eelor’s face. They had won. Against all odds, they had won.
Epilogue
“You knew he cheated, then?” Beru asked, her hands running through Luke’s dirty blond hair. Despite the valid accusation in her voice, Owen could tell she was, at the very least, relieved. The boy slept peacefully in their laps, slumped across Owen’s arms with his fingers grasped around the corner of his sleeve. Beru kept her voice at barely above a whisper, almost drowned out by the monotonous hum of the freight ship’s hyperdrive. Even with their earnings, privacy was a luxury they couldn’t afford to buy this time around. Although the third-class bunks may have been more comfortable, Owen knew that no one would bother them here by the ship’s engines, far enough away to be able to sense any danger and keep track of Luke.
Owen let out a mixture of a grunt and hum, confirming Beru’s suspicions. “The first few rounds were too easy. He had all the cards to win in the end,” he admitted. He gazed down at his son, replaying the event in his mind over and over. Luke’s whispering, then his intensity. There hadn’t been any telltale signs of a supernatural encounter - just the profound sense that something had changed. Something unnatural, yet still pure. Seeing Luke like this reminded him of the first time he found him curled up in the garage, swoop manual in hand. A natural mechanic, just like his father. Headstrong and curious.
Owen’s expression darkened for a moment, causing Beru to shift uncomfortably. Her eyes searched her husband’s as he stared at the boy in their arms. “It wasn’t luck that won that game,” he finally admitted, even quieter than before. “It was something else.”
“Maybe they pitied us,” Beru suggested. Owen just shook his head. He could tell she was lying.
“No. It was Luke,” he stated. His voice seemed firm this time; somehow certain. He closed his mouth for a few moments, his mind searching for any other explanation. After a long, reluctant pause, he let his eyes drift, more questions than answers arising in his mind.
“Shmi always said…”
He trailed off, allowing Beru to fill in the blanks for herself.
“Well…so did Ben,” she finally replied, resting her head on Owen’s shoulder. She smiled - the same soft, warm smile that had smoothed Owen’s rough edges for the past seven years. “We’ll figure it out. He’s our son now. He always will be.”
“He always will be,” Owen mumbled, repeating her words as he drew the three of them in even closer. As Luke’s plain, blue eyes awakened from their brief slumber, the flicker of a smile burned across Owen’s worn face. Those eyes may not have come from the Lars or the Whitesuns…but they were still, somehow, undeniably their own.