Chapter Text
To the Ewoks of Endor’s forest moon, twilight is known as azar toot dee or ‘magic time’. It’s a beautiful misunderstanding, of course, born from a perfectly natural phenomenon. Sometimes, when the dizzyingly high canopy scatters the fading light of the binary suns, shimmering mirages will appear amongst the giant redwoods that loom and crowd the landscape – bright and ethereal. Magical.
Although you don’t believe in magic, it’s still no surprise that this very thought occurs to you this evening, given what’s up ahead. Honestly, it’s the only thought that can occur when you spot something shining in the distance.
Having spent all day carrying out mind-numbing repairs to the secondary shield generator array, you’re weary as you ride your speeder bike back to the compound. However, your mind fights to regain its focus the instant you notice the hazard on the narrow trail.
Someone clad in gleaming armour is traipsing through the trees.
It takes you a frankly ludicrous amount of time to realise that what you’re seeing is a solid person and not just a trick of the light.
Of course, it could be your fatigue. It’s coming up on six years since you first arrived on Endor, yet your body clock still hasn’t adjusted to its absurdly short eighteen-hour days. By this point, you doubt it ever will.
You suppose it’s easier for the moon’s natives, but for over two decades, your sleep/wake cycle ran by your homeworld’s twenty-eight-hour rotation. So you just can’t shake the feeling that living here is robbing you of both daylight hours and precious sleep.
As a freelance salvager, you’d mostly worked to your own schedule. But it took you and the other salvagers only three years to strip all the viable tech from the Death Star debris that made it to the moon’s surface. After that, you had limited choices out here near the galaxy’s edge. So you took a contract as a shield generator technician at the former New Republic base, despite their maddening insistence on keeping local hours.
Now you’re unable to sleep when you’re supposed to, and you’re dead on your feet when you’re working. An endless carousel of your body clock chasing the offbeat tick of the wrong orbit.
If you’re honest, existing in such an extreme state of desynchrony has you a little concerned that you’re slipping into delirium. So when the figure up ahead comes into view, this, combined with the prospect of mirages in the forest, has you utterly convinced you’re dreaming.
At first, they’re just a glint of light obscured by the colossal trees on the gently winding trail, but they become both larger and more menacing as you slow on your approach.
Seeing head-to-toe armour causes a rising dread to constrict your throat as your speeder draws ever closer, dream slowly morphing into nightmare. Spite and old resentments surface in your belly to memories of white-armoured soldiers dictating lives and livelihoods as you grew up – memories shared by countless others throughout the galaxy.
Kriff… it can’t be. Can it?
No, it isn’t. Thank the stars!
Closing the distance, you can now clearly see it’s not a stormtrooper. This one’s armour is far too polished, and they’re not furtively attempting to conceal themselves in the thick and shadowy undergrowth. Plus, to your knowledge, the Imperial infantry didn’t wear faded black cloaks.
It’s been several years since you last saw a stormtrooper on Endor, anyway. The Alliance rounded up most of the stragglers after the Empire crumbled and pieces of its deadly space station began falling from the sky. If it had been a trooper up ahead, you’d have known you were asleep. Sleeping on your speeder and about to crash.
But no, you’re seemingly awake. Nonetheless, the sudden skip in your heartbeat sets you on edge.
This person is a different type of unwelcome sight. They’re striding hurriedly along the dead centre of the well-worn path, as confident as a sabacc player with an Idiot’s Array. But they’re also blocking your progress, forcing you to slow to a similar pace as you approach from behind. Whoever they are, they’re just as arrogant as the Imperial troopers were.
This is all you karking need. It’s late, the suns are sinking fast, and the forest has been unusually humid today, leaving you slightly sweaty. Plus, your intense fatigue is making you grouchy, compounded further by the stress of mistaking this roadblock for an Imp.
All told, the derision in your voice as you call out to them is inevitable.
“Hey, lurdo! You wanna get out of the way or get run over?”
The armoured stranger stops dead, and your body reacts on instinct, slamming hard on the brakes. With lightning-fast reflexes, they whip around and thump their large gloved hands onto the durasteel steering vanes as if they could arrest the vehicle’s progress with physical strength and willpower alone. Luckily, the pointed nose of your speeder halts a mere loth-cat’s whisker away from ramming into their armour-clad thighs.
“Son of a murglak!” you yell at them, muscles tense, heart in your throat. “What the hell?! Have you got a death wish?”
You just came shockingly close to causing serious injury. Your reaction was only that fast because of practice; plenty of others would’ve rammed straight into this hunk of metal.
At your reduced speed, you doubt it would’ve been fatal, but it could’ve done some severe damage to the unarmoured backs of their thighs if they hadn’t turned in time. And if the pointed steering vanes had pierced an artery… karking hell. If that had happened, you would’ve had a heavily bleeding stranger on your hands and a probable mortal injury on your conscience.
An even lousier way to end your day.
Up close, you notice just how tall and broad the figure is, even leaning over the front of your bike. An imposing and impassable wall of silvery metal blocking your route home.
As they relax their arms and straighten up to their full height, you instantly spot the array of weapons and ammo strapped to their body.
A bandolier carrying the highest calibre shells you’ve ever seen crosses an impressive metal cuirass, leading to a belt packed with mines and charges. Hanging from that against an armoured thigh is a holstered blaster, and on the opposite side is an oddly shaped baton by their hip. The stranger’s well-muscled forearms feature vambraces that no doubt hide an array of deadly tools, and there’s a massive knife in their boot.
And those are just the ones you can see. Who knows what’s contained in the loose bag they wear across them or what that thing on their back beneath the cloak is.
A polished metal helmet fully covers their head, with only a black transparisteel T-visor suggesting the location of their eyes.
You notice the silver cuirass is male-designed, and coupled with the person’s height and build, you decide the odds are that they’re male.
The rapidly sinking suns cast a burning orange halo around him, and the expressionless helmet stares at you, not saying a word. Sinister yet dazzling.
Surely he can’t be a droid, right? Though not a scrap of skin is visible, what little you can see between the armour suggests flesh beneath the fabric, not pistons. Why would anyone design a droid with such a lifelike shape? It would be a waste of materials. With those muscles, he must be alive.
You shift in your seat, waiting for something – anything – in response from the stranger. Yet still, he merely observes you from beneath the inscrutable metal helmet, a static sentinel at odds with the bustling surroundings.
You start to feel uneasy. Is he dangerous? That seems likely. Nobody carries that many weapons unless they have a reason to. Suddenly, the humid climate is not the only thing dampening your neck.
Something murky from the depths of your memory vies for your attention, a warning to be careful here. He may not be a stormtrooper, but the galaxy contains numerous other threats. The abundance of armour and weaponry standing before you is a glaring signal to be cautious and not test this one’s patience.
But the weird cocktail of exhaustion and alertness that clouds your every waking moment wins out over any caution the logical side of your brain tries to advise. Time is of the essence. Thanks to your hasty braking manoeuvre, you’ll have to recalibrate the bike’s repulsorlift when you get back now. Then, you still need to eat, shower, and attempt to channel your exhaustion into actual sleep. You can’t face another six hours of staring at the ceiling above your bed until your shift tomorrow, worn out but unable to switch off.
So you really need this guy to move – now. And no matter how heavily armed and menacing he is, he hasn’t made any aggressive moves even though you came close to maiming him with your vehicle. This only adds to your conclusion that you’re in no imminent danger.
You take a deep breath and push your goggles to your forehead, discarding caution into the ever-darkening forest. Time to try a less insulting approach. He hasn’t spoken yet, but perhaps if you can communicate, you can resolve the issue.
You enunciate your words slowly. “Do… you… speak… Basic?”
“Yes.” The voice is clearly male, though it’s filtered by a modulator, woefully devoid of emotion. The stygian black visor of his helmet remains fixed on you, a slice of infinite darkness amidst the flames of the sunset reflected in the surrounding metal.
“Right,” you remark impatiently. “And why in the fires of Mustafar are you walking alone in the forest at dusk blocking the trail like a lurdo?” A sickening thought leaps randomly from your exhausted brain, and you narrow your eyes at him. “You’re not hunting Ewoks, are you?”
“No.”
Well, that’s something, at least. But his curt responses and refusal to acknowledge your primary question further inflame your annoyance. Suddenly this moon doesn’t seem remotely big enough with this frustrating asshole blocking your path. The binary suns are sinking fast, and there’s a myriad of dangers in the forest at night… you really need to get moving.
Standing astride your bike, you puff yourself up to your most confident height yet fail to even remotely match his brooding demeanour. “Can you say anything other than yes or no??”
His stoicism persists despite your rapidly waning self-control. “Yes.”
Karking hell! You roll your eyes in despair and give it one final shot. As annoyance and defiance invade your tone, your plea comes out so piercingly that nearby small wildlife flap and scurry away in fear.
“Will you say anything other than yes or no to me?!”
You think you hear him exhale beneath the helmet, but it’s too faint to tell if it’s rage or resignation. Not that you care – you just want this asshole to move.
But at last, you seem to have pierced his impassive shell. However, his growled response seethes with barely controlled contempt as he leans toward you over the speeder’s outrigger, towering above you.
“I do not state my business to people who yell at me after almost killing me.”
Oh. Kark. The realisation that you are the one being flagrantly rude here punches you in the gut, and your face starts to burn with shame. The frustrating delirium of desynchrony is turning you into a wretched harpy.
Suddenly faced with the opposite perspective from your own, one frustrating fact makes itself clear above all others: you should’ve stopped your speeder before calling out to him. Of course he was going to stop walking when someone spoke from behind him.
Your angry front topples like a dead tree in a Gorax’s path. Sinking down onto your seat, you’re suddenly mortified by both your liability and your absurdly short fuse.
Being so confrontational is unlike you these days; you rarely find yourself in such a position. You’re the quiet type: few friends (mostly Ewoks who lead charmingly simple lives in your view), focused on carving out a meagre existence here with little need for conflict. You had more than enough of that in the past.
You’re vaguely confused as to why you had such a strong reaction. Must be the desynchrony; always your worst enemy.
And as for him… his imposing demeanour and harsh response don’t scare you. You’ve dealt with your fair share of bullies, and you know how to defend yourself. Not that you’d have any chance against someone this well-armed, but you’re pretty sure you could escape unscathed if it came to it.
No, his reply fails to move you to alarm. Instead, you simply feel like the idiot you assumed he was. And suddenly small, too. Soft and foolish compared to the armoured hulk who still looms above you.
You rub your palms across your burning cheeks before burying your knuckles into your eyes. Attempting to clear your head, you gear yourself up for what you realise is your only possible action: admitting fault.
But just as your apology leaves your lips, he quietly rasps the same word.
“I’m sorry—”
“Sorry.” He eases himself backward as the syllables reach you, as if he’s trying to distance himself from them.
Surprised by the sudden withdrawal of his menacing demeanour, you exhale a dry half-laugh. Why did he feel the need to apologise when you were the fool who set the hostile tone? Do you really look that pathetic without the anger charging you up? Was that an apology for his threatening response just now or for blocking the trail in the first place?
This has gone from maddening to absurd faster than your bike’s top speed.
He doesn’t appear to have anything more to say, so you attempt to mitigate your conduct as planned. You hope your voice doesn’t betray you, though you know your expression and body language are broadcasting your shame regardless.
“Look, I should’ve stopped the bike before calling out, and I shouldn’t have shouted at you. I’m… I haven’t had much sleep. So, I’m sorry I almost ran you over and then yelled about it. And you’re right; it’s none of my business what you’re doing out here. But you should stay to the side of the path so you don’t get run over or block any more traffic, okay? The forest is full of things that can kill you after the suns are down, but on the trails, speeder bikes are your main foe.”
You settle back on your vehicle and reach for the accelerator, but your hand freezes as he takes a step closer. This time, however, his approach is entirely without menace. Almost contrite.
And at last, the stranger speaks. “I’m… looking for someone. But I had to land my ship far from the base. I’ve been walking since the suns came up.”
As explanations go, it’s succinct and doesn’t really justify him blocking traffic. Still, at least your attempt to atone bought you an answer to your question about why he’s out here. Small victories. And perhaps it was an obscure attempt on his part to share some of the blame.
Now that you’re hearing multiple words free of the anger you both clearly stoked in each other upon meeting, you notice more about his modulated voice. You’re surprised to realise it’s a smooth and strangely alluring baritone. He says it all as if he were giving a situation report during a debrief, making you wonder if he’s ex-military.
Then another thought bursts forth from your weary brain: that murky memory that signalled for caution earlier. A fusion of half-remembered stories and chance observations when visiting cantinas on the wrong side of town as a young adult. Armoured. Covered in weapons. Concise, no-nonsense speech. Landed outside the shield’s range. Looking for someone….
“Are you Bounty Guild?”
He stiffens, his fingers subtly grazing the blaster on his right thigh. His helmet tilts sideways, carefully scrutinising you, perhaps debating whether your query should concern him.
Well, that’s given him away. Only hunters would react so defensively to that question, wondering if they’ve crossed paths with a bounty they don’t have a commission for.
A further tense moment passes as he becomes motionless once again. It’s as if someone keeps pausing a holovid before you, except the trees and undergrowth continue to sway around his frozen form, helmet cocked and gun about to be. Yet still, you’re not concerned – it’s just an innate response, not an actual threat. Plus, being a Guild member means he’s lawfully employed and not a full-time criminal, which was the other option. That makes you feel safer.
Finally, his stance relaxes again, and he confirms your suspicion with a curt nod. He must have decided you don’t look much like a wanted person. In your mind, you’re the very definition of unwanted.
You kick the speeder into standby as you consider his reason for coming to Endor. Without the subtle hum of the engine, the chirps and rustles of the forest and its occupants do their best to deafen you as you muse on his words.
His destination is the compound. Somewhere you’ve lived and worked for several years. Somewhere you know quite a few people (at least by face, if not name). And he’s hunting one of them.
You might know his target.
But then again, there are plenty of shady people there, and you expect many are past due to answer for their various crimes. Though officially still under New Republic control, the compound is full of characters with dubious morals since there are no stationed patrols and the security team is frankly a joke. It was the New Republic’s first headquarters, but once they moved to Coruscant, the base adapted. The complex primarily houses research and engineering labs now, but it’s a varied community – the quiet location has attracted many with an entrepreneurial spirit and the credits to rent a workshop. You’ve no doubt unlawful enterprise occurs, but you’ve rarely noticed any trouble.
However, based on what you’ve seen of him so far, this commissioned hunter seems less of a threat than having a criminal living down the hall from you. Even more so if their crimes are heinous enough to have such a fearless warrior type pick up their warrant.
And it’s been a while since you did a good deed….
High above you in the canopy, a geejaw calls to its neighbour in a shrill cry that sounds remarkably close to ‘dooo-it’. It’s enough to spur the part of your brain that isn’t half-asleep into making a decision.
“The compound is over an hour away on foot – you won’t make it before nightfall. Hop on, I’ll bring you there.” If he’s tempted by your proposal, he doesn’t show it, so you reason, “It’s the least I can do after almost running you over and then yelling at you.”
Once again, the metal-clad stranger simply stares at you, and his scrutiny reignites that prickling heat at the nape of your neck.
Kark, is this a mistake? Is it simply the shame you feel over your conduct that’s making you offer this well-armed hunter your assistance? You’re rarely this charitable to strangers, and you recognise you should be extra cautious around someone who kills for a living.
But part of you remains fired up from your standoff, and the charge that prickles through your body combines with your fatigue and curiosity. Before you realise it, you find yourself giving a sincere nod to punctuate your possibly insane offer.
It’s not as if you didn’t know killers growing up, so who are you to judge him for his livelihood?
Several more moments of tense silence elapse. Then the armoured man glances at your speeder and steps to the side, seemingly appraising whether it’s a worthy enough vehicle to ferry him.
“It’s a 74-Z. It’ll carry us both. I salvaged and repaired it myself,” you assure him.
You scoot forward on the long seat, making room, and he warily approaches. He pauses again, and you wonder if he’s about to decline your proposal, so you offer a compelling smile. It seems to convince him, and he throws his leg over the seat, carefully easing himself down behind you to let the repulsorlift adjust for the extra weight.
His action is smooth, and you’re almost alarmed by his wordless acceptance. Almost.
There’s not much room, but you fit just as you promised, albeit in a more… intimate position than you’d imagined. The seat is long, but it’s designed for a single passenger. His large armour-clad thighs now bracket your own, and your earlier unease unfolds in the pit of your stomach once more. Maybe it’s from having a weapon-adorned hunter pin you between his legs, or perhaps it’s because you’re pressed up so damn close to this broad-chested enigma of a man. Either way, something flutters in your gut.
Your inner turmoil only grows as he rumbles a simple thank you into your ear, sending prickles along your spine. It takes you a moment to realise why. His voice. Stars, there’s an edge and depth to it that’s stirring something almost primal within you. And there’s so little space between you that you both feel and hear those two syllables. Kriff.
Trying to conceal your medley of confusing thoughts, you clear your throat and anxiously suggest, “You, uh… you’d better hold on.”
The bike has no rear handle, so he has no choice but to hang onto you. You expect the weight of gloved hands on your shoulders and startle when you feel them settle at your hips instead.
Well, he’s bold in actions, if not words; you’ll give him that.
There’s a second of annoyance at someone touching you without your permission until your brain catches up and you remember he’s simply following your instruction to hold on. That was, of course, your full consent for him to touch you, albeit in a location you hadn’t expected.
And it’s not as if he’s made any leering advances toward you. In fact, he’s given you no cause to think he might take advantage at all, despite the raw strength clearly contained behind the armour. He could’ve easily overpowered you at any point, but he hasn’t.
Abruptly, your unease transmutes into a surprising regret that this probably isn’t a come-on. Honestly, it’s been a while since anyone’s touched you anywhere at all. So the feeling of this hunter’s large hands firmly grasping your sides only serves to stoke the rising heat in your belly, despite the extra layer of his leather gloves.
Stop it. You mentally shake off your reaction and start up the speeder. Resetting your goggles over your eyes, you push forward slowly to ensure you’re both balanced. Focus.
It takes a few moments to achieve the most stable position for the high-speed ride. All the while, your passenger’s thighs clench tighter around yours, and he leans forward with you as you press on the handles to gather speed.
His body is now wrapped around yours, and you feel both trapped and protected. But though the hard metal of his cuirass presses into your back, the warmth of his inner thighs against yours more than makes up for any discomfort lingering in the depths of your sleep-deprived brain.
His fingers press firmly into your hips through the fabric of your trousers, the feeling dancing along the confusing line between pleasure and pain. Combined with the resonance of the speeder bike humming beneath you, your mind begins to simmer with wholly improper ideas. The tension increases as unwitting thoughts fill your head – images of this mysterious stranger pulling your hips toward his own for other more lustful reasons.
Damn, you must be severely hard up to be fantasising about a guy whose face you’ve never seen. Plus, he’s only said a handful of words to you. How kriffing desperate are you?
You hurriedly dispel the thoughts and focus on reaching cruising speed, mindful of the swiftly approaching darkness.
As you settle into the ride, the tension in your body from having him so close soon transforms into muscle memory reactions to the trail you’ve ridden for so many years. Your torso flexes with the high-speed weaving manoeuvres, and you sway and lean as needed. With his gloved hands grasping your hips, your passenger seems to detect and predict your movements, and he leans with you into turns he can barely see to keep you both perfectly balanced.
You now understand the reason behind his hand placement – he must have ridden pillion before. You’re more than grateful for his skill and effort. It would be challenging to balance the weight of both him and his amour if he wasn’t helping in this manner, even more so in the rapidly descending shadows of the oncoming night.
Of course his decision to hold you by your hips doesn’t indicate anything untoward. What were you thinking?
Speed biking through the forest has always brought a glimmer of joy to your otherwise dull existence. The thrill of moving at high speeds, the blur of your surroundings as you weave through the trees, the coolness of the breeze hitting your face. It’s freeing in a way you never got the chance to feel during your youth. Even more so here on Endor, where the gravity is lighter than on your homeworld.
Yet now, with a hunter’s hands at your hips, snaking through the semi-darkness as the last of the second sun’s protection recedes, navigating by headlamp and memory alone, something feels almost… ominous. Not in a sinister way, though, more… fateful. An unease from the disruption of your peaceful yet tedious life, but a flicker of intrigue at something different – something exciting – finally happening.
Soon enough, you’re pulling up outside the compound’s main gate, and your passenger disembarks the moment you come to a halt. In the pool of light by the entrance, you see him roll his neck and shoulders, so you check in on him once you’ve hopped off the bike and removed your goggles.
“You okay? I hear the passenger can get more of a workout than the pilot on tandem rides.”
He converts his head roll into a nod and grunts an affirmative. You think it’s probably yes to both things: he’s okay, and he agrees with your statement.
“Good. Let me check in my speeder, then I can help you figure out where your target is.”
You surprise yourself with your directness. All you offered the hunter was a ride, and he certainly hasn’t asked for your help finding his bounty. However, you get the feeling the direct approach works best with this guy, and the night is still young. One insane offer may as well lead to another, right? Helping him out is more exciting than recalibrating the bike’s repulsorlift, and you genuinely think you can assist in tracking down his quarry.
You wait in anticipation as he does his usual few moments of silent staring before responding. “I have a tracking fob. I can locate them myself.”
Your heart sinks a little. He intrigues you, and after riding home with him holding you in such an intimate position, you’re confident your instincts are correct. Despite the armour, weapons, scare tactics and violent profession, this man will neither hurt you nor force himself on you. More than that, meeting him is the most exciting thing that’s happened to you in kriffing ages.
You want to delay your imminent goodbye for as long as possible.
Time for plan B, then.
You adopt an air of nonchalance and dangle your full-access staff and resident pass from its lanyard, letting it swing like a pendulum. “Oh sure, register for a short-term visitor pass. Get limited access to communal areas until it expires after one rotation. I bet you’ll find them in no time.” Unlike the sarcasm you threw at him when you met, this taunting comes with a wicked smile and a slightly flirty tone. Logic delivered as a gentle ribbing. It’s worth a try, given the direct approach failed.
You’re getting used to him just staring and not speaking. In fact, it’s sort of fun trying to predict the expressions behind the dark gleam of his visor, the compound’s entrance lights reflecting like dazzling stars in the silvery metal helmet. What does he look like under there?
“I can’t pay you,” he grinds out at last. “I have barely enough credits to refuel.” He reaches forward and catches your dangling pass between his gloved fingers, arresting its swinging motion before releasing it. “There’s no reason for you to compromise your position here by associating with me.”
It’s probably the largest number of words he’s said to you since you met, and you start to wonder just how much his helmet alters his voice. Does he sound similar without it? Or is the modulator transmitting his short sentences in another accent or tone? Is he even speaking Basic under there? Perhaps you’re hearing a vocabulator translating another language.
Don’t get distracted.
You refocus your thoughts on the debate, giving your companion a sceptical frown and fixing a hand on each hip.
“Did I say I wanted credits?” you huff. “Look, I’m guessing you need to keep a low profile, right? That’s why you didn’t just bring your ship in on our landing platform and chose to walk for about twelve kriffing hours instead. So I’m betting you don’t want your chain code scanned for a visitor pass. And the last thing you need is someone squealing to compound security about a weaponised tin can poking around outside visitor areas. That would set the base on high alert and probably make your bounty run and hide.”
Logical and direct. Surely that’ll nail it.
You incline your head at him, argument made. Then you add in a softer tone, “So let me help you.” You’re also curious to see if you know the target, but you don’t want to admit that.
The heavy sigh from beneath his helmet sounds impatient, and he moves his hands to his hips in a mirror of your pose, squaring his stance. Is he about to refuse again? You’re running out of arguments.
But suddenly, a low and menacing growl comes from the forest’s darkness. You turn your heads in unison, squinting to locate the source in the shadows.
You recognise that sound, and it signals your body to tense. A gurreck.
When a louder roar follows, you heedlessly grasp your passenger’s unarmoured elbow in your hand and start walking. You’re only mildly surprised when he offers no resistance and lets you hurry him through the main gate as your guest. Nobody wants to linger outside with that kind of a beast nearby.
The security droid issues a mid-level access one-week guest pass linked to your credentials, and you thrust it into his grip as soon as it’s coded. His leather glove envelops it with a gesture so tentative it’s at odds with his otherwise dauntless demeanour. And he seems… surprised? Grateful?
But you remain in ‘urgency’ mode, grabbing a fistful of flight suit again with one hand and pushing your speeder along with the other. You make a beeline for the vehicle hangar, and your companion allows it without comment, easily keeping up with your brisk pace. Though his deference suggests he’d probably now follow you of his own accord, you don’t want to let go of him for some reason.
Plus, the exhausted part of your brain gets a simplistic kick out of marching a bounty hunter through the compound as if he’s your prisoner.
Finally, you release him as you cross the threshold into the large hangar, the business of checking in your speeder taking precedence.
You greet the Ewok transport manager by name, addressing her in Ewokese and placating her angry gestures at the bike’s slightly low-hanging fork. “Goopa, Suriee. Meechoo akeeata weechu. It’s fine – the repulsorlift just needs recalibrating. I’ll do it before I take her out again.” You now have more exciting plans for this evening.
Suriee grumbles and hands you a datapad to complete the check-in details. Then she hops onto the seat, stretches her short arms to grasp the handlebars, and lightly propels the vehicle over to a bay farther inside the hangar. You enjoy seeing the furry figure operate equipment much larger than herself – it’s both amusing and impressive. Her species’ aptitude for mastering skills and concepts unknown to them just a few years before is one of the reasons you’re so fond of them.
Completing the check-in screen on the pad and scanning your pass with the attached reader, you comment over your shoulder to your guest behind you. “Are you hungry? We can go to the residents’ mess hall. It’s a good place to start the search, and I’m starving.”
At the expected lack of response from your silent companion, you glance over your shoulder… and dismay smacks you in the face, stinging through you with a shockingly fierce heat.
The hunter has gone. And with him, any chance of an evening more inspiring than your standard routine of dinner, holoshow, bed. What began as an exciting interlude in your tedious life has stalled like a repulsorlift engine choking on the last of its fuel.
Yeah, you shouldn’t have let go of his sleeve. Should’ve listened to that urge to hold on.
Really, honestly, his subtle yet speedy escape shouldn’t surprise you, given your somewhat strained dealings so far. But against your better judgment, you swallow your dejection and replace it with a twinkle of hope that he’s merely waiting for you outside.
Tossing the datapad onto Suriee’s desk with abandon, a dozen steps take you back out into the compound grounds. You scan the pools of light with a lump in your throat and dismay in your eyes.
Nothing.
No shiny yet menacing armour. No silent but tempting mystery. No exciting prospect of a front-row seat to a bounty hunt on home soil.
Well, kark. That’ll teach you to get your hopes up. You knit your brows in a defeated frown, and your shoulders drop with the weight of your displeasure.
But you did a good deed by bringing him here and getting him a guest pass, at least. You suppose that makes up for almost running him over and yelling at him, so your slate now feels unblemished, balanced.
Still, a bleakness niggles in the depths of your mind. The prickling burn of regret and defeat just won’t disappear.
You start to scuff your way across the base, the doleful shuffle of your boots failing to shift any of the firm soil of the winding pathways. As you step off the path on a quest for kickable pine cones, your stomach begins to growl and somersault, reminding you of the last two words you said aloud. You’re starving.
You adjust your meandering route and head toward the mess hall, brooding over the intense and confusing events of the evening with a mood somewhere between morose and melancholy.
Dinner ends up being from the closest vendor to the door. Now that you know you’ll be dining alone as usual, you can’t bring yourself to care what food you eat. And as soon as you’ve sated your hunger, you trudge back to your quarters for the dreary rinse and repeat of an evening you’ve endured to a sickening degree.
Stars, you really hope you run into him again before he finds his quarry and leaves.
As it turns out, for once, hope was not a foolish endeavour.
The next evening begins in the usual way, and since today’s shift was on-site, you have plenty of time after leaving your workshop to stop by the vehicle hangar. Your intention is to help Suriee recalibrate the speeder’s repulsorlift before dinner as promised, yet you arrive to find she’s already tuned it up herself earlier in the day.
Because of course she did. The furry figure is three things: grumpy, talented and generous. She’s always flawlessly fixing things when she’s not even asked to, then promptly complaining about having had to do it.
“Choo doo yekyit, etke chyasee,” she grumbles at you, Ewokese for ‘enough talking, more helping’.
Laughing, you promise to do any future repairs right away. Despite her surly disposition, Suriee is one of your favourite people on Endor.
Unable to hide her affection for you behind her grouchiness, she pats your arm before she dismisses you. Nonetheless, you exit her hangar feeling useless as usual. It churns in your gut, diluting the brief comfort you enjoyed from the striped brown Ewok’s fussing.
You follow your path from yesterday evening, the route so ingrained that you don’t even need to look where you’re going. Instead, you gaze upward through the gaps in the canopy at the inky blue glow of the enormous gas giant in the sky above you. It’s beautiful in its sovereignty, and its radiance eclipses the surrounding stars, their twinkling further washed out by the glare of the compound’s ambient lighting.
So distracted are you that you’re barely a second away from colliding with the person standing in your path when you catch yourself. And it’s only because the planet’s light glints so brightly off something metallic that your eyes snap back to head height.
The elusive bounty hunter stands before you, as silent and statuesque as ever, once again observing you from behind the impassive darkness of the visor.
He neither says nor does anything when you walk into him, and you scramble to reverse your trajectory with mere centimetres to spare. How have you managed to almost collide with him two nights in a row?
At least there was no risk of killing him with three hundred kilos of metal this evening.
“Shit! I’m so sorry,” you curse, flustered enough to swear aloud with more impudence than even your anger yesterday fuelled. Mostly, you find it easy to filter your language in polite company, but you weren’t expecting to encounter this guy again. Although… does he actually count as polite company?
You can’t work out if your hammering pulse is from the second near-collision or simply from seeing this strangely enigmatic man again.
But oh, you’d almost forgotten. That armour, those muscles beneath it. Holy stars, he’s so… powerful, imposing. Somehow majestic.
Focus.
“What are you doing here? I wasn’t sure if I’d see you again. You ran off without saying goodbye…” you chide, managing to sound both eager and aggrieved in less than two dozen words.
Pull yourself together. Of course he wasn’t going to say goodbye. You’re not friends, and you squared your debt for your thoughtless conduct last night by sponsoring his entry as your guest. Case closed. You force down the recurring desires and frustrations from yesterday.
The hunter cocks his helmet at you as if he’s debating something. You’re just about to ask him what when he speaks. “Why did you want to help me yesterday?”
“I owed you.” It’s a simple and (you thought) obvious truth, so you’re unsure why he’s asking. “I came scarily close to wiping you out and then pretty much screamed at you. So I fixed it by giving you a lift and getting you a guest pass.”
“You offered to help locate the bounty.”
Ah. So that’s it. Mr Shiny’s confusion stems from your other offer of assistance.
Play it cool. “Can’t a person just be generous?”
He scoffs. “Rarely.”
Kriff, he’s so sceptical. But then again, you doubt he meets many good and honest people doing what he does for a living. He must spend most of his time with criminals and other Guild members. And what little you’ve heard of the Bounty Guild suggests many of its members are just as lacking in morals as the fugitives and criminals they chase.
You somehow get the impression that’s not the case with this guy, though.
“What ulterior motive do you think I could possibly have?”
He is silent, the obsidian visor observing your open stance and raised eyebrow, seemingly unable to answer.
So you mirror his silence. It’s his turn to speak, and you have plenty of time to wait. Your pulse is still rapid, but you remain calm and composed on the surface.
“That’s what I can’t figure out,” he finally drawls.
His voice is somewhat softer than yesterday. No, not softer, but it lacks the hardness with which he tossed his few words at you last night. Even with the tone adjustment, soft is not an accurate word to describe anything about him. And yet, the sound of it is… nice.
Relaxed by the smooth baritone, you ask, “You’ve never had anyone offer to help you out before?”
“Plenty. But there’s always a price.” He fidgets a little, shifting his weight from leg to leg but keeping his concealed gaze fixed on you. This is really bothering him.
The ghost of a smile twitches the corner of your mouth. It seems this hunter found you intriguing enough to seek you out again in a compound of several hundred people. You take no pleasure in his confusion, but you’re soaring like a lantern bird at the idea he’s been thinking about you.
“You said you didn’t want credits,” he prompts, clearly trying to extract the reason for your generous offer without repeating his terribly vague question. You infer that he means to ask, ‘What do you want instead of credits?’
Instantly, you have to chastise yourself for the sordid answers that sashay through your mind. Behave, for kriff’s sake.
A sigh escapes you, straining with the weight of what you do want to say to him. A person can be kind without motive. He needn’t be suspicious of you. What manner of horrors must he have endured to leave him unable to recognise genuine altruism?
Mostly, though, you just want to tell him that you’re kind of lonely and he’s kind of interesting. Isn’t that enough?
But it’s hard to verbalise your thoughts. People aren’t that honest with strangers, and he’s still a stranger. But if you can’t explain your rationale, you can at least show him that what you truly desire is his company.
“Right now, all I want is food, so let’s discuss this on the way to the mess hall, shall we?” You step sideways and walk past him, and he rotates his whole body to keep you in sight.
That’s a good sign….
As you saunter away, you glance over your shoulder and throw him an easy smile, and it seems to convince him. He begins to follow you. When you turn back ahead, your smile becomes more assured.
Perhaps all hope is not lost for that exciting evening you wanted after all.