𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 - 𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐤𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐬

𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄 ⸺ 𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

1543 standard hours. Year 7963 (14 BBY)
Celanon Spur, Stinger Mantis.

⚡︎ ⁺. ◍ 。

"𝓐ND THAT'S...three to one, isn't it?" Væmas asked, a cocky smile plastered on her face as she laid back in the couch.

"Right." Greez reluctantly grunted, turning off the holoset. "It's been a while since I last met a worthy opponent in dejarik. Nice job, kiddo."

"There wasn't much to do back on Takodana. During my free time, all I did was watching the pilots playing these types of games and talking about pod races."

"Never thought about playing yourself?" The captain inquired, making his way towards the cockpit. "You could've made a lot of easy money."

"Oh, no, it would've raised suspicions." She answered, explaining before his interrogative look. "The Force helps me to predict the opponent's movements, whether I want it or not. It would have been too easy and seeing a seventeen-year-old girl win like that...It wasn't worth the risk."

"What, you mean that you cheated too back there!" He exclaimed, two of his four hands on his waist. "That could explain why you won so easily!"

Væmas shrugged, a smirk deforming her lips. "No. I guess I'm just that good."

Greez rumbled something intelligible as he sat on the pilot seat, under Væmas' laugh. As Cere entered the cabin, the Latero added in a gruffy tone: "Why don't you got get your red-headed friend, Miss know-it-all? We'll be coming up on Dathomir in ten minutes."

"Right."

Væmas made her way out of the cockpit in direction of the room in the back, still giggling from seeing Greez's expression. For once, her mind was clear of any anxiety or fear. She didn't bother knocking on the back-room's door and hurled as sole warning:

"Cal, you're in here? We're about to..."

She froze.

Cal was indeed in the room, in front of the mirror, his shirt lifted to reveal a long gash across his ribs, surrounded by a mix of blue and purple bruises.

"Stars, Cal." Væmas whispered, mouth slightly opened. He noticed her presence and let his shirt down, slightly wincing and turned away from the mirror. "Why didn't you say something?" She asked, coming slowly into the room.

"It's nothing." He muttered, shrugging. "Scratched myself on a stalagmite back on Ilum."

"It's far from being nothing," she insisted, taking his jacket from his hand and putting it back on the bed. "If you don't treat it, it'll get infected."

She passed near him to open the closet and took out the medical kit, opening it on the table where Cal usually fixed his lightsaber. "I'd hate to have to drag your body all the way to the tomb on Dathomir." She smirked, spreading antisceptic on a gauze and turning back to him.

He rolled his eyes and lifted his shirt, the wound looking even worse up close. Væmas chewed on her bottom lip before say with hesitation, unsure how to phrase it: "It'll be better if you...you know..."

"Oh. Right." Cal understood and took his shirt off, leaving his bare chest exposed. Væmas immediately got to work, cleaning the wound, trying to ignore the fact that they were alone. In a room. With one of them shirtless. And being far from having the worst physique, for that matter.

He winced when the alcohol touched the gash, Væmas mechanically putting her fingers on his skin to prevent him from moving. When she realized it, she took them off immediately as if the contact was burning her.