In My Time of Need

It's been three months since Ezra's last good haul.

He finally took an inventory of his supplies yesterday after putting it off all week, knowing that the truth would be hard to swallow. And it was.

Nine ration bars. Seven packets of dried fruit. Five cans of hash. Four Instameals. One unopened bottle of veg juice that he hated to drink but at least it filled his belly and helped stretch the rest of his rations. One loaf of bread. Half a box of tea. A chocolate bar he was saving for when he really needed a pick-me-up. And that was just the food. He was also low on power cells and down to half a jug of fuel. On his last bar of soap. A medkit with no bandages, five pain pills, and one bacta patch. And he had just twelve credits to his name.

Utterly depressing, just as he expected.

This was a bad time of year to panhandle, but Ezra didn't have a choice. So he pulled on his coat and studied his reflection in the broken mirror. He required a certain look. Dirty but not filthy. Clothes old and worn but not tattered. A mostly-clean face. Soft, pleading eyes that would elicit pity but wouldn't attract the wrong people. And they were out there. Ezra could spot them in an instant. He got this sick, cold feeling in his belly whenever they stared at him too long, and he would leave the area immediately. Sometimes they would follow, but he would shake them off eventually. He knew the streets of Capital City better than the faces of his own parents. And he was fast and small, able to scurry through tight spaces like a Loth-rat. He tried not to think about how much he had in common with the rodents.

Satisfied with his appearance, he grabbed a scarf and left the tower. He decided to walk today. It'd be warmer and help save on fuel. Besides, if word got around that "that beggar kid" was seen on a speeder bike, people might start thinking he's a hustler. Which he was, sort of, but a beat-up speeder bike with a dickey engine hardly made him wealthy. He could barely afford to use it, not that that would matter to most people.

"Must be this poor to receive charity," he muttered, rubbing his hands together. His words appeared in mist as they left his mouth.

Winters on Lothal were typically mild. Snow was rare and light if it did fall, gone the next day. No blizzards had ever been recorded on Lothal. In fact, the climate had gotten steadily warmer as more Imperial factories went up. Ezra was only fourteen, but even he had noticed the change. Smoke from the TIE production plant fouled the air, which blew toward his tower most days. It stunk. Chemicals and electricity. It made him dizzy if he breathed it long enough.

It was cold today, though.

Ezra shivered and walked a little faster.

* * *

He found a good spot at the corner of a busy intersection and brought out his cup.

He would beg for credits first. And if he didn't have any luck with that, he'd head over to the marketplace at the end of the day and beg there. Sometimes the merchants had old or damaged fruit they couldn't sell. They would usually give them to Ezra at a reduced price or, if they were really nice, for free.

And if that didn't work... he would loiter in the alley behind Jho's Pit Stop until Old Jho himself came out with some scraps: food, information, sometimes a little of both. Jho had a soft spot in his heart for Ezra, which was why Ezra never pickpocketed at his cantina. Sometimes Jho knew people or places where Ezra could score some supplies—being a bartender afforded him knowledge like that—and he was one of the few friends Ezra still had. The fact that neither of them loved the Empire further cemented their friendship.

A well-dressed civilian man passed by. Ezra held out his cup. "Spare a credit, mister?"

The man deliberately ignored him and continued walking. Ezra sighed. A soft snort caused him to look down. A kindly Ugnaught was reaching out to him. Ezra lowered his cup and the Ugnaught dropped a five-credit token into it.