Lost Property Box

Chapter 1

Cal had been running from the Empire for so long across so many planets that he hadn't batted an eyelid at the Force Nexus he'd just fallen through, and only been mildly disoriented when he came out the other side. It didn't occur to him to check where he was or how long it had been since he initially entered the Nexus – as the Force is strange and nebulous and never quite fits into the boxes either Jedi of Sith could provide – and he didn't bother to do so until the first time his credits were rejected at a cantina.

He'd sat there, stumped, and shakily offered Mon Cala money instead, which was for some reason accepted instead of the high metal content Imperial credits.

(Cal had woken up – probably two months ago in conscious thought – surrounded by frozen bodies in stasis. He'd crashed through the glass and puked his guts out whilst a voice screamed in his head for someone to find him. As Storm Troopers chased him across the planet, Cal sent his own message. To stay out of sight and keep waiting, because while the being may be calling out for anybody, Cal was the worst possible person with all the heat on his back. BD had been reduced to a burnt-out shell of his former self, and Cal knew he needed his friend to survive, so while he'd dodged blasters and gunners, he fixed him piece by piece until his friend was once more operational.)

Cal had since realised – after watching the people enter the cantina – that no one looked quite so scared on this side of the galaxy, and wondered if he should ask Cere to take Greez and the ship to-

Right, that was right, he'd almost forgotten. Vader had... he had...

He didn't want to think about it.

The humanoid curled himself into the corner of the cantina and tried to slow the shaking of his wrists. He only half notices the greedy glances at his warning russet hair and immersed himself as deeply as he could in the force without clouding his ability to check for danger.

At the same moment a tall Besalisk left the bar room, two separate groups entered, Cal clocking the key characters sharply.

The tall, young, clearly well-bred dark-haired humanoid dressed in black, and blue approached the barman with self-assured, overconfident steps. Force sensitivity bubbled against Cal's senses, and he recoiled at the barely filtered sense of darkness in this human's aura. Wrinkling his nose, the red-haired man figures the being an Inquisitor in training – a dark and terrible thought, when considering the man's juvenile ability to shield.

The other newcomers are significantly better at shielding, but still not as firm as Cal would expect from Force sensitives on the run from the Empire.

Regarding the dark-haired human with suspicion, Cal carefully makes his way to the pair who are obviously master and padawan. As he approaches, he notes with horror how poorly hidden the younger is – a Kiffar, as evident by the bone braid guards and gilded marks of age and experience, not that any clearly thirteen-year-old teenager is particularly knowledgeable about anything but trouble. As the elder notices his approach, Cal broadcasts his intent directly to the master to continue to disguise his presence from the Darksider.

He reaches their table right as he notices three different lightsabres in the room. Cal's deep chill is because of how completely unhidden they all are.

Cere may not be here to punch idiots' heads in, or Merrin, but they, Prauf and the escapee slaves of Nal Hutta had impressed the value of children into his head, and at the same time as the young Kiffar notices him, he spares a fraction of his force presence to comfort and dissuade.

"Well, good evening," greeted the near-human master in clear Inner Core, the absolute fool.

"You should not be here." Cal isn't the kind to pull punches, but at the outrage on the kids face, he realises he could have said that better.

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand what you mean." The master maintains his façade, but the kid breaks too easily, and Cal's soul trembles.

"You are too obvious." He hisses. The Master straightens, regarding the room once more, eyes landing on the Darksider like Cal's had previously. "You cannot be here." Cal shifts under his poncho enough for the fabric to dip towards the young Padawan, and the Master's eyes clear from suspicion to gratitude and real caution.

The Kiffar moves as if to speak, and Cal is simultaneously warmed and knocked breathless by the innocent petulance on the boy's face. The Master quickly diffuses what will become a scene by extending a hand towards the door. "Perhaps we shall continue this conversation elsewhere, friend...?"

The Master waits for a name, Cal supplies none. For he knows better than to trap himself so quickly in front of the cu- the kid.

The older Humanoid grasps the young Kiffar by the shoulder and steers him from their table to outside of the cantina and down an alley way behind the waste disposal.

Cal approves, both the way the Master carefully presses his full presence against his shields without dropping his own in a show of skill and intimidation, and the fact that the disposal chute is a fantastic place to dispose of a suspicious possible whistle-blower. He barely even cares that his is the life at threat.

After carefully getting BD to check that the Darksider hadn't moved from his ongoing trade deal at the bar – BD had been hiding underneath the tables, attempting to pickpocket people in his usual fashion – Cal regards the two before him critically, as they evaluate him in return.

"For people in hiding," he finally states in a near whisper, "You are not terribly subtle."

The young Padawan bristles. "Hey! Treat us with respect. We're Je-"

The Master clamps a hand over the youngling's mouth, and watches Cal bristle with fury and fear in return. "And for a lone Padawan, your shielding is unusually stable." The man's eyes and face is hard, but kind.

"Where is your Master?"

Cal smiles the smile of a being whos lost their whole world. "Which one?"

The Kiffar stills, and the Master's gaze softens the way Cere's had whenever Cal came back from Kayyshykk covered in clingy Force sensitive insects. The way Tapal's had whenever he spent the night with the vo-

No. Moving on. This was not any of his Masters.

"I am sorry for your loss, youngling."

The humanoids eyes are kind, and the Padawan calmed enough to radiate childlike empathy, but his words catch him off guard.

"Padawan?" He asks softly.

The Master gives him a strange look.