The Survival of Two

Pursuer

Qimir looked around, taking in the market around him. The street was lined with buildings that he was sure once shone brightly, but now stood dull, interspersed with the mismatched facades of newer constructions. People wandered the market, their voices melding into a hushed thrum. They walked with their eyes down, as if paying their respects to those who once walked—and died—on these streets. Qimir watched as the masses filtered by in their patched and mended clothes. A figure across the street caught his eye—a tall man with dark hair and a beard flecked with silver. His clothes were a muted clay red, lacking the thin lines of stitches that spanned the ages-old tears in the clothing of the townsfolk. This distinction was slight—meaningless, even—if it weren't for his eyes. While the others in the crowd strolled along with their faces to the ground, this man scanned the crowd. He stared outwards, fixating on each citizen for a moment before moving on to scrutinize the next. He stood against the wall of a shop—continuing his search—oblivious to the fact that as he watched the crowd, he too was being watched. Without warning, the man locked his eyes on a member of the shuffling crowd and quickly broke away from the wall, falling into step with the throng. Qimir couldn't shake a deep feeling of wrongness in his chest and gave in to the impulse to give chase. He trailed behind the man, watching him intently as he stalked down the street. Quickening his pace, the man in red bumped into the man ahead of him. Qimir watched as the man's hand snaked into his target's bad, slipping something into its folds, before ducking down a side street.

Qimir pushed past the crowd, breaking into the alleyway the other man had cut into. Watching his shadow slip around a corner, Qimir rushed to catch up, hoping his footfalls wouldn't alert the tall man to his approach. He rounded the bend just in time to watch the man slink through an open doorway. Qimir slowed his approach, reaching out through the Force to keep the door from sliding shut. He held it only slightly ajar, creeping up alongside the wall so he could peer through without being seen.

Inside, a young girl cowered in a corner, her shoulders shaking with silent tears. Her hair was dull and ragged, hanging down in two fraying braids on either side of her head. Her clothes were no nicer; the hem of her dress was torn, and the stormy blue fabric was smeared with the same crust of dirt that clung to her skin and hair. The man in red looked down at her frightened form as he spoke to a small communications droid.

"She's been crying nonstop. I can hardly think over the sound of her disgusting sniffling."

A woman's voice responded, the warmth of her tone sounding alien against her sharp words.

"You delivered our demands?"

"Yes, he'll be finding them any time now."

"Then you won't have to keep her around much longer. You can survive until he comes through with the ransom."

"The bastard could take weeks to deliver. Every day he waits is another day I'm stuck with this flight risk in pigtails slobbering on my floors."

"You'll be patient, Vance. You'll keep her there as long as it takes."

The man, Vance, looked up roughly as the line went silent. He slammed his fist down on the counter, sending the child skittering further into the corner, shrieking at his outburst. Qimir watched in horror as he thundered over to her, hauling her off of the floor by the collar of her dress. He was frozen to the spot as he watched him drag her out of the room, her cries growing softer with distance. Before he could react, Vance stormed back into the room—notably without the little girl. Qimir hurried away from the door as the man charged towards it, his anger blinding him to Qimir's presence. He continued to charge down the street, startling Qimir into action. He took off after him, paying no mind to disguising his footsteps, as he had before. Eventually, he caught up with Vance, making it within a few paces of him before the man realized he was being followed.

Vance took off sprinting, turning down alleyways and side streets in hopes of confusing his pursuer. Qimir raced after, knowing that he was at a disadvantage: he didn't know the city at all. If he lost track of the man in red, he would disappear into a labyrinth of streets and passages that Qimir could never hope to decipher. Eventually, their winding path led them back to the crowded main street. Vance wove between civilians, pushing them out of his way and into Qimir's path. Qimir swerved out of the way of the people being thrown at him, struggling to keep track of Vance's location. Losing him for a second, Qimir lept onto a stack of boxes for a higher view. He caught a glimpse of Vance's familiar red jacket rushing down another avenue and heading away from the crowds.

Qimir jumped from the boxes, taking off after him. Thankful that this new street was relatively empty of passersby, Qimir stretched out a hand, swinging a crate out into the man's path. He managed to dodge around it, still racing down the steepening incline; however, this interruption was all Qimir needed to catch up. The men barreled down the hill, approaching a worn bridge over a wide river. Vance looked over his shoulder at his approaching pursuer, giving Qimir just enough time to wrench a loose board out of a railing and onto the bridge ahead of Vance. The man's shins collided with the thick beam, sending him hurtling onto the ground.

Qimir drew his lightsaber as Vance collided with the bridge, leaping over the railing beam and landing overtop of him, holding his blue blade a breath away from the man's neck. Vance's throat quivered as the blade singed his beard—the hair curling from the heat and filling Qimir's nose with its acrid scent. Vance's lips had just parted in a blubbering attempt to speak when a sudden shock of pain ripped across Qimir's back. He screamed as he stumbled away from the man, his vision white. He'd never felt pain like this—hot and raw, as if someone had torn into him, wanting to pull him apart from the inside. His arms drew up to his sides, locking involuntarily as he dropped his saber. His vision was still hazy as he tried to turn around, gasping for breath. Still stumbling as he tried to steady his legs, he locked eyes with the one person he'd thought he could trust. The one who had saved him so many years ago.

Vernestra stood at the front of the bridge, her lightwhip drawn. Qimir fell back, grabbing onto the bridge's railing to steady himself as he faced his master: his savior: the woman who'd so savagely attacked him. He pushed off of the railing, trying to get his feet back under him. He didn't take his eyes off Vernestra for a second, afraid to turn his back to her again. He took a shaking step, sliding his hand along the dense wood to support his weight.

"I trusted you!" he shouted with shuddering breath.

His knees buckled as he took another step towards her, desperately grasping at the railing to keep himself from collapsing. His heart dropped into his chest as his hand found only air—plunging through the hole where there had once been a railing beam, but was no longer. It was too late to steady himself—he could already feel his shoulders plummeting through the gap. Still, he couldn't stop himself from throwing out his arms in one last futile attempt to cling to the bridge. He cried out as they scraped against the rough bridge, doing nothing to slow his fall. He screamed as he felt the air rush against his body as he hurtled toward the river.

"Vernestra!"

He took one last shivering breath before he slammed into the freezing water—the current sending its icy knives into the wound on his back. Again, his vision went white—his thoughts overwhelmed and dulled by the pain.