Episode IV S : The Rebel Retreat - COMPLETED

X

The space Shrike had kept Han in was small and dark, but he didn't expect much else from a person who wanted to terminate him in mere hours. In the door was a slot for a tray of food; it was all he got for his stay. Everything reminded him of the Imperial prisons he had toured when he served as an Imperial Navy pilot, though the empty, flat shelf that was designed as a bunk resembled what Vader had given Leia as a bed while she was captured on the Death Star. He knew what he was in for deep down inside, but he tried to forget he used to be housed on the Luck.

For a moment, Han thought about eating. Then, he decided it wouldn't do any good; the tray didn't look appetizing and he wouldn't need food once he was dead, anyway. Once he decided it was best not to eat, he thought about his plan to escape. His hope had faded once the doors had locked behind him. Han wished he had even just one visitor, but no one had shown up except for the officer who had slid him his tray. Not even Luke had come to his rescue.

Han stared at the ceiling while lying on his back on the cold bunk shelf. He let his arms rest on his stomach. He missed the feeling of his blaster digging into his knee; Larrad had taken it the second he had brought him on board his transport. That, along with his boot knife, pocket blaster, and droid caller. The lack of weapons left him feeling helpless, which he pretty much was at this point.

Finally, a sound at the door made Han jump up into a sitting position. There was a shuffle of feet, and then a small face appeared as the doors opened.

Just a kid. Not really young, but maybe around ten or twelve. He seemed just about as old as Han had been when he was at home on the ship.

"Hey, kid," Solo called from his seat on the bunk. He smiled a half smile and tried his best to look put together. "What do you think you're doing in here? Lost?"

The boy shook his head. His shaggy hair flooded his eyes and he took a hand to brush it away. He didn't seem dirty, like Han used to be after work. He didn't even bear the clothes of a working kid on the ship. Instead, he looked well fed and wore a pair of black, straight cut pants and a clean, charcoal shirt similar to the one that Larrad wore, minus the decorations. When he pushed the hair out of his face and looked back at Han with his green eyes, he stood tall and straight.

"Father wanted to prepare you for procedures."

Father. The boy must be Shrike's...son? But who was his mother?

"Sorry for your misfortune, kid," Han told him. His smile fading. He leaned back against the wall of the bunk, relaxing again. He wasn't going anywhere, it seemed. "You got a mom, too?"

"She died." The boy was stern with his answers.

"Too bad," Solo answered in monotone.

Briefly, he wondered if the kid's mother was one of the women Garris had kept in his quarters when he was alive, but he didn't dare to ask. Even if the kid was a Shrike, it wasn't his fault his family had been so awful.

Then, the boy strode forward until he was standing in front of Han. Solo sat forward, ready to converse with the kid, but before he could say much, the boy pricked his arm with a short needle.

"Hey!" Solo shouted, covering his arm where the needle had hit. "What it, kid! What are you doing?!"

"Orders from my father, sir."

"Don't you say anything else?" Han jabbed.

"I don't talk to prisoners."

That made Han mad. A kid, telling him he couldn't talk because his father deemed him a prisoner.

"Look kid, your dad's done more damage than I ever have," he started. "Just because..." His words started to blend together. "Just because..."

"Don't worry, sir," the boy told him kindly.