With each passing second Cirak Kiht grew more frustrated. Just outside the window their high-rise apartment the traffic of the Smuggler's Moon hummed through the skylanes, but that was not the reason he lay awake. It wasn't the ominous red lettering of the eviction warning on the holopad lying on an end table a few meters away. Even the loud arguing of other neighbors didn't bother the cathar teen. They'd get by; Kihts always get by, he'd been told once years ago.

No, it was the final few seconds until a broken promise. Cirak, lying on his back, held the chronometer in front of his face, close enough that his rapidly waning vision wouldn't misconstrue the letters. The flickering blue light strained his eyes, and the remaining time forced him to remain awake.

5…4…3…

He didn't know what he expected. That the man would barge through the front door, his pockets lined with credits? That somehow, despite all odds, he'd have pulled off one more daring stunt, one that would effortlessly earn Cirak's forgiveness for leaving them with nothing more than food money and a hold-out blaster?

2…1…

Cirak lifted his gaze from the chronometer with one final fleeting glance. The metal door leading inside would just need to roll open. Everything would be okay.

0.

The chronometer buzzed in his hands, but Cirak could only hear his father's final words before boarding his ship: "If I'm not back in a month, I'm not coming back." It hadn't been the first time he'd heard those words, but every other time he'd been back in a week or two. Now…

Cirak tossed the chronometer to the floor where it continued vibrating until he seized it up once more. His younger brother Tyar – still just a little kid – slept a room over. Cirak knew the damage was done, though: somehow Tyar always knew when something happened, even when Cirak moved quieter than the wind. He'd know that Cirak was still awake, that he'd spiked the chronometer, and, most of all, that their father hadn't returned.

Kihts always get by. It was just another deception. Their father wasn't ever coming home again. The last job for a while ended up being the last job period. Cirak shut his eyes, inhaling as he clenched his fists. Perhaps, in some ways, this was more of a mercy than when Mom died, the illness that took her being long and drawn out while she grew continually weaker. Tyar was so young back then. He had no memories from time before she'd gotten sick, let alone the visits to her wretched hospital room or Dad agonizing over the seemingly unpayable bills. How would he react knowing that their father wasn't coming home?

Cirak leaned his head back over the edge of the couch and refocused on the traffic. He'd been promised a speeder, as had Tyar for when he grew older. Both of them would be green to stand out against the crimson light of the streets below. Not the dull green-brown color of filth either, but real viridian that gleamed. Now it was just another thing that would never happen.

It was the twi'lek's fault – Nuromo Bek, or something. They'd spoken while on his father's ship, their voices low while Tyar played with the astromech droid in the background. "It'll pay well," he'd heard Nuromo say, "You won't have to do any more for some time with this kind of cash. Maybe even an apartment on Coruscant where your boys'll be safer. The Republic-"

He hadn't caught the rest of Nuromo's pitch, as it was then that Tyar had thrown his model of a VX-5 Ricker at the back of Cirak's neck, the sound of which abruptly ended their conversation.

Sitting up, Cirak swung his legs out over the couch and picked up his pack from off the ground. Five blaster packs for the hold-out pistol and a credit chit that would get them by for another week lay inside. Anyone with a blaster could make some kind of living if they had to on Nar Shaddaa, even if they were only a teen.

He aimed the blaster at the wall ahead of him, and then jerked it up in imitation of the recoil while mouthing the sounds it made. His father usually took him to the landfill for practice on vermin, his hands on Cirak's shoulders while coaching him on proper technique. They'd find scrapped electronics down there as well, and Cirak would practice anything from reassembling broken appliances to hotwiring speeders; anything to survive. Soon, he figured, he'd have to do the same for his little brother. Tyar was barely old enough to be able to hold a blaster, but it would be better to learn early than die young.

"Cee?"

Cirak turned his head towards the small voice in the darkness. Though Tyar's black fur concealed him in the shadows, he could vaguely make out his younger brother's silhouette against the open doorframe of their bedroom. He clutched one of his model starfighters close to his chest, the last one their father had brought home from one of his jobs. The lights of a passing taxi illuminated a line across his brother's face, revealing his narrowed red eyes.

He sat up, looking over his little brother. "Hey kid. Did I wake you?"

Tyar shook his head. "Nuh-uh."

Pursing his lips, Cirak let his head fall back against the back cushion. "Go back to sleep then," he said, closing his eyes. He knew that he'd have to have this conversation eventually, but not in the middle of the night. Not before he'd had the chance to process it himself.

Footsteps pattered against the ground, and Cirak felt the couch shift as Tyar added new pressure to it. His head slumped against Cirak's shoulder. "I can't sleep," Tyar said, "Something doesn't feel right, like something's wrong."

That's because something is wrong, Cirak thought, opening his eyes. "Tyar, I said go back to bed."

Despite the harshness in Cirak's voice, Tyar held his ground, shaking his head in mute defiance. For an instant Cirak thought of smashing Tyar's toy, anything to get him away right now, but he knew he'd never forgive him for it, not after learning the reason for his anger in the first place.

"Cee, do you feel it too?"

"Sure kid."

"Like, it feels really really scary."

Never had he nor their father understood Tyar's…feelings. They weren't premonitions, not exactly, but almost like he could feel the ripples across a pond before anyone else had seen the water disturbed. Tyar couldn't tell the winning lotto numbers for a given night, though admittedly their father had tried numerous times in partial jest, but always in smaller, stranger ways. He could tell when there'd been a speeder crash some several blocks down well before seeing the wreckage, and somehow he could always sense what they were feeling even if neither he nor their father had said a single word.

Probably like now. Cirak bit down on his lower lip as he focused on the words that needed saying, hoping he'd find some way of making them come easier. He waited, but even after a prolonged silence he could only taste blood in his mouth, a stream of which so small that it barely even registered.

"Tyar," he started, "Come on-"

Yelling penetrated the metal walls of their apartment, silencing him as the sudden cacophony of voices overwhelmed the previously-still night. It couldn't be any Imps, as stories said they operated with silent precision, and the voices sounded far too violent for the normally diplomatic Republic soldiers. It had to be one of the swoop gangs, some members of which Cirak knew lived in the building. Perhaps they'd angered another group, or maybe infighting dogged them now. Cirak gripped the blaster again and braced his arm over Tyar.

Flashes of red light followed soon after as the two rival gangs unloaded on one another. Sounds of blaster-fire screamed down the hall. Cirak had expected only a few shots, like usual, but they continued far longer. Every now and then he'd hear an anguished cry and the thud from a collapsing body. Tyar shrunk closer to him, his hands gripping at Cirak's shirt.

The entire apartment suddenly rattled as an explosion rang out from upstairs. More screaming followed. This wasn't some hit. It was gang warfare.

Cirak pointed the blaster at the main apartment door, readying himself for anything. Anyone coming in would get shot: gang member, old lady, or even a Hutt himself. All he had to do was pull the trigger. His breath shook, and he fought the shaking in his hand that would inadvertently worsen his aim. Rapid heartbeats joined the din in his ears, and it took all his concentration to not turn and run into the other room with Tyar in tow.

The door clanged as a small object hit it, the sound only barely audible above the chaos. A shout followed, muffled, but he could still vaguely make out the words: "Det bomb!"

He dove, pressing Tyar close to his chest as they hit the ground. A bright flash and intense heat filled the apartment in an instant. Their door flew inwards, toppling their couch backwards and sending it crashing out through the window. Both vanished into the black of Nar Shaddaa's depths. The madness outside seemed even louder now, and more visceral.

Ringing drowned out his thoughts. Wind buffeted the back of his head, and he only then realized that his feet had swung out over the edge. Any further and he would've been launched out as well. His throat burned, and as sound returned to his ears he realized what he was calling. "Tyar!" Cirak squeezed. The body against his own shook, but he could hardly tell if it was his own shaking or not.

Cirak inched forward, wincing in pain as he scraped his knees over broken glass and set his brother in front of him. The boy managed to keep his balance, but only barely. In Tyar's arms lay the hold-out blaster. How did we not lose that?

But there wasn't any time for senseless pondering. The violence continued further ahead down the hall, but far lessened compared to moments ago, the fire rate coming slower than before. Cirak glanced at the hole in their apartment. They were vulnerable without the security of their home. At best the gangs would kill them on their way out after searching their home for goods, looting the place in the process. More likely, though, they wouldn't; the slave trade provided far better credits than loot.

"We need to go." Cirak pulled on Tyar's shoulders, leading him into a nearby corner. "It's not safe here like this."

Tyar shook his head and balled up his fists, looking even more childish despite his attempts otherwise. "No! What about Dad? What if he comes back?"

"Tyar-"

"We can't leave-"

"Tyar!" Cirak snapped, wrenching the blaster from his hands. Tyar's eyes went large as his protests faded. A puzzling calm settled in the space between them, paradoxical to the chaos outside, and in that final isolation Cirak knew Tyar understood.

"Grab onto my shoulders and don't let go no matter what, you hear? No matter what." Cirak bent down and hoisted his little brother onto his back. Mercifully Tyar complied without further objection, and he fell totally silent all save for his muffled sobs.

Cirak glanced down at the hold-out blaster again and raised it at the wall. It was real this time, not just target practice. He began his approach slowly, creeping up to the right side of the door. The blasts were falling quieter. Time slipped away faster with each waiting breath. Cirak felt his heart pounding in his throat as though it were trying to rip itself out. Heat and tears blurred his vision. Terror constricted his every muscle and screamed at him to not run, that leaving the apartment would get them killed in the crossfire.

Yet there were no other options. Kihts always get by. He took one final deep breath…

Cirak wheeled around the corner, tearing down the hallway as fast as his legs would carry him. It was a straight shot to the exit, the door being at the end only a few dozen meters away. Tyar weighed him down, slowed him. It didn't matter. He still ran.

Someone was already in the hall. Cirak scanned him over quickly. A rodian wearing a dirty green jacket leaned against the wall, blaster at his side, likely a lookout. His fingers flicked impatiently over his holster, and he looked down the length of the hall expectantly. The rodian noticed Cirak just as he'd finished looking over the gangster. "Chuba!" he yelled in Huttese, reaching for his weapon.

But Cirak aimed his sooner, discharging a shot before the gangster could even raise it from his holster. The bolt struck him in the stomach, and he doubled over with a grunt. His body hadn't even fallen over entirely before Cirak shoved his way past him and through the exit door. Over his shoulder Cirak heard yelling, both in surprise and anger, but he couldn't make out the words. It didn't matter what they said anyways.

The roars of speeder motors greeted him as he stepped out into the open night air into the familiar chaos that was Nar Shaddaa. In their eagerness the gangsters had left their airspeeders running, either thinking that they'd be out quickly enough that they need not bother shutting down the engines, or that no one would be stupid enough to try and steal them.

Spotting a violet two-seated convertible parked towards the edge of the terrace, Cirak ran to its passenger side and lifted Tyar into the seat before sliding over the hood back to his own. "Strap in," he added, though Tyar had already done so. He ran his hands over the control wheel, letting himself steal a moment of enjoyment over his first solo ride, even if it was poisoned by circumstance, then flicked the repulsor to life. With a violent jolt the machine rose off the ground.

The airspeeder's hood suddenly sparked as a projectile glanced off the metal. Behind them more of the gang emerged from the apartment complex, blasters in hand and firing liberally.

"Tyar get down!" Cirak barked. His little brother ducked, shielding the back of his head with his hands. Cirak turned around in his seat and began firing wildly. Crimson bolts shot out in every direction, but none found their mark. Then, to his horror, their father's blaster gave a defeated click.

"You remember how to reload right?" Cirak said, tossing it into Tyar's lap. "I need you to do that while I drive."

But Tyar wasn't listening. He'd pulled his legs up against his chest, huddling himself close to them while muttering quietly, his words drowned out in the discord around them. His eyes met Cirak's for a brief moment, and he could see the whirlwind of emotions spinning within their red. Terror, confusion, pain…

Rage.

Tyar suddenly stood up in his seat. Cirak fumbled at his brother's sleeve, trying to pull him back down where he'd be safe, but the child seemed suddenly filled with an indomitable strength, and he shrugged off Cirak's grasp with ease.

"LEAVE US ALONE!"

Energy boomed from Tyar's hands, a force so powerful that Cirak was thrown back in his seat. The repulsor suddenly shut off, and they slammed back into the ground. They skidded back, spinning madly while metal screeched as the speeder lurched towards the terrace's edge where it came to a stop. Their vehicle teetered precariously, their backs to the traffic roaring above and below them in Nar Shaddaa's endless dark. Ahead the gangsters seemed to have stumbled as though shoved by an invisible figure, some even having been knocked prone. The shooting had all but ceased.

Cirak stared down at his brother, barely aware that his mouth was hanging agape. "Tyar? What did-"

Sudden pain flared along the left side of his ribcage, and Cirak cried out. The smell of charred flesh filled his nose as he heard the sizzling from where the bolt had struck him. His arm went numb, replaced instead by the searing pain. One of the gang members had risen again – or maybe he had just avoided falling in the first place – and resumed his attack. More bolts glanced off the metal, while others seemed to just barely miss them altogether.

Lightheaded and feeling his vision going, Cirak fumbled with the repulsor switch again, flicking it from off to on again. The machine failed to rise, grounded, dead. "Come on," Cirak groaned, trying the switch repeatedly. "Come on, come on…" He bared his fangs and slammed his fist down. "Blast it come on!"

The repulsor sparked to life with a hum, and the speeder lurched up from off the ground. Cirak wheeled them back around, now facing towards the traffic lanes, and then accelerated them into the open air. A few more shots of blaster fire followed them, but then it ceased. The chaos was now behind them, replaced by the ambience of their speeder's rumbling motor distant in the back of his mind.

Cirak's hands shook as he tried to balance the control wheel, the pain in his side now unbearable. His eyes drooped. The calm blue and red lights on the speeder's dash blurred together, none of its text discernable anymore. Cirak inhaled, acutely aware of how shallow his breathing felt. Stay awake, he told himself, Just 'til we land somewhere safe. Stay awake…stay…

He slumped forward into the control wheel, pitching the speeder downwards with a sudden kick. Tyar screamed beside him as the force pushed him back against his seat. The last thing Cirak felt was the rush of wind as their speeder careened downwards into the abyss. Then all went dark.