Star Wars: The Attuned

He wanted nothing more than the honor of serving the Jedi Order as a warrior of light. Problem was, he had no sensitivity to the Force.

Becoming a Jedi, to him, was more than some silly childhood fantasy; it was beyond idealistic daydreams of escaping his sheltered life and exploring the stars for adventure and fame. A Jedi was above such notions. Though it was a cliche excuse, he'd seen enough torment and suffering in his sixteen years to warrant a personal desire to amend the injustice in the galaxy. No longer could he sit idly by and talk about righting the wrongs. He needed to act.

It'd often been said that a week in Nar Shaddaa was long enough to break anyone's spirits, yet nothing hurt Jace more than being told he would never become a Jedi. It was a curse he lived with all his life. Bunking in the Refugee sector was hard enough, but to constantly be reminded by everyone around him that his hopes were futile set him into an insurmountable bout of depression.

But they were right. Jedi aren't made, they are born. Chosen. And who would ever choose a Nar Shaddaa urchin from the Refugee sector with no connection to the Force? Better to just focus on the moment at hand, he thought. His future, it seemed, was out of reach.

The night was cold, the city bustling with smugglers. One thing Jace hated about this place was the plethora of rank smells. All manner of species and professions barreled through these streets with the intent of getting rich from their pillages and plunders, and each brought with them unbearable stenches of death and misery and decay that no offworlder his age could fathom. It made him sick, but it was home; a fact he needed to accept.

It wasn't often that Jace ventured into the Corellian Sector. For one thing, he was too young not to be noticed here. A mecca for gambling, prostitution and illegal trade, anyone his age would always be looked at twice. Not to mention that the Exchange had their seedy fingers buried into every corner of this filthy den. Dealing with the Exchange in the Refugee sector was one thing. Running into any of them here, far from the eyes of a potential Refugee uprising, would certainly spell his doom.

Though he didn't come here tonight to take in the lights of the casinos, or catch tales of adventure from the offworld smugglers and pirates. He was here for Kolto, and Kolto only. He overheard the medical droids with his father last night. The cancer had spread quickly, thanks in large to the poor living conditions in the Refugee sector. It wasn't that Kolto was hard to find, but his father couldn't afford it. Not on a Refugee's savings anyway. The Mandalorian War was ravaging the pockets of everyone, especially miners from Jebble, where his father worked and raised him. When the Mandalorians took over the planet, he and his father were forced to leave with the other miners, everything his father worked for lost in the wake of the Mandalorian onslaught. Now, given the state of things here, it seemed as if they may have fared better under Mandalorian rule than the iron fist of the Exchange.

If someone needed to find anything in the galaxy, the Nar Shaddaa market was the place to look. Kolto would be in good supply here. Enough, anyway, for him to steal.

Jace stuck to the walls mostly, avoiding the bulk of the bustling crowd. A myriad of offworld languages meshed in his ears as he stalked the stands, and he couldn't speak any of them. All manner of galaxy scum were here now, surrounding him. Shady Rodians, grimy Humans, smelly Bothans, and he felt each of their eyes, antennae and mandibles alike, turn in his direction as he passed. The thought of being scrutinized by them made him queasy. The thought of what he came here to do made him downright nauseous.

Up ahead, a Toydarian hawked vibroscapels and Bacta syringes to a Mon Calamari nomad from the Refugee sector. Perfect place to start, he realized, though he wasn't sure of his next move. The Exchange took a profit percentage of credits from each transaction in the market. Stealing from the vendor would be the equivalent of stealing from the Exchange. If he were caught, there would be no arrest, no trial, and no prison sentence. There would only be the barrel end of a Blaster in his face and the rattle of a bolt in his skull before death nulled all his senses indefinitely. A terrifying thought, but his father's life was worth the risk.

Being small, he managed to blend in well behind an abandoned cart adjacent to the Toydarian vendor. He took in their conversation while he peeked out occasionally to eye his wares for Kolto. He saw nothing but cheap Bacta syringes. They would have to do.

"500 credits for one lousy syringe is robbery anywhere else but the Outer Rim." The Mon Calamari spoke in almost flawless Basic, a rarity for the species.

The Toydarian's wings fluttered at a speed which only meant he was enraged, but his speech wouldn't show it. "I should be charging you 1,000 credits," he said. "I'm licensed in 32 star systems to sell that, which means I only deal in goods of the highest quality. Surely a sentient as intelligent as a Mon Calamari would understand this." The Toydarian responded so calmly and quickly that it was obvious to Jace he'd rehearsed this speech before. How many buyers have questioned his supply over the years was probably profound, but he had no time to be picky. Any medicine he could find for his father was good enough for him.

"I'll give you 300 credits, no more," the Mon Calamari fired back.

"Sorry friend, but don't you see the line forming behind you? Certainly one of you Refugee slime is bound to pay the 500 credits. What, with all of you dying down there after all, my business is booming."

At that, every pang of guilt about stealing from the Toydarian evaporated. He was like the rest of Nar Shadda's inhabitants, no moral composition besides what would help him line his own pockets. Truth was, everyone wanted the Refugees gone. But did they have to insult them too? Take advantage of them by gouging necessary medical supplies?

Defeated, the Mon Calamari stormed off, cursing in his native tongue. The Toydarian laughed to himself then ushered the next pleading customer forward. While the Toydarian was in the process of puncturing another Refugee's self-respect, Jace crept to his cart, a mere shadow in the penumbra of the market goers.

"1,000 credits for the Bacta syringe and no less," he heard the Toydarian say. He was close enough to him now that he could smell the stench of his armpits. He was fully attuned to the task at hand. He heard not the sound of docking starships and jutting transports, nor did he hear the hustle of the crowd or the arguing patron. All he heard was his own heavy breath, the chatter of his teeth, and the thrum in his chest. Then he reached up, grasped a few syringes of Bacta from an open plasteel tub, and proceeded to skulk off. Whatever he'd managed to grab in the moment would do for now. He could return periodically once he perfected his routine. Stealing in smaller quantities over a long period of time was safer than risking a large bulk theft.

But his plan was short lived the moment a vagabond grabbed his wrist.

"Thief! Thief! Thief!" the vagabond shouted, signaling the attention of the Toydarian vendor, other shoppers, and thugs from the Exchange.

They were hulking figures, and they were approaching him fast, unslinging the Blaster rifles from their shoulders. He struggled to break free from the vagabond's grip, but he wouldn't give. Once again he felt a hundred sets of eyes upon him, including those of the scowling Toydarian, the tooth-rotted vagabond, and worst of all, those of his soon to be assassins.

A short lived plan indeed.