A/N
Disclaimer: Neither Star Wars or The Old Republic setting is owned by me. All rights go to Disney, Bioware and EA. I only claim ownership of my original characters
Chapter 1 : Hutta
"Thief! I got you now!"
Cylden yelped when a heavy stick came down on the wooden frame of the grocery cart, missing his hand by mere inches. The piece of jogan fruit he had hoped to slip into his pocket fell from his fingers and rolled over the few other fruits before falling into the dirt at the boy's feet. "Oh no!" he exclaimed, ducking down to reclaim the fruit. Rubbing the dirt off the skin with tender care, he raised wide eyes to the cart's owner, a tall man with broad shoulders and muscles that bulged underneath a cheap, sweat-stained shirt.
"I am not a thief!" the boy replied, rising to tiptoe as he reached out to return the jogan fruit to the small pile of assorted fruits as if to demonstrate his honesty. "I'd pay if I could! Bram, I don't want any trouble." He hesitated, his eyes darting towards the tempting treat, the buffed skin to a shine as the rays of the late afternoon sun caressed it. "I could work for you? I'm strong, I could push the cart or haul crates? I can do lots of things… And then I'll pay you. Honest, I would!"
"Oh, you'll pay," Bram rounded on him as he slapped the stick against his palm in a clear promise of the thrashing he had in mind.
Two armoured soldiers, wearing colours Cylden didn't recognize, marched through the small market, and past Bram's cart. When they passed, he would have sworn he'd heard a chuckle coming from behind the visor of one of them. Bastards, he thought, glaring at their backs as they headed down the palace road, towards the shining, opulent gates just visible in the distance.
He glanced at Bram and found the grocer staring after the two as well. The stick rested against his palm, fingers tensing around the wood. "Blast it! Imperials," Bram cursed.
"Forget it, boy," he said, shouldering Cylden out of his way as he pulled the cart's awning down, readying to leave. "A scrawny kid like you, work for me? You are what? Six years old? Seven?"
"Eight! I am eight!" he replied hastily. "Please, Bram, let me help? I'm strong enough to push your stupid cart. And there isn't that much on it anyway!" Cylden scowled and straightened to his meagre height of four feet tall, brushing the dirty strands of brown hair away from his face. Reaching for the straps attached to the cart's sides, he tried to get past Bram and secure the crates for transport like he'd seen Bram and the other salesmen do so many times before, but once again Bram's arm swept him aside.
"Out of my way, kid."
Cylden stood back and kicked at the dirt, pretending to avert his gaze while keeping an eye on the food that was getting further and further out of reach with every passing second. The warped view from the corner of his eyes made fruits laden in the crates seem bigger, shinier. He could almost taste the juice of the fruit in his mouth, feel the smooth, resilient skin against his lips and the crunch when his teeth burst the skin, sinking into the springy meat underneath.
His stomach cramped and his throat hurt. He blinked against the prickling sensation behind his eyes and swallowed. It isn't fair, he thought unhappily. No one buys his food anyway. Not with his stupid prices. He's richer than anyone, and it's just one fruit. He wouldn't miss it, and it would have spoiled otherwise and now no one's going to have it, and it's not right! He should have let me have it instead of making a fuss. It's not as if Nemro or any of the gangs care about some stupid food!
A strong hand pushed against his shoulder and he staggered. "I don't have time for this," Bram said with a nervous look in the direction the Imperials had vanished too.
"But…" Cylden's protest was nipped in the bud when Bram jerked his cart towards the small dirt track.
"Why would I want your help? You'll just be in my way," Bram said, his voice low and angry.. "You're trouble, kid. Begging and stealing, that's all you're good 're rotten at the core, a rotten child. No wonder Cynthia never came back for you. Your mother was too good for this place, boy. I'd have done the same if it had been me in her place. Except that I'd sell you to a slaver and get out of here. Might as well make a credit or two for the trouble you are!"
He continued, heaping insult upon insult, venting his frustrations at the child in low, scathing tones, but Cylden didn't hear it. His eyes had widened, and to him, it seemed as if a mist formed between himself and the cart. A dull throb drummed through his mind, blocking out the sounds from the small market place. Nothing but trouble…. Rotten child... One small hand clenched at his side, the other reached for the dagger tucked in his belt.
Liar! he thought, fury building inside. My mother wasn't like that!
He closed his eyes and swayed on his feet, but shutting his eyes hadn't helped. He saw Bram looming over him just as clearly as before and the pressure inside grew until he feared his head would burst. Rotten child.. Rotten child. The words echoed in his mind, spoken by a female voice. In his memory she sounded so very tired, so disappointed. He wanted to answer, to reassure her he'd be good, but she wasn't there. There was only Bram and his scorn.
The boy's eyes snapped open, bright with hatred. His hand whipped upwards, and naked steel flashed between them faster than the eye could follow.
Bram grunted and pressed a hand against his side. Crimson stained his fingers and spread over the coarse fabric of his shirt. "Now you've done it, kid." The man staggered forward, reaching for the boy with his other hand.
Cylden recoiled, staring at his empty fingers as he flung himself backwards, only to find his retreat blocked by a solid form behind him. Bram had halted his grab for the boy and was staring up at something behind Cylden, a look close to terror in his eyes.
"Trouble?" a quiet voice inquired. It was a voice that reminded Cylden of the small, swamp snakes he'd seen slithering in the mud; those had given him the same uneasy feeling in his stomach, a mixed sensation of caution and revulsion.
He turned around, coming face to face with a black robed figure, flanked by the two guards Bram had identified as Imperial. "Sith," he whispered, backing up once again - this time towards Bram, who he considered the lesser of two evils here. Bram might have a temper, but compared to the reputation of the Sith, he was as harmless as a young Gizka.
"Just a thief, my Lord." Bram replied, grunting as his fingers moved restlessly over the bloodsoaked cloth as if they tried to cover all the stains at once. "Nothing I can't handle."
Although the Sith's hood shrouded his features in darkness, Cylden felt the man's keen attention descend upon him, felt the pressure upon his mind eyes and a flash of cruel malice, that wasn't his own.
"I didn't do it," Cylden protested, squirming under the alien scrutiny. "I don't know what happened!"
"Shush, child," the Sith said and Cylden hastily clamped his mouth shut.
"You are wounded and need medical care," the Sith continued, ignoring the boy as he focused on Bram with a sympathy that Cylden felt was as unfair as it was dishonest. Liar, he thought angrily. You don't care what happens to him either.
"Allow me to take the boy off your hands." Upon Bram's reluctant nod, the Sith brought his hands together as if in silent applause. "Good."
"Pay this man and seize the boy," he instructed the guards.
"Seize me? But I didn't do anything!" Cylden protested, nimbly ducking underneath the first guard's grasping hands when an unseen Force constricted around his throat and lifted him from the ground.
"When I speak, you listen and obey, child." The Sith rebuked him, his voice cold. "Resist my commands again, and I will not be so kind."
Cylden gasped for air, his fingers clawed at his throat and his feet kicked aimlessly at empty air. "Please, I promise to be good. Honest, I won't be trouble…" he whispered, repeating the plea until the oxygen in his lungs ran out and pale stars faded in and out of his vision. He barely felt it when the pressure on his throat faded and a gauntlet closed around his arm, dragging him upright when the Sith released his control. The Imperial yanked him along, falling in stride after the Sith, and Cylden turned his head, looking over his shoulder dizzily.
He saw Bram, still standing beside his cart on the dirt road, looking after the departing group, but as he tried to muster the courage to call out to him, Bram tied a slender pouch to his belt and turned away.