Cale Cage's right hand clung to the iron bar separating him from the packed dirt arena, feeling the grains of mud and sand grind into his palm. His teeth were clenched, his jaw ached from the pressure and sweat rolled down the small of his back. His left hand gripped tightly onto the crutch pinioned beneath his armpit, knuckles white.

All kinds of species were packed tightly together in the spectator rings. Those with money to spend could purchase a chair on higher ground in the stadium. The towering rows of chairs stretched up incredibly high. Cale had forfeited a seat for extra betting credits. He wiped the sweat off his brow and licked his dry lips, trying to spot his pod racer in the melee before the starting line.

He was always like this on race day. Twice a month, he would press to the front of the Corellian crowds and watch his racer bump and rattle its way to the lead. His apprentice, Sam, was little enough to fit comfortably in the speeder's cramped pilot's chair. Thirteen years old and he had already won enough races for Cale to keep the body shop open.

Even with their recent string of luck, the Corellian economy wasn't kind to struggling mechanics. They needed the win today.

'Maybe this will be the last one Sam,' Cale had sighed as they towed the pod racer to the arena.

Sam had simply shrugged his shoulders. 'It would be a lot less interesting if it was.'

Sam was still young enough to believe that nothing could touch him. Cale had taught him to pilot that damn thing too well. Maybe if he'd let him figure a few things out on his own, Sam would have had more caution and respect for the machine itself, and for the danger they posed.

But pod racing wasn't for the weak or hesitant. You had to be smart. You had to like going fast. You had to believe no one could touch you.

Ten years ago, Cale had all of those things. After the accident, he decided that going at the speed limit was a good way to keep yourself alive. Conversely, it was also a good way to stay hidden. But making a living in the galaxy was tough, and every once and a while he allowed himself and Sam to dip a toe into activities that weren't legal… strictly speaking.

'Come on,' he muttered to himself.

He watched the small speeder take its place in the starting line against bigger, meaner looking pieces of machinery. Cale closed his eyes. He quit believing in better things, mystical things ten years ago… but every now and then he reckoned it was okay to dip a toe into things like that too.

A loud buzzer sounded and he heard the whizz of the pods in front of him, too close for comfort. He squeezed his eyes shut, not daring to open them until the end of the first lap. Come on, come on, come on….

He opened one eye, allowing it to adjust to the light. Sam was behind the leader of the group. Cale let out a loud whoop, throwing his hand off the rail and into the air. 'Come on Sam!' he yelled out loud this time. He happily elbowed a shrewd little alien beside him who tried to pickpocket him.

Sam followed closely behind the leader now, taking over the second place slot. 'Okay, stay there, stay there,' Cale murmured, as though his coaching could help even now.

'Get your hands off me!'

Cale threw his attention away from the race and back into the crowd. He suddenly felt all of his limbs go heavy. His head felt packed with cotton. His heart began to beat steadily faster, the skin on the back of his neck stood on end.

He'd not felt this way in ten years. Blinking his eyes rapidly, he tried to get rid of it. Again, the alien tried to take this as an opportunity to rob him. Spinning with nearly inhuman speed, he grabbed the alien's forearm. Through clenched teeth he spat, 'Leave. Now.'

The alien scurried off into the crowd. As Cale watched him leave, he heard the voice again. 'Help! Leave me alone!'

It was a woman. She was screaming, mouth open, teeth bared. 'Help!'

Cale scanned the crowd. He could not see her there. She was blonde. Curly headed. Younger than him.

'Don't touch me!'

Cale's heartbeat was a steady pounding rhythm as the rest of the race drowned out around him. Then there was another voice in his head. It was a man's, clear and demanding. His old teacher.

'Find her.'


Rory was called to the arena that morning to repair one of the team flags. She mostly did dresses for senator's wives and military regalia for their husbands and sons, but she also took her expertise as a seamstress to the racing domes. Teams would pay well for a creative, well-made flag. Throwing her sewing kit in a bag she rushed off through the Corellian high streets, trying to find a lift down to the bottom of the spiraling, tall skyscrapers.

She had five minutes before the race would begin. I can make it, she thought hopefully. These black market things were bound to start late anyway.

She rushed into a packed lift, watching as they descended quickly, down and then down further, into the dark bowels of Corellia.

That's how it was on this planet. The high class lived in the clouds while the poor were left to fend for themselves on the planet's floor. She gulped as the lift let go of petite, well dressed passengers, and became filled with burlier, punchier looking patrons. She kept a tight grip on her bag and stared at the doors, determined to not be intimidated.

Rory had not been to the bottom of Corellia since she was abandoned here over ten years ago, when she was twelve years old. A kindly older couple had taken pity on her, thinking that she was too pretty and innocent to be left to the machinations of more sinister breeds. She still found that her green eyes and blonde hair could get her out of similar sticky situations; like when a stitch was out of place, or she'd made a dress too tight. She was unsure if the smugglers and bounty hunters would be so easily swayed.

She fingered the jagged gemstone pendant she wore beneath her clothes absentmindedly. It was warm to the touch today, which she found it did from time to time. It was the only remnant of her life before Corellia. She'd stop questioning who gave it to her or where it came from a long time ago. The memories from that time were dim and confusing and meaningless.

The pendant was a pretty trinket that got lots of compliments. She liked to think it was a gift from her irresponsible mother, who's similar good looks got her into a certain type of trouble that she couldn't talk her way out of.

Finally, they had made it to the bottom. The lift doors opened and Rory rushed out immediately, turning in the direction of the stadium. Although it was morning at the top the bottom was lit by greenish yellow lamps that flickered and fizzled in bad humour.

Rory shook her head, thinking what her adoptive parents would say to her if they saw her slinking around the pits of the Corellian underworld. When they died they'd left her a comfortable apartment overlooking the sunrise and a modest sum of money. But the taxes on Corellia were climbing and people were beginning to stop investing in custom made clothing. She needed the credits.

They pay well, Rory reminded herself, dodging a particularly large puddle of peachy coloured liquid that smelled foul.

She could hear the roar of the arena. Her spirits lifted as she jogged toward it.

Suddenly it felt as though she'd run straight into a brick wall. Her entire body slammed to a stop. The pendant was burning against her skin, causing her to rip it out from under her shirt and hold it away from her chest.

Rory gasped. It was burning a bight, brilliant blue. This had never happened before. She stared at it stupidly, wondering what could possibly be going on.

A hand suddenly grabbed her wrist, dragging her off of the street and into a darkened alleyway. 'Get your hands off of me!' she screamed desperately.

The gemstone was still glowing brilliantly. She couldn't see her attacker from the light emitting from it. More hands were grabbing at her, pulling her in different directions. She tried to kick out, to pull her arms away. She screamed and screamed, tears rolling down her face.

I don't want to die, she thought desperately.

Then someone was pulling her away from the big gripping arms, to the safety of a street lamp. The jewel was now only glowing dimly; the heat in it had cooled considerably. She was exhausted, lying in the street, listening to the sounds of a blaster.

There were pained yelps and grunts. She turned her head to the left and saw a man, blaster at the ready, crutch under the opposite arm. He'd hit a target successfully, a larger shape opposite him slinking back into the shadows. Then he turned to her, his face blacked out from the halo of green light behind his head.

'Help,' Rory choked out.

'You're safe now,' he assured her.

The gem glowed brightly as he got closer, the warmth spreading through her body, lolling her off to sleep.