Summary
"You see, it wasn't that complicated. And no need to worry. The Guild doesn't care about your age, your name or your past. No matter who you are or who you've been. All you have to do is work hard and keep a low profile. Especially when you're trying to avoid the Empire."
A/N: "Hired" or "How Cal Kestis got his tattoo".
I thank melrosethecat for the beta-reading.
Chapter 7 – Hired
"Come on. Let's go see old Drench."
Cal followed in Prauf's heels, watching with curiosity the streets illuminated by the early morning sun that was timidly rising. It was still early, and the first workers were just beginning to appear.
District 32 was similar in every way to District 21. The same streets with cobblestones half covered with mud, the same buildings with colored lights, the same gray clouds heralding rain, the same expressionless and tired faces, and the same stench reminding the misery that reigned in Bracca. He deduced that all Districts had been built on the same model. Was there also a 'Darzay' here? Or were the Empire and the Guild more respectfully obeyed than in District 21?
Whatever. Cal remembered what Prauf had told him all breakfast long. He had to make a good impression. However, as he got closer to his goal, he felt his courage melt like snow in the sun.
When they arrived at the recruitment office, Cal stopped, letting Prauf enter the small, decrepit building alone. Only the logo above the front door indicated that it was a Scrapper Guild building.
A cold wind blew through Cal's soul. For a moment he had forgotten that he was a Padawan on the run on an Imperial-controlled planet. The awareness of this fact hit him with all its force. He had no family, no friends, no one to trust, and no one to protect him. The same questions as the day before came back to him. What if it was a trap?
Next to the door a kid about his age was sitting on the ground, reaching out to passersby in hopes of getting some creds. He was poorly dressed, and his thinness rivaled Cal's. His big blue eyes were mirrors that reflected Cal's image, and suddenly what he saw in them displeased him. He bowed his head before those pleading eyes and fluttered his eyelids to fight back the tears. Clenching his teeth and his fists, he took a step forward and entered the building resolutely.
The room he entered was dark and dingy. He could see the dust particles kicked up by his entrance, dancing in the dim light of the grimy, sizzling neons. The place smelled of mold. Prauf was there, chatting with an old protocol droid seated behind a counter. Cal arrived just in time to hear the end of their conversation.
"You are lucky, there is no one here but you today. Mister Drench will see him immediately."
Prauf turned to Cal.
"Come on kid, I wish you good luck. I'll be waiting for you outside."
"Thanks, Prauf," Cal replied.
The Abednedo tenderly ruffled Cal's hair and then disappeared into the light of the street. Cal swallowed hard and turned to the droid. He was alone again. Again, he could rely only on himself.
The old droid invited him to follow and led him through a maze of dark corridors to a rusty door. He knocked twice and opened the creaky door before politely addressing someone Cal couldn't see from where he stood.
"Mister Drench, this is the boy who was recommended to you."
"It's okay, ZO-P6. Send him in," replied a hoarse but dynamic voice. "And get back to your post, you old heap of bolts."
Without picking up on the insult, the droid bowed politely and turned back, leaving Cal alone in the hallway.
"Well, come in, don't just stand there," the voice ordered curtly.
Cal obeyed meekly and entered a small room filled with an unspeakable jumble. It was sweltering hot. A small man all dried up and half curled up on himself was sitting on a chair next to a table.
"Sit down," the old man ordered in an authoritative tone – Cal assumed this was Drench – pointing to an empty chair in front of him.
Cal obeyed again without saying anything. He stared at the old man. He had tangled gray hair and eyes as black as night.
"Not very talkative, huh," Drench pointed out. "Not that I'm complaining. I prefer silence to blabber. Well. First name, last name, age."
Cal blinked without understanding, confused.
"I said first name, last name, age," old Drench repeated in a slightly annoyed tone.
"Cal Ke—"
Wait! Think! an inner voice warned him. Think about what you're going to say!
Cal took a deep breath and resumed.
"Caleb Kenobi. Sixteen years old." He had answered the first thing that popped into his mind.
"Aw! You've learned a lot, kid. But not enough."
Cal's eyes narrowed in surprise. The old man let out a short burst of laughter which he immediately suppressed, glaring mockingly at Cal.
"Idiot! If you want to learn to lie, learn to do it properly. I repeat. First name, last name, age."
"Cal Kestis. Fourteen years old," mumbled Cal, lowering his head in shame.
The old man smiled widely, revealing a toothless mouth like a gaping black hole.
"You see, it wasn't that complicated. And no need to worry. The Guild doesn't care about your age, your name or your past. No matter who you are or who you've been. All you have to do is work hard and keep a low profile. Especially when you're trying to avoid the Empire."
Astonished by these words that hit so true, Cal stared at the old man, trying to guess his intentions. He couldn't. Did he understand who Cal really was?
"Left or right-handed?" Drench suddenly asked.
Cal looked at him again with confusion.
"Are you left or right-handed?" the old man said in exasperation. "Or maybe completely deaf?" he muttered to himself.
"Right-handed," Cal answered without understanding what the point was.
Without warning, the old man grabbed his right arm and twisted it before slamming it down on the table and closing two metal restraints on his wrist and elbow. Cal squealed in surprise and tried to free himself, but he was trapped. Prauf and Drench had got him! He felt panic rise in his dry throat.
"Hey, calm down kid," the old man ordered him. "It's just to keep you from moving while I do your tattoo. Otherwise, I might screw up my work, and I'd have to start over."
Cal looked at him, surprised.
"My tattoo?"
"Didn't your friend who brought you here tell you? All Guild members have an electro-tattoo. It serves as an identity card and as an entry pass to the scrapyards. Between you and me, it's mostly used by the Guild to know where its members are and to check that they're working."
Drench took a tool in his long, bony hand. Cal shivered as he noticed the long needle at the tip. However, he did not have time to worry anymore because Drench immediately began his work. As the needle sank into the tender skin of his forearm Cal could not repress a small whine. This tool had been used on many scrappers before him, and their memories came back to him like an echo through the Force.
An Ithorian looks at the long needle that is about to go into his arm, wondering if it will hurt. An old woman with a tight bun proudly raises her chin to prove that she is still able to work despite her age. A dark-skinned man hopes that this job as a scrapper will earn him enough to buy a ticket to Nar Shaddaa. A Zabrak with a broken horn bows her head in shame at being reduced to working for the Guild after years as an engineer. A blonde-haired orphan girl a little older than Cal looks bravely into the black eyes that scrutinize her carefully so as not to show that she is terrified...
Apprehension, despair, determination, fear... With each entry of the needle Cal felt what his predecessors had felt. All of these emotions blended together in a maelstrom of confused and indistinct memories, to the point of nausea.
Cal clenched his right fist and dug his fingernails into his palm as if that would make the pain disappear – the pain of the tattoo taking shape on his forearm, but also the pain of his wounded soul – shuddering from his efforts to repress his emotions.
He closed his eyes and breathed slowly as if each exhale would dispel the pain and each inhale would fill him with confidence.
When Drench finally put his tool down and released his arm, Cal could not contain a sigh of relief. He rubbed his sore wrist before looking at the strange black tattoo that now adorned his forearm.
"You're pretty tough for a pipsqueak."
Was his voice mocking or sincere? Cal raised his head and scanned the old man's face intently, but he could not decide. The old man's eyes, the only windows to his soul, were cold and impenetrable.
"Now undress completely."
Drench stood up and walked to a big closet. He opened it and rummaged inside, mumbling as Cal obeyed without saying a word. Once stark naked, the boy remained standing, waiting for further instructions. Embarrassed, he made a feeble attempt to hide his nakedness with both hands. Despite the heat in the room, he found himself shivering.
"He's too small and skinny," Drench grumbled to himself. "It'll never fit him. I think I have an outfit left for Ugnaught somewhere. It'll do just fine until he grows up. Ah, there it is!"
He tossed Cal some new underwear, a pair of pants and a tunic of a thick, dark blue fabric, along with a poncho similar to Prauf's and a pair of boots. The boy put them on quickly, eager to cover his naked body.
"Don't worry about your old clothes. I'll burn them. And here's a pair of work gloves and a tool belt," Drench added, setting the equipment on the table. "You're assigned to the Resh-13 team. Your team leader will provide you with your tools, but it will be up to you to maintain them. The Guild will provide you with two new outfits per year and two medkits per month. Their cost is deducted from your salary. You get 300 credits per month, plus bonuses for dangerous missions or valuable finds. If you need a place to stay, I still have a spare room in a Guild building."
Cal nodded, wordlessly accepting the offer of housing that was made to him.
"The rent is 200 credits a month, also deducted from your salary," Drench continued, handing him a piece of paper. "You'll find the address on this note. You start today. The schedule is from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m., with three half-hour breaks. You've the right to one day off during the week. To be discussed with your team. Do you have any other questions?"
"Should I sign a contract?" Cal asked innocently.
"A contract? What contract?" replied the old man, stifling a chuckle. "You belong to the Guild now, Cal Kestis. Welcome to Purgatory!"
Faced with the old Drench's toothless smile, Cal felt a certain uneasiness as if he had received a gift that he knew deep down was not a gift, and that he feared the bill to pay later. Dreading to collapse if he stayed one moment more in this small suffocating room, revealing his weakness and his fear, he turned around and left the room by murmuring a small 'goodbye'. In the corridor, he started to run as if to escape the probing look of the old man with an ominous smile.
When he finally stepped out into the street, he was greeted by a fine, icy rain. Old Drench's words were still ringing in his ears.
"Did it go well?" Prauf asked when he saw him.
However, that question remained distant, seeming less real than the sudden feeling of freshness on his face. Cal raised his face to the sky, closing his eyes gently to better feel the raindrops cooling his feverish skin. He felt alive. Strangely alive.
When he opened his eyes, he turned to Prauf and smiled shyly. Then he opened his mouth, surprised to hear himself speak in a tiny, tense voice.
"I'm ready."