maybe i'm just obsessed with wandering souls. or yoko kanno. or starwars. or all of the above.
The twin suns scoured the desert planet into a restless, uneasy submission, life cowering among the wavering lines of dunes, air so dry its form was visible. The sky was a dome of china blue, encasing the sand, and sand, and sand with its endless hands, clouds nothing but a distant memory lost somewhere in the repository of many years.
Tatooine was a planet of long distant dreams, ones you held in your hand long after they crumbled into dust.
The people were cowed into the faces on their lines, until eventually, their frowns and stone eyes became just as much a part of their definition as grains of crushed rock were to this horrible, horrible, outer rim planet.
But Luke had grown up there, and before him, Anakin Skywalker, and there was something terribly frank about this planet and its ability to raise greatness from nothing but a thistle and stone that simply could not be overlooked by its crowded, torn cities and its long stretches of dirt and dust.
Before he even knew how to count, Luke knew exactly what he wanted.
He wanted to get out of here.
SESSION II
.
MEMORY
"So you want to join the academy, huh?"
The boy nodded. He didn't really look like much of an imperial kind of guy though. If he was much of a guy at all. There was childlike wonder formed around the rims of his eyes, but their bright blue quality was nothing short of deceptive.
And anyway, Biggs wasn't any kind of Imperial either. He supposed no one really was, not on a place like Tatooine. No one gave a shit here. There was spice going through your veins, and a head tottering on your shoulders, brain floating like red balloons into the sky, lost in dreams and partial, euphonious words. He never bothered with anything. Not with school, not with those god damn farms, nothing.
"That's my dream." The boy shoved his hands into his pockets. "Get in, and get out."
Biggs chewed on the edge of the straw, the wheat taste growing stale in his mouth, yet he chewed anyway. Just to get the feeling of dryness out of his mouth. "Good luck with that. The Imperial Academy takes a lot of work."
"So I hear."
There was bitter, and anger in his voice, too. Resentment? Or resignation?
Biggs swung his legs against the metal of the power conductor, a massive, sprawling design of machine, long cylinder fingers full of electricity, power chord lines stretching down the horizon until they were dots with the sand. The wires housed a magnitude of birds, all of a different, man-eating variety, and Biggs could make out the hazy definition of their beaks and bodies between the towers. Him and Luke looked like dwarfed smudges against the Imperial design.
Biggs didn't really know much about Luke back then, he was just a kid always in Anchorhead, and never in school.
They hung out a lot, at the power distribution center mostly, but sometimes, on days like this where the sun was marginally tolerable and the heat, while still a positively colossal force, could be overlooked with the right angle, they maundered up to where the sky met their hands, and would talk endlessly about nothing at all.
Today, Fixer and Camie weren't around to bother about, and Biggs wasn't sure exactly where they had run off to. Most likely a strange, shadowed area of town where they wouldn't be disturbed—ahem. Luckily Deak and Windy weren't around either.
But it was strange, just him and Luke.
And surprisingly, he was curious.
For a kid he hung out with almost all the time, Biggs didn't really know much about him. No one really knew much about him. He was just Luke, that kid who hung around at Anchorhead. He worked odd jobs to whoever would hire him, and that, was that. He was Luke. He had windy hair and cloudy eyes, a face of a hero but hands of a monster. Biggs wasn't sure about him (yet somehow, he knew. He knew Luke was different. Here was something about the golden glow in his eyes, something that pulled and roared like dust storms brewing on the horizon, a force so terrifying and so unreal—
But he knew that wouldn't last.
—x—
—x—
"His parents died." Said Camie one day, as she pulled off her helmet and stretched out like a lean cat against the roof of the landspeeder. Her hair was pulled into a braid that curled around the tendons of her neck, resting shiftlessly against the side of her breast. Biggs watched it, before he quickly turned his head away, not wanting to notice the way the light caught the edges.
"Whose parents?" He echoed distractedly.
She rolled her eyes. "Luke's, of course."
Camie had a strange fascination with the young boy. Something which Fixer was entirely displeased about. Biggs would have commented on it further, however, he terribly enjoyed the sour and contrary expression which wiggled onto the muscled boy's face, like he had just sniffed out a malodorous stench.
"Oh." And then, another quick glance. Just a quick one. Before he tore his eyes away and leaned back against his own landspeeder, palms sweaty, and not from the intense heat. Camie always seemed to look perfectly cool. "So?"
"So?" She rolled her eyes extravagantly. "That's probably why he hangs out at Anchorhead all the time. The other day, Deak told me he has his own apartment there. His own apartment! Isn't that cool?"
Biggs shrugged. He didn't really know anyone who owned their own apartment. "Yeah, kinda." And then, with a worried frown. "But why are you listening to Deak?"
"Oh, its just gossip." She sighed airily, before adjusting her helmet in her hands. She didn't need one for landspeeders, but she wore one whenever they tried to race. Biggs couldn't really call her much of a good pilot, but she wasn't terrible. For a girl, anyway. "And anyways, lets meet up with the guys and the Tosche Station later, okay?"
"Yeah sure." He answered distantly, unaware of much of anything besides the smooth sway of her hips and the lovely contours of her legs.
He couldn't help but wonder why she was so intrigued by Luke. Sure, he was kind of mysterious. But he wasn't that interesting.
But Biggs only shook his head. The binary suns were searing the sky into orange as they started their decline, and they should probably get a move on if they wanted to be back in the city by the time sundown really sets in. He hopped into his landspeeder, as Camie tore off in front of him, dust piling into the sky in her wake.
When they met everyone, he noticed that Janek and Luke really hit it off. Even Fixer really didn't mind him, which was a strange notion in itself. Err, well, that was when Camie wasn't speaking about him, or looking at him, or trying to discuss him, or, well…
The moment Biggs walked through the door Camie had already swayed her way over to Fixer, his arm curling around her like a sarlaacc. The night got even worse from there, as Camie and Fixer found a nice corner and somehow Deak and Windy managed to find their way over to the Station, grimy from attempting to work on their skyhoppers.
The group dynamic was really a placing of hierarchy, starting with the best pilots—a spot currently vying between Biggs and Fixer—down to the worst. Deak and Windy definitely presented themselves wherever the rest of the sucky pilots got to be grouped in. Camie, as the only girl, was a whole other rating onto herself.
Biggs wasn't sure where Luke fit in their dynamic, but so far, he seemed to mosey his way in without even touching the controls of a landspeeder—a surprising feet in itself.
The end of the slow night found Janek being tailed by Deak and Windy, and Biggs and Luke the only two who hadn't wandered from the table.
"You go to school, Luke?" He asked after minutes of tense silence as he quietly debated with himself whether speaking to the blonde was a good suggestion to himself or a nice step towards suicide via boredom and or colossal angst-emo issues.
The boy looked cowed for a moment, before sheepishly shaking his head. "Nah, dropped out."
Biggs blinked at this. "Really? Why?"
A far off look returned to Luke's eyes. "Well… I guess cause no one was around to force me to go anymore. My parents died awhile ago."
"No kidding." Biggs' eyebrows shot up. "I'm sorry to hear that."
The blond shrugged uncomfortably. Biggs would later come across the information that Luke had never known his parents, and had instead been raised by his uncle and aunt. And that he had, in fact, simply walked away from them, but had never bothered to correct Biggs' interpretation that the reason Luke lived by himself was because he had always lived with his parents and they had died, leaving him to fend for himself. "It was a while ago now. I never really bothered with my education after that. I had a job by then, anyway."
"But you want to go to the Academy?"
"Yupp."
"How do you plan on doing that?" Biggs asked with no small amount of skepticism.
"Easy." Luke grinned, a charming quirk of his mouth that made Biggs suddenly realize what a sunny disposition hid behind the chagrin and morose lines of his face. "I'm gonna be the best pilot ever."
Biggs laughed at that one.
—x—
—x—
Turns out, Luke wasn't really kidding.
Two times around through Beggar's Canyon had Biggs schooled like he was a toddler struck blind and deaf at the wheels, Luke not even breaking a sweat. The engine of his skyhopper hummed quietly as the boy hopped onto its hood, looking quite pleased with himself. The boy had legitimately threaded the Stone Needle, curving his ship with a certain graceless quality, a strange curling arch and then he was out the other side, and Biggs was left to stare in shock. The two of them had tore into the maze-like race track, while Camie and Fixer had taken a slower start, pushing each other and crumbling into laughter, not minding getting left in the dust.
"Well," Biggs shook his hair out, in nothing short of amazement. "I guess you were right, kid. You really could be the best pilot in the whole galaxy."
"Err—well, that was a bit of an exaggeration." He rubbed the back of his head, swinging his legs idly. "But that's the idea!"
Biggs wondered just how far talent would go, and if possible, could it hoister Luke through eons of hyper space, into the overwhelming capital planet of the galaxy, a place even Biggs had only heard through legends and sepia-colored, low quality pictures?
Watching Luke maneuver his craft through small openings of jagged rock, dive into all angles, and swoop through impressive canyons, he wondered just how old he really was.
The Darklighter family was considerably well-known, as was his brother, his father, and of course, Biggs himself. There was something to be said about the notorious notion the young Darklighter had about himself and his maturity, one he had never questioned until Luke's wide delphinium eyes centered onto him.
Later, as Biggs discovered more and more about Luke's ambiguous beginnings (or what the boy would confess to him), Camie and Fixer eventually coasted towards the presumed finish line—the place had once housed thousands of pod races, but since the sport had been outlawed, the deserted finish line was nothing more then a couple etched lines in the dirt—cuddled together and whispering in hushed voices.
Usually, this would have made Biggs shift his weight restlessly, unsure as to why such a deep, questionable stirring wrenched his stomach at the display, but for some reason, he was too engrossed with Luke to feel the sickening feeling he got when Fixer splayed his large hands over the base of Camie's neck.
—x—
—x—
Luke left Tatooine with his eyes skyward, and Biggs was left to ponder the questionable life he lead on this godforsaken planet.
Nothing seemed even marginally as important anymore. Tending to the farm used to be an annoying chore, now was nothing more than a tedious, meaningless waste of his time. And yet somehow, everything was a waste of his time.
Sandsurfing was now only a ridiculous, immature stab at superiority staged by Fixer, racing landspeeders through Anchorhead no longer held any charm, and Camie, surprisingly, left no vile after-taste in his mouth when she swayed into Fixer's arms.
All he could think of, really, was Luke.
His best friend, his only rival, only sixteen and yet already eons more mature then he would ever be.
The day he left Tatooine too, to join his friends' footsteps that echoed in the empty galaxy, was the day his life really started.
—x—
—x—
Biggs had escaped the encasings of their poverty-ridden home planet, attempting to scour the galaxy much like his best friend had done, following his footsteps, searching for him.
Luke, he learned, hadn't just maundered the systems on spice freighters, hopping his way from place to place and crashing on strange, uninhabited planets like he had first assumed he would. Biggs had figured that Luke would, much like he had on Tatooine, gather enough money by running about doing odd jobs no one else would take in a millennia of years, eventually scrounging up enough cash to get into the Imperial Academy, get to fly a couple ships, and maybe even serve on a Star Destroyer.
No, he'd bee consorting with the Rebel Alliance, at the time nothing more than a couple hundred decently trained, young-cropped pilots and a handful of important figureheads.
When Biggs joined, still chasing the heels of Luke's shadow, he was stunned to find that, after planting a footprint colossal enough to shake the very foundations of the Alliance, Luke had left.
With a Corellian smuggler, no less.
Biggs remembered a mangled, concocted dream he and Luke had, involving a starship and some vague plans for a future, an education at the Imperial Academy, and maybe a couple marriages here and there before they ended up retired on Naboo, far lost in the lake country, where they'd lose their hearing and putter around a nice lake cabin, their only company each other and a couple Gungans.
But at the rate Luke was diving head first into the very core of the amassed plan of the destruction of the Empire, the more he realized that this useless, ridiculous dream, was nothing.
His inquiries for a Tatooine farm boy who may or may not still be five three and something, with sunny hair and a kind of quirky smile lead him to a rather straight faced forerunner of the alliance.
"Well, I'm very sorry to hear that." A comely woman—girl really, there was growing to be done in her bones, but the set lines of her curt frown was the epitome of maturity—with chocolate curls done in loose rings around her ears, the rest sliding down her back, had consoled him rather unsympathetically.
He supposed she probably had many more important duties to take care of rather than help out some backwater farm boy.
"I haven't seen Luke in a couple months now." She confessed quietly, a certain hopelessness engraved into the walnut fabric of her eyes. "I'm so worried about him, he—
She stopped then, and the bitter fury rose in her eyes once more, coming out like ice wind from her mouth. "At any rate, the Alliance can't help silly friends find their way back together. We have an actual purpose, besides reuniting farmers."
Biggs supposed he'd caught her at a very, very, bad time.
Either way, he did manage to hunt his way around the outer rim planets on Luke's trail, and eventually, heard about a certain mercenary group called Venetus.
When Darklighter thought of mercenaries, he thought of rough-skinned, muscled men with nondescript faces and a variety of blasters hooked onto their long, rope-like belts, boots scuffed in mud and burly jaw line clear cut against the cloth of their shirts. He supposed that he could throw in a couple glittersticks, and enough spice to fuck up a rancor, and he'd have a pretty apt description to rely on every time he asked around for the group. No matter what moon he went to, or what backwater planet he crashed onto, there was always at least some one in the outer rim who knew of the group, albeit the retelling of information was foggy and vague at best.
A better description for Luke's rag-tag team would be cowboys.
At least, that's what he thought when he'd first seen Han Solo.
And more importantly, he'd never thought to think he'd might join them.
—x—
—x—
"Name?"
"Luke."
A startled, questioning look. "Just Luke?"
A sheepish shrug. "Err—yeah. Just Luke. That's me."
The smuggler looked a lot more confused then he was in the beginning, as if a surname was the most consequential part of a name. Luke supposed it really was, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He'd always been just Luke, and there really wasn't much of a point in changing that.
"So you're part of the Alliance, huh?" Solo pulled out a cigarette. "Want one?"
Luke shook his head politely, plopping down onto the bench beside the towering man. Said towering man looked down at the peculiarly short boy with no small amount of curiosity, sizing up the lean muscles that webbed around thin bones, the wide Prussian blue eyes that looked much too bright for his face, and the mop of lemon colored hair.
"I'm a pilot," He said, and while Han supposed the boy was the shy type, there was a hint of pride in his voice, as if nothing in the whole god damn galaxy mattered except for the exhilarating rush of wind pushing against wings, taking into the everlasting blue stratosphere. He jerked his head to a modified X-wing. "That's my ship over there."
The lean beauty's sleek contours were intensified as it rested near to the Millenium Falcon, a hunkering brute of steel and metal. Han wondered where on Correllia the boy could have possibly picked up that body kit for his x-wing, let alone its hover system.
"No kidding." Han's brows shot up. He wasn't aware that the Alliance was cradle robbing now. "And how old are you?"
"Turning seventeen." He answered candidly, as if his age hardly mattered to him.
Han near choked on his inhale. "Say what?" He was betting nineteen at the youngest. "Aren't you a little too young to be in the Alliance?"
Luke shook his head, a waspish grin crawling across his face. "Nah. They think I'm twenty."
Han scoffed at that. "Yeah right." He muttered. He'd seen the boy fly in, he'd been shooting down targets as Han had entered the system with the latest delivery of smuggled goods—he was a smuggler, anyhow, first and foremost. He could care less who he was smuggling for—into Dantooine, when he spied the smaller air craft. He was surprised the boy wasn't some old general or something like that, considering his maneuvering abilities. Not to mention uncanny accuracy.
No wonder the Rebels had kept a wisely closed mouth against the blatant lie—they needed the kid.
"And why would you tell me that?" He asked him innocuously.
Another shrug. "I dunno. I feel like I can trust you."
Han rolled his eyes at that. He'd learned after years that feeling stuff didn't mean shit.
"Whatever you say kid." He stood up and stretched out his back, spitting out his cigarette and dousing it with a good scrub of his boot, before heading back to his ship and unloading.
He hadn't noticed the kid following him.
"So, what do you do?"
He was pretty curious for a teenager. Usually they moodily kept to themselves, or at least he presumed, judging from his former self.
"I'm a smuggler."
"Oh. So what do you smuggle?"
"All kinds of stuff."
"Like?"
Han paused in shouldering a crate. "You sure do ask a lot of questions."
"I'm curious." The boy, at least, was useful, and helped him with a box of spare parts. "I've never been outside of my home planet until almost a year ago, and even then, I feel like there's so much to see out there."
Han looked at him quizzically. "Haven't you ever been in combat?" It seemed more then plausible. The kid was good. And if the alliance was shipping him out to fight, he'd certainly get to see some pretty far off places."
Luke shrugged. "Here and there." Like it was nothing big. Perhaps a couple skirmishes outside the star destroyer.
But fighting was fighting. Which meant putting yourself in a very dangerous disposition which had every right to lead to disaster, and ultimate death. And Han was nothing but a self-preserving kind of guy, and the thought of fighting heroically for a dying cause was a death ticket—and kind of lame. "Aren't you a little too young to die?"
"I won't die."
"You can never be so sure of that." Han mused.
They entered the shipping center of the base, a large, domed garage large enough to house a star destroyer, jammed with ziggurats of boxes and cranes for the heavier ones. Hoarse shouts of workers echoed off the walls, and Luke looked quite forlorn with his oversized box, staring up into the lines of crates and boxes.
"Sure I can." There was a sly smirk on his face, as if he new of something Han didn't.
Han decided it was better not to argue his point. The kid was young, and had no combat experience (he hastily assumed because of his age). He'd learn eventually.
They finished with the shipment after Chewie had come back, the three hoisting a towering starship engine into the center. Captain Solo was clearly amazed that Luke could carry a fair share of the weight with his small frame, and the boy hadn't even broken a sweat.
"Say kid." He began, still dazed. "Wanna go get something to eat in the mess hall?"
Luke rubbed his stomach, as if he was just now realizing how hungry he really was. "Yes, krith I'm hungry."
The only thing Han could think was that the boy ate like a wookie. The smuggler only watched bemusedly as the boy shoveled in a variety of foods he'd never dream of touching, like a man who weathered starvation and knew primitively to eat when gifted with food. Well, the lanky teenager sure was tiny, if nothing else, and Han supposed it must be the growth spurt talking. He had half a mind to just take the boy with him. He could use a pilot like that—Han was sort of mediocre at best, and Chewie was a freaking Wookie, so they could certainly use the help. It would make travelling around systems a hell of a lot safer, and, well, the boy did say he wanted to see some action…
"So Luke, where'd you learn to pilot like that?"
The boy looked at him comically, noodles hanging from his mouth. He quickly choked them down. "Around, I guess." And as an afterthought, "I flew speeders back on my home planet."
"Speeders and x-wings are kind of in a different league." The smuggler pointed out wryly.
"All the same to me!" And with a flourish, the boy dug in again.
"But—you can't be serious." Han looked at the blonde, who in turn, was blinking at him strangely. "I mean, you're just a little squirt—
"I take offense to that."
"It takes years to pilot like that. Aiming, steering, it's not a walk in the park. Definitely nothing like piloting a speeder."
"I've always been good at that kind of stuff." Luke said. "Maybe it's genetics?"
"Well damn." Han whistled. "That's some good genes you've got going on there."
—x—
—x—
Seeing Luke in action—being partnered with him a couple times, even—made Han open his eyes to the sheer talent the boy was. He could wring out a TIE fighter five to one, and damn, if those weren't some good odds right there. Venetus wouldn't be anything without the kid.
"She really quit the Alliance then?" Luke asked dazedly, as he and Han drifted over towards the hangar bay.
Han made a face. "Leia couldn't do that. I'm sure she'll still be helping them out."
And then, with a contrary look. "Which means they'll get special priority." The Corellian had an aversion towards Mon Mothma. He was most likely rather upset that now, since Leia
"It's all money to me." Luke only shrugged.
Han didn't think it was, but he made no comment.
"Well anyway, I guess we'll be seeing her around more." Perhaps Han was a bit pleased by this. It wasn't like Leia was hard on the eyes or anything.
"Yeah." There was the beginnings of a smile on Luke's face. "I guess we will, huh?"
The thought of Leia sort of warmed a bit in him. Leia reminded him of something he couldn't quite think of, a memory that had smoothed out on the turbulent shores of his consciousness to the point he couldn't recall it, diffused into something tinge at the back of his awareness. At any rate, the girl had sort of tied him to the alliance. He wasn't sure what sort of serendipitous notion had lead him to meet Leia, shake her hand on that cold October morning in Belsavis, hovering right outside the atmosphere as Mon Calamari introduced them heartily.
"Princess, this is Luke." He said with a jovial voice. "Our crackshot pilot."
Leia gave him an amused look, as if she couldn't quite believe this farm-washed boy with a raging farmer's tan and sun freckles could possibly be the one she'd been hearing about.
"Pleasure." Her hand was cold, and kind of limp in his.
But at any rate, it was, if he had to trace it back to his barest roots, Leia who kept him around. Luke was a wanderer, he'd known it since he wandered out of Owen and Beru's life, just a blurred form in the scarred, desert distance, binary suns sweltering against his back as he lazily walked along the road, off into the vauge unknown. He'd known it as he sat on the power conductors with Biggs, looking into the stars and thinking of freedom. Even when he was there in the Alliance, exotic gas planets right beneath his fingertips as he traced their outlines from the ship's window, the vestiges of space called out to him.
Leia was like a little piece of home.
Perhaps, if her latest move away from her beloved Rebel Alliance was anything to balance off, she felt the same.
Han saluted him as he stalked off, saying how he and Chewie had to get ready to deliver something to Borgo Prime, just two systems away. Currently, Zeba was a large, dome shaped hue in the windows, as they still orbited it slowly.
Luke gazed at it for a few moments, and then to the flickering stars, lambent yellow that marked distant worlds he was yet to find. There was an itch that tingled all over his body as he thought about it, all the places he hadn't been to, all the skies he hadn't seen. He didn't understand how such a flighty tendency could control him so incorrigibly. Ben—Obi wan—had commented that maybe it was something the force wanted him to do out there. His words, back in the dank must of a whole dug into the sand, lit the flame that still burned inside him.
The force.
He breathed it.
It was real, it was in his veins, in his father's veins, intangible but still left the dusty aftertaste in his mouth as if it could be tasted, smelt in the wind, seen in the blurry instances of his peripheral vision.
getting good or getting bad?