Tal'eth stumbled into an alleyway, near hyperventilating with shallow breaths. He desperately needed medical care, but emerging in public in his current state would be to send a beacon to the Empire. His damaged lekku, the prehensile headtails typical of the Twi'lek species, throbbed and sent electric shocks of pain down his body whenever he moved. If he remained very still, and there was no breeze to stir the air, the pain was almost bearable. Before long he collapsed against the wall, no longer having the energy to keep his body upright.

He remained sequestered in the alley until dawn. By then he had caught his breath and slept a little, and was alert enough to take stock of his injuries. His left lek was certainly damaged, if not severed, by the direct shot it had sustained. The pain now was so great, he didn't dare to touch it or twitch it over his shoulder to see the state of it for himself. His nails were bloodied and broken from clawing his way to freedom from the mines. His left side was scorched and bloodied from the blaster fire he'd been pursued by as he ran, and a bone-numbing exhaustion had settled over his entire body like a blanket.

There, hidden from view by the tall buildings on either side and the still-dark sky, Tal'eth finally allowed himself to succumb to the worst of his pains— grief. He wept for his wife Dara, torn from his arms and no doubt sold into slavery by now. He knew how Twi'leks were treated away from their home world of Ryloth, and he knew the life that awaited her. He wept for his son Tad, likely grown enough to be sent to a labor camp, doomed to a life like the one he'd only narrowly escaped. He wept for his daughter Hana, young enough to depend on her parents for her every need, now unlikely to ever remember them if she managed to survive to adulthood. And if she did make it that far, she would no doubt face the same fate as her mother.

He didn't know how much time passed in this feverish state— waking, sleeping, ever-present pain and bouts of misery. He only knew that his tears had subsided but his pain had not when a hand grabbed his shoulder, waking him from sleep. His head as foggy as it was, it took several moments for him to realize what he was seeing, and what had awoken him. Before him, dressed in ragged clothing and every inch a street urchin, was a boy.

The blue-skinned Twi'lek was dressed in the brown pants and rough tunic of a slave, his clothing scorched from blaster fire and bloodied from the wounds they'd caused. The filthy state of his clothes, his hands, and his face were enough to confirm to Cyrus that the Twi'lek had escaped from one of the Empire's many mining operations in the Mid Rim. If he had been standing he was likely to be near two metres tall. His undamaged right headtail reached the bottom of his back. His left, however, ended in a smoldering and bloodied stump at his shoulder blade. Tears had cut sharp tracks through the grime on his face. His black eyes were unfocused and hazy, his skin sickeningly pale. He was in shock, no doubt, and likely very close to dead.

Cyrus smiled, crouching down in front of the where the man slumped against the wall. "I think we can help each other."

When Tal'eth awoke again, he was in a bed. Or something resembling one, at least. Pain coursed through his body as he shifted but he pushed through it, easing up into a sitting position. He heard the scrabbling of vermin in the room, fleeing out from under the bed as he moved. The lone window of the room was caked in grime, letting in little light. In the dimness he could see the boy. His tongue felt thick and useless, and it took several tries before he could form words. "You brought me here," he said.

Cyrus dragged his chair forward, the scraping of metal on metal grating on Tal'eth's raw nerves. "You didn't have much money on you," he said, taking a long swig from his canteen. "That's why this place is such a dump." Water dripped from his chin and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Tal'eth reached for the canteen almost on instinct, but the boy pulled it back, out of reach. "You came here on a ship," he said. "Tell me where it is, and you can have some water."

Tal'eth let his head fall back, far too tired for mind games. Turning his head, he examined the boy appraisingly. He was young, in his late teens perhaps, and dressed in plain brown clothing. His face and hands were streaked with dirt. His dark eyes twinkled with mischief, but his easy grin seemed forced. At first glance he looked like any of the countless homeless youths that every city and planet seemed to have, but Tal'eth noticed now small discrepancies in this narrative. His clothes, though plain, looked as if they had once been fine. His hair was mussed but nicely cut. His face and body were unblemished by wounds and scars, and he lacked the lean and hungry look that Tal'eth had grown accustomed to seeing in others. Most noticeable was that he was too polite, too polished. Even now, in the safe confines of whatever lodging they were in, his back was ramrod straight in his chair and his eyes were never still, darting around as if securing the perimeter. Something about him was off, wrong somehow, but Tal'eth's pain-addled mind couldn't figure out what.

"It crashed," he said finally, turning his head to look out the window. It was so streaked in filth he couldn't see out. His flight to freedom had been so frenzied, he didn't even know what planet he'd landed on.

The boy looked crestfallen for a few moments, before he pulled himself back together and handed over the canteen. Tal'eth drank his fill, insuring he was satisfied before passing the canteen back and easing into a sitting position, his back resting against the wall. "It seems to me we are both in need."

"You more than me," Cyrus said bluntly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "You'll die in days without medical attention."

Tal waved his hand dismissively, only to regret it when the motion sent a twinge of pain radiating through his whole body. "I was prepared to die in the street," he said. "I can die in here just as easily."

"But you want to live," Cyrus said, a knowing grin spreading across his face. "Escaped from the spice mines, didn't you? A man doesn't take the risks you've taken if he wants to die."

Tal'eth stilled, the boy's words cutting sharply through the hazy fog that clouded his brain. The boy's eyes suddenly seemed more piercing, as if he could see right through him. "You don't know of what you speak," the Twi'lek said, his voice low, almost a growl.

"I think I know enough," the young man countered, leaning forward. "An escaped slave, wounded as you are? A man with nothing to live for would have succumbed days ago. You'd have been dead before I found you." His face was serious now, all traces of a smile gone. "You've got family out there. A partner, maybe, or a child. You're still living because your family still needs you."

The Twi'lek's eyes flashed with something between pain and anger, staring at the boy for a tense moment. When he finally spoke it was through gritted teeth. "What do you want from me?"

"You can fly a ship," Cyrus said, in the same serious voice. "Or crash one, at least. I don't know if you've noticed, but I don't belong here. You fly us off world, and I'll get you the help you need."

Tal scoffed, casting the boy a sidelong glance. "If you had a ship, you wouldn't have asked about mine."

"I have credits," Cyrus said, his tone level. "We'll sell your stolen ship for scrap, and we should have enough. Nothing fancy, but enough to do the job."

"And just where do you plan on finding a ship?" Tal'eth asked, though with less bite behind his words.

Cyrus took the slightly softened tone as an admission that he was right. His grin returned, and with it his earlier humor. "We're on Corellia. The biggest shipyard in the galaxy. I think I can find what I need."

(A/N): Drop a review and let me know if you liked it!