Procuring a ship was unexpectedly easy. Cyrus had cleaned up as best he could, painfully aware of how obvious it was he had nothing to his name. No matter how much he tried, his words would never bear the same weight as when he was flanked by armies and had the imposing figure of his master at his side. The man who sold him the ship was a humanoid figure in a severely stained jumpsuit, with a week's worth of stubble on his chin. He was the sort of person Cyrus would have avoided in his old life, but at a time like this he'd sought out the sketchiest dealer he could find. Buying a ship was an arduous process, registering it even more so, and if Cyrus was correct in his assumptions then he and Tal'eth were both wanted fugitives. In the end, it appeared he had selected his dealer wisely. All it took was the assurance of a price paid in full, in cash, and the ship was his. The man never even asked his name.
"It's a hospital transport ship," he said later as he reconvened with Tal'eth. "Older than I am, but everything seems to be up and running. And everyone says that Corellian ships last forever." He paused for another bite of somewhat stale bread, but the Twi'lek didn't respond. His face was ashen, and he picked listlessly at his share of the food. A sheen of sweat stood out on his forehead, and as the days passed he spent longer and longer at a time in a feverish haze. Cyrus swallowed his last mouthful, a cold chill settling over him like a blanket. The man was dying; he could feel the life force draining from him. Moving him to the ship couldn't wait another day. At least now the man was lucid, and would be able to help to some degree. He was several inches taller and several kilos heavier than Cyrus, and he wouldn't be able to move him without some level of cooperation. "Right," he said, getting to his feet. "We need to go."
Cyrus positioned himself on the Twi'lek's right side, since most of his injuries were on his left. Tal'eth found himself half-dragged from the bed before the young man's words even registered, and barely held back a scream of agony as his entire body protested the movement. At this point he wasn't sure which of his injuries was most severe; they seemed to have all blurred together into one ball of pain. He leaned heavily on the boy until he was sure his legs would support his weight. "We have to do this all in one go," he said, his breath already coming in gasps.
"I know," Cyrus said, grunting under the weight. "I brought the ship as close as I could. The docking bay is only about a hundred paces that way." He positioned the man's arm over his shoulders, taking the role of support and guide as they took their first step, already struggling under his weight. "We just have to make it… to the docking bay."
A hundred paces may as well have been a hundred miles. They had to stop several times to rest, and by the time they reached the perimeter of the shipyard Tal'eth was worryingly pale and his arm was cold and clammy against Cyrus' skin. "That one right there is us," Cyrus said, his voice sounding out of breath and strained. Tal didn't look up, but perhaps it was better that way. The ship was in worse shape than Cyrus had remembered, a cobbled-together mess of spare parts and scrap metal.
The interior wasn't much better. Bacta tanks filled nearly the entire cargo hold, some smashed and unusable and all covered in a thick layer of dust. "What is this…?" Tal'eth broke into a fit of coughing, whether from the dust or the exertion Cyrus didn't know.
"It's a hospital transport ship, remember?" he said, fiddling with the nearest tank and sending out a silent prayer that at least one of them was functional. He glanced about, taking in the dust and disrepair and grunting as the Twi'lek leaned on him more heavily. "Well. A retired hospital transport." The control panel lit up at his touch, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "Quick, get in." He didn't bother to wait for his words to be understood or for Tal'eth to comply, choosing instead to manhandle his companion into the tank.
Tal'eth stumbled forward, letting his limbs be pushed and pulled as the boy saw fit. If he'd had his wits about him, his pride would have been sorely wounded. He had attempted to regain his autonomy in his escape from slavery, and here he was merely days later, weak as a tooka kitten and at the mercy of a stranger. His head felt as if it were full of cotton, thick and numb and unable to think. He was dimly aware that this boy he'd just met had absolute power over him, power to either help him or hurt him. He should have been humiliated, and yet he found that he didn't care. His chest ached with something like grief, but he found he didn't care about that anymore, either. Even the pain was less bothersome now, having faded to a buzz of dull irritation, and he found he nearly didn't notice it. He was either spinning or falling, he didn't know what, a roaring in his ears. Moments later the healing waters of the bacta tank washed over him, and everything around him faded into deep, blissful nothingness.
Cyrus lay on his back under the control panel, squinting against the dust that fell into his eyes, fiddling with wires that refused to connect. As he joined them together for the hundredth time, his fingers were met with a spark of electricity. "Ow!"
"Need a hand?" a voice came from above. Cyrus jumped, his head connecting painfully with the underside of the control panel. He slid out from under the console, the imposing figure of the Twi'lek standing over him. The man's wounds had healed, and it appeared he had cleaned himself up. All traces of blood and grime were gone, though he was still dressed in slaves' garb.
How he'd been awake for so long without Cyrus noticing, he didn't know. The days isolated onboard the ship had left him bored and restless, and that was when he made his worst mistakes. The young man got to his feet, shaking out his burnt fingers. "You're alive."
Tal'eth raised an eyebrow, seeming more amused than anything. "Of course I'm alive."
Cyrus rubbed the aching spot on his forehead with a rueful laugh, leaving a smear of dirt behind. "You didn't see the scans," he said. "You were dehydrated, malnourished. Bleeding from a dozen wounds, in shock, nerve damage…" He trailed off as Tal'eth reached past him, setting a cube-shaped object beside him on the ship's console. The object was ornate, edged with gold and glowing with a faint blue light. "What's that?" Cyrus asked, his voice wavering.
"I found it in your things." Tal'eth's black eyes were fixed on him now and Cyrus had to fight the urge to squirm, pinned as he was by his gaze. "I've heard tales of these. Of the wisdom held in the holocrons of the Jedi." The words sounded harsh when with by his accented voice.
"I found it," Cyrus said, his mouth uncomfortably dry. "Picked it out of a man's pocket. Didn't know what it was, but it's pretty. I figured I could sell it. You think he was a Jedi? A real one?"
The Twi'lek ignored his rambling, nodding in the direction of the holocron. "Pick it up." The boy balked, and it took everything Tal'eth had not to roll his eyes. When cornered, he really is a terrible liar. Deftly, he unsheathed his blaster from its holster and leveled it at the boy's chest. "Pick. It. Up."
Cyrus's resolve wavered. "You wouldn't kill me," he said, his voice sounding more self-assured than he felt. "I spent days helping you. You're alive because of me." His confidence in the statement was enough to make him raise his chin, looking the Twi'lek square in the eye.
"That's where the Jedi wronged you, boy. They taught you that the world would repay kindness for kindness." There was an unfamiliar edge to Tal'eth's voice, and when he smiled it was grim and cold. "I heard of what the Empire did to your people. I'd be willing to bet there's a handsome reward for handing over one who escaped." His steely gaze swept over the boy, much less confident now that he was staring down the barrel of a loaded blaster, and re-holstered his blaster. "You're lucky I found you before some degenerate did."
Cyrus wobbled on his feet, letting the air out of his lungs in a rush. "Technically I found you," he said weakly, slipping the holocron into an inner pocket of his shirt. As expected, the Force-sensitive object reacted to his touch, changing shape with a click of its inner mechanism and glowing brighter.
Tal'eth ignored him, favoring instead to study the control panel Cyrus had been working on. "So it's settled," he said, not looking up. "You saved my life, I keep your secret. Is this thing operational?"
"Yeah," Cyrus said, still a bit miffed at the treatment he'd received.
Tal ignored this as well, seemingly deep in thought. "We'll need fuel and parts if we plan to maintain this hunk of junk," he said. "And food and fresh clothes if we plan on maintaining our own identities. We'll need work. This is a hospital transport, you said?" At the boy's nod he hummed appreciatively, glancing around the interior of the ship. "That's about as inconspicuous as it gets." His stern features broke into a grin, and he clapped Cyrus on the shoulder. "Care to try your hand at smuggling, my friend?"
(A/N): Please leave a review and let me know what you think!