[fic] Second Chances (part the first)
Ummm...so, I might have written some of the Star Wars au I've been kindasorta babbling about.
Title: Second Chances
Fandom: Star Wars
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Assumes certain EU elements (i.e., there is a New Republic, Leia's disguise from Tatooine Ghost, Han and Leia are married, etc), but is not so heavily based in EU canon that reading any of the books would be necessary. XD.
Disclaimer: Obviously, Star Wars is not mine.
Summary: Leia and Han find themselves on a trip to Adarlon after receiving a rather cryptic message from some Rebellion-era contacts. They find a bit more than they expected...
It’s strange to get something over the old Rebel com frequencies, but they’ve learnt over the years the value of keeping those frequencies open. The wild-goose chases and pranks are more than made up by the occasional gem of intelligence, such as say, a threat of invasion from the more stubborn of the Imperial remnants.
This particular com is stranger still in the fact that the while Leia is cleared to take the data, the message is actually for Han. And whatever it is, after being run through standard Rebel decryption, is still garbled in old, high Corellian. Han painfully deciphers it, dictionary close at hand, and they find it’s simply a set of coordinates, written out phonetically rather than numerically.
The coordinates lead them to one of the most popular dance clubs on Adarlon: the Glow Dome. Of course, the Glow Dome had been a safehouse from the earliest days of the Rebellion, and while Leia has never met the twin proprietesses, she knows they had been cleared at the very highest levels of Command and were - like other Rebel Alliance allies - likewise held in good esteem by the New Republic. So what might they have stumbled upon that had led them to resort to such clandestine means?
It was just this question that she and Han intended to answer on Adarlon, their cover identities of jaded human smuggler and his long-suffering Twi'lek girl so well-worn that Leia barely noticed her prosthetics and heavy, concealing body paint.
Leia had spent her teenage years in politics, and what entertainment there was had been of the highfalutin cocktail party variety, where well-placed barbs and subtle, dehabilitating poisons were de rigueur. Han had spent his own youth struggling to eke out a living, and when that failed, he wound up doing a brief stint at the Imperial Academy. Neither had ever had the luxury of misspending their youth with dance, drink, and deathsticks.
Not so the youth of Adarlon, or indeed, any youth with the credits to travel there. The world dubbed the “entertainment capital of the galaxy” had more in the ways of entertainment than just its holographic studios. Any pleasure could be found, could be indulged in, and nowhere was that more evident than in the capital city of Belrand.
It was here that Corinna and Kandra A’Daasha had arrived, decades ago, and had created the most glittering of all entertainments: the Glow Dome. More than a dance club and more than a holotheatre, it was the place to be in Belrand.
Leia had read what she could about the Glow Dome on the trip, but as she and Han pass by the bouncer at one of the entrances, she’s still overwhelmed. The bass beat of the music seems to take up residence in her body, forcing her heartbeat to adjust to its speed. She can smell the latest of perfumes, the range of unwashed species, the different variants of spice. Her eyes take a minute to adjust, and when they do, they’re immediately forced to adjust again as an explosion of holographic fireworks suddenly decorate the hallway before them.
She blinks the spots out of her eyes, but this seems to be a regular occurrence here, and so there’s nothing to do but grin and bear it. She hangs off of Han’s arm and they push through the crowd at the outskirts of the dancefloor (dubbed the “turntable,” or so read Leia’s datafile). And there, as she stands on the head of the stairs, almost ready to descend, it’s the DJ that catches her attention.
He’s young, maybe sixteen, seventeen standard years. He’s got his height but hasn’t yet filled out, and he towers over the audio equipment, eyes downcast and full lips pressed flat in concentration. His cheekbones are wickedly prominent, causing the multi-coloured lights to play strangely over his face. His eyes raise suddenly, scanning the dance floor for something, and Leia knows (somehow, even in the strange lighting of the Dome) that they’re a bright blue.
Over the years, she’s seen enough holos to recognize him: it’s Anakin Skywalker.
Or at least, it’s what left of him.
And so she stands frozen, and doesn’t move again until Han physically pulls her down the stairs and over to the main bar, just off the dancefloor. One of the twins is working the tap. As Han orders a drink, the twin gives an almost imperceptible nod at the both of them.
Later, as Leia stands in the relative quiet of the twins’ office, she still can’t stop staring down at the dancefloor. It’s still visible through the transparisteel walls and floors of this sky-booth of an office.
“How did you find him?” she hears herself ask.
“Actually,” Corrinna - or Kandra - says, “he came to us.”
“He was casing the place,” her twin adds. “Or rather, casing some of our more…distracted patrons.” At any other time, Leia would have been rather amused at the way the two of them had kept the euphemistic speech of the Corellian ensterite sect, even after all these years running what was - arguably - one of the most decadent establishments in the galaxy, but at present, she can only feel a vague, discontented detachment.
“It’s common enough,” the first twin continues with a shrug. “We usually let the kids off with a bit of a scare, impressing upon them the need to learn more honest ways of earning pocket money.
“Of course, there are always the few that are a bit more needy than those just wanting to supplement their allowance, and then, we help them find work.”
“And he was…one of the needy?” Leia turns away from the window and folds her arms over her chest. She can’t quite believe that someone like him would ever be needy.
One of the twins is standing in front of the desk; the other one is sitting behind it. They are no-nonsense types: posture perfect and graying hair meticulously braided and coiffed. Leia is reminded of her old governesses.
“He’s undocumented,” the sitting twin says, as if giving an impromptu lecture. “Doesn’t show up on any i.d. scan. He’s underaged and without a guardian, and any job application that demands fingerprints will confirm that’s he’s an illegal clone.”
“And,” adds the standing twin, “he’s got another undocumented with him.”
“Who?” Han’s voice is louder than it should be, but Leia’s still inhabiting the dream-like shell-shock she’s only felt twice before: once when Aldaraan was destroyed and again when she learned Darth Vader was her father. “The Emperor?”
In answer, the standing twin walks over to join Leia at the transparisteel wall. She points. Leia turns back towards the view, looking once more at the DJ. The datafile on the Glow Dome said the audio system required four droid brains and sentient to run it. It said nothing about the sentient being some-sort of club celebrity. Anakin Skywalker’s clone is surrounded by groupies, most of them young, female, and scantily-clad. Adarlon standards must be quite low, Leia thinks.
“There,” the twin says. She continues talking, presumably giving the identifying characteristics of the clone’s companion, but just as Leia immediately knew who Anakin was, she’s already sure she knows which of the hangers-on the twin is discussing.
Small, slight, and until pointed out, utterly insignificant, the clone’s companion appears to be a human child. With its hair shorn and its body skinny to the point of unhealthiness, it's impossible to tell its sex.
“Some sort of wasting sickness?” Han asks, coming up behind Leia to get a better view.
“Apparently,” the twin says with a shrug, letting her arm drop back down to her side. “He’s not too keen on questions.”
“Well, what does the kid say?” Han continues.
“Not much.”
“Does he know who he is?” Leia asks, the words sticking in her throat despite her best attempts to force them out. “What he is?”
“We were waiting to see how you wanted to proceed,” the sitting twin says, rather gently. “We didn’t want to scare him off.”
Leia nods, more to herself than to anyone else. She rests her head against the transparisteel and wishes she were anywhere but here. “All right,” she says finally. “Arrange a meeting.”
Title: Second Chances
Fandom: Star Wars
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Assumes certain EU elements (i.e., there is a New Republic, Leia's disguise from Tatooine Ghost, Han and Leia are married, etc), but is not so heavily based in EU canon that reading any of the books would be necessary. XD.
Disclaimer: Obviously, Star Wars is not mine.
Summary: Leia and Han find themselves on a trip to Adarlon after receiving a rather cryptic message from some Rebellion-era contacts. They find a bit more than they expected...
It’s strange to get something over the old Rebel com frequencies, but they’ve learnt over the years the value of keeping those frequencies open. The wild-goose chases and pranks are more than made up by the occasional gem of intelligence, such as say, a threat of invasion from the more stubborn of the Imperial remnants.
This particular com is stranger still in the fact that the while Leia is cleared to take the data, the message is actually for Han. And whatever it is, after being run through standard Rebel decryption, is still garbled in old, high Corellian. Han painfully deciphers it, dictionary close at hand, and they find it’s simply a set of coordinates, written out phonetically rather than numerically.
The coordinates lead them to one of the most popular dance clubs on Adarlon: the Glow Dome. Of course, the Glow Dome had been a safehouse from the earliest days of the Rebellion, and while Leia has never met the twin proprietesses, she knows they had been cleared at the very highest levels of Command and were - like other Rebel Alliance allies - likewise held in good esteem by the New Republic. So what might they have stumbled upon that had led them to resort to such clandestine means?
It was just this question that she and Han intended to answer on Adarlon, their cover identities of jaded human smuggler and his long-suffering Twi'lek girl so well-worn that Leia barely noticed her prosthetics and heavy, concealing body paint.
Leia had spent her teenage years in politics, and what entertainment there was had been of the highfalutin cocktail party variety, where well-placed barbs and subtle, dehabilitating poisons were de rigueur. Han had spent his own youth struggling to eke out a living, and when that failed, he wound up doing a brief stint at the Imperial Academy. Neither had ever had the luxury of misspending their youth with dance, drink, and deathsticks.
Not so the youth of Adarlon, or indeed, any youth with the credits to travel there. The world dubbed the “entertainment capital of the galaxy” had more in the ways of entertainment than just its holographic studios. Any pleasure could be found, could be indulged in, and nowhere was that more evident than in the capital city of Belrand.
It was here that Corinna and Kandra A’Daasha had arrived, decades ago, and had created the most glittering of all entertainments: the Glow Dome. More than a dance club and more than a holotheatre, it was the place to be in Belrand.
Leia had read what she could about the Glow Dome on the trip, but as she and Han pass by the bouncer at one of the entrances, she’s still overwhelmed. The bass beat of the music seems to take up residence in her body, forcing her heartbeat to adjust to its speed. She can smell the latest of perfumes, the range of unwashed species, the different variants of spice. Her eyes take a minute to adjust, and when they do, they’re immediately forced to adjust again as an explosion of holographic fireworks suddenly decorate the hallway before them.
She blinks the spots out of her eyes, but this seems to be a regular occurrence here, and so there’s nothing to do but grin and bear it. She hangs off of Han’s arm and they push through the crowd at the outskirts of the dancefloor (dubbed the “turntable,” or so read Leia’s datafile). And there, as she stands on the head of the stairs, almost ready to descend, it’s the DJ that catches her attention.
He’s young, maybe sixteen, seventeen standard years. He’s got his height but hasn’t yet filled out, and he towers over the audio equipment, eyes downcast and full lips pressed flat in concentration. His cheekbones are wickedly prominent, causing the multi-coloured lights to play strangely over his face. His eyes raise suddenly, scanning the dance floor for something, and Leia knows (somehow, even in the strange lighting of the Dome) that they’re a bright blue.
Over the years, she’s seen enough holos to recognize him: it’s Anakin Skywalker.
Or at least, it’s what left of him.
And so she stands frozen, and doesn’t move again until Han physically pulls her down the stairs and over to the main bar, just off the dancefloor. One of the twins is working the tap. As Han orders a drink, the twin gives an almost imperceptible nod at the both of them.
Later, as Leia stands in the relative quiet of the twins’ office, she still can’t stop staring down at the dancefloor. It’s still visible through the transparisteel walls and floors of this sky-booth of an office.
“How did you find him?” she hears herself ask.
“Actually,” Corrinna - or Kandra - says, “he came to us.”
“He was casing the place,” her twin adds. “Or rather, casing some of our more…distracted patrons.” At any other time, Leia would have been rather amused at the way the two of them had kept the euphemistic speech of the Corellian ensterite sect, even after all these years running what was - arguably - one of the most decadent establishments in the galaxy, but at present, she can only feel a vague, discontented detachment.
“It’s common enough,” the first twin continues with a shrug. “We usually let the kids off with a bit of a scare, impressing upon them the need to learn more honest ways of earning pocket money.
“Of course, there are always the few that are a bit more needy than those just wanting to supplement their allowance, and then, we help them find work.”
“And he was…one of the needy?” Leia turns away from the window and folds her arms over her chest. She can’t quite believe that someone like him would ever be needy.
One of the twins is standing in front of the desk; the other one is sitting behind it. They are no-nonsense types: posture perfect and graying hair meticulously braided and coiffed. Leia is reminded of her old governesses.
“He’s undocumented,” the sitting twin says, as if giving an impromptu lecture. “Doesn’t show up on any i.d. scan. He’s underaged and without a guardian, and any job application that demands fingerprints will confirm that’s he’s an illegal clone.”
“And,” adds the standing twin, “he’s got another undocumented with him.”
“Who?” Han’s voice is louder than it should be, but Leia’s still inhabiting the dream-like shell-shock she’s only felt twice before: once when Aldaraan was destroyed and again when she learned Darth Vader was her father. “The Emperor?”
In answer, the standing twin walks over to join Leia at the transparisteel wall. She points. Leia turns back towards the view, looking once more at the DJ. The datafile on the Glow Dome said the audio system required four droid brains and sentient to run it. It said nothing about the sentient being some-sort of club celebrity. Anakin Skywalker’s clone is surrounded by groupies, most of them young, female, and scantily-clad. Adarlon standards must be quite low, Leia thinks.
“There,” the twin says. She continues talking, presumably giving the identifying characteristics of the clone’s companion, but just as Leia immediately knew who Anakin was, she’s already sure she knows which of the hangers-on the twin is discussing.
Small, slight, and until pointed out, utterly insignificant, the clone’s companion appears to be a human child. With its hair shorn and its body skinny to the point of unhealthiness, it's impossible to tell its sex.
“Some sort of wasting sickness?” Han asks, coming up behind Leia to get a better view.
“Apparently,” the twin says with a shrug, letting her arm drop back down to her side. “He’s not too keen on questions.”
“Well, what does the kid say?” Han continues.
“Not much.”
“Does he know who he is?” Leia asks, the words sticking in her throat despite her best attempts to force them out. “What he is?”
“We were waiting to see how you wanted to proceed,” the sitting twin says, rather gently. “We didn’t want to scare him off.”
Leia nods, more to herself than to anyone else. She rests her head against the transparisteel and wishes she were anywhere but here. “All right,” she says finally. “Arrange a meeting.”