(no subject)
The day Han goes back to his home world, he tucks the scrap of paper from the old man into his jacket, and heads to return to the Trader's Luck with his head held just a bit higher -- but not too high, because the last thing he wants Shrike to do is start asking questions.
The week that follows is normal, as normal can be for them. A few odd jobs on the side, a few afternoons standing outside a spaceport with a sad look in his eyes, listening to the quiet clink of credits and bits and ends getting dropped into the can he's holding in dirty-gloved hands. He mutters a response to those who give him money, and makes rude comments in his head about those who don't -- the usual.
The month that follows is a bit less than normal, but still the same. The bruises on his arms have faded, new ones across his shoulders have taken their place. The competition is fierce, but Han has been training for months, for years now, and it doesn't take time to move through melee and win the fight, his punishment for cheating at cards. Shrike holds back his usual treatment of the teen -- until Han talks back and is slapped so hard across the face that both his lips split, welling blood that runs down his chin and soaks his shirt. He doesn't remember the rest of the beating, just fists and pain and flashes of contact against his skin until the darkness came. Later that night, or morning, he's not sure -- he finds himself feeling for that scrap of paper and can't find it.
The year that follows is full of secrets and success, both equally dangerous. He's already junior swoop champion for the system, and three years running at that. Shrike has been holding back on punishment, not wishing to endanger the abilities of his prize winner racer, and Han is grateful for that. He grows taller, faster, and when the next round of competition arrives, he's entered into the all-racer level. He wins, easily, the purse and credits more money than he's ever had in his life. Shrike takes most of it -- not all of it, and holds that over Han, tells him to be lucky he got any of it at all.
The month that follows is quiet. Simple jobs, robberies, backdoor traders and they run a little spice, sell a few stolen goods, travel, beg, steal. The usual. He learns as he travels, watches the people as they move in and out of doors, and he searches for that door.
The week that follows is also quiet. Strangely so -- it makes him nervous. The last day of that week is a rude awakening to the quiet, on board the ship. Shrike rouses him from the bed and drags him by the collar down into the hold, and the first slap comes hard and fast, unexpected. A bruise forms across his jaw from the fist, and after the third, perhaps fourth blow, he can't feel anything but pain. Shrike is a professional, but Han can't understand why he's doing this, why he's being punished, he didn't do anything wrong, he didn't do anything to deserve the bite of leather against his shoulderblades, the feeling of darkness closing in -- and the way Shrike never seems to care.
The first day that follows, Han doesn't move from the floor of the hold. He can't. The blood has come to the surface on his bruises, dark, purple marks on his arms that look like handprints. The back of his shirt is ragged, torn, from the striking of stiff leather against tender skin, dried blood that sits in freshly healing wounds. His knees are weak from being forced upon them with the force of the beating he took, mouth dry, head spinning. He can barely focus his gaze on a point in the distance -- until he sees the open hatch.
The sounds of glasses clinking softly against each other. Of laughter, of conversation. A fork skittering across the floor, the pop of the fireplace, the boots and shoes against the ground as people come and go. It takes every ounce of his strength to pull himself up against a crate and stagger towards the sound, his vision so blurry from the pain, he can't quite see where he's headed -- but he doesn't care, because anywhere is better than here.
The week that follows is normal, as normal can be for them. A few odd jobs on the side, a few afternoons standing outside a spaceport with a sad look in his eyes, listening to the quiet clink of credits and bits and ends getting dropped into the can he's holding in dirty-gloved hands. He mutters a response to those who give him money, and makes rude comments in his head about those who don't -- the usual.
The month that follows is a bit less than normal, but still the same. The bruises on his arms have faded, new ones across his shoulders have taken their place. The competition is fierce, but Han has been training for months, for years now, and it doesn't take time to move through melee and win the fight, his punishment for cheating at cards. Shrike holds back his usual treatment of the teen -- until Han talks back and is slapped so hard across the face that both his lips split, welling blood that runs down his chin and soaks his shirt. He doesn't remember the rest of the beating, just fists and pain and flashes of contact against his skin until the darkness came. Later that night, or morning, he's not sure -- he finds himself feeling for that scrap of paper and can't find it.
The year that follows is full of secrets and success, both equally dangerous. He's already junior swoop champion for the system, and three years running at that. Shrike has been holding back on punishment, not wishing to endanger the abilities of his prize winner racer, and Han is grateful for that. He grows taller, faster, and when the next round of competition arrives, he's entered into the all-racer level. He wins, easily, the purse and credits more money than he's ever had in his life. Shrike takes most of it -- not all of it, and holds that over Han, tells him to be lucky he got any of it at all.
The month that follows is quiet. Simple jobs, robberies, backdoor traders and they run a little spice, sell a few stolen goods, travel, beg, steal. The usual. He learns as he travels, watches the people as they move in and out of doors, and he searches for that door.
The week that follows is also quiet. Strangely so -- it makes him nervous. The last day of that week is a rude awakening to the quiet, on board the ship. Shrike rouses him from the bed and drags him by the collar down into the hold, and the first slap comes hard and fast, unexpected. A bruise forms across his jaw from the fist, and after the third, perhaps fourth blow, he can't feel anything but pain. Shrike is a professional, but Han can't understand why he's doing this, why he's being punished, he didn't do anything wrong, he didn't do anything to deserve the bite of leather against his shoulderblades, the feeling of darkness closing in -- and the way Shrike never seems to care.
The first day that follows, Han doesn't move from the floor of the hold. He can't. The blood has come to the surface on his bruises, dark, purple marks on his arms that look like handprints. The back of his shirt is ragged, torn, from the striking of stiff leather against tender skin, dried blood that sits in freshly healing wounds. His knees are weak from being forced upon them with the force of the beating he took, mouth dry, head spinning. He can barely focus his gaze on a point in the distance -- until he sees the open hatch.
The sounds of glasses clinking softly against each other. Of laughter, of conversation. A fork skittering across the floor, the pop of the fireplace, the boots and shoes against the ground as people come and go. It takes every ounce of his strength to pull himself up against a crate and stagger towards the sound, his vision so blurry from the pain, he can't quite see where he's headed -- but he doesn't care, because anywhere is better than here.