Darker Days of Younger Years

[Wyl Staedtler]

Seven years earlier...

It was the unreliable electricity and poor plumbing that had made Oa Umi'u pick the cramped apartment in one of Coruscant's more run down neighborhoods. Only the very desperate would live in a building with a crumbling foundation and rotting walls--in fact, Yesemei Heights was in such bad condition that the residents on the top three floors had been evicted from their apartments last month because they were no longer livable. No damage deposits were returned; it was another reason why Oa liked the building. With rent so high, and a thief for a manager, it was almost a guarantee that only those who wanted to be left alone would move in.

And of course, there was the fact that the trap door in her bedroom led to a tunnel dug by the previous owner--an "import-export entrepreneur" the landlord said--and out into one of the back alleys down the street.

Oa had been living in 1D for six months now, ever since the birth of her son Wyl. Though the infant kept her busy, it was her other duties which took up most of the young mothers time. Once, a very long time ago when things had been better than they were now, Oa had lived in the Jedi temple. Though she herself had never possessed enough of a connection to the Force to be trained, her father had been a Jedi Knight. The Jedi had been her family. Until that awful day.

Mostly she tried not to think of it. She had lost many friends, many mentors... and a father. It had taken her years to work up the courage to come back to Coruscant.

She was back with a vengeance.

"Vayne? I'm sorry my friend, it's time to go."

Oa smiled down gently at the exhausted looking man on her bed. His blue eyes opened instantly and he sighed. There was a dark purple bruise on his cheek, and he winced slightly as he spoke.

"Yes. I shouldn't have even stayed this long." The man sat up slowly, stretching his stiff muscles. "I cannot thank you enough Oa. Though, as a friend, I must urge you to stop." He put a large hand on her shoulder. "You're putting your life in danger. You're putting his life in danger."

Oa followed his gaze to her open door, where down the hall her son slept peacefully in his room. When she looked back at the Jedi, her face was stony. "Do you really say this as a friend? Or is it as a Jedi?"

"Both."

"I see." Oa straightened and placed a small bag on the bed beside her guest. "There's food in there, and some credits."

"Oa, I do appreciate what you're doing, all of us do, but your situation has changed, you cannot put your child’s life, and yours, in danger for the Jedi--" Vayne was stopped by the sudden slam of the bedroom door. Oa spun around, her eyes blazing.

"I'm not just doing it for the Jedi, my friend. I understand that this is dangerous! Don't you think I thought about the risks? I still thing of them, everytime I hold Wyl! But this is the only way that I can help him have a good life!" She drew a quiet breath and shook her head. "Vayne, I am not strong enough to fight the forces of this galaxy directly, and even if I were I couldn't because of my son. But I can do this. My father is dead; at least leave me the luxury of aiding his peers."

There was an awkward silence, as woman and Jedi stared at each other. Oa broke the gaze first, turning to leave the room.

"The trapdoor is in the back of my closet, under the boxes. If you find anyone else who's alive, tell them they'll find safety here. May the Force be with you."

********

"Hey, Staedtler!"

Wyl Staedtler turned around, schoolbag in hand, to look at the source of the voice. When his eyes caught sight of the Van Irreck brothers he narrowed his eyes.

"What do you want?"

Luren, the older of the two, grinned manically and sauntered forward, little brother Fawn in mimic. "I just heard something that I find very interesting."

Something in the back of Wyl's mind paused, on the alert. Luren was an out-and-out bully, pure and simple. He didn't have the brains to do much else but punch; so why was he pacing himself? Wyl rolled his eyes and huffed.

"Oh yeah? What'd you hear? That your mother barfs every time she kisses you goodnight?"

Lurens face puffed out and his cheeks grew red. "No! I heard that your Grandpa was some kind of freak! That the government executed him because he was a real weirdo!"

Wyl's face went white. "What?"

"That's right, micromind! No wonder you're such a malfunctioning little twerp! You've got the crazy gene!" Luren jeered. Fawn guffawed and then slapped his brother's shoulder.

"Hey, I bet his Grandpa was a Jedi." He spat the foul word out, shriveling his face in disgust.

Wyl was certain that time had stopped. He couldn't see anything, couldn't hear anything but the rushing wind that was his breath, couldn't move. He swallowed gingerly. "Where... did... you... hear...that?" He demanded, pronouncing each word very deliberatly. Luren scoffed.

"Oh yeah, like I'm going to tell you!" The boy paused, and then with a wicked grin went on in a low voice, "It's true, isn't it? He was a freakoid that had to be put down right? It's a good thing too, I wouldn't want to live here with a crazy person running around."

"My Grandpa wasn't crazy!" Wyl shouted.

Luren stamped his foot. "Yes he was! And you're probably going to be crazy too!"

“MY GRANDPA WAS NOT CRAZY!” Wyl dropped his school bag and tackled Luren, who gasped as as stomach was pummeled by Wyl’s head. It only took a moment, however, for the bigger boy to get his wits about him. Wyl managed to get a few good punches in before Luren rolled on top of him and slammed his fist into his nose. Ignoring the blood that was now oozing out his nostrils, Wyl wriggled his knees up and kicked Luren in the chest, pushing him away. While the bully was rolling Wyl got up and began to charge at him; he hadn’t remembered about Fawn though, and just as he was about to jump on Luren, the small Van Irreck grabbed hold of his legs. With an ‘oof’ Wyl crashed to the ground. The boys took no time at all in using the situation to their advantage.

“Stop it!” Wyl roared as he rolled to avoid the two. “ I mean it, stop it! Something’s wrong!”

And indeed, something was wrong. He could feel it, he was losing control over… what?

“Stop it!”

And then everything went black.

**

“Wyl is that you? You’re late, where have you—oh!” Oa gasped as she caught sight of her sons bloody face. Wyl had walked through the door minutes ago, hours after school had ended. Pushing her questions about his tardiness aside, Oa ushered the boy into the kitchen where the light was better. She grimaced as she wet a cloth and began to wipe gently at his face. “Was it the Van Irreck’s again?” she asked. Wyl nodded.

“I’ve told you before Wyl, you just have to walk away from people like that! Fighting doesn’t solve anything!” Oa stopped at the look on her sons face. He was pale, and very drawn. Alarmed, Oa grabbed his shoulders. “Wyl? What’s wrong?”

Wyl licked his lips and sucked in a breath. “Something happened Mom.”

“What? What happened?”

When he didn’t answer, Oa repeated herself more firmly. Wyl looked at her with teary eyes. “I don’t know Mom! We were fighting and then… I don’t know! I just blacked out and when I woke up they were gone and I felt really sick Mom, and I know I’m not supposed to fight but they knew about Grandpa Mom, they knew that he was different and they kept saying that he was crazy! I couldn’t take it!” He started to cry and shook his head. “I lost it Mom! I lost it and something really awful happened!”

Oa was too shocked to move for a moment. Methodically she pulled her son to her breast, her mind rushing. She let him calm down and then pushed him away from her so that she could look into his eyes.

“Listen to me now Wyl. Your Grandfather wasn’t crazy. You know that. He was a very good man.” Wyl nodded slowly. Oa smiled. “Now, I want you to go to your room, and I want you to pack some clothes into your old backpack. When you’re done that, put it in the closet. Okay?”

“Why?”

“Because Wyl, you were right. Something did happen, and because it did we need to be ready. Now go.” Oa watched her son walk slowly to his bedroom, and only when he was gone did she let her head fall into her hands. For a few moments the woman stayed that way, and then she stood up, took a deep breath, and squared her shoulders. Grabbing her commlink, Oa walked out to the dirty terrace that went out from the common room. She punched in a number and then waited.

“Annaud here.”The gruff male voice answered.

“Zach? It’s Oa.”

“I haven’t heard from you in a long time. Something up?”

“Yes. I need you to get a message rolling.”

“…Sure thing. What is it?”

Oa paused.

“Say… say that I’ve found someone who has the potential to be very interesting.”

[Dasquian Belargic]

The propaganda used by the Empire in its attempt to curry favor was a peculiar mix. It claimed that the traitorous Rebel Alliance had been almost entirely eradicated like the vermin they were. They also, however, employed the shock tactic of stating that the Rebel network was vast and all-encompassing, with agents stationed in every neighborhood in the galaxy. Neither was true, though the latter was close to the fact.

Being the centre for Imperial activity, it was no surprise that Coruscant was also a thriving hub for the Alliance’s contact network. For an up and coming field agent, it was a thrilling place to be. The lower stratum of the city were alight with talk of revolution. Years of oppression had warmed Coruscanti citizens to the plight of the Rebels and made many of them into admirable members of the Alliance.

Zach Annaud was one of them. The son of a mechanic, his father had been shipped off to Coruscant state penitentiary under allegations of acting as an accomplice to the Alliance. There was no real evidence, though the Empire refused to release him on the grounds that they simply needed the proper time to investigate the situation. With so many other accusations and cases to deal with, it would be a long time anything was done. The frustrating fact of the matter was that his father had never sympathized with the Rebellion, if only for fear what such sympathy might lead to. In truth, it would be his savior.

In placing himself in contact with the Rebel network, Zach managed to have his father out of prison and back to work in no time. Awed by the selfless and efficient work of the Alliance, he soon became one of them and helped in any way that he could – whether it was lending his wrench to some wreckage or simply acting as a go-to between the locals and the Rebels further abroad. Dasquian could recall the day they had met. The Doppleganger, after another months worth of dogfights, was in need of some serious repair. Zach had been the one to give it.

“She says she’s ‘found someone who has the potential to be very interesting’… whatever that means. Oa is an honest woman, though, sir. I wouldn’t doubt her for a second.”

“I don’t,” Dasquian replied as he glanced over the open data file in front of him. It was no secret that Oa Umi'u offered her home as sanctuary to Jedi. Dasquian suspected that at one time or another even some of the Rebel-allied Jedi may have stayed with her. It was for this reason that he was particularly curious about what she had to say. In all her years helping Jedi, she would have seen some very interesting things. For her to request the presence of an Alliance operative meant that whatever she had on her hands now had to be something very special indeed.

“Let her know that we’ll have someone drop by in the morning… dressed as a delivery boy. They’ll knock three times and then shout, ‘Hurry up, lady, it’s a hot one’… alright?”

On the other end of the commlink Zach laughed. “Professional as ever. Alright, Belargic. Speak to you again soon. Long live the Rebellion.” With that, the line clicked, disconnected.

“Coruscant,” Dasquian sighed. It was a place he both loved and hated, but whether he liked it or not it was where he was going. Sending a quick message of notification to his partner with regards to his whereabouts then headed out to the bases' 'disguise and deception department'. He had a long night ahead of him.

***

knock, knock, knock…

“SPECIAL DELIVERY!”

Outside the door of apartment 1D, Yesemei Heights, a lanky man in a garish bright uniform – complete with cap – stood. He was glaring contemptuously at the door in front of him as he passed a steaming box back and forth between his hands, occasionally blowing cold on his near-burnt fingertips. Another resident, in a grubby dressing gown, peered angrily out of their doorway and mumbled something about damn loud-mouthed pretty boys waking me up. The delivery boy offered an apologetic look then let out a yelp, having held the pizza in one hand for a second too long. He hissed through his teeth, trying to main some iota of composure.

“Hurry up, lady! It’s a hot one!”

[Wyl Staedtler]

"I'll get it!"

"No, leave it alone."

"Geez Mom, just sit down for a minute, I can get it I'm not a baby!"

"Wyl, I said I'd get it."

There was a series of small bumps behind the door, and then a child giggled, only to be shushed by a definite "I'm-not-kidding clearing of the throat. Then the door opened to reveal Oa's smiling face. She tucked her long brown hair behind her ears, the picture of a very harried mother, and exhaled a deep breath.

"Thank goodness. I don't think I could have contained them any longer. You know how it is with kids and pizza; they bounce off the walls until it get's here, and with the traffic--"

She was doing a very good job of acting like an absent minded, lonely woman. For a brief moment it appeared as if Oa intended to continue with the charade, but then she shifted her gaze down the hall to one of the doors. It was barely noticable, but when she returned her gaze to the delivery man it was clear she had a reason.

"Oh! I guess you want to get out of here! Let me just find my purse... it's around here somewhere..." She opened the door and stepped back. "You might as well come in while I look for it, you can set that pizza down."

As soon as he had walked in, and she had shut the door, Oa dropped the routine. Smiling bashfully she stuck out her hand.

"Hello. I'm Oa Umi'u. Sorry about that, 1H has been getting a little curious about me lately; his door was cracked."

[Dasquian Belargic]

The delivery boy accepted the handshake. He wore a little name badge that said that his name was Bikbrik, but introduced him as Dasquian Belargic.

“Good to meet you, Oa.”

His eyes then moved down to the young boy that stood at her side. For a moment Dasquian thought he caught him eyeing the still steaming pizza box. The lid popped open to reveal an artery-clogging delight, topped with stringy cheese and little mushrooms. It had been bought five minutes earlier from a take-out a couple of blocks away. As decoys went, it was delicious.

“Be a sport and fetch us some plates?”

He smiled warmly.

With Wyl scurrying off, Dasquian lowered his voice to an apologetic whisper.

“I hope I haven’t come at an inconvenient time… what with your son being here, and all.”

[Wyl Staedtler]

"You brought pizza, he'll be busy."

Oa grinned warmly and gestured for Dasquian to take a seat on the couch.

"And besides, it's not as if we're used to picking when we meet, is it?"

"Moooooooooom, can we use the blue plates? Everything else is in the washer!"

"Excuse me a moment." Oa walked to the kitchen and returned a few moments later, Wyl bustling ahead of her with three blue china plates. He handed one to Dasquian and then one to his mother, holding onto the last one. Oa took a slice of the pizza and put it on her sons plate. He grinned widely.

"Thanks for bringing the pizza Mr. Belargic. My mom says I have to eat it in my room, so don't think I'm rude or anything."

The boy hurried off with his pizza, and once he was gone Oa sank onto the couch. Without her child in the room her face grew very serious and tired looking.

"Thank you for coming so quickly. I'm afraid that the situation has become a bit more difficult; we don't have much time."

[Dasquian Belargic]

Dasquian, too, sat and carefully – unusually carefully – sat the half-empty pizza box down in front of him. He looked at Oa, matching her grave expression with one of concern. It seemed that all of the happiness in the room had vanished with Wyl. For all he felt sympathy for the woman sat opposite him, there was no time to exchange pleasantries. Perhaps in another time, another place, but not today. There was important business at hand.

“What is it that we can help you with?”

[Wyl Staedtler]

"My son, actually."

Oa rubbed her face wearily. She was not an emotional woman, there had never been enough time, but what had to be done was taking a toll on her.

"A few days ago Wyl got into a fight at school. He's gotten into them before but this time... well, he became very upset at what the two boys were saying, and he lost control. It was a... a push, or a pulse, I don't know and he doesn't remember what happened."

She sighed.

" He blacked out and when he woke up the other two were gone. Their parents called to let me know that my son had beaten theirs to concussions.

Oa grunted and swung her leg over her knee, irritated.

"Nevermind what they did to him. Wyl had hurt himself too, with whatever it was. He was completely drained."

She shook her head, remembering how tired her son had been. Wyl had complained of a terrible headache, and had been in bed until today. It was just as well though; Oa had not wanted him underfoot while she talked to the Van Irrecks.

"Mr. Belargic, you know that my father was killed in the Purge."

Oa leaned forward and bit her lip.

"Wyl is Force sensitive. The boys he hurt are the sons of Von Van Irreck, a very loyal supporter of the Empire. His children knew who my father was. And now they know about Wyl."

[Dasquian Belargic]

Von Van Irreck. The name rang a bell. Dasquian seemed to recall there being some mention of a Van Irreck in conjunction with various anti-Jedi movements throughout the city. Fear of the unknown had brought out the worst in the citizens of the capitol, many of whom had taken it upon themselves to become the Empires unpaid blood hounds. Even children, raised in the right (or wrong) environment, took pride in ratting out their classmates. Often little attention was paid to such claims, but when a child came from a family such as Wyl’s, there was cause for concern.

“I don’t want to alarm you, but I’m sure you understand the gravity of the situation.”

If the boy was accused of practicing the Jedi arts, even without the intention of doing so, both he and his mother would end up behind bars – or worse. The Empire had very strict policies on usage of the Force, policies that often boarded on hypocrisy. They would not tolerate Jedi, yet there were confirmed rumors of Force-sensitives operating within the Imperial ranks, particularly in black ops departments, like the Inquistorate. Given the rarity of Force adepts, it was likely the Inquisitors would attempt to brainwash Wyl and make him one of their own. It was a sickening thought.

“The best thing you could do right now is to leave Coruscant, as soon as possible.”

[Wyl Staedtler]

"I can't do that right now. There are things that have to be taken care of before I can go."

Oa glanced down the hall to make sure that Wyl wasn't listening in. He had a terrible habit of eavesdropping, and all things considered it was only natural; they had spent his entire life ferreting information the hard way.

"Wyl needs someone who can teach him to control his abilities, to develop them. I know Jedi, some very well, but for their safety we do not stay in direct contact. There's a system of contacts. A very large system. We don't have that time."

Shaking her head, Oa looked imploringly at Dasquian.

"I can look after myself. It's easier in ones. He's already packed. I was hoping that you... or someone else in the Alliance could get him away from me, away from this apartment until a willing Jedi could be reached."

She reached a hand out and grasped one of his. There was something like fear in her eyes.

"Please. If he stays with me now, he doesn't stand a chance."

[Dasquian Belargic]

In a way, it was a blessing that the woman was already prepared to part with her son. Though Dasquian suspected he could not fully comprehend how Oa felt, he knew what it meant to sacrifice personal ties and emotions for the greater good.

“As soon as you’re ready to leave, don’t hesitate to contact us again.” The Alliance provided shelters for runaways on various planets throughout the galaxy where Oa could find refuge and guidance, at least until she was able to stand steadily on her own two feet.

This thought in mind, Dasquian leant forward and exposed exactly why he had been so careful with the pizza box. Prying away what appeared to be the bottom of the box, he removed a thin black wallet. Inside was a data card. The screen was dim.

“You’ll find the whereabouts of some of our agents in here, as well as a handful of commlink numbers. You can configure it to be voice activated,” he explained, tapping a small microphone input on the cards edge, “though it isn’t slice-proof. Keep it to yourself and if you have any suspicion that it has been tampered with, press this red button and the whole thing will be wiped.”

This said, he sat back. It was a lot to take in all at once, even for an adult, so Dasquian couldn’t imagine how Wyl would feel when he heard that he would soon be leaving his mother, perhaps forever. Silence held uncomfortably for a short while.

“… It’s best if he leaves sooner rather than later.”

[Wyl Staedtler]

She had been preparing herself for this the last few days, and though he didn’t know it, had been preparing Wyl in small ways to make it easier. In a matter of seconds she could get Wyl ready to leave. It was all planned, a nice, smooth routine.

Her hands trembled as she reached out and grasped the data card. She listened to Dasquian’s instructions and nodded silently. Dimly, the sounds of Wyl playing in his room could be heard.

“… It’s best if he leaves sooner rather than later.”

With a small gulp Oa nodded and rose from the couch.

“Let’s do it quickly then; it might be easier if he doesn’t have time to think about it.”

She disappeared down the hallway and into her son’s room. From Dasquian’s seat on the couch all he could hear was a low murmering and then the opening and closing of a door. Oa emerged within a few moments, gently pushing Wyl ahead of her. He looked dazed, pizza sauce on his upper lip, and his backpack clutched to his chest. His mother deposited him in front of Dasquian and knelt down.

“Okay Wyl. Mr. Belargic is going to take you somewhere safe. I want you to listen to him, don’t try and take things into your own hands.”

Wyl shook his head, scrunching his face.

“What are you talking about Mom? Why? What’s wrong?”

“Please, Darling, there isn’t time for questions. We aren’t safe here any more, and I can’t help you.” Oa licked her thumb and scrubbed the pizza sauce off the boy’s lip. “Remember what happened the other day?”

Wyl nodded.

“Wyl, what you did wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t control yourself, and that’s part of the reason why you have to go. You’re Force sensitive my boy, like your Grandfather. You need someone who can give you the proper training. Now,”

Oa took his backpack and helped him shrug it on; Wyl could only stand there, shaking his head ever so slightly.

“You have clothes in here, a jacket, I’ve put a credchit in the bottom. This is all you’ll need. And Wyl, listen carefully now, this is important.”

She turned his head so that he was looking directly into her eyes. Oa couldn’t speak for a moment, looking at her poor, confused little boy. She brushed his hair off his forehead and stroked his cheek tenderly.

“I love you Wyl. I love you very much. And I need you to forget me after this.” Wyl opened his mouth to protest but Oa shook her head. “No, no, I know that you think it’s impossible and you’re almost right. You won’t really forget me, but you mustn’t think about me now. You must concentrate on what’s happening around you.”

Oa pulled her son to her chest in a hug. Breathing heavily, Wyl wrapped his arms around his mothers neck, clutched desperately at her shirt. Over his shoulder, Oa nodded at Dasquian. Then she reached behind her and pried Wyl off, pushing him away from her and standing up.

“Don’t Mom! Stop!” the boy reached out, pushing against his mother. Oa ignored him and stood up. She tried to hold out a hand to Dasquian, but the moment she did Wyl attempted to latch onto her. Struggling to maintain herself, Oa just nodded again, her water eyes shining.

“Thank you again. Be careful. If there’s ever anything I can do, just ask.”

[Francis Mere]

It was one of those days where the rain poured down without hesitation, flooding everything it dared to make contact with, one of those days where it seemed the galaxy had a sorrow to cry for, a sorrow none would have the chance to mourn and so the world itself took the oppertunity. If one could only veiw the galaxy at a different angle, the galaxy was suc a beautiful place to live within.

Window wound down and hand out stretched catching the thick rain drops as they fell was Francis Mere. He infact loved the rain, he loved that metalic sound as they pounded cozily upon the roof of the speeder he lounged in. It was like Marmite, you ether loved the rain or you hated it and Fransis Mere, he thought, was one of those strange folk who did. Next to him was a flask of hot coffee and a burger, steaming deliciously as the warm air met the cold. Being a member of the Rebel Alliance and a operetive taboot was a risky job 'but somone had to do it'. Oh my god, thought Francis biting into the burger, he could not beielve he had just thought that.

'...Somone has to do it, what the hell?' he said to himself mouth full of meat and sauce. His eyes scanning ahead of him looking for anything out of the ordinary, and lets face it Imperials were so fartass about their operations that they tried to look so inconspicious that they stood out like a sore thumb that had just been sun burnt.

'...coffee is such a great beverage to have when on a 'job' He spoke to himself quietly 'How can any real man sit in a speeder for long periods of time and not want to drink coffee, it is the god of all drinks' He continued spinning the plastic cup in his hands and admiring the rich texture of the brew ...'And now i'm talking to myself, wondeful, fan-bloody-tastic, if it was not for the excitment i get out of this job, i'd be working in-'

He stopped in mid sentance, not only rearlizing the magnitude of his own bordom, but spotting four men in black clothing crossing the catwalk between their side of he street and the street Mere sat on, each holding a black umbrella. They looked tough, bulky and their jackets contained something oddly shaped and long, possibly rifles. They were here to stop whatever concerns Dasquian had with the mother and the child. Feeling for his slug pistol in his upper jacket holster, put the burger down and tossed away whaever warm e was holding in his left hand.

Throwing the coffee out of the window which hit the windshield of a passing speeder, Mere grabbed his communicator and flipped the switch.

' Dasquian, we have a problem...'

[Dasquian Belargic]

“Thank you again. Be careful. If there’s ever anything I can do, just ask.”

The words had barely passed from Oa’s lips when the voice of agent Mere buzzed in Belargic’s ear. Francis had shadowed Dasquians movements through the city, acting as a watchman for any suspicious behavior that might have suggested their positions could be compromised. With Francis stationed on the boulevard directly outside Oa’s apartment, this could only mean that whatever threat was posed was immediate.

“Two coming in the front door, two at the fire escape.”

The words were unheard by both Wyl and his mother, though it was clear something was amiss. A firm hand seized Wyl’s upper arm as both Rebel and ward moved quickly out into the hallway. Though panic threaded through their minds, it was clear that this was not the first time Oa had faced potential capture. She handled the situation well, calmly directing the way towards the fire escape. Francis would hopefully provide cover as they made their getaway out of the backdoor.

Dasquian paused to look back down the hallway, hearing the sound of heavy footsteps advancing. As he did, the fire exit swung open and Oa stepped out into the sunlight with a deafening shriek. Her body tumbled backwards, almost flooring Wyl in the process. Wisps of smoke curled into the air, dancing away from the charred patch on the left of her breast – her limbs lay at awkward angles, jagged and inhuman. The boy surged forwards, though Dasquian seized his collar – pulling him away from the open threshold before slamming the door closed.

His hand covered Wyl’s eyes yet through the cracks in his fingertips the boys eyes could see his mother’s hollow gaze staring back at him. Even in death, she pleaded silently with him – urging him not to linger. There was no time.

“Mere, do you copy? We have a civilian casualty and no route of exit. I need you to deal with the men at the fire escape…”

…the footsteps thundered nearer…

“Now.”

[Francis Mere]

Dasquian was insantly replied to by the loud banging of a slug thrower being fired in quick controled bursts and mered forced the two at the front of the builing further into the reception with gun fire. Mere hated blasters to such a degree that he carried his own personal slug thrower with him, though less accurate it was equaly deadly. For a few moments Mere did not verbely reply to Dasquian but for a very good reason.

As two had gone around the back of the building, the second pair had gone in through the front door while both drawing Repeater rifles, they were packing and Mere, armed only with a slug pistol he was out gunned, and they, being the Imperials, would use fire and move tactics. One would fire on Meres' cover while the other moved.

Standard squad tactics, especialy when in pairs.

'Corridor pair have Reapeaters, their armed for an assault, second pair i dont know about, i did not see them. Stay in the room and stay frosty, i'm going for the fire exit, is the boy okay?'

Saying this he knew the mother was dead, a pang of guilt and regret sprained through Francis' chest knowing that the mother need not have died. In battle somone always died, no matter the situation, but the boy had to see his mother die needlessly, the boy would always be scare by thos few seconds.

Drawing his own pistol in the middle of the street, he attacted a few yells of 'dont shoot me' but ignored them as if they were nothing but insects.This was Mere's ground now, trained in the Rebellions Special Forces team and highly trained in observation and assault he knew what to do as if he had been born with he very equiptment to be a soldier.

It was all about instinct, you were ether instinctive about your position or you were green and if you were green there was little use for you than to be target practice because your nerves would clog and your brain fill with fear.

...do or dont this is no try...

Running in the rain, he sloshed his way around the side of the building, the sound of covering fire on the fire exit slowly growing louder.

[Wyl Staedtler]

It all happened so quickly. His mother had come into his room and told him that he was leaving--leaving!--and had grabbed his prepared backpack, pushing him ahead of her before he could say anything. She had said goodbye just as quickly, practically shoving him towards Mr. Belargic, even as he fought to grab her one last time, struggling to understand what was going on.

And now she was dead.

Hardly thinking about it, Wyl began to scream and struggle violently against the man that held him. He shook his head from side to side, trying to shake off Dasquian's hand;he wanted to see her, he needed to see her!

"Mommy, mommy, mommy... let me go!" Wyl's face was beet red from screaming, his hands balled into fists that struck any part of the Rebel agent that he could reach. The man was much stronger, but with the nearing men, and his commlink buzzing, Wyl was finally able to wriggle free. The child stumbled forward and stopped, a foot away from the limp body on the floor--and that's all it was now, a body. There was none of the warmth of his mother in the corpse, the eyes blank and glazed.

Wyl's little chest began to heave, and his eyes welled over with tears. As they streamed down his face in two small rivers, Wyl almost seemed to collapse inwardly, his shoulders sagging like little valleys. The boy didn't even struggle when Dasquian grabbed his arm and pulled him back. He stood against the man, staring blankly at his mother and blinking the salty water out of his eyes with consistent frequency. Wyl barely registered what Dasquian was saying.

"Mere, do you copy? We have a civilian casualty and no route of exit..."

No route of exit...

No route of exit...

No route of exit?

Wyl shook his head slowly and with a jerky breath looked up at his present caretaker.

"Th-th-the... tra-trapdoor in, in, in my...M-moms closet."

And with that Wyl Staedtler, seven years old, broke down into wailing sobs.

[Dasquian Belargic]

"Th-th-the... tra-trapdoor in, in, in my...M-moms closet."

The fire escape door jerked half open as another shot struck it from the outside. From the street below, Dasquian could hear the sound of voices – someone screamed. Without further hesitation, he turned and pulled Wyl back into his mother’s apartment. The door slammed shut. Out in the hall, other residents peered anxiously out into the corridor. They were used to a less than normal lifestyle, but gunfire on their doorsteps was taking things a little too far.

“Show me the trapdoor.” Wyl continued to sob, deaf to Dasquian’s words. Frowning, he crouched in front of the boy and seized his shoulders firmly.

“Come on, Wyl. You have to be strong...”

For your mothers sake. The death of Oa had been a shock to both of them. If nothing else, it had illustrated to Wyl the gravity of the situation. Wiping away the tears from his eyes with the back of his sleeve, he led Dasquian through the small apartment to the location of the hidden escape. Pushing aside the box of old clothing that covered the trapdoor, Dasquian uncovered what looked like a loose floorboard.

They slipped down into the dark of the claustrophobic passage. Dasquian took the time to try and slide the floorboard above into place, so that the only light was that filtering through the tiny cracks at the boards edges. Drenched in darkness, he began to crawl forwards, gently yet persistently urging Wyl on ahead. It was up to the boy to lead the way.

[Francis Mere]

' I'm out, throw me another mag...'

As Francis edged around te corner of the apartment block, the two men placing covering fire on the fire escape were within the centre of the ally. The one to the left dug his hand into his back pack reluctantly and threw another magazine to the second soldier. They were armed to the teeth, and had a real perpose.

' Hold on a moment, stop-shut up, Griff!' One of the soldiers placed his hand to his ear and listned intently. Mere squinted his eyes through the terrible haze of the rain that still teared through the grey skies. All Francis could hear was a low murmering from the communicator in the soldiers ear, none of it was understandible from his distance.

'Yes sir, i understand' The lead soldier waved his hand in the air signalling something to Griff quietly, a signal that Griff seemed to recognize instantly as he switched weapons from his Reapeator to his side arm, a small blaster pistol.

' Yes, sir will do. Griff you take point'

The lead soldier switched a panel on his belt changing frequency to the other assault team. ' Orange, are you by the door?...Good we have the go, have Watson take point, check you're corners and your targets, the boy stays alive, Move!'

Somewhere above Francis was a loud bang, probably a concussion grenade exploding in preperation for the entry. This was it, Francis could not take out the other team but he could less the numbers for Dasquian. It was all about instinct, dont think, just do it.

just do it

just do it

just DO IT!

Francis released the preassure he had while up against the apartment block wall and threw himself into the middle of the back passageway. He pressed the trigger lightly, double tapping it as he was always trained to do. The first duo of bullets screamed towards the pointman who was still unaware of Francis, not recognizing the noise of a slug thower and more interested in the ladder, his eyes looked hungry for voilence, it was blood curdling. The bullets slammed directly into Griffs upper right leg sending him tumbling uncontrollibly, head first into the ladder that he was so despret for. Whatever happned next to Griff, Francis did not see but their was a muffled scream of agoney, probably the scream Dasquian heard from within and then silence.

The lead soldier turned with his repeater rifle, instantly seeing Francis reveal himself and fired. The first bolt went wide and might have hit Fancis only a few moments before, but the second shot seemed oddly to hang in mid air for a moment, only minutely moving towards the Rebel agent. It was only then that Francis rearlized all sound had vanished, he could hear nothing but the pattering of the rain, his body almost numb to any type of sence, motion passed slowly.It was a milli-second experience but it seemed to have been enough to give Francis the advantage to take enough evasion from the on coming bolt for a non-direct hit.

flumbp

The bolt then seemed to take normal speed, like lightning it lurched towards Mere, who had spun already, but it was to late, the bolt caught the spies chest horizontily sending him flying to the left against the other wall of the alley. But in turn the lead soldier who had fired at him, slumped to his knees, his eyes vacant of any expression like expectation had crept horribly out of his mind, and then fell onto his face. Looking down, Mere found his pistol smoking furiously as well as blood on his jacket, if it had been a direct hit, he would have been dead already, it seemed to be a light wound by the amount of blood.

Go on Dasquian, get out of there....

[Wyl Staedtler]

In the tunnel, Wyl was having a difficult time. He had never been comfortable in the cramped escape, but whenever he had climbed through it, things had been relatively calm. Now, in a state of shock and getting increasingly panicked by the second as he heard the thumping of footsteps above, the boy could barely breathe.

They had gone only about ten feet when he stopped and put his head down. A low cry escaped his lips, high-pitched and shaky; he was afraid, he was upset, and he just wanted to lie down and not move. It was the sound of a child who had seen too much.

And then that man firmly grabbed him, lifted him up, and pushed him forward, forcing him onward. In a sudden rage, Wyl turned around and hissed tearily,

"Don't push me!"

Then, if only to get away from the man who was trying to save him, he darted forward on his hands and knees as fast as he could. There were few turns in the tunnel, but once they came to a fork. Wyl stopped and leaned back on his knees. He knew that one route led to the storage room of a rundown pawn shop, and that path had been blocked off. But was it the left or the right?

Wyl started to go left, hesitated, and went right. As they continued to crawl through the tunnel, the boy started to worry. If he'd picked the right way, they should have been going up now, not straight, it should have sloped! He had picked the wrong way and now they were trapped--

Then the boy realized that gradually the path was steepening. By the time they neared the end of the tunnel Wyl was out of breath--whether from the small hill or his fright was unclear, but the latter seemed more likely. With one last bout of energy, Wyl reached up and pushed against the top of the tunnel. What looked like a wooden crate was moved aside and Wyl climbed up and out.

They were in an alley, behind a large garbage bin, down the street. Wyl stood up, shrugged off his backpack, and then sat down with his back against the gray durasteel bin. His face was pale and pinched, and he looked at Dasquian with something in his eyes that said, 'I'm not moving anymore.'

[Dasquian Belargic]

At least for the first few seconds after they emerged from the escape tunnel, Dasquian paid no mind to Wyl. His attention was fully on ascertaining the safety of the current situation. In the distance he could hear the sound of gunfire, as Francis continued to fight back against the raid soldiers. It wouldn’t be long before their back-up arrived. He could only hope that Mere would find some way of escaping. The last thing the Alliance needed was to loose another agent into the hands of the Empire.

For the time being, however, that was not Dasquian’s concern. He turned his focus once more to the small boy that he was now charged with protecting. There was an awful silence in which Dasquian could almost hear the cogs turning inside Wyl’s mind, as the boy desperately tried to make sense of everything that had happened in the past hour. It was a lot to digest. It was almost certain that he would suffer from post-traumatic stress.

As quickly and quietly as possible, Dasquian set about pushing a large dumpster in front of the exit they had just emerged from. The minute wasn’t much of a respite for Wyl, but it would have to do. With frustrated movements he tugged off the delivery boy shirt he was wearing, to reveal a plain black top beneath, before throwing both it and the cap into the dumpster.

“You’re doing well, Wyl,” he breathed, dusting his hands off.

“We just need to make it a few blocks south and we’ll be set, alright?”

There was no way of sugar-coating any of it, and no real point. Not now.

[Wyl Staedtler]

A few blocks south did not sound alright to him. A few blocks south sounded like a long way, and it sounded like too much to him. Wyl closed his eyes and scrunched his face up, rubbing a soil-covered hand under his nose for a tissue. He let out a sigh, and then opened his eyes and looked at Dasquian. The man's face was tense, and Wyl knew they didn't have time for this.

But he needed time. He wanted to stop and just sit and think! Over and over he kept seeing his mother falling backwards, the whole scene restarted each time she hit the floor. Over and over, in that horrible silence of sudden memory. Wyl couldn't even digest it all... it was like a holovid, so removed that it didn't seem real.

Only, Wyl couldn't get the nagging image of his mothers lifeless eyes out of his head. Those eyes... those weren't something from a holo. No ammount of special effects could recreate that emptiness. The little boy bit his lip in uncertainty. Piercing blue gaze swept up Dasquians face and into his eyes.

They were urgent, pressing him... but there was something behind the harriedness that made him stand up and readjust his backpack. A confidence that reminded him of his mother before her eyes had eptied.

Wyl nodded and dusted off his knees before mouthing a silent, "Okay."

[Francis Mere]

The sounds of gun fire were attracting a crowd. As Francis got to his feet, stumbling for only a moment, he heard the calls of distressed citizens. Some were used to the sight of bloodshed, while others had only seen scenes like these in holovids. While people pressed the hands to their mouths, hiding o’s of horror, one good soul made a move to aid the injured agent, in spite of the lifeless body slumped before him. Francis shrugged away the helping hand.

Can’t stop now.

The dull throb of pain in the back of his mind, he stood steadfast and armed himself with the flick of a wrist. The slug thrower was chambered. Mere moved onwards with purpose, following the sound of fire with a trained ear. There had been a brief respite and for a moment it seemed as though the gunfight was over – though peace did not reign for long. Within minutes he could hear the sound of voices. Harsh voices. Demanding voices.

They’re caught.

The floodgates opened and adrenaline surged with force through his veins, propelling his feet onwards. Everything was a blur as he followed instinct, his footsteps ringing against the concrete in staccato. At last he found then, rounding a corner into an alleyway only to see that two soldiers had Dasquian and the boy cornered. They stood pinned against the wall, whilst the two men stood with rifles trained on them.

Krasst.

There was no time to think. A split-second error would cost them their lives. Mere let his fingertips do the work. Two rounds cut through the air, his aim true. The shots landed before their targets were even aware of what was about to happen – the first blowing two fingers cleanly away, and the second leaving a smoldering patch in the other soldiers palm. It was up to Dasquian now. Mere was the distraction, he would give them time to get away, but there was only so much he could do.

“Run!”

[Dasquian Belargic]

Dasquian didn’t need to be told twice. Unarmed, he was useless in the gunfight against the Imperials. He broke into a run instantly, ensuring that Wyl was in tow. The boy was tired, it was evident and understandable, but the threat of danger- the sound of shots- was pushing him on. They rounded corner after corner, weaving through the maze of back alleys and side streets that made up this particular portion of the city. It was thankfully quiet, with all public attention being drawn to the conflict between Mere and the others. Still, Dasquian didn’t risk taking the main streets. It was far too impractical. They needed to move quickly, not to mention the fact that a running man – generally – is seen as a guilty man.

Time flashed by quickly and soon they had arrived at the meeting point. The intersection between two streets – one large and one small – was where they were going to meet their pilot. His chest rising and falling with each breath, Dasquian searched the road ahead of him for any sign of his fellow Rebel. Briefly, his eyes cut down to Wyl.

“This shouldn’t take long…”

[Wyl Staedtler]

The boy didn't say anything. Wyl stood red-faced and panting beside Dasquian, still clutching the mans hand as he had when they'd fled the alleyway. His slight frame trembled like a leaf while his teeth chattered together nervously. Somehow he had managed to keep his backpack with him during the harried escape, and now he shrugged it off and swung it around his shoulder to rest at his feet.

As he did so, Wyl felt an unpleasant dampness against his legs. He frowned and looked down at his dirty polyfibe trousers, stained dark at the crotch and down the legs. The childs face immediatly burned crimson;he'd wet his pants. Scrunching his face, Wyl turned away from Dasquian and looked at the ground, ashamed. Only babies and cowards urinated on themselves--and he was no baby.

He swallowed back a large lump that had settled in his throat and roughly rubbed his arm across his eyes, drying the tears of embarrasment that threatened to spill. It wasn't the end of the world, he had other clothes in his backpack, and surely if anyone noticed they would understand... but Wyl could feel his breath getting shorter as he began to panic, and the hot flush of humiliation warmed his chest even as he tried to reason with himself.

And then the same slipping-away feeling that had made his mother call for help, came again.

In sheer terror the boy whirled around and with frightened eyes gripped Dasquians shirt.

"It's happening again!" Wyl hissed, near hysterics. He took a sharp breath and let out a high-pitched whine. "It's going to happen again!"

[Dasquian Belargic]

A confusing and distressing array of emotions seemed to plague the boys mind, a natural reaction. Both hands on Wyl’s shoulders, Dasquian tried to reassure the boy and allay some of his worry, but knew in truth that nothing short of a miracle would stave his anxiety. What it came down to was a matter of keeping calm and quiet until the time that their escort arrived. Fortunately, that time was soon.

After a time, a beaten old Coruscant City cab pulled up to the curb on the main street. The driver, though appearing casual, caught Dasquians eye and gave a slight nod. Belargic needed no more confirmation. He recognized the man in the drivers seat and instantly made for the vehicle, pulling Wyl along with him.

No sooner had they climbed inside, the driver – Bresj, according to his license – swerved out into the main flow of traffic. A few horns honked in response, but they were no need for alarm. The city’s taxis were notoriously brazen, seemingly having their own set of traffic laws that they rewrote and adhered to only when it suited them.

“Where’s Francis?” the driver asked, glancing into the rear view. Dasquian was making sure that Wyl was strapped in. He looked somewhat guiltily at the reflection.

“He stayed behind, to create a diversion. The block was swarming with troops, they just appeared out of nowhere,” he sighed in frustration.

“You think maybe someone tipped them off? About the, ah…”

Bresj’s eyes moved to Wyl, barely visible.

“Perhaps. It’s possible that they might have had the area under surveillance.”

“You might want to try a more convincing disguise next time, eh?” the driver smirked, his attempt at injecting humor into the conversation largely a failure.

Dasquian frowned. His thoughts were again on Wyl’s mother, the look on her face, moments after she had sacrificed herself for her sons safety. There was a saying, that all great causes required a few martyrs. In this case, Dasquian couldn’t agree. That aside, he was intent on making sure that no more violence and misery come out of this situation. The rebel agent was already considering what further action was necessary, from a clean-up and investigation, to Wyl’s placement with one of the Alliance’s Jedi contacts.

[Wyl Staedtler]

In the confines of the cab the urine on Wyl's pants mixed heavily with the tangible scent of fear. The sharp smell made his cheeks flush again, but he wasn't concerned with it for too long.

Like Dasquian the boy's thoughts had returned to Oa. One hand held a bundle of the mans shirt in a vice grip, and the other was latched just as tightly onto the strap of his seatbelt. His chest heaved heavily. There had been more than one occasion when Oa and Wyl had found themselves in distressing situations but his mother had always seemed to center the situation so easily. A gentle smile over her shoulder, or an absent ruffle of his hair--nothing was scary with her.

"Take a deep breath in now, good boy. Let it out slowly. There, see, you're all right aren't you?" Oa straightened her sons rumpled tunic and thumbed away the rest of his glassy tears. She straightened then, straining above the bustle of heads in the busy marketplace, keeping a firm hold on Wyl's hands. Her eyes anxiously scanned the faces; she was still breathless from the run.

"Momma?" hiccuped the five-year-old. "Who was those guys?"

Her wide smile was sad. "Deep breaths Wyl."

His head was hurting again, like it had been after the accident with the Van Irreck brothers. Was this what it meant to be like his Grandfather?

Deep breaths.

Wyl was vaguely aware of the driver and Dasquian talking, and he glanced up at 'Bresj' before ducking his head against the Rebel beside him. He was still shaking and he wondered if the man felt the same.

"Is he--" frightened blue gaze grazed over the back of the cabbies head, "okay? Is, is... is he like you?"

Without waiting for a reply Wyl looked away out the window. He scrunched his face trying to get his bearings. "W-w-w..." the boy paused and took another slow breath. "Where are we g-going?"

[Dasquian Belargic]

Away from this place, Dasquian thought to himself. A small part of him hoped that distancing Wyl from his former home would be helpful in healing the deep wounds he'd been left with. Of course, it would be a long and difficult process, but being away from familiar sights and sounds might help. Staying on Coruscant would only serve to remind him of his mother. Adapting to a new home and Jedi training would provide ample distraction for his mind – though Dasquian did worry that coping with all of the sudden change might prove all too much.

“To my ship,” he replied, his eyes meeting Bresj's for a moment.

“You're going on vacation, kid,” the cabbie chirped.

Dasquian's brow furrowed, his lips pursed, mildly vexed.

“Have you ever traveled away from Coruscant, Wyl? Flew through space and the stars?”

[Wyl Staedtler]

"No." Wyl shook his head. The closest the boy had ever come to that was on fieldtrips to the Starship Museum and in stories. He was a Coruscant kid, born and bred, and although he'd often played pilots with neighborhood kids Wyl was a little nervous about actually getting on a craft. His mind distracted, the boy sat up and rubbed a sleeve across his face.

"We're goin' off-planet?"

It was more of a statement than a question though. Wyl considered it a moment, watching out the window as buildings blurred by. Finally he shrugged and leaned back against the seat. "I guess I don't want to stay here anyways." Eyes bathed by the hues of a sea turned to wash over Dasquian. "Are we goin' far away?"

[Dasquian Belargic]

“Most likely, yes.”

In all honesty, Dasquian was uncertain just how far they would go. If the Rebellion could contact one of their Jedi agents in time, there would be no necessity for calling in at the Alliance base. It might only have been a matter of days before Wyl was jetting off to the far reaches of the galaxy.

“It won't be long before you meet with the Jedi,” he added, hoping to rouse a little excitement or enthusiasm that might outweigh the anxiety. Bresj turned the speeder into a particularly long street. It was composed of many strata and seemed to be covered in scaffolding that looked as though it had seen better days.

The speeder dipped down, swerving to avoid the large sheets of tarpaulin that hung from the various construction areas. Looking out of the side windows, Wyl could see brick and mortar, steel and stone, all haphazardly lain about. Whatever was being built, was being built slowly – and this was not without reason. The site, largely overlooked by the Coruscanti, was used as a cover for the landing of Alliance craft. Cargo carriers, supposedly bringing in new building materials, smuggled agents in and out of the city. It was one of these very vessels that would take Dasquian and Wyl off Imperial Center and into Hub space.

“Here ya go,” Bresj grunted, pulling the speeder to an uneasy stop some twenty foot short of what looked like the oldest, rustiest bucket of metal in the known galaxy. The Doppleganger. Just a lick of paint and some modifications here and there, and the YT model was changed into a whole new ship. Today is was masquerading brilliantly as one of the construction company's old freighters.

Dasquian exited the speeder and took a few steps forwards, pausing at the front window.

“This is where I leave you kids,” Bresj said, with an accomplished smile.

“No doubt we'll be seeing each other again soon,” Dasquian said, giving the cab a pat on the roof.

The metal groaned under the gesture. “Hey, watch it!” the driver laughed.

The other back door clicked closed. Dasquian looked over to see that Wyl had climbed out.

“Good luck, kid,” Bresj called, as his shifted the taxi into reverse and began to back away. Once he was clear of Dasquian and Wyl, he veered the speeder 180 degrees, turning back on himself and disappearing amidst the mass of debris.

[Wyl Staedtler]

It seemed impolite not to reply to Bresj. Wyl tried to smile, but he ended up looking more like a stroke victim than anything. As the speeder sped away the boy managed a little wave with the hope that the driver, who he would probably never see again, was looking the the side mirror. Despite the fact that his head was buzzing trying to sort out the last two hours--had it only been two hours?--Wyl understood the risk the man had taken for him, a stranger.

He had calmed, at least to the point where he didn't feel like he was going to cry again. An eerie sort of heaviness was pressing on his chest which was, Wyl imagined, pushing any feelings far enough away for him to think. He was still shaking though; or rather, twitching. Every few minutes his shoulders would tremble involuntarily.

The 'cab turned the corner and when it was completely out of sight Wyl spun around. Dasquian was some paces away; the boy wasted no time in darting to the mans side. He felt safer there.

The strange numbness let Wyl look at his surroundings with something resembling his old curiosity. It was a real mess, the boy thought, not really somewhere he would park a ship. That is, until he saw the ship. Clear apprehension flooded Wyl's eyes. "We're going in that?" He gasped, an edge of disbelief in his voice.

[Dasquian Belargic]

“Mhmm.”

Dasquian smiled knowingly. He recalled his first venture on-board the Doppleganger. It had been presented to him in a similar fashion, looking as though the engines might fall off at any moment. Luckily it was all an illusion. The ship had performed admirably through all of its year in service to the Alliance, and had become something of a mascot amongst the Intelligence operatives in particular.

They neared the ship, stepping around half-empty boxes and crates. Even up close it was, however, impossible to tell the crafts true nature. Dasquian gave the bulk of the hull a firm pat and imagined it wouldn't have surprised Wyl if the metal had groaned under the sudden impact. Instead it merely hissed, the sound of the landing ramp lowering. A light shone from inside, not warm but inviting none the less. Dasquian motioned upwards.

“After you.”

[Wyl Staedtler]

Wyl hesitated, watching Dasquian for any hints that this was a joke and the real ship was really parked somewhere else. It didn't seem very likely though, considering the situation, that the man would kid. Besides, he had the feeling that the smile on his face was one of those maddening ones that grown ups often exchanged over kids heads.

One foot was placed gingerly on the ramp. Then a second. Wyl stood for a full minute with his eyes closed, waiting for the ramp to collapse. When it didn't he slowly took a few steps forward. It seemed sturdy enough. Bravely holding onto the straps of his backpack the boy entered the body of the ship, expecting to find panels nailed half-hazardly together or something equally as deserving the outside appearance.

What he got was a pleasant surprise. The inside of the Doppleganger was nice, clean and not at all what he had been expecting. So much so was the contrast that Wyl did a double-take and then turned around, walking out so quickly that he almost collided with Dasquian. Twisting his head side to side the boy took in the entire outside of the ship and then poked his head back inside. Sudden understanding flooded his face. Wyl nodded at Dasquian, approving heartily.

Comforted by the disguise offered by the ship, Wyl walked in and down the passageway to allow the rebel to get in. It was quick work to find the cockpit. Wyl eyed the seats for a moment, then tugged on the crotch of his pants. Given the situation he didn't imagine they had time for him to change, but he wasn't sure if Dasquian would want wet trousers on the seats.

He's a Grownup. Grownups know how to clean anything.

Wyl gingerly slid into the seat, dropping his bag below his dangling feet. Cautiously the boy eyed the safety webbing; it looked pretty hard. "I don't know how to do it." he said softly, tugging on a strap. "'M'sorry."