spncentral | Of Sith And Street Rats

Between thinking it best to steer as far away from the Core as possible given the current regime, and needing repairs to his ship, he finds himself on some backwater planet in the middle of nowhere. Not only that, but so far as he could tell, there were only a handful of cities worth the name with one of them being the capital city. Which was also oh-so-imaginatively named Capital City. It seemed to be his best bet, so it was the one he chose to land at.

While his ship was undergoing repairs, he heads out into the city. The workers don't need him breathing down their necks, so he may as well see what, if anything, was of interest. So lightsaber firmly hidden in his jacket, and anything the mechanics didn't need access to firmly locked, he heads out. May as well start with the market. Wherever it is.

Current Mood: calm

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Ezra stills with surprise. Not at Garth'zel's more reasonable explanation, but at the second, more nebulous part. It echoes so closely with what he'd been thinking about earlier, but... it's not the same thing, is it?

Is it?

"A feeling?" he asks, unable to repress his curiosity. "What kind of feeling?"

Garth'zel considers how to explain it. "I suppose it could be considered instinct. Like the feeling you get about who is and is not a good target to pickpocket. Or beg from."

It's like Garth'zel said the magic words. A tingle of shock runs through Ezra that's so profound that he almost puts the last of his sandwich down. Eyes wide, he leans forward, elbows on the table and all.

"You get those feelings too?" Gone is his doubt and suspicion for now, swallowed up by excitement. "Like you just know stuff an' it gets you out of trouble? Or...or... stuff just goes right if you listen?" He hasn't found anyone who really understands what he's talking about. Even his parents didn't really know what he meant.

"Or knowing that someone was following me with the intention to do something they shouldn't, like say, try to pick my pocket?" Garth'zel says with a raised eyebrow.

He experimentally nudges at Ezra's mind. Not enough to do anything; just to see if he has the sensitivity to notice.

"I wasn' tryin' to be mean!" Ezra protests, suddenly desperate to stay in Garth'zel's good graces. He turns pleading eyes up at him, willing him to understand. "I was just- I was just really hungry, 'cause... 'cause mom an' dad..." No, a lie won't do now. A lump forms in Ezra's throat, because it's not something he likes to talk about, to admit to anyone, but this is important. Garth'zel might be the first person like Ezra that Ezra's ever met. "You're right," he says in a rush. "Mom an' dad are gone. The Empire took them away." Angry tears threaten to well up for just a moment, and he might have said more to explain-

-but that's when something nudges his attention, and he jumps, spooked, head snapping around to try to spot what it is.

"I lost my parents too, although through different circumstances," Garth'zel says quietly before Ezra jumps.

"Felt that, did you? That was me checking something. We have the ability to do more than just tell when things will happen or if we should do them." Now he gives Ezra a serious look. "It's something you should never talk about to someone you don't trust because there are plenty of bad people who would want to take advantage of what you can do."

Ezra hesitates, unsure how to respond to that. He peers at Garth'zel, then around the room again, frowning when he can't find what caught his attention. "What did you do?" he asks, confused. What is even that he's not supposed to talk about? "It's not just instincks?"

The comment about Garth'zel's parents gets tucked away for now. It's another thing he doesn't know how to respond to, since no one's ever admitted something like that to him before.

"I gave your mind a little nudge with mine to see if you'd notice," Garth'zel explains. "And no. It's not. It's a lot more than that. Has anyone explained to you what the Force is?"

The answer doesn't do a whole lot to clear the mystery up. He wants to ask but how? except Garth'zel asks him a question first, and suddenly he has to wonder if this is something he should know. He ducks his head now, staring at his cup, guilt and worry making him reluctant to shake his head.

"I... I don't go to school anymore," he admits. It had been boring, and what was the point, and he'd had to worry about finding food. (And maybe it was as much because his parents weren't there to take him, and that makes something hurt in his chest and throat.)

"I'm not sure it's something that would be taught in schools. Not after what happened to the Jedi," Garth'zel says with a shake of his head. "The Force is something that connects every living thing. Not everyone can feel and use it."

"Of those of us who can, the amount that can be done varies. I'm very strong in it and can do lots of things. Others on the opposite end of the scale would be lucky to be able to push a piece of silverware across a table using their minds."

"Jedi?" Ezra echoes, half with interest, half with curiosity. "Aren't those just people in stories?" Stories that people don't tell a lot, and usually with hushed voices, like they don't want anyone hearing.

He chews on his lip, trying to turn the rest of it over. It's a little much for an eight year old to understand. Still, there's one thing he thinks he can be sure about, enough to make his shoulders slump.

"I can't do that." So he must not be strong. "You can really do that with your mind?" Disappointment doesn't live too long when there's this much awe. "I wanna see!"

"These days, yes. But there used to be thousands," Garth'zel says before holding up a warning finger. "The Emperor had them killed because they wouldn't have let him form the Empire and hurt people so it's best not to talk about them in public."

That warning delivered, he nods and sits back in his seat, arms folded across his chest. It's only a moment later when his glass rises into the air and rotates before setting down on the table. "I'm sure you can learn to do so with practice. After all, you didn't know it was possible until just a few minutes ago."

Despite being told that Garth'zel could do this, Ezra's mouth still drops open as he watches the glass, enthralled. That's probably the single most amazing things he's ever seen in all his life. "Wooow, that's so cool!"

And just like that, it dawns on him that this is the reason his instincts told him to try to pick Garth'zel's pockets. Maybe he got caught, but that was the point. If he hadn't, he would have never met Garth'zel, never got to see this, never would have even known it was possible.

"Are you sure I can do it?" Equal parts doubt and hope color his voice, and he stares at his own glass, letting it go.

No matter how fiercely he concentrates, though, it doesn't float.

"With training, yes," Garth'zel agrees. "How about you start with trying to push the plate your sandwich is on across the table? I'd rather not need to clean up a mess if your glass manages to tilt over." Resulting in juice everywhere.

"Picture the plate sliding across the table and want it to do so," Garth'zel instructs. "Don't be too disappointed if you fail. This is the first time you're trying this, so it's not likely you'll succeed on the first attempt."

Well, he could have just finished off his juice first, but with his hunger at least somewhat sated for now and with eagerness spurring him on, Ezra opts to just follow the suggestion to switch his efforts to his plate, even going so far as to rest his chin on the table to he can look at the plate dead on as he wills it to scoot away from him. Too bad he has no idea what he's actually doing, or how to tap into that nebulous sense that sometimes warns him about things. A minute passes, and then it becomes two, with Ezra picturing and picturing and wishing and alternating between squeezing his eyes shut and keeping them open, but nothing at all seems to happen. Nothing he can see.

Garth'zel might be able to feel the whisper in the Force from his attempts, though - a fledgling flutter of wings that have never flown before. Too weak and unfocused - or maybe not focused long enough - to move even a small plate from its spot, but enough to confirm that the potential is there.

Unaware of his accomplishment, Ezra groans in frustration. "It's not working," he complains, dropping his head to the table in that dramatic way that little kids often tend to have.

"I did tell you that you probably wouldn't succeed right away," Garth'zel points out, carefully hiding his amusement. "We're probably starting with something too big. I think I'll need to take some time to remember how I was first taught so I can teach you properly."

That answer doesn't do much to mollify Ezra. The little boy's shoulders stay slumped with disappointment. "Maybe I just can't do it at all," he says. "Maybe you're wrong about me." That seems like a very real possibility to him. He's certainly never done anything like what Garth'zel just did.

Still, sullen or not, he doesn't forget that he still has a sandwich to finish. Foregoing the failed exercise, he picks the food back up and gets back to work eating as much as he can. Even with an offer of employment and food, he can't shake the fear that he might not get anything else to eat anytime soon.

"Or maybe you just don't have any experience to draw on yet," Garth'zel says firmly. "I didn't succeed on my first attempt. The first deliberate one, that is."

Things going flying around in response to his emotions don't count as 'on purpose'.

"Finish your food, then you can get cleaned up." Garth'zel considers for a moment. "My shirts are big enough they can be considered a nightshirt on you. You can wear one of them while your clothes are in the wash."

No, a shower and having laundry done isn't optional.

That just sounds like the kind of things adults say to make you feel better. Moody as Ezra is right now, he doesn't bother believing it.

He does pause at the word laundry, though, his thoughts instantly jumping to the food he snuck into his pockets. That food definitely won't handle being washed! And he doesn't have someplace safe he can hide it, either. "It's okay," he says quickly. "I don't need clean clothes. My clothes aren't too dirty yet!"

It's not a lie! Not by his definition!

Never mind that his "definition" is more along the lines of "look, I'm not covered in mud!"

"Ezra, eat the food you've been putting in your pockets so I won't have to take it out before your clothes are washed," Garth'zel sighs. He would rather not need to fight an eight-year-old.

Too bad Garth'zel is setting himself up to fight a year's worth of ingrained survival habits. Ezra scoots back at the first mention of Garth'zel taking his food.

"I'm gonna eat it later," he says, tensing as he prepares to bolt or defend his pockets if he has to. "I'm not that hungry right now." Sort of true. He could eat more, but he's also eaten more already than he has in several days, so his stomach is content enough for now.

"Then leave it on the plate to eat later without getting covered in whatever dirt is in your pockets," Garth'zel says firmly.

Leave it isn't an option. Leave it just invites someone else to take it, or for rats to steal it when you're not looking. Leave it only works if you have something to put your food in that no one else is going to open up. Still tense, Ezra shakes his head stubbornly.

"I don't want to," he argues, unwilling to budge. "You can't make me!"

Well, maybe he could, if Garth'zel got his hands on him, but Ezra's not going to let it come to that.

"Child, who do you think is going to take it?" Garth'zel says exasperatedly. "The only people aboard this ship besides you and me are people doing repairs and they have their own food for when they're ready to take a break for lunch."

"But they might! People take stuff that doesn't belong to them all the time! Or- or rats'll eat it, or... or..." Or maybe Garth'zel himself will take it away if Ezra doesn't do what he wants, a possibility that's looking more and more likely the more Ezra resists. Not taking his eyes off of the man, the little boy slides out of his seat - slowly, trying not to draw attention to the fact that he's getting ready to run.