Bonus Chapter for 300 Stones!!
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The end-of-shift klaxon blared across the docking bay—a sound Vasha usually loved. Today, though, it just felt like more noise.
She wiped a streak of hydraulic fluid off her cheek with the back of her glove, her whole body aching like it always did after a long day. That damn G-2 motivator on the cargo lifter had been fighting her for hours, and yeah, she'd won, but barely. Her shoulders were stiff, her fingers felt like stone, and she was covered in a layer of grime so thick even a sonic shower would give up.
This was her life. The smell of ozone and hot metal, the background hum of engines and take-offs, and that weird mix of frustration and pride every time she got a busted machine to work again.
But her mind wasn't on stripped bolts or finicky wiring as she walked away from the chaos of the docks. She was thinking about a little boy with big, sad eyes.
What the hell was I thinking?
She'd been asking herself that question all day. Over and over. Like a little annoying voice in the back of her head that wouldn't shut up. Taking in a stray kid? A human kid? Was she out of her mind? She could barely afford to keep herself fed and her tools in working shape.
But still…
She kept seeing the way he'd looked at her in the market. Like she was the only solid thing in a world that was constantly shifting underneath him. His story—messy, tragic, and maybe a little too polished—still stuck with her. She didn't believe all of it, not completely. Kids mix things up, hear things wrong.
But there was something real in the way he told it. Something broken.And the part about his parents… God, how could anyone treat their own kid like that? And the worst part was that he didn't even realize they'd left him. He still talked like maybe they were coming back.
And the fear—gods, the fear in his eyes when he talked about the "white-helmets." She knew that fear. Had seen it before. It was real. And yeah, she could've handed him off. There were places for kids like him. Places that should help. But… she didn't. And maybe she didn't know exactly why. Maybe some stubborn part of her just couldn't let him go through that alone. Not again.
Then there was last night.
He'd had a nightmare. Shot straight up from the couch, eyes wide, gasping for air, tears already running down his face. That sound, the way he cried, soft and shaky like he was trying not to - hit her harder than any wrench ever had.
Right then, all the second-guessing vanished. He wasn't a problem or some charity case. He was just a kid. A scared, exhausted little kid who needed someone to care.
She couldn't have walked away. It just wasn't who she was.
Vasha smiled a little, thinking back to that morning. Him, proudly offering to be her "assistant." A seven-year-old wanting to help her fix power couplings. Force, that kid had guts. It was adorable… and heartbreaking. Like he was trying so hard to prove he was useful, that he deserved to stay. No kid should have to feel like that.
Her steps picked up as her building came into view, a flutter of nervous energy starting up in her chest. Was he okay? Had he been scared while she was gone? Did he eat anything?
The streets leading home were the same as always—grey, dull, full of noise and exhaust. Most days she tuned it all out, but tonight it felt like the walls were closing in. Like she needed sky and trees and wind. Not duracrete and neon lights.
She passed through the market again, now glowing under harsh overheads. The usual mix of fried food, spices, and engine fumes filled the air. Then something caught her eye.
A fruit stall. Meilooruns.
Round, purple, and dusted with that weird silvery coating. The sight stopped her cold.
Suddenly, she was ten again. Climbing trees back on Ryloth, stealing fruit with her brother, laughing so hard she couldn't breathe. Sticky hands. Sweet juice. Sunshine. It felt like a lifetime ago.
She blinked hard, trying to push away the sudden lump in her throat. Thinking about him never got easier. Her brother. Was he even still out there?
She sighed, bought two meilooruns from the cranky Rodian behind the stall, and slipped them into her bag. Maybe Ezra would like them. They were definitely better than the bland ration packs she had in the cupboard.
The stairs up to her apartment were, as usual, a nightmare. Three flights of creaky steps with her heavy toolkit dragging her down. The lift hadn't worked in months—not that anyone was fixing it anytime soon.
At last, she reached her door. Fumbled with the lock. It beeped, then clicked open.
"Ezra?" she called, stepping inside.
The place was dim, lit only by her work lamp casting weird shadows across the clutter. The familiar smell of metal and ozone hung in the air. Cinnamon?
Then she spotted him.
He was sitting on her stool, elbows on the bench, chin in his hands, completely absorbed in whatever he was looking at. Tiny legs swinging, brow furrowed, lips in a pout of intense concentration. He looked like a grumpy little professor trying to figure out the secrets of the universe.
Vasha froze in the doorway, smiling without even realizing it. He was so small. So serious. So completely adorable it made her heart ache a little.
She leaned against the doorframe, just watching for a second. Then, grinning, she said, "Find any state secrets in there?"
Ezra flinched slightly and turned his head. His big blue eyes blinked up at her, still pulling himself out of whatever headspace he'd been in.
"Oh. You're back."
"That I am," she said, setting her satchel and toolkit down with a heavy thud. "And I brought snacks." She pulled out one of the vibrant purple meilooruns. "Ever had one of these?"
His eyes lit up for a second, a genuine flash of childish excitement, before his serious mask slipped back into place. "Not yet."
Vasha chuckled and tossed the fruit gently. Ezra caught it with surprising dexterity, his small hands wrapping around the purple orb. He brought it up towards his mouth, ready to take an exploratory bite, when a finger tapped him lightly on the forehead.
"Whoa there, speeder. It needs a wash first." Vasha gestured with her chin towards the grimy sink. "It's been sitting in a market stall all day. We'll clean it up after I've put my stuff away."
Ezra looked down at the meiloorun, then back at her, a hint of a pout on his lips. But he nodded, placing the fruit carefully on the workbench like a precious artifact he'd get back to later. With the promise of a snack pending, he seemed to decide the next best thing was to get back to work. He hopped back onto the stool, picked up the datapad, and immediately resumed his solemn study of her blueprints.
Ezra's tiny finger traced the lines of the schematic on the datapad, his brow furrowed in exaggerated concentration. His lips moved silently, as if sounding out the technical jargon, but his eyes had that glazed, faraway look of someone who had absolutely no idea what they were looking at.
Vasha bit back a grin.
Oh, this was precious.
He was trying. Gods help him, he was trying so hard.
His finger paused over a cluster of symbols labeled "Repulsorlift Field Modulators." He squinted at it, then glanced up at her with the hesitant expression of a student who knew he was about to ask a very stupid question but was determined to ask it anyway.
"...So these… modulator things," he started slowly, pronouncing the word carefully, like it might bite him. "They, uh… modulate?"
Vasha's lips twitched. "Yep. That's what they do."
Ezra nodded sagely, as if this was a profound revelation. Then, after a beat, his nose scrunched. "But… modulate what?"
She couldn't help it—she laughed. Not at him, not in a mean way, but because the way he was staring at the screen, so serious and so lost, was just too adorable.
"Well," she said, leaning over his shoulder, "they adjust the repulsor field so the droid doesn't accidentally fling cargo into orbit when it lifts something."
Ezra blinked. "Oh." A pause. Then, with the air of someone who had just decided to accept nonsense as fact: "That makes sense."
It very much did not make sense to him. She could see it in the way his eyes darted back to the schematic, his little finger hovering uncertainly over the symbols like he was waiting for them to rearrange themselves into something comprehensible.
Vasha ruffled his hair. "You're doing great, kid."
He shot her a look that was half-gratitude, half-suspicion, as if he wasn't sure whether she was mocking him. But before he could double down on his very brave (and very doomed) attempt to understand advanced droid mechanics, he suddenly slid off the stool.
"Oh! Wait!"
Before she could ask what he was doing, he dashed to the kitchenette. There was a clatter of cups, the sound of water running, and then he reappeared, carefully carrying a glass in both hands.
"You've been working all day," he announced, holding it out to her with the gravity of a royal attendant presenting a sacred artifact. "You should drink something."
Vasha's chest did something funny.
Oh.
Oh.
She took the glass, her fingers brushing his. The water was cool, a little sloshed over the rim from his unsteady grip, but it was the best damn water she'd ever been handed.
It was just water. But for a second, it felt like something more. Funny. When was the last time someone had just… brought her a glass of water? The question floated in her head, and she realized she couldn't come up with an answer.
He watched her drink, a satisfied little nod on his face as if he'd just successfully completed a very important task. Then he tilted his head, his expression turning serious again.
"So, how was your day?" he asked, his tone so earnest it was almost comical. "Are you tired? Did anything bad happen?"
Vasha almost gave the automatic reply—the one-word grunt of "Fine" she gave everyone. But the word caught in her throat. He wasn't just making noise; he was actually asking. He wanted to know.
A soft, tired laugh escaped her. She ran a hand over her face, smearing a bit of grease she'd missed. "Am I tired? Yeah, kid. You could say that." She leaned her hip against the workbench, the solid metal a familiar comfort.
"My day… well, it was a race," she said, deciding that was the most honest, simple way to put it. "I have a list of droids to fix every shift, you know? A quota. And today, the dispatcher gave me a G-2 motivator right at the start."
She saw his blank look and simplified. "It's one of the worst jobs. It's fiddly, and everything's stuck, and it's designed to make you angry. It's the kind of job that can eat up half your day, and if that happens, you don't make your numbers."
Ezra's eyes widened slightly, understanding the new stakes.
"So it was a fight to get it done fast," Vasha continued, gesturing with her hand. "A real nasty one. A single stripped bolt or a dropped washer could have wrecked my whole shift. But," she finished, a flicker of hard-won pride in her eyes, "I beat it. Got it done with but didn't had time to rush through the rest of my list, but it wasn't a big deal. Just have to make up tomorrow for it."
She looked at him and offered a real, weary smile. "So yeah. It was a long day of running and wrestling with metal. But nothing bad happened. Not really." She took another sip of water, the simple act feeling more restorative than it had any right to be.
"Thanks for asking, little guy. And thanks for this." She held up the glass. "I needed it more than I knew."
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