A/N: As promised, an side story chapter for today. A bit of bad news too, I have gotten fever suddenly...
Regarding the chapter, read it if you liked the perfect worlds chapters published before, as this is quite different from main line story.
As I have already separated these as side stories, I will write these slowly as an slight thriller, slight romance, quite a lot of R18 and little bit of everything else type of story.
Not reading this will not affect your reading experience of main story much.
____
The garage smelled like ozone, engine grease, and something faintly sweet that I associated specifically with her. I ducked under the half-raised door, my eyes adjusting to the sudden dimness after the bright afternoon sun.
She was bent over the engine block of a stripped-down landspeeder, her upper body disappearing into the chassis while her legs stuck out. Her booted heels drummed against the concrete floor to the rhythm of some music only she could hear.
A portable work light cast harsh shadows across the scattered tools and spare parts.
I stood there for a second, just watching.
The cargo pants she wore sat dangerously low on her hips, held up by a toolbelt that clinked with every movement. The fabric had ridden up slightly in the back, exposing a strip of blue skin just above her waistband. I could see the twin dimples at the base of her spine.
I swallowed hard.
"You're blocking my light, kid."
Her voice came out muffled by metal, but I still jumped like she'd caught me doing something wrong. Which she hadn't. I was just looking. At her... lower back. For legitimate reasons.
"Sorry," I said, stepping sideways. My heart was doing that annoying thing where it tried to escape through my throat.
She slid out on the creeper, her back arching as she emerged from under the hood. The movement pulled her shirt up further, and I tried very hard to look at the welding rig on the wall instead.
It didn't work.
---
Vasha sat up, wiping her hands on a rag that did nothing to clean them.
She was exactly as she always was. Blue skin dusted with faint streaks of oil. Lekku draped over her shoulders like dark scarves. And wearing those cargo pants that sat low on her hips.
Her top was a black sports bra.
Over it she'd tied a white button-up shirt, knotting it just beneath her chest so her stomach was bare. Her abs flexed as she breathed. The shirt gaped open enough that I could see the sheen of sweat on her collarbones, and every time she moved, the knot shifted, threatening to come undone.
"Finally escaped the educational prison?" she asked, grinning at me.
She had a wrench in one hand, tapping it against her palm. There was grease on her fingers, and a smudge on her cheek, and her hair was a disaster held together by a single elastic that looked like it was about to give up.
She looked amazing.
"Something like that," I managed. My voice cracked slightly.
I hated myself.
She stood up, stretching her arms above her head.
The motion pulled the knot of her shirt tighter. Her waist curved inward, then flared out at her hips. Her toolbelt shifted, heavy with hydrospanners and fusion cutters, dragging the waistband of her pants down another dangerous centimeter.
I could see the edge of something dark underneath. The band of her underwear maybe.
I looked away. Then looked back. Then looked away again.
She walked over to a cooler in the corner. When she bent down to grab two bottles of water, I was treated to a full view of her ass in those tight cargo pants. The fabric stretched across the curve, outlining everything. She took her time fishing out the bottles.
I stared very intently at a defective hyperdrive unit until she turned around.
"Here," she said, tossing me one.
I fumbled the catch, nearly dropping it. The bottle slipped through my fingers, bounced off my palm, and I had to snatch it out of the air at the last second with a movement that probably looked as stupid as it felt.
She laughed. It was a warm yet husky sound, rough around the edges. "Smooth, Alex. Real smooth."
"I was distracted," I said, unscrewing the cap. "By the... thermal coupling on that speeder. Looks misaligned."
She raised an eyebrow, taking a long drink.
Her throat worked as she swallowed. A drop of water escaped the corner of her mouth, traced down her jaw, and disappeared into the hollow of her throat. I watched it travel down her neck, over her collarbone, and vanish into the gap between her breasts where the sports bra pushed them together.
"You came here to critique my work?"
I realized I'd been staring. At her chest. Very obviously.
"No!" I said too loudly. "I mean, no. I just... thought I'd see if you needed help. With anything."
She smirked.
"Heavy lifting," I continued, my mouth operating independently of my brain. "Or... light lifting. Or just... standing here. Being helpful. In a helpful way."
I wanted to throw myself into the nearest trash compactor.
---
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of grease on her cheek. It should have looked messy.
It looked perfect.
"You're in luck," she said, stepping closer.
She was tall, almost my height. When she leaned in, I could smell the oil and the faint, spicy scent of her soap. Her fingers reached for my collar, adjusting it, untucking it from where I'd strangely half-tucked it in my earlier panic attack of fashion decisions.
Her knuckles brushed my neck.
My entire body went rigid.
"Relax," she murmured. Her breath was warm against my jaw. "You're wound tighter than a hyperdrive coil."
"I'm relaxed," I squeaked. "Very relaxed. Maximum relaxation."
She patted my cheek, her palm warm against my skin. The touch left a faint grease mark that she didn't bother to wipe off.
"Good boy," she said. "Come on. I'll show you what needs touching."
I followed her to the workbench, trying to remember how legs worked.
---
The next two hours existed in a haze of engine grease and torture.
I held the work light while she welded, sparks cascading down her arms like falling stars. I memorized the way her jaw clenched when she concentrated, the way her tongue poked out slightly when she was focused on a delicate seam.
I handed her tools she hadn't asked for yet, just because I was watching her hands move, predicting the next requirement before she spoke.
"Hydrospanner."
I was already pressing it into her palm.
"Fusion cutter."
Already there.
She glanced at me, surprised, then grinned. "You're getting good at this."
"I pay attention," I said.
What I didn't say was that I paid attention to everything about her. The way she shifted her weight from foot to foot. The way she hummed tunelessly when she was thinking. The way her lekku twitched when she was frustrated.
At one point she needed leverage on a stubborn hydraulic line. She called me over, her voice casual.
"Hey, get behind me and hold this steady."
I positioned myself behind her, gripping the metal casing.
"Keep it level," she said, bending forward.
I stood there. My chest was inches from her back. My arms reached around her to grip the metal housing.
She shifted her weight, settling in to work.
Every time she moved the wrench, her hips rocked back slightly. The firm curve of her ass brushed against my thigh. Then my hip. A pressure that could have been accidental mechanics or could have been something else entirely.
My mouth went dry.
She rocked back again, more firmly this time, and I felt the full press of her backside against my groin. She adjusted her grip on the wrench, shifting, and the movement ground her against me in a way that made my vision blur.
I was getting hard. Very obviously, very inconveniently hard.
I tried to angle my hips away, to create some space, but the position made it impossible. Every time she moved, she pressed back against me, and my body was reacting with all the subtlety of a thermal detonator.
"You good back there?" she asked.
She didn't turn around. Her voice was casual. Normal. Like she hadn't noticed.
"Y-yeah," I croaked. "Just... hot in here."
"Is it?"
She glanced over her shoulder, smirking. Her eyes were dark in the dim light.
She held the position for a second longer than necessary. Then she straightened up suddenly, spinning around so we were chest to chest in the narrow space.
"Thanks, kid."
She was close enough that I could see the dusting of freckles across her nose. The silver stud in her eyebrow. The way her pupils dilated slightly in the low light.
I forgot how to blink.
"You can step back now," she said.
"Right," I managed. "Stepping. Back. Now."
I stepped back. My face was burning. So was every other part of me.
---
Later, she was trying to fit herself into a tight space beneath a landspeeder chassis. Her lekku kept falling forward into her face, blocking her vision.
She made a noise of frustration, muffled by metal.
"Alex," she called out. "Come here a sec."
I crouched down beside her. She was wedged halfway under the vehicle, only her upper body visible. Looking up at me with those vivid eyes.
"Hold these for me?" She flicked one lekku toward me, then the other. "Damn things have a mind of their own today."
I reached out, hesitant.
The thick appendages settled into my hands. They were heavier than I expected, warm and slightly rough in texture. Like suede wrapped around muscle. I'd always thought Twi'leks had perfect control over them.
But as I held them, they twitched and curled in my palms. Responding to some unconscious nervous signal from her.
"They're... moving," I said stupidly.
"Yeah," she laughed. The sound vibrated through the floor, up through my knees, into my chest. "They get restless when I'm frustrated. Just grip tighter."
I tightened my hold. My fingers sank into the flesh, and I stroked downward to keep them still.
The texture was hypnotic.
Ridges and soft skin. Warm and alive. I found myself running my thumbs along the length, feeling the subtle pulse of blood vessels beneath. The way they tapered toward the ends. I was holding them away from her face, but I was also just... touching them. Exploring.
Getting lost in the sensation of them filling my hands.
I traced my fingers along a ridge near the tip, and I felt her shiver through the concrete floor. A small sound escaped her mouth. Something between a gasp and a sigh.
I squeezed gently at the sensitive tip, and she went very still.
Time stopped existing.
I was just kneading them now, massaging the tapered ends with my thumbs. The flesh was softer there, more responsive. Every time I applied pressure, I felt the lekku twitch and curl tighter around my fingers. Like they wanted to be held.
"Alex."
I blinked.
She'd slid out from under the speeder. She was sitting up now, looking at me with a strange expression. Her cheeks were flushed a darker blue, and her breathing seemed different. Faster. Shallower.
I realized I was still holding her lekku, my fingers wrapped around them near the tips, gently kneading the sensitive ends.
I dropped them like they were on fire.
"Sorry!" I said. "I was just—I got distracted—they feel really—sorry."
She cleared her throat. Reached up to tuck the lekku behind her shoulders herself. Her eyes avoided mine for a second. Her fingers fidgeted with a stray wire on the floor.
"No, it's..." She paused. Her voice was huskier than before. "They're sensitive. Usually only family touches them."
"I didn't know," I said. My voice cracked. I wanted to die. I wanted to dig a hole through the concrete and bury myself.
She looked at me then. Really looked at me.
The corner of her mouth quirked up.
"S'okay," she said with a wink. "You can hold them anytime."
I gulped, feeling every drop of saliva in my throat dry up
---
The sun was suddenly orange. It streamed through the open garage door at a sharp angle, painting everything gold and long-shadowed. I checked my watch. My stomach dropped through the floor.
"Oh no," I said, scrambling up. "Oh no, no, no. It's almost seven-thirty."
"So?" She stood up, stretching. Her shirt rode up to expose a strip of stomach marred by a grease stain.
"So my mom—she'll—if I'm not home for dinner she sends out search parties." I was grabbing my bag, backing toward the door. "Literal search parties. Last month I was at the library and she called the police."
Vasha leaned against the workbench. Arms crossed under her chest. Watching me panic with amusement dancing in her eyes.
"Running home to mommy?"
"Don't," I groaned, pausing at the threshold. "Don't start."
"What?" She pushed off the bench and walked toward me. Hips swaying. Toolbelt jingling.
She stopped just inside my personal space. Reached out. Flicked my nose with a grease-stained finger.
"It's cute," she said. "My little momma's boy."
"I'm not—" I tried to sound offended, but my voice came out breathless.
She was so close.
The light was fading fast behind her, the garage filling with deepening shadows. Her eyes were dark and warm, and she was looking at me like she was amused and something else. Something I couldn't quite read.
"I just... she worries," I finished lamely.
"Sure she does."
She leaned in. Her lips brushed my ear as she whispered. Her breath was warm and damp against my skin, and I could feel the heat radiating off her body.
"Better run then, baby. Wouldn't want mommy to get jealous."
She pulled back with a wicked grin. Her hand came up to pat my cheek, lingering for just a second longer than necessary. Her thumb traced the edge of my jaw. Then she stepped back, giving me space to breathe.
"Same time tomorrow?"
"Yeah," I said. My voice was barely a whisper. "Tomorrow."
---
I stumbled out into the cooling evening air, my ears still ringing with the echo of her voice, my hands still remembering the weight and warmth of her. The sky had gone from gold to deep purple while I'd been inside, and the first stars were starting to prick through the haze above the Rat Destroyer's silhouette.
I took my usual route, cutting through the back streets to avoid the main drag where the evening crowd would be thick. My mind was somewhere else entirely, replaying the way she'd leaned in, the brush of her breath against my ear, the—
I stopped. Yellow barricades blocked the alley ahead, construction droids beeping and whirring as they tore up the pavement. A sign read: MUNICIPAL IMPROVEMENT PROJECT - BY ORDER OF MAYOR PALPATINE - THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE.
I checked my chrono. Seven forty-two. Mom was going to skin me alive.
I glanced left, then right. The park. It cut through to Maple Street, which connected to my block. It would shave off five minutes, easy. The only problem was that the park was... well, it was where people went when they didn't want to be found.
I weighed my options. Mom's disappointed face versus the vaguely creepy shortcut through overgrown bushes and broken lampposts.
Mom won. Mom always won.
I jogged toward the park entrance, pushing through the rusted gate. The hinges screamed like a wounded animal. Inside, the trees grew thick and wild, blocking out what little light remained in the sky. The path was cracked and uneven, weeds pushing through the duracrete. Someone had spray-painted something on a bench, but it was too dark to read.
I was halfway through when I heard the giggling.
It started low, bubbling up from somewhere behind the overgrown bushes to my left. High-pitched and broken, like someone had recorded a laugh and then cut it up and rearranged the pieces wrong.
"Wake up," the voice slithered out of the shadows, wet and thick. "Wake up, little sleeper."
A figure stepped out from behind a tree. It was Nari. I recognized him from the stories everyone at school passed around—the guy who had dropped out six years ago and vanished into the undercity, the cautionary tale about what happened when you chased the wrong high. He looked like a skeleton wrapped in dirty rags, his skin hanging off his frame in loose folds. His eyes were twin voids, the pupils blown so wide they swallowed the iris. He was grinning, but it wasn't a smile. It was just teeth.
"Nari," I said, keeping my voice even and stepping to the side. "Hey. Just passing through."
"Passing through," he repeated, giggling again. He shuffled toward me, his movements jerky, like a marionette with cut strings. "Nobody passes through. We're all just... caught in the net. Static on the screen."
I took a step back, trying to skirt around him. "Right. Okay. I really need to get home, so—"
"Home." He spat the word like it tasted rotten. "It's all code, man. Just wires and light." He tapped his temple hard enough that I heard the hollow thump. "The sky? It's a box. The buildings? Just a drawing. We're living in a ghost story."
"Sure, Nari," I said, edging away. "That's deep. I gotta go."
He reached into his jacket, and for a second my heart stopped, thinking knife, thinking weapon. But what he pulled out was a handful of thin glass vials, glowing faintly with some kind of luminescent liquid inside. Death sticks. The real stuff, not the watered-down crap they sold at the spaceport.
"You want to see the cracks?" He held them out to me, his hands shaking so badly that the vials clinked together. "One hit. Just one. You'll see the edges of the world. The pixels. The lie."
"I'm good," I said firmly. "I don't do that stuff."
His face changed. The manic energy drained out of it, replaced by something flat and desperate. "You're asleep. You're all asleep. You need to wake up before they reset the server."
"I'm not asleep. I'm just late."
He lunged. It was sloppy, uncoordinated, his body not responding to his brain the way it should. But he was still bigger than me, and his fingernails, long and jagged and caked with dirt, raked across the back of my hand as I threw my arms up to block.
Pain flared hot and immediate. Three lines of fire across my skin, blood welling up in thin red stripes.
I shoved him, hard, both hands flat against his chest. He stumbled backward, his arms flailing for balance, and I heard the crack of glass as two of the death stick vials shattered against a rock. The liquid inside hissed and bubbled, releasing a cloud of vapor that glowed faintly green in the darkness. I caught a whiff of it—sweet, chemical, cloying—before I turned to run.
I sprinted, my lungs burning, my hand throbbing, my blood dripping onto the cracked pavement behind me. I could hear Nari laughing in the distance, that broken-glass giggle echoing through the trees.
"Don't wake up!" he screamed after me. "Stay in the dream! Stay in the dream!"
I burst through the far gate and didn't stop running until I hit my street.
I slowed to a walk as my house came into view, trying to catch my breath. The porch light was on, a beacon of guilt shining through the evening gloom. My head felt swimmy, a strange buzzing starting behind my eyes—the lingering effect of the death stick smoke, I told myself.
Mom was standing on the front porch, her arms crossed tight under her chest. Even from down the block, I could see her foot tapping against the decking. She wasn't wearing her nightgown anymore—she'd changed into a light, floral sundress—but her hair was still down, wild around her shoulders. As I got closer, I saw her hands. She was clenching and unclenching her fists, the knuckles white.
Then she saw me.
The transformation was instant. The tension in her shoulders melted away, replaced by that wide, warm smile that took up her whole face. She uncrossed her arms and opened them wide, stepping down onto the walkway.
"There you are!" she called out, her voice singsong and bright. "I was starting to think you'd run away to join the spice miners."
"Sorry," I panted, stopping in front of her and instinctively tucking my bleeding hand behind my back. "Lost track of time at... the library."
"The library," she repeated, her smile fixed in place. She stepped forward and gathered me into her arms, pulling me tight against her. The hug was longer than usual, her fingers digging into my back through my shirt, pressing my chest against hers so hard I could feel her heartbeat hammering. "My poor baby. You're all sweaty. And you're shaking."
"Just ran home," I mumbled into her hair.
She pulled back, her hands sliding up to cup my face. Her thumbs stroked my cheeks, her eyes scanning my face with that intense, focused look. Then she leaned in, her nose brushing against my neck, and inhaled deeply.
The smile flickered.
She pulled back slowly, her fingers tightening on my jaw. Her eyes had gone hard, the pupils dilated. "You've been at that workshop again."
"What? No, I—"
"Don't lie to me, Alexander." Her voice was still soft, but there was an edge underneath it, sharp as broken glass. "I can smell her on you. That grease. That cheap soap." Her lip curled. "That dropout. That woman doing a man's job, getting her hands dirty, showing her stomach to everyone who walks by. I told you not to go there. She's a bad influence. Trash."
"It's not like that," I said, trying to pull away. "She's teaching me about engines. I want to be an engineer, remember? Like Dad was."
"Your father," she hissed, her fingers digging in harder, "would not have wanted you around that hussy."
I was about to argue, to make up something about the school workshop, when her eyes dropped to my hand. I had flinched at her grip, exposing the injury. The blood had dried slightly, but the cuts were still visible, three angry red lines across the skin.
She went completely still.
"What," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "is that?"
I felt cold panic flood my stomach. If she thought Vasha had hurt me, or that I'd gotten hurt because I was somewhere I wasn't supposed to be, she'd never let me leave the house again. She'd homeschool me. She'd lock the doors.
"It's nothing," I said quickly, pulling my hand back and hiding it behind my leg. "Just a scratch. I ran into Nari on the way home. You know, the junkie? The one who dropped out six years ago. He's... not doing well. He got a little aggressive, but it's fine. Really. Just a scratch."
Her head tilted. The silence stretched out, heavy and buzzing. The buzzing in my own head grew louder, the porch light seeming to hum and flicker at the edge of my vision.
For just a second, the world tilted sideways. I looked at her, and the brown seemed to drain away from her eyes, leaving them black and bottomless, like holes punched into the fabric of reality. Behind her, her shadow stretched out long and twisted against the siding of the house, sprouting extra, spindly limbs that writhed in the darkness.
I blinked hard, shaking my head.
She was smiling again, sweet and concerned, her eyes their normal warm brown. The shadow was just a shadow. Just the smoke in my lungs. I was imagining it.
She reached out and took my injured hand gently, her touch feather-light now, examining the cuts with a mother's care.
"That boy," she said softly, her thumb tracing around the wound without touching it. "He's always been trouble. A bad element."
Then, so fast I almost missed it, she brought my hand to her mouth.
Her lips pressed against the scratches, soft and warm, and I felt her tongue dart out, licking away the blood that had beaded along the cuts. It stung and soothed at the same time, and I stood frozen, unable to process what was happening.
"Mom," I said weakly. "That's... you don't have to..."
She looked up at me, her eyes dark and intense, my hand still pressed to her mouth. "My baby got hurt," she murmured against my skin. "Mommy makes it better."
She kissed each scratch individually, slow and deliberate, her lips lingering on my skin longer than they needed to. When she finally released my wrist, there was a faint smear of blood on her lower lip. She licked it away, still holding my gaze.
"We should go inside," she said, tucking my hand against her chest, holding it there over her heart. "I'll get the medkit. We need to clean this properly. No infection for my baby."
She turned toward the house, keeping my hand trapped in hers, pulling me along. But as we walked up the steps, I glanced back at her face. She was looking over my shoulder, down the street toward the direction I'd come from, toward where Nari was probably still lurking.
Her expression was blank, her mouth set in a thin line.
But then she looked at me, and the warmth flooded back into her face like a switch being flipped. "Come on, slowpoke. First aid, then dinner. I made nerf steak. Your favorite."
I followed her in, my hand tingling where her mouth had been, and tried to convince myself that everything was normal.
Because it was. It was all perfectly, completely normal.
__
[next morning]
The couch was old and sagged in the middle, which meant that no matter how I positioned myself, I ended up sliding toward the center. I'd learned to just accept it years ago. What I hadn't learned to accept was Mom deciding that my lap made an excellent pillow.
She was stretched out along the length of the cushions, her body taking up most of the space, her head resting on my thigh with her face turned toward the ceiling. Every time I tried to lift my fork to my mouth, she shifted slightly, her cheek pressing against the fabric of my shorts, and I had to readjust my plate to avoid dropping scrambled eggs on her forehead.
"Mom," I said, trying to balance the plate on the armrest. "Can you stop moving?"
"Hmm?" She blinked up at me, all innocence, her hair fanning out across my lap like dark water. "I'm not moving."
"You literally just—" I gestured vaguely with my fork. "You keep doing this thing with your head."
"I'm getting comfortable," she said, closing her eyes again. Her hand came up to rest on my knee, fingers curling around the joint in a loose grip. "Your legs are bony. I need to find the right spot."
She demonstrated by turning her head to the side, her nose pressing against my stomach through my t-shirt, and inhaling deeply. I felt the breath warm against my skin, followed by a contented hum that vibrated through my abdomen.
"You smell like sleep still," she murmured against my belly. "I love morning Alex smell."
"That's weird," I said, stabbing at my eggs. "That's objectively a weird thing to say."
She laughed, the sound muffled by my shirt, and her hand squeezed my knee. She turned her head again, settling back into position with her face toward the ceiling, and this time her head definitely pressed higher on my thigh. I shifted my hips backward, trying to create distance, but the sagging couch just pulled me back toward the center.
"Pass me your juice," she said, reaching a hand up without opening her eyes.
I handed her the glass, watching her take a long drink while lying down, somehow not spilling a drop. She handed it back, and I noticed the faint smear of her lip gloss on the rim. I drank from the other side of the glass, but she made a small noise of amusement anyway.
"We're sharing," she said, like it was a victory.
On the television, the morning news was running through the usual lineup. The anchor, a Rodian with an impressive mustache that shouldn't have been possible on his species, shuffled his papers and looked directly into the camera.
"In local politics, Mayor Palpatine has announced a new initiative to improve traffic flow through the downtown corridor. The project, codenamed 'Order 66,' will involve the strategic elimination of all jaywalkers. The Mayor assures citizens that this is purely for safety purposes and definitely not about control."
The screen cut to a clip of the Mayor standing at a podium, his smile too wide, flanked by identical security guards in white armor. "The roads will be clear," he was saying, his voice crackling with static. "Clear of all obstacles. All of them. Every. Single. One."
Mom snorted. "I voted for him, you know. He promised to fix the potholes on Fifth Street."
"Did he fix them?"
"No. But he did install those lovely surveillance cameras on every corner. I feel so much safer."
The anchor returned, his antennae twitching. "In entertainment news, local daredevil Han Solo and his companion, a large hairy gentleman known only as 'Chewie,' have successfully completed the legendary Kessel Mountain Drop. The stunt involved piloting a modified shopping cart—welded together from seventeen separate carts stolen from the Tosche Station parking lot—down the steepest face of Mount Kessel in under twelve parsecs."
Footage played of a screaming human clinging to a rattling metal contraption as it hurtled down a near-vertical cliff face, a massive Wookiee somehow crammed in beside him, roaring into the wind. The cart caught air off a ridge, spinning twice, before crashing into a snowbank at the bottom. Both occupants emerged covered in powder, arms raised in triumph.
"When asked for comment," the anchor continued, "Solo reportedly said, and I quote, 'Never tell me the odds, because I genuinely don't understand math.'"
I chuckled, and Mom made a pleased sound at my laughter, nuzzling her cheek against my thigh like a cat seeking attention. Her hand had migrated from my knee to my lower thigh, her thumb tracing idle patterns on the inside of my leg.
"In other news," the anchor said, his tone shifting to something more serious, "a controversial podcast has been gaining traction among youth demographics. 'The Swamp Sessions,' hosted by an unidentified amphibian with a documented ketamine dependency, has been criticized by Mayor Palpatine's office for spreading 'dangerous misinformation.'"
The screen showed a green, wrinkled creature sitting in what appeared to be a mud pit, its eyes half-closed, speaking in a backwards cadence that the network had helpfully subtitled.
"Corrupt, the mayor is. Hmm, yes. Rats, there are none. A lie, it all is. Ketamine, I require. Donated, it can be, to my—"
The feed cut abruptly.
"Technical difficulties," the anchor said smoothly. "Moving on."
Mom was playing with the hem of my shorts now, her fingers slipping just under the fabric to trace the skin of my thigh. I shifted again, and she responded by pressing her head more firmly against my lap, pinning me in place.
"Mom."
"What?" She looked up at me with those wide, innocent eyes. "I'm just lying here. Is that a crime now?"
Before I could answer, the news anchor's voice cut through with a different tone. Sharper. More urgent.
"Breaking news just in. The body of a local teenager has been discovered in Anchorhead City Park this morning. The victim, identified as Nari Delvik, age twenty-six, was found by an early morning jogger near the fountain plaza. Authorities report that the body showed signs of extreme trauma, including numerous lacerations across the torso and limbs."
My fork clattered against the plate.
The screen showed the park, the familiar walking paths now cordoned off with yellow tape. Stormtrooper units were milling around in the background while a forensics droid hovered over a white sheet that covered something on the ground. The shape underneath was wrong, somehow. Too flat in places.
"Preliminary reports suggest the attack was prolonged and methodical," the anchor continued, his voice carefully neutral. "Sources within the department describe the scene as 'excessive' and 'indicating significant rage on the part of the perpetrator.' No suspects have been identified at this time, and authorities are urging anyone with information to come forward."
A photograph of Nari appeared on screen. It was a mugshot, not his school ID. He looked older, his face gaunt, eyes hollowed out from years of death sticks. He looked like the guy who scratched my hand last night.
"Jesus," I muttered, staring at the screen. "That's... that's the guy from yesterday. The one who jumped me."
Mom sat up slowly, propping herself on one elbow. She looked at the TV, then back at me, her expression softening into concern. She reached out, brushing a stray hair off my forehead.
"The junkie?" she asked, her voice low. "The one who hurt your hand?"
"Yeah." I felt a weird mix of nausea and relief. "I guess he finally pissed off the wrong person. Look at him... he's just meat now."
"Good," Mom said, the word slipping out before she could catch it. She cleared her throat, looking back at the TV with a frown. "I mean... it's tragic. But he was always a bad seed, Alex. I told you not to go near that part of town. People like that... they attract violence. It's like flies to garbage."
On the screen, the feed cut live to Mayor Palpatine again. He looked grave, his hands clasped in front of him.
"Tragic," the Mayor said, his voice crackling with static. "Simply tragic. But let us not panic. We will be deploying additional security forces immediately. And I think we must finally acknowledge what many have suspected—the rat population has grown brazen. This is clearly the work of vermin. Large, aggressive vermin. Possibly mutated." He leaned into the camera, his eyes reflecting the red recording light. "The Rat Destroyer will be fully operational by week's end. We will clean up these streets. Thoroughly."
"Rats," Mom scoffed, resting her head back on my knee, though she kept her eyes on the screen. "Please. That boy had enemies from here to Tatooine. Probably owed money to the wrong Hutt."
She turned her head, looking up at me again. Her hand moved from my thigh to my chest, resting right over my heart.
"You see?" she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "This is why I worry. The world is full of animals, Alex. They look like people, but they're just... animals. They tear each other apart."
"He was a tweaker, Mom. He got what was coming to him."
"Maybe," she said, her thumb rubbing small circles on my shirt. "But he didn't deserve to be ripped apart like that. It's disgusting. It's why you need to be careful. Why you need to stay where it's safe."
She sat up fully, cupping my face in both hands. Her grip was tight, her eyes intense.
"Promise me you won't go near the park. Or that workshop after dark. You stay near me, okay? I'll always protect you. I won't let any of the rats touch you."
"I'm not going near any rats," I said, pulling back slightly. "I gotta go to school, Mom."
"School is fine," she conceded, letting me go. "School has walls. Walls are good."
She grabbed the remote and flipped the channel to something bright and cheerful, effectively ending the conversation.
"Finish your eggs," she said, picking up my fork and handing it to me. "They're getting cold. And then you can help me fold the laundry. I want you close today."
I took the fork, glancing back at the TV one last time before she blocked the view with her body. The Mayor was still smiling about the rats.
It was messed up, sure. But Nari was gone. And honestly? I wasn't that sad about it.
"Fine," I said, taking a bite. "But I'm not folding the underwear."
"We'll see," she hummed, resting her chin on my shoulder and watching me eat. "We'll see."
__
The school gates loomed ahead, Mom's hand still resting on my shoulder like she couldn't quite let go. She'd insisted on walking me today, something about "wanting fresh air" and "checking the route was safe," but I knew it was because of the news.
"It's been a while since I've seen your school," she said, her eyes scanning the building like she was cataloging escape routes. "They repainted the gymnasium."
"Yeah, last summer. Mom, you really don't have to—"
"Alex!"
The voice hit me like a speeder at full throttle. Leia Organa materialized out of nowhere, her cheerleader uniform somehow immaculate despite the morning heat, her hair done up in those elaborate twin buns that must have taken hours.
She didn't slow down. She crashed into me, her arms wrapping around my neck, her body pressing against mine with zero regard for personal space. Her chest squished against my arm as she clung there, warm and soft and way too close.
"I've been looking everywhere for you! Did you hear about Nari? It's so awful, everyone's talking about it, the girls are freaking out, and Principal Grievous is having some kind of episode in his office—"
She was still talking, but I'd stopped processing words. Her fingers were tracing little circles on my chest through my shirt, her nails dragging lightly over the fabric.
"Leia," I said, trying to lean back. "Leia, hey, personal space—"
"Oh, don't be such a stick in the mud." She pouted, flicking my nose. "You're so tense. Need a massage? I give great massages."
"That's... very kind of you," Mom said. Her voice was sweet, like honey poured over broken glass.
Leia froze. She slowly turned her head, realizing for the first time that there was a grown woman attached to my other arm.
Mom was smiling. It was the kind of smile that showed all her teeth. Her eyes were narrowed to slits, but her lips were curved up perfectly. She didn't let go of me. In fact, she pulled me closer, marking territory.
"I'm Alex's mother," Mom said, extending the hand that wasn't attached to me. "You must be the little hussy I've heard so much about."
Leia blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I mean, the friend," Mom corrected, her smile not wavering an inch. "You're very... forward. Is that the style these days? Rubbing yourself all over strange boys in public?"
Leia's face went through about six different colors in two seconds. Her hands withdrew from me like I'd suddenly caught fire, and she took a full step back.
"I wasn't—we're just—it's not like that—"
"Of course not." Mom's hand squeezed my arm, her nails digging in just slightly. "I'm sure you treat all your male classmates with such... enthusiasm."
"I should go," Leia said, already backing away. "Class. Bell. Soon. Bye Alex!"
She practically sprinted toward the building.
Mom watched her go, that smile still frozen on her face. Her grip on my arm didn't loosen.
"She seems nice," Mom said, the words dripping with something that definitely wasn't sincerity. "Very... touchy."
"Mom, she's just like that with everyone—"
"Is she?" Mom turned to look at me, her eyes searching my face. "Does she press her little body against everyone like that? Make circles on their chest with her fingers?"
"I don't—I mean, probably? She's just friendly."
"Friendly." Mom repeated the word like she was tasting something sour. She reached up and smoothed down my shirt where Leia had been touching, her palm pressing flat against my chest. "Well. I suppose I'll have to trust your judgment."
She didn't sound like she trusted my judgment at all.
"Be safe," she said finally, releasing me. "Stay away from... strangers."
I fled before she could say anything else.
The hallways buzzed with Nari's name. Everyone had a theory.
Death sticks deal gone wrong. Hutt enforcers. Jealous ex. The Mayor's rat extermination squad getting overzealous.
By third period, Mr. Pau had given up trying to teach and just let us gossip while he polished his ruler and stared out the window like he was contemplating the void.
Jax cornered me at lunch, sliding into the seat across from mine with the manic energy of someone who'd had too much caf and not enough sleep.
"Okay, so," he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "you know Mr. V's old speeder? The vintage one he keeps in that busted garage behind his house?"
"The black one that looks like a hearse?"
"That's the one." Jax pointed at me. "So my cousin's girlfriend's brother works at the parts shop on Fifth, right? And he says Nari and some of his tweaker buddies smashed out all the windows on that thing like two months ago. Bats, rocks, the whole deal. Completely trashed it."
"Okay, and?"
"And Mr. V didn't report it. Didn't call the cops, didn't file insurance, nothing." Jax's eyes were wide. "He just stood there in his driveway the next morning, looking at the damage, breathing all heavy with that mask thing. Then he went back inside. Didn't say a word to anyone."
I thought about the smoke rising from Mr. V's yard this morning. The grinding sound of that ancient lawnmower.
"That doesn't mean he killed anyone."
"I'm just saying." Jax leaned back, crossing his arms. "Guy's got history. Weird history. And now Nari's dead, looking like something went at him with a blender, and nobody wants to talk about the creepy neighbor who got his windows smashed?"
"You don't know he did anything."
"I don't know he didn't."
The bell rang before I could argue further. Jax gathered his things, still muttering theories under his breath.
I watched him go, thinking about broken glass and that wheezing breath that sounded like screaming that sometimes drifted from Mr. V's property at night.
Probably nothing.
Probably just the wind.