Grada sat nervously in the driver's seat of a small speeder, which he had steered into a narrow alleyway not far from the arena. A considerable amount of time had passed, and with every passing minute, his doubts grew stronger.
The stranger who had helped him turned out to be far too peculiar for the city in which Grada had grown up. He practically seethed with energy; he was... Yes, he clearly had a future—he had a Dream. Grada himself had never really given much thought to his own dream, but if he had to single something out, it would undoubtedly be Freedom.
He was a descendant of slaves—of some generation or another—and under the harsh local laws, he belonged to the very same master as his mother. In truth, there was a multitude of people like him here; while "fresh blood" was certainly brought in from time to time, the vast majority were those who had been born and raised in bondage, never having known the "scent" of freedom. Sadly, his parents had passed away a year ago, and Grada himself frequently sabotaged his work—a habit that earned him regular beatings and meant he received next to no food from his master.
But now—sitting behind the controls of an ancient, rickety, yet still-functional speeder (for which Taales—as his benefactor had introduced himself—somehow possessed top-level access codes)—he was free. It was exactly as he had dreamed. Yet, at the same time, he sensed that this freedom was not without its limits. On one hand, he could do exactly as Taales had instructed... but that would make him a criminal. This was no longer a game; if things went wrong, he wouldn't get off with just a beating this time. Most likely, death would await him—and not an easy death, either, for the authorities here loved to make an example of less fortunate souls for the benefit of the other slaves.
But there was yet another facet to his newfound freedom... Where was he supposed to go? He was just a child; even if he managed to reach another town, what then? He would be seized like a runaway slave and executed just as publicly—or, even simpler, caught and enslaved by some other sentient being.
Suddenly, his decidedly un-childlike thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a shuttle flying overhead on a low orbital trajectory; it hovered near his hiding spot, whereupon figures—sentient beings—began rappelling down from it. Killing the engine and cautiously peeking around the corner of the building, Grada spotted several squads of mercenaries; on some of them, the emblem of Jabba the Hutt's House was clearly visible. Everything was exactly as Taales had predicted. Yet, even though he had been warned, a cold sweat broke out across the boy's body, and his hands began to tremble from the sudden surge of adrenaline.
Returning to his speeder and taking a couple of deep breaths, he slid into the seat and fired up the engine once more. It was time to make a choice. Flee far away, sell the speeder, and try to sign on with the crew of some pirate ship? Or...
Grada was so lost in thought that he didn't immediately notice the bright crimson flare in the sky—the lingering trace of Taales's signal rocket. The light, blooming vividly in the gloom, reflected in his large, gleaming eyes, masking his true thoughts as the lad steered his beat-up contraption toward the alley's exit.
The time for soul-searching was over. Now he had to choose, for the city would soon be cordoned off—if it hadn't been already—and if he wanted to get the hell out of here in one piece, he had to hurry... Yet, for some reason, Grada simply couldn't shake the nasty, lingering sensation that weighed upon his soul...