Jagen Danner
Greased Lightning
NAR SHADDAA
LOWER LEVELS
SOME TIME AGO
Anything that glistened down here was usually covered in water, oil, or blood. This thing, though, this thing was actually shiny. Jagen cradled it in the cracked palms of his small hands and regarded its alien beauty with fascinated eyes for a long moment. Through the clearest, most crystalline, piece of glass Jagen had ever seen, a red gem emitted a weak glow. Maybe it was simply an ornate box? The boy marvelled at such an idea. When the wonder of it had worn off a touch, the boy raised it to his ear and shook it gently. Nothing. His expression was quizzical now, as the question of function filtered through his grey matter. What could it be for? It had no visible buttons, or catches, or levers. Not even a crack or a seam marred the craftmanship of this oblong object. Then, curiosity turned to greed. How much would such a majestic trinket be worth? He quickly checked over each shoulder.
Enough to kill for, no doubt.
Sith, Jagen had killed for less. His first was four years ago, or sometime around then. He must have been only five or six. During a particularly harsh few months in the underlevels, he managed to catch a rat. The biggest, fattest, juiciest rat he'd ever seen. It would be dinner for days - his salvation from starvation. Only a young Rodian whom Jagen was somewhat friendly with thought the same thing. They tussled in a dimly lit and barren atrium, illuminated by the only lightstrip that still worked. It flickered in time with the struggle. Every punch, a flash. Every grapple, a pulse. Until, finally, when they were both wrestling in a stalemate on the ground, Jagen's hand found a stray lump of scrap metal. The rest is history, and the young boy enjoyed his fat, juicy, rat.
Having risen to his feet, Jagen took the opportunity to look around properly. The dingy steel room was empty, with only the distant hum of machinery and the broken lights of a diagnostics console to keep the boy company. He listened intently for footsteps and, satisfied that he was truly alone, shoved the fascinating object into a tattered sack slung by his hip. After which, he sighed deeply. It was time to make the journey skyward. Only those on the upper levels, Jagen reckoned, had the creds for something so obviously exquisite. It was a dangerous journey in of itself, nevermind the added danger and paranoia of an ornate trinket burning a hole in his pocket. With a hurried pace, the boy left the room and entered one of many winding corridors home to Nar Shaddaa's underlevels. Maybe he could buy some warm clothes or, better yet, a blaster. Then nobody would steal from him again.
He grinned.
Starting a backstory writing exercise for my character, just lil ol' me and my creative juices. If you're reading this, feel free to send me feedback on my writing - it's been years since I've done it.