Unknown Shadowport - Kothlis
Persephone Dashiell
Ezekiel blinked.
Real slow.
Like maybe if he did it at just the right speed, this entire situation would vanish when his eyes opened again.
No such luck.
The girl was
still there. Still jabbing him in the chest like she had a right to. Still flinging accusations like her words weren't slicing through years he'd buried under back-alley deals and half-empty bottles.
And stars, she was loud.
"Hello?! HELLO?" Disbelief crept into her voice. "I'm thinkin' its you that owes me a hello first."
That got him.
His brow inched up, mouth curling slow into something that was halfway to a grin and all the way to
are you kriffing serious? The kind of look a man gave when he couldn't decide whether to laugh or walk straight off the nearest ledge.
He took another long sip from his glass. The drink was awful. Burned in a way that suggested the distiller had confused engine degreaser for whiskey. Still, he sipped it like it was the finest Chandrilan reserve, just to give himself a reason not to respond.
Because what
did you say to something like that?
More importantly -- what
could you say when the kid looked like she might go nuclear if he so much as breathed the wrong way?
"You run off leavin' my Mama swollen like a tick with me without so much a goodbye or contact and yous is expectin' common courtesy? I ain't got much of that left to give."
Another jab.
Nine Hells, the girl had aim.
Ezekiel's head tilted to the side, just a bit. His expression shifted into that worn, weathered kind of sarcastic confusion that said:
You hearin' yourself right now?
Because none of this made sense.
She was angry --
fuming -- but the words coming out of her mouth were so sideways, so
absurd, he couldn't help the snort that slipped out. Not a laugh. Just a sound, sharp and skeptical.
He turned.
Just like that -- turned away from her, like she was a broken navchart that couldn't possibly apply to
his coordinates. A man who'd survived warzones, syndicate betrayals, and half a dozen close brushes with Hutt collectors wasn't about to get dragged into a soap opera in the middle of a docking bay.
Let the girl yell. Let her poke. He had better things to do. The shiny droid was not worth it.
And yet--
"How come you ain't never come and seen me? I ain't good enough for yous?"
He paused.
Just one beat. Half a breath.
Then, slowly,
very slowly, he looked back over his shoulder, brow raised like she'd just asked him if Banthas could do calculus.
"You done yet?"
His voice wasn't loud. Wasn't angry. Wasn't even
defensive. It was low, like gravel under boots, with that lazy slope of a man who had no patience for drama but couldn't quite peel his eyes away from it either.
"Kid, I dunno who fed you that particular space tale, but I think maybe you got me mixed up with someone else. 'Cause whatever version of me you think did all that?" He gave a shrug, exaggerated just enough to sting.
"He ain't home."
He pivoted fully this time, making it clear he had every intention of walking. Not running. Not arguing. Just leaving -- like all of this was someone else's mess.
Because if this girl
was who she said she was…?
Well, then stars help him.
Because the past had just caught up, and it had
opinions.