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It's been a while since Ian last had a job that was above-board, one that didn't have him dodging patrol droids and circling his intended drop-off point just to make sure his tracks were covered. He's into smuggling for two reasons: credits and danger. The lifestyle is such that the two rarely go hand-in-hand, and it's easy to wind up with too little of the latter and not enough of the former. It’s why jobs like this are so great; pays well, easy in, easy out, all without having fifteen different bounty hunters riding his ass afterwards. He hates having to lay low until the heat dies down, hates being forced to take the first low-paying job that comes around afterwards because he needs to make up for lost time.
Everyone knows that the High Council likes to stick to their own people for most assignments. It's rare that they call on an outsider for anything, but it just so happens that this is one of those times, the Order stretched too thin, overworked and overwhelmed with all the other things happening around the Republic. Ian and Firwiramak’s current gig has them playing bodyguard for some kids and their Master as they make their way up Perlemian Trade Route to some conference or another on the other side of the system. The job pays well and has a relatively low risk, which is all Ian cares about after this last disastrous shitshow of a mission.
"You just let me do all the talking," Ian tells Firwiramak, mostly for the sake of saying something. The two Jedi assigned with guiding them through the Temple of Coruscant haven’t uttered a single word and it’s starting to creep Ian out. The Temple’s ornate halls don’t do much to soothe him; Ian feels like he’s one misstep away from breaking something, though there’s hardly anything lining the halls to break.
Predictably, Firwiramak starts cursing him, saying all manner of things that aren't suitable for the polite company of their escorts. Hardly anyone speaks Ssi-ruuvi outside of the Ssi-ruuk themselves, so for all they know Firwiramak's chatting about the weather instead of detailing all the delightful ways he'd fuck Ian's father, a whore who stood out among the best of them, though Firwiramak assures Ian that he’d be able to teach even a well versed whore like Ian’s father a thing or two.
Ian’s only barely able to pronounce Firwiramak's name correctly, but he understands the language just fine; it's a battle for Ian to keep a straight face so that the wizards don't catch on.
The Jedi drop them off at a room to wait, glad to be rid of Ian and his partner if the look they share is anything to go off of.
It isn’t all that long of a wait for for their charges to show up. The pair of padawans or younglings or whatever are younger than Ian had been expecting, especially the boy, who looks like he's just barely hit double digits. The girl is older, though not by much. Their Master looks like an emotion hasn't crossed his face since the Separatist Crisis. Ian shoots a look Firwiramak's way and finds the reptile already looking back.
"Oh wow," the boy says, running right up to Firwiramak and putting his grubby little hands right on Ian's partner's knee. "A Ssi-ruu! With brown scales too."
Any points that the kid gains for actually knowing about Ssi-ruuk hierarchy are nulled out by the fact that he commented on it, especially since Firwiramak's brown scales place him as lowest of the low. To his credit, Firwiramak doesn't so much as twitch, but Ian's livid enough that he wishes he was the one with a muzzle stuffed with a few thousand tiny teeth, so that he could bite the little bastard's head off.
"Timothy," the kid's Master scolds, obviously horrified. Looks like the old bastard has some emotion in him yet. "I'm terribly sorry," he tells Firwiramak, who whistles and clicks back that it doesn't matter.
Ian isn't about to be so forgiving. He decides to take liberties with his translation, saying, "Make sure it doesn't happen again."
Timothy seems to notice that Ian's actually in the room then, his eyes darting over and quickly going wide. "Oh wow," the kid stutters as his neck and cheeks go pink.
"Yes, well," their Master says, before introducing himself as Alex Gran'dis. "This is my Padawan, Lex," he gestures to the girl, who nods at them. "And your friend there has already met Timothy. He’s yet to’ve been taken under a Master’s tutelage." The and I’m sure it shows goes unspoken.
Ian rolls his eyes and points a thumb his partner's way. "Firwiramak and Ian Mal, free traders extraordinaire, at your service."
The three of them look uncertain, awkwardly shifting their feet and avoiding Ian's eye — well, except for Timothy, who isn't so much as avoiding Ian's gaze as he is staring at Ian's entire face with a level of intensity that Ian can already tell is going to be a problem.
Ian sighs. "He goes by Mak, if that's any easier."
⥼ ⥽
Timothy sticks to Ian like the worst kind of squib, practically stepping on Ian's heels as they climb up through the cargo bay to board Ian's ship.
Firwiramak does most of the pre-flight prep work, since Ian's distracted with shoving the kid out from underfoot. Timothy keeps asking stupid questions and so Ian gives him curt answers; stuff like where Ian's from (Stewjon) , if Ian's married (what the hell does it matter to you; you're, like, five), how long Ian's been a smuggler (too damn long, and this trip may be what finally gets him to retire) — things that keep getting Ian off track. Ian makes sure that the tidbits he shares never promote further probing, but he slips up when Timothy finally locks in on the one thing Ian can talk about for hours.
"What's your ship called, anyway? It's one of CEC's, right?" Ian asks.
That sets Ian off, has him explaining that the YT-1210 series is the best of the YTs, that his baby is the best of those best. She’s able to do anything, handle anything, and that's why he's named her Chaos Theory. He's so caught up in his explanation that he doesn't even notice that he’s sat down in the co-pilot chair, turned to the side so he can keep track of Timothy as they talk. Firwiramak steers them out of the docking bay and up into the atmosphere, easily breaking away from the planet's gravitational hold and into space.
When he eventually does notice, Ian gives Firwiramak a dirty look but keeps quiet. The only thing worse than not piloting your own damn ship is admitting that you got outsmarted out of it in the first place.
"So what's the deal?" Ian asks, swiveling away from the latest line of Timothy's questioning so that he's looking at Gran'dis instead. "Why're you taking two kids all the way out to Rhen Var?" Ian isn’t expecting an answer, but he doesn’t see how it can hurt to ask.
Gran'dis has been ignoring Ian and Firwiramak for the most part, leaving Ian to play babysitter while he talks in hushed tones to his apprentice. He makes a show of fussing with his robes, smoothing out the wrinkles before he deigns to give a scruffy nerf herder like Ian an answer.
"Timothy has passed his Initiate Trials and is ready to be taken on as a Padawan," Gran'dis explains. "The Council believes that the Knight most suited to be his mentor is a Master Owen, who’s currently stationed at Rhen Var, so to Rhen Var we must go."
That's news to Ian. "You guys get matched up to specific kids?" Gran'dis all but rolls his eyes.
Everything about the Jedi and their ways had been shrouded in secrets since they first sprung up; Ian forced himself to bite back all the comments he had about how it wasn’t his fault that he don’t know shit about things that were purposefully kept secret anyway.
"If a Seer on the council sees a greater destiny for a Padawan, the Council will step in and make sure that said Padawan embarks on the right path to achieve it. Master Hamm specifically saw that Master Owen would best guide Timothy; though it may be hard to believe, Timothy is one of the most Force-sensitive younglings we've had in centuries," Gran'dis paused, obviously intending to say more but giving Ian time to digest what had already been said.
He was right, Ian did have a hard time believing it. Everyone knew of Hamm, the weird Yoda who served as Master of the Jedi Order while still managing to play a major hand in the Republic's technological leaps. That someone as important as Hamm directly involved in Timothy's education was —
Just who in the hell was this kid?
"In fact," Gran'dis said, finally continuing. "It was Master Hamm who said that you, Mister Mal, had to be the one to transport us to Rhen Var in the first place."
Ian did not like the sound of that. "Seriously, are we talking about the same kid? Timmy seems about five seconds away from pullin' a Bindo and you're telling me he's got all this hoo-doo shit surrounding him?"
"Mister Mal, please," Gran'dis says before he's cut off by Timothy's sharp inhalation of breath.
"I've never had a nickname before," Timothy breathes, slightly wondrous. His hand clamps on to Ian's wrist and he stares up into Ian's eyes with his own wide ones.
⥼ ⥽
After all the talk of great destiny, Ian had expected their journey to go far less smoothly than it had. The Chaos lands on the snow-packed ridges of Rhen Var right on time, Master Owen waiting for them at the landing bay and not kidnapped or killed or any of the other things Ian was half-expecting to’ve happened to the Jedi before they arrived.
Ian and Firwiramak stand off to the side as the two Masters perform their complicated greeting. It all sounds like half-veiled brags and pointless showmanship to Ian, but he keeps that to himself. Timothy's introduction to his new Master seems to go well enough, if the hair tousle Master Owen gives him is anything to go by.
Once the impromptu ceremony is over, Timothy rushes back to where Ian and Firwiramak are standing. He takes one of Firwiramak's talons into both of his hands, shaking it gently, "Thank you for ensuring our safe passage, Mister Mak."
Firwiramak actually looked touched. He always had a soft spot for younglings:, half biological need to take care of other warm blooded animals like himself, half because he was a sap who couldn't help loving anything smaller and squishier than he was; he always pulled that as his excuse for why he kept Ian around, anyway.
"And you too of course, Mister Mal." Timothy let go of Firwiramak and turned to Ian, skipping the handshaking and going right in for a hug, his arms wrapped tight around Ian's hips, his face pressed against the thin fabric of Ian's shirt. Pulling back, he added, "I very much look forward to our paths crossing again, some day. I’m sure the Force will see fit to making it happen."
A ways away from them, Master Owen laughs, proving that he probably is the person best suited to put up with the kid's bullshit. Gran'dis, meanwhile, barely bothers to stifle his groan, and his Padawan doesn't bother to hide hers at all.
Ian sighs and pats Timothy on the head a few times, resigned. He doesn't have to be force-sensitive to predict that this is all going to come back and screw Ian over in a couple of years.