Chapter Text
“Sign here,” the loading droid barked, thrusting a datapad at him.
“Yeah, yeah,” Greez muttered, taking it and scrawling his name across the glitchy surface. “You better not have gotten mud all over my flooring.”
The droid ignored this “Your cargo is secured. Please proceed with your departure.” It rolled away, dousing Greez’s feet with muddy water.
Greez cursed and shook the oily deluge off his boots. “Good for nothing rustbucket. ‘Sign here.’ ‘Leave now.’ ‘Ignore the mess I’ve made all over your decks.’ Blasted bunch of circuits.”
He made his way up the Mantis ramp and ducked inside, glaring back out at the dreary Bracca rain.
Kriff, Greez hated cargo transport, but when a manufacturer offered you triple pay to go pick up a dozen crates of droid parts after their first hire canceled, you took the job and ignored the oil and grime that the loading droids would surely track all over your beautiful ship.
Especially when you owed the Haxion Brood a gambling debt. Sorc Tormo had made it known recently that he was not pleased Greez hadn’t yet repaid him. Greez was just lucky that the Mantis was as fast as she was, or there would have been a lot more damage than some dings to the paint.
Whatever. The stuff was loaded now, which means he could get off this miserable rock of a planet. He trusted those scrappers even less than he trusted the loading droids. He’d seen them eyeing the Mantis, and like hell would Greez let some grubby scrap rat get their paws on his ship.
Grumbling, Greez sealed the hatch and made his way to the cockpit. The synthetic managing dock traffic seemed just as eager for Greez to depart as the loader droid had, and Greez was soon maneuvering the Mantis skyward, darting away through the rain-shrouded air.
The ship’s ascent into atmosphere was smooth despite the foul weather, and Greez relaxed fully as she reached orbit. He inputted the coordinates for their next stop, patting the Mantis’s consol lovingly with one hand.
“Huldamun, here we come,” Greez murmured, and pressed the button.
The Mantis shook a little more than usual as she jumped to hyperspace, and Greez frowned, making a mental note to have his ship checked out by a mechanic once he’d delivered the cargo, in case his run in with Tormo’s bounty hunters had done more damage than he’d originally thought. Though why those manufacturers wanted a bunch of torn up droid parts was beyond him.
Shaking his head, Greez went to inspect the loading damage.
Greez knelt by the entrance hatch, and scowled at the no longer smooth floor. The loading droids had scuffed the deck, leaving odd divots and grease marks scuffed across his once pristine floor. Because of course they had. Greez cursed and went to find his good cleaning supplies to buff it out.
Twenty minutes later, he’d already gone through one bucket of stain remover, but the first three feet of flooring gleamed anew. Greez scrubbed at the floor, humming to himself. Was it odd to find cleaning soothing? Maybe, but Greez was willing to cop to stranger quirks when it was on behalf of his beloved Mantis.
He was just starting on a new scrape, when a muffled thump echoed down the hallway.
Greez paused, metal buffer in hand, and lifted his head from the scuffed flooring. Potential damage or not, he knew every sound that was supposed to be onboard his ship. More importantly, he knew all the ones that weren’t.
There was another thump, louder. Loud enough Greez could pinpoint the location.
Either he had worse problems with his engine than he expected, or there was something moving in his passenger cabin where they’d loaded the cargo.
Greez set his scrub brush down and went to peer cautiously into the in-question cabin.
The door opened quietly, sliding smoothly without a hitch of squeak. The portion of Greez’s mind not currently occupied with his potential stowaway noted the newly silent hinges smugly. It had been worth it, to have them replaced on Florrum.
At first glance the cargo looked unremarkable, just piles of pitch-tinted crates stacked four deep. But then there was a thud, echoing from the frontmost crate.
The crate rocked, the metal canister repeatedly lifting and thudding against the floor. As he watched, the crate tilted up on one edge, the other rising several inches before crashing again to the floor.
If Greez didn’t know better, if he hadn’t been assured that the droid parts he was transporting had all been disassembled, he would have suspected that one of them had become activated and was trying desperately to make its way out of the transport crate. But he did know better.
There was something alive on his ship. Something that most definitely wasn’t supposed to be there.
“Aw, kriff no,” Greez muttered. He retrieved the holdout blaster he kept stored in the crevice beneath the lounge table and headed back to the passenger cabin.
The crate was still rocking, the one end endlessly crashing in tired, desperate jerks.
“Whatever’s in there, you better not bite,” Greez said loudly. “I’ve got a blaster, and I won’t hesitate to use it!”
The crate stilled mid-rock, and fell to the floor with a final stifled, decisive thud. From somewhere inside, there was a tiny, muffled squeak.
Greez inched forward, pointing the blaster at the no longer moving tub. He angled it downwards when he reached the crate, aiming through the side as he started to undo the lid.
“You better not be a scrap rat,” Greez muttered, and pried up the last latch. He popped the lid, blaster at the ready, and met terrified green eyes.
Greez yelped. The creature scrambled backwards, huddling against the far side of the crate.
“I'm sorry!” The stowaway—and kark, that was a child, wasn't it?—cried. “I didn't mean to!”
“What are you doing in there?” Greez demanded.
The kid flinched, practically hiding in his grime-incrusted poncho, and Greez belatedly lowered his blaster.
“Calm down, kid, I’m not gonna shoot you.” Green eyes peered at him cautiously, the only part of the kid’s face he could reliably make out beneath the oversized hood. “I just want to know what you were doing in my cargo.”
The kid uncurled just a little. Greez caught a glimpse of two arms and a dirty face. The child was filthy, more grime than visible skin. “I didn’t mean to,” the boy said again miserably. “Someone sealed it while I was in there. I tried to get someone’s attention once I realized I couldn’t get out, but no one heard me over the dock noise. I was trying to tip to the crate over when you opened it.”
“…Wouldn’t that have just dumped the stuff on you?” Greez asked, eyeing the boy suspiciously. He thought the kid might be human, but it was hard to tell under all the dirt obscuring his features.
The boy shrugged. “I thought someone might notice if the crate fell over. I tried earlier, but I think there was something on top of it, because I couldn’t get it to move at all.”
The kid looked around then and what Greez could see of his face fell. “This isn’t Bracca, is it?”
“No, sorry,” Greez absently switched the settings to stun and holstered his blaster. Well, stuck it through his belt anyway. He didn’t actually own a holster. “You want to come out of the box, kid?”
The boy hesitated, indecision clearly waffling in those green eyes, before he gingerly clambered out. Short hair fluttered out from beneath his hood, the color indeterminable beneath a coating of engine grease.
“Right.” Greez thrusted his lower hands on his hips and huffed. “Welcome to space, I guess. We’re already in hyperspace. If you really weren’t trying to smuggle yourself off world, you did a fantastic job failing at it.”
The kid hunched within his poncho, looking miserable. The garment was clearly meant for someone far larger, falling nearly to the boy’s knees, and was just as dirty as the rest of him.
Greez told himself sternly he was not going to be soft on the kid, no matter how bedraggled he looked. The urchin had stowed away on his ship after all, inadvertently or not. Greez was not obligated to be nice to him.
Even if he did remind Greez of a Latero toddler playing dress-up in their parent’s formal robes.
“Well, I’m Greez Dritus, and this is my ship, the Stinger Mantis.” Greez crossed his arms. “You got a family, kid? Somebody missing you?”
The boy shook his head. If anything, he huddled smaller beneath his oversized clothes, eyes downcast.
“Friends? Job? Something that’s gonna fire you if you don’t show up?”
The boy hesitated visibly, but he shook his head again. “No. I…it’s just me.”
That certainly made things simpler for Greez, but…well, kark.
By all rights, Greez should turn right around and drop the kid back on where he came from. But he couldn’t. He’d already been delayed twice: first by a wait to actually land on Bracca that took far longer than it should, and then by some sort of kerfuffle on the docks that delayed loading his cargo for another two hours. Actually, whatever was going on the docks was probably what delayed his landing too.
Regardless, Greez did not have time to go back and drop the kid. He had a deadline, and one more delay would mean him kissing his fat speed bonus goodbye. And he needed that bonus, especially if whatever was going on with the Mantis turned out to be expensive to repair.
“Right.” Shaking his head, Greez sighed. “Look, kid, I've got a contract to deliver these crates to Huldamun by Benduday, and it's Centaxday now. It's a sixty-two hour trip as it is—I don't have time to take you back to Bracca just yet. So, I guess we’re stuck with each other for the time being.” A thought struck him then, and he stared at the box in horror. “You didn't damage those, did you?”
“…How?” the kid questioned cautiously, eyes flicking between him and the crate in confusion.
“Right, stupid question.” The parts were already broken; he’s not sure it would be possible to damage them further. And the bits of mangled hardware he can glimpse from there looked distressingly sturdy. Greez did not like droids. “Since we’re going to be associating for the next while—do you have any moral objection to bathing? Because I got to tell you, kid, Lateros have a sensitive sense of smell—”
The boy's stomach interrupted, growling loudly. What Greez could see of his pale skin flushed bright red; Greez didn't even know humans could turn that color. He stared harder than he probably should, and the boy curled in on himself, dropping his head and wrapping his arms around his torso under Greez's fascinated gaze.
Wait.
Ignoring the kid's startled noise, Greez bumped passed him, leaning against the edge to inspect the open crate. The box was half full with a detritus of mangled droid parts, the remaining space seemingly too small for even a small human body. In one corner laid an abandoned ration wrapper, carefully scrapped clean of any possible food particle.
It was an awfully small wrapper.
“Kid,” Greez said over the rush of horror welling in his chest, “how long were you in that crate?”
“I'm not sure,” the boy mumbled, avoiding his eyes. “Awhile.”
If it'd been longer than a few hours, the kid had to be starving. Based on the way the kid was doggedly avoiding eye contact though, Greez was willing to bet it had been a day or more.
Right. Greez may not have had any idea what he's going to do with the kid, but feeding people? That's something he knew how to do.
“Do you like soup?” Greez asked, taking the kid’s arm and pulling him lightly towards the door. Not that Greez is actually capable of tugging the kid anywhere he didn’t want to go. It's the gesture that matters. “I make a mean nuna and buckwheat noodle soup.”
The boy blinked down at him, giving a rather stellar impression of a startled tooka.
“Or I can fry up some burra fish if you want something a bit lighter...I think I have enough nerf steak leftover you can have that too. Or there's always ration bars if needed, but who wants those?" Greez dropped his grip on the kid's arm and waved it. “Come on kid, work with me here. What kind of food do you want?”
“...I like soup,” the boy said faintly, his green eyes wide and confused.
“Excellent.” Greez clapped together his hands and resumed tugging the boy into the corridor. “It'll take me about thirty minutes to whip this up. Fresher’s through there. You can clean up, and toss your clothes through the laundry unit while you're showering. I keep spare towels and soaps in the cabinet over the vac for passengers. Feel free to grab whatever.” He sighed when the boy just continued to stare at him. “That wasn't an invitation. Go on, get clean. I should have food ready by the time your clothes are dry.”
“Thank you?” The kid said, clearly still confused.
Greez huffed. “Not a favor, kid. No one starves on my ship, and I’m not about to change that now. Now seriously, take a shower. You reek.” He placed all four hands on the boy’s back and pushed him in the direction of the fresher with his lower arms. “Use the actual water, I got a full refill of the tank on that scrapyard of yours. And soap. Lots of soap.” Greez turned to the kitchen and paused, realizing he’d forgotten to ask an important question. “Species? It’s hard to tell under all that dirt.”
“…human?” the kid said blankly. “Why?”
“Just checking.” He’d hate to poison someone by feeding them something that was intolerable to their species, unintended passenger or not.
The kid still looked confused, but he allowed himself to be herded in the direction of the fresher door. Greez wiped his hands on his pants, resolving to scrub them vigorously with the strongest soap he had before he made food. And maybe replace his clothes while he was at it.
“Oh, and kid?” The boy turned. “You got a name?”
“…Cal,” the boy said. “I'm Cal.”
Greez stood at the cooktop, stirring the pot with his second favorite spoon. Not the good spoon, mind, the good spoon was reserved for his most delicate concoctions and special occasions. But his second favorite was still a sturdy, well-shaped steel that reverberated with a cheerful clang when it thudded against the sides of the pot.
Greez sampled the soup and gave a pleased hum. It was far from his best (especially since he’d decided to play on the safe side spice-wise to make sure the kid actually ate it), but considering the absolute dearth of quality ingredients he’d found at his last three stops, Greez was willing to accept the outcome with satisfaction.
He took another sip, bathing his face in the steam, and swallowed happily. It might be a bit mild for his taste, but—light catabar, durmic, and tigimary, with the nuna strips softened just right…Yeah, he still had it. No complaints could be had about his cooking, no sirree.
Greez had heard the shower shut off a few minutes before, so he wasn’t surprised when he heard the fresher door open, or the soft padding of footsteps that followed. His stowaway appeared in the doorway, head hidden by a towel.
“Good timing! Soup just got done—I kept the spice level light, mind, since I wasn’t sure what you could handle. So don’t go complaining if it’s bland.”
“I don’t mind,” Cal said and pulled the towel from his head, revealing pale, speckly skin and damp, red hair. Had he even been aware humans could come in that color?
Unexpected coloring or not, at least the kid was clean. Greez inhaled deeply, glad to no longer smell rancid grease.
“Well, that’s an improvement,” Greez said. “When’s the last time you had a shower, kid?”
Cal tilted his head, clearly thinking about it, and Greez shuddered.
“Nevermind.” Greez ladled soup into bowls, and snuck a glance at his stowaway, who was standing on the edge of the galley like a lost akk dog. Water dripped from his hair onto his imperfectly dried outer layer, which was revealed to be a garish mesh of patches more than original material.
“I wasn’t sure what to do with the towel,” Cal said meekly.
Greez waved a hand idly. “Just throw it in the laundry unit when we’re done eating. Here, you can take these to the table.”
The kid stiffened slightly as he took the first bowl, but Greez wrote that off as Cal being surprised by the heat. His great-grandmother’s ceramic was lovely, but it conducted temperatures a bit too well.
The kid occupied with carrying the bowls to the table, Greez grabbed two mugs himself, filling the dented metal containers nearly to the rim with overly filtered ship water. He gathered utensils absently in one of his other hands and carried it all to the table, gesturing impatiently for the kid to sit down when Cal just lingered behind a stool. Cal sat immediately, but didn’t touch his spoon.
“I didn’t make it for you just look at, you know,” Greez said pointedly, when the boy continued to stare wonderingly at the bowl of soup. The boy flushed, quickly reaching for his spoon.
Cal spooned up a bit gingerly, and with another quick glance at Greez, stuck it in his mouth. The boy’s eyes widened in surprise, and he shoved a second and third spoonful with flattering haste. “It’s really good!” he mumbled around his fourth mouthful.
“Spices, kid,” Greez said contently, and spooned up a bit off his own soup. “You can make any ingredients taste good if you just use enough salt…my great-grandma always said it’s the seasonings that make a dish worth having.”
Cal nodded quickly in response to this wisdom, another spoonful vanishing between his lips.
Once the boy was safely engrossed in his soup, Greez let his own spoon rest and leaned against the table to inspect his stowaway.
Cal was easily a foot and a half taller than him, but he was clearly only half grown, his frame just starting to edge towards gangly and features still rounded around the edges. The few words he’d uttered had still been relatively high-pitched, instead of the deeper tones Greez knew human males gained somewhere during adolescence. His cheeks were pale and slightly sunken beneath their freckles; the wrists protruding from his battered sleeves alarmingly skinny.
Most disturbingly, a thick scar stretched from one cheek to beneath his right ear, the skin raised red and starkly vivid. Greez had seen similar marks on seasoned criminals and war vets, but the boy’s looked uncomfortably recent.
“So,” Greez said, once the kid had practically inhaled half a bowl, “if you weren’t smuggling yourself off Bracca—”
“I wasn’t!” Cal blurted immediately.
Greez narrowed his gaze at him. “Good to know. But seriously, kid, what were you doing in that crate?”
Cal flushed. “Sleeping.”
“Sleep—what, did you just decide to take a nap in that crate?”
“It’s never been a problem before,” he said defensively.
“…You do this often?” Greez asked weakly.
The kid’s shoulders hunched. “It’s dry.”
There was an ugly feeling creeping into his chest. “And what, pray tell, was your plan for when someone opened it?” Greez demanded.
Cal shrugged, looking down at his bowl. “The crates heading off world don’t get moved much.”
The ugly feeling intensified. Greez started eating, for lack of something better to do with his hands. “And I suppose you know that because…?” Greez trailed off leadingly.
Cal flushed scarlet. “I hang out at the docks a lot.” He took another quick bite and mumbled around his spoon, “They need workers there, and no one pays attention if you don’t leave at night.”
Right. Because he apparently spent his time napping in crates.
“Why don’t you just head home?” Greez demanded.
The kid’s cheeks colored further, eyes adverted. “I don’t have one.”
Greez spluttered. “You don’t—why?” he finally managed.
Cal blinked at him. “Rent is expensive.”
“Rent—” Greez breathed deeply, hoping his horror was well concealed. He hadn’t exactly been well-off during his childhood, but at least Great-grandma Pyloon made sure he never had to worry about having a place to live. And for that matter…
“How old are you, kid?”
“Fourteen,” Cal said.
Greez stared at him skeptically. It hadn't been a very big crate. “Try again,” he said.
Cal hunched his shoulders, almost hiding in his poncho. “... twelve,” he admitted.
Twelve. And he slept in undelivered crates. Because the kid was alone and homeless.
Was the kid a war orphan? It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, but even as taskless as Greez could to be sometimes, he knew that question would be pushing the bounds of their very recent acquaintance.
(Maybe after he’d fed him a few more times.)
Greez allowed himself one more moment to simply breathe deeply and then put the matter aside.
“Alright, ground rules. You keep out of the way, shower at least every other day for the time being, and don’t go poking around my ship. You break something, we’re going to have a real problem. In return, I make sure you eat something regularly until I can get you back where you came from. Clear?”
The kid gave him a tentative, half-smile, scooping up the last bites of his soup. “Yes, sir.”
Well, at least the kid had manners.
Greez gave him another thorough look over. “You have any other belongings? Maybe a coat or something still stashed in that crate?”
Cal shook his head.
“Right.” Greez huffed and leaned back in his chair. “I’d lend you something, but all the clothes I got aren’t gonna fit you. So, I expect you to wash that get up when you shower.” He cast a weather eye over Cal’s empty bowl. “You done? Need more?”
Cal nodded, then shook his head again. “I’m good.”
“Great.” Next problem. Greez rubbed at his face, spooning up the remains of his own soup with his lower hands. “I’d offer you a bed, but…”
“I don’t need one!” Cal said quickly.
Greez shot him a quelling look. “That was not where I was going, kid.” Cal flushed again and Greez sighed. “Look, all the beds other than mine are currently folded up to make room for the cargo. You can bunk on the couch tonight.” He pointed his finger at him. “But you will not get dirt on my patolli-weave, or so help me, I’ll space you myself. Those shoes of yours stay off it.”
“I could always just sleep in the crate,” Cal offered hesitantly.
Greez blanched. “Kid, you did not just suggest that. No one is sleeping on droid parts on this ship.” He paused, and wondered if sleeping on chunks of metal was actually comfortable for humans. “Do you want to sleep in a box of droid parts?”
Cal hesitated, and then shook his head.
“That’s settled then.” Greez pushed back from the table. “Come on, I’ll get you a blanket.”