Seven-Hundred Fifty-One

Present Day – Tatooine; Early 21 BBY

"Get up."

Spitting sand out of his mouth, Boba scrambles to his feet, glaring at Bane. The bounty hunter spins a knife in his hand, watching Boba coldly.

"Are you even trying?" 

Boba readjusts his grip on his knife, and swipes with the back of his hand at the blood seeping from a cut on his cheek. He studies Bane for any opening.

"If you can draw blood," Bane had said, "I'll buy back your slave."

It wasn't the best situation by any means, but Boba has no other choice. Bane had dragged him along on his next mission, across Tatooine to the rocky outskirts of Mos Espa. Every minute wasted out here is another minute Dia could be suffering or –

No, Boba thinks viciously. He's alive.  

"Your dad could've killed me a dozen times already," Bane sneers. "He clearly didn't teach you well enough."

"Shut up!"

Boba lunges forward, diving for Bane's legs. At the last second, he leaps upwards, slashing at Bane's face. His knife catches the edge of Bane's hat, but the bounty hunter twists out of the way, and Boba lands roughly in the sand.

"See, you're already learning." Bane flips his knife and catches it. He drops into a guarded stance. "Again."

_______

Dia scratches a short line into the sand beside him, resting his head disconsolately on his other arm.

"One hundred and twelve rotations on Nal Hutta," he murmurs slowly. "Six-hundred thirty-nine on Tatooine. That makes… let's see… "

"Seven hundred fifty-one," a voice beside him supplies.

"Seven hundred and fifty-one rotations," Dia repeats. Then he frowns. Hang on, who said that?

He lifts his head to see a young Twi'lek kneeling in the sand beside him. Her robes are torn and dirty, and her pink-orange skin is covered in scratches and bruises, but there's a light in her eyes still.

She must not have been here long, Dia thinks glumly.

The Twi'lek offers a tight smile. She looks a few years older than Dia – maybe fourteen.

"Can I sit next to you?" she asks.

Dia nods, and the Twi'lek shuffles to lean her back against the rough stone wall beside him, crossing her legs. Her feet are bare and caked with dirt.

"My name's Garsa," she introduces herself.

Dia's tongue sticks in his throat, but he manages to croak out, "I'm Dia."

Garsa hesitates, then asks, "Did you say you've been here for over two years?"

"Not here. Just how long I've been a slave."

Wincing sympathetically, Garsa begins to say something more, but their attention is diverted by the sound of footsteps.

A pale Twi'lek, his lekku draped over his shoulders like a scarf, strides down the hallway, flanked by two Gamorrean guards. The Twi'lek stops in front of the cell and mutters something to the guards, who unlock and open the cell door. Biting his lip anxiously, the Twi'lek's eyes dart over the small crowd of slaves.

Dia drops his gaze, sitting as still as he can.

It does no good: a moment later, the guards stomp into the cell and drag half of the slaves out. A green hand closes over Dia's forearm and yanks him to his feet.

Quietly, he lets himself be marched into the hallway. Beside him, Garsa attempts to resist, snarling at the guard and trying to twist her arm out of his grip.

"Don't," Dia hisses sharply.

Garsa hesitates, but stops struggling.

The six slaves are herded up several flights of stairs to the door that leads to the throne room. The smell is so much worse up here, and Dia sways on his feet for a moment. The guard grunts angrily and pushes Dia forward, through the doorway. He finally raises his eyes from the floor.

Dozens of bounty hunters, pirates, and assorted criminals drink and talk in the main hall. Twi'lek dancers perform on the sandy floor, their faces contorted in despair. A band plays lively music in a corner, but Dia's eyes are drawn to the center of the room.

On a raised dais, a bloated, wrinkled Hutt lounges, surveilling the room with beady yellow eyes. Dribbles of food and wine spill from his mouth onto his fat chin.

Dia can't suppress a shudder. Jabba the Hutt.

He and the other slaves are ushered to the left side of the room, to a bar. A droid stands behind the counter, holding a tray of drinks. The first slave, who's clearly been here a while, takes the tray without prompting and hurries to one of the tables in the throne room.

"So we hand out the food and drinks?" Garsa asks under her breath, leaning down towards Dia.

"I think so," Dia murmurs in reply as they reach the counter.

He takes a plate sliced meats from the droid, arms shaking slightly under the weight as the droid points him towards the table that ordered the dish. He keeps his eyes trained on the ground as he crosses the room to a table of Trandoshans. As soon as he places the plate down, one of the Trandoshans snatches it away. None of them spare a glance at Dia, who returns to the bar counter.

Hours pass the same way, ferrying plates and glasses from the bar to the tables and back again. No one speaks to Dia, and Dia keeps his head bowed meekly, avoiding eye contact.

Finally, the slaves are taken back down to the cells, replaced with a fresh half-dozen. Dia curls up in the same corner of the cell, and Garsa sits next to him.

"Are you okay?" she whispers.

Dia nods. His voice is scratchy from not speaking, but he tells her, voice wavering, "I used to be a cook's assistant and server, back when I was first… caught."

Garsa studies him, as though sensing there's more he wants to say.

"It's… strange to be doing the same thing again," he admits. "To be treated the same way. After so long feeling… a little more like a person, this is just a reminder that I'm – I'm not – " His voice sticks in his throat.

"You are a person," Garsa insists fervently. "We all are. Don't forget it."

Dia raises his eyes and takes in her fiery expression.

"…Do you know the Tatooine slave language?" he whispers.

From then until the suns have set, Dia quietly teaches Garsa the slave language, pausing every so often when guards pass on their rounds.

On their final round, the guards check the cell door and extinguish the torch lights. Most of the other slaves curl up into tight balls to sleep, their backs pressed against the walls. A few lie together in a jumbled heap of limbs. Dia and Garsa stay in their corner.

"Do you… do you think we'll get out of here?" Garsa asks, stumbling over the slave language words.

"…I don't know."

"Is there someone who will rescue you?"

Dia's eyes widen.

"Boba," he whispers.

He hadn't dared to think it before, but... Boba could save him.

Breaking in would be risky, but if anyone could do it, Boba could. A new hope sparks in Dia's chest like a warm fire.

"Yes," he murmurs to Garsa, a smile tugging at his lips. "I think someone will."