Chapter Text
Oga's is nothing to write home about—sticky substances on the ground, patrons with motives and origins unknown. Someone's reprogrammed an old RX pilot droid to act as DJ. That's new. It's got something of a rave going on, three arms spinning, lights pulsing to the rhythm as it stands on an elevated platform surrounded by holotapes.
Yelena grabs a spot along the circular bar at the center and orders a Bloody Rancor because it's the strongest thing they've got: vodka and ancho chiles imported all the way from Tattooine. It goes down smooth, only a hint of spice that lingers on her lips for a few moments before dissipating. She tells herself it will be the first and only for the night, but as soon as the bartender returns she orders a second. Bounty hunting is a marathon, not a sprint.
A Twi'lek to her right makes eye contact and nods. Former slave at best, current one at worst. Yelena's helped a number escape, but it pales in comparison to the ones she captured while under the Red Room's control. She nods back, taking a sip of her drink.
All the exits are accounted for, marked and otherwise. Intel says her target's skittish, and she's not taking any chances. The good new is he's human. Their patterns are predictable, their anatomy more straightforward, no surprise arteries or vital organs she might hit by accident. He's to be brought back alive by whatever means necessary.
"This next song is banned in seven systems! But that means it's perfect here," the droid chirps, bopping his head.
What follows is indistinguishable from the rest of the set, clubby, an inoffensive beat. Jeers ring out from the crowd. A wad of gray matter hurtles in his direction before his headpiece can block it. It splatters on his left eye, and a mechanical giggle erupts from the speakers.
"Shut it off!"
He must unable to deviate from his programming because he continues his spiel as if unaware, and the heckling escalates. It doesn't take long for the cantina owner herself to emerge from some back room. She lifts a clawed hand to pull the shutdown switch, and the once spirited little droid ceases all movement.
He stands there lifeless, joints frozen, the glow of his eyes gone while a spotlight shines on his face until that, too, gets turned off. The whole section goes dark.
"You like, yes? An associate of mine's got a warehouse full of 'em," someone grunts into Yelena's ear. The stench coming off of him indicates he's six or seven deep.
She says nothing, sets her glass down on the counter, and turns to stand, but he flutters over to block her way.
Pot-bellied, with a long, ribbed snout that curves downward, he offers up a toothy grin. "It's yours for the right price. Two weeks, droid in hand. I guarantee it."
"I'm not interested," she says, shoving her way forward.
He zips around her like a fly that won't go away. "The offer's good until the end of the night."
"Thanks, but I'll live."
"It's not the only thing in high demand. The last Widow who passed through here didn't last a week." Yellow eyes narrow, and the grin widens. "The only piece of her they found was a surveillance tag. Curious, don't you think?"
Her fingers subconsciously brush against the divot on her right thigh. A blaster to the face would wipe off his expression nicely. "," she spits.
"With pleasure," he replies, and flits away.
Sucking in a breath through her nostrils, Yelena reminds herself what she's here for. The next step is to get eyes on him, track his movements, see who he interacts with and then become that exactly. Friendly dealer. Fellow addict. Infiltration through integration.
Credits are exchanged under the table, illicit substances added to drinks. So far she hasn't spotted him, but it's early still, and if the commotion by the door is anything to go by, fresh blood has arrived.
"Is this seat taken?" Brown eyes sparkle in her direction, a combination of cropped hair and olive skin she'd know anywhere.
"Sonya?" Yelena's mouth drops open, and she stops short of offering a hug. "Oh my god. What are you doing here?"
Her friend takes the stool on her other side, motioning for the bartender to get her a drink. "Of all the places, right? I'm just passing through. Ship repairs should be done soon."
"It's so good to see you. Have you been in contact with anyone else? I haven't spoken to another Widow in months."
Sonya blinks, her face falling. "So you haven't heard. It happened a few weeks ago. Ana and I check in with each other when we can. She travels as much as I do these days, probably even more. We're all trying to get by. She'd only heard about it herself when she told me."
"Told you what? She's not in trouble, is she?"
"Antonia's dead," she says, accepting a glass with yellow liquid and white foam on top. "Technically it was friendly fire. You ever hear of a mercenary called Ghost? They were supposed to team up for some big project. The target wasn't clear, wires got crossed or something."
"I thought Antonia would have been the first to step away from all this. She's the only one who grew up normal."
"Whoever recruited her gave her a new suit, and it must have been too tempting to resist. It was the only thing that helped with the pain from her injuries."
The bar, the mission, everything feels so far away. She rubs her temples. "How did Ana know all this?"
Antonia was better than all of them. By the skin of her teeth she'd survived a bomb explosion, been freed like the rest of them, and had her whole life ahead of her. That was the promise, wasn't it? The light at the end of the tunnel. Yelena couldn't see it herself but she knew it was there. It had to be.
"She dabbles in mercenary work, too. Don't judge her too harshly for it. Not all of us can quit cold-turkey and survive. God forbid any of us want to live a comfortable life after all this. Take the money and run. That's the plan, anyway."
"And you?"
Sonya laughs. "I'm here. I'm alive."
"The Outer Rim is not safe. They caught a Widow here on Batuu, revenge for what we did under Dreykov. It doesn't matter that we had no control over it."
"Like I said, just passing through. Where I'm going I won't have to worry about that kind of thing for a while." She waves the bartender down again, orders another drink. When it arrives, she slides it down the counter. "It's a Fuzzy Tauntaun. The foam numbs your mouth."
Yelena tentatively takes a sip. The peach and citrus flavors come in at the end, sweet, but not cloying. "A Toydarian clocked me earlier. I don't know how he knew."
"It's the posture, the tactical suit. You look like you're scoping out your next target. I won't ask what you're actually doing here but for your sake I hope you are. You deserve to be happy." That catches her attention, and then Sonya clarifies, "A man or woman. Or, you know, alien. Whatever it is you're into."
At no point has Yelena stopped to consider any of those possibilities. It's only been a couple of years since they were freed, hardly enough time to figure out who she is outside of the slave-assassin thing. And now that she's got a choice, sex is best left as a solo endeavor.
"I'll let you know if I find someone worth my while, but I don't think that will happen anytime soon."
"Hey, no rush. You can't reverse all this shit that's been literally programmed into us since we were kids. It's going to take time to adjust."
Time not everyone was lucky enough to get.
"It does not feel right." Yelena says, shaking her head. "You and me. Antonia. We're leaving people behind."
Sonya sighs, raises her half-empty glass. "Then let's toast to her, to all of them, the things they could have done and will never get to do. Widows gone but not forgotten. Let's make sure their deaths weren't in vain."
"To the one who died here without a grave or marker, a price that was not hers to pay. A sister and fighter gone before her time." Their glasses clink, and Yelena feels a sting in her throat that wasn't there before.
They go through drinks like each one's a tribute to a fallen comrade, calling out names that have never been uttered outside their home planet, that desolate ball of ice where both swear they'll never return. And they toast to that.
"To Katerina and Oksana."
"To Ingrid."
Jet Juice for the flying aces who shot bourbon straight to stay awake. Bespin Fizz for the hard-hitters who remained cool under pressure. A Grinning Loth Cat for the ones who never got their first taste of alcohol.
Sonya hasn't changed in the years since they've seen each other. She carries herself in much the same manner, still in her own suit and boots because nothing else feels right after so many years of wearing them.
Her face is a little thinner, age lines beginning to show. At thirty-five she has a couple of years on Yelena. By any other measure they'd be young, but they've seen too much, subjected their bodies to countless falls and breaks, everything that can possibly happen to a person and somehow survive.
A number of glasses are stacked on the counter, but Yelena can't concentrate long enough to count how many. The world's gone fuzzy, and the RX unit is up and running again, blasting music to the crowd's approval. He's been cleaned. When did that happen?
"Ready to call it quits?" Sonya's head lolls to one side. She hands Yelena a water. "I haven't gone this hard since Lerato took us to that safe house after we escaped."
"Same for me," Yelena lies. It's a point of shame, and she's not entirely sure why. Drinking goes hand in hand with their line of work, and though she hasn't outright told her friend what she's up to these days, it's not too difficult to figure out. "Where are you staying?"
"With an old contact of mine. He runs one of the stands in the marketplace, haggled down the price to repair my ship. I'd offer to have you stay with us if I could."
The room's spinning faster than those robotic arms. "Does he…make you happy…in that way?"
Sonya cracks up. Her eyes are barely open at this point, hair sticking to her lashes that she hasn't bothered to brush away. "His sister could, if I ever got the guts to tell her. God, she's something else. Legs for day. Fantastic rack. And she's like…there's something about her that makes me want to whisk her away from all this. She was born into it—the poverty. Crime. She's older than me, too. But I want to take care of her," she slurs, sloshing the last bit of her drink around the glass. "Do you know what I mean?"
How can she when Yelena doesn't have a nurturing bone in her body? It must have been ripped out when they took her uterus. She won't adopt like Ana apparently plans to do, and a partner of any sort is also out of the question. Widows are by their nature independent. "Let me cover the bill tonight. You've gotten me out of some tough scrapes. And I…" she breathes out, collecting her thoughts. "It's good seeing you."
"Do you have somewhere to stay?"
"My ship," she says, bringing out all the credits she brought and dumping them in front of her. The bartender can count. She has a blaster strapped to her thigh to ensure he doesn't rip her off. "It's parked by the old ruins. I bought it a while back."
Junky and held together with secondhand parts, it's the only thing that's truly hers. And god, she's ashamed of that, too.
Sonya stands and they exchange farewells. For a second Yelena deludes herself into thinking she can still find her target. The addicts are looking similarly put-out. He'd probably have gone with her using the mere promise of more, but securing him on the first go-around was a long shot anyway.
There's plenty of time. Another week to wrap things up and then she can take the money and run. Even for Val the pay is suspiciously high, though Yelena knows better than to question O.X.E. Group's deep pockets. Crime lords or the First Order—it's all the same to her, and the credits will be enough to nab a swanky apartment on Coruscant for a few months, work a different sort of crowd. Higher class but no less clandestine.
Outside, the petrified trees of Black Spire Outpost tower in the distance. Ships hover low, their whirring comfortable and familiar. She's always liked ships, the way they can transport you to faraway worlds. As a child there was something exciting about that, and although the novelty's worn off, the feeling remains. Keeping her head tipped back the whole way, she watches the stars grow brighter the further out she gets.
The Belova sits on the cliff right where she left it. She wobbles over rocks and pebbles, only a few more feet, and then hears muttering. Her instincts kick in, one hand on the blaster, the other dragging along the hull for stability as she edges closer.
A dark figure stands at the edge. "Come on, come on! It's not that hard. It's like flying, right? Three seconds and you're done. Three…just…three seconds. One, two, three. One, two, three. One—"
He whips around. Yelena can't see well, but his mouth…it's glowing. Sparks scatter up and down his cheeks like veins, a sizzling, electric blue. It's magic. Real, live magic.
The man's eyes flick down to her blaster. He takes a tentative step back, but there's not much room left, a few meters at most and then a long vertical drop. "Who are you? Stay away from me!"
Even though he's retreating, she can't stop herself from the pursuit. It's like her body's on autopilot, an invisible chip. Blaster drawn, she matches him step for step, eyes glued to his face and the strange light until it hits her. Glitterstim. One of its properties is its telepathic boost, temporary but pronounced. If he's able to read her mind, he doesn't show it.
"Wh-what are you doing? I said to stay away!"
"Who are you?" she demands, her tone surprisingly even for how out of it she feels. She could collapse at any moment. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you right now."
"I—I just…wait!" They both stop, and he places two trembling hands on his head before turning his back to her. His voice drops. "You can shoot, but…can you count to three first? I need to—please. I want it to be quick, but I have to know it's coming."
Huh? There's no grass, nothing to to cushion his fall. "This thing doesn't have a lower setting. If I do it, you'll…it's permanent. You'll die out here," she says. "Like a hole in your head. A whole hole. You want me to do that to you?"
"I mean, yeah. It's better than jumping."
Every blink is heavy. She's being pulled further into that dark place where nothing exists. The void, she calls it. It's the only place she can reliably go because there's no other escape, and it's found at the bottom of every bottle stashed on her ship.
The ship. She needs to sleep. She needs…
"Please, shoot me. It's the only way out of here. I can't—I'm afraid of heights."
"You're on drugs," Yelena tries to say, but she can't get a word in.
"Jumping's not—and I've tried a blaster but I always stop short of pulling the trigger. I can't even do that right. Last time I tried it went off by itself and I almost shot my foot off. And, you know, that's just another thing. All the methods I tried have failed, so I…I can't. I can't anymore."
"What can't you do?"
"This! Like, life in general." The hands above his head stretch higher for emphasis. He takes another step toward the edge of the cliff.
"No!" Her vision blurs, and before Yelena can register what's happening, she's tackled him to the ground, legs straddling his chest, fingers digging into his shoulders as if her life depends on it. He looks up at her with mix of fear and disappointment that makes her heart writhe. Was he really going to—?
They're both panting heavily, and she returns his gaze, trying to decipher what to do next, what he might be thinking. Then Yelena turns to the side and pukes out the contents of her stomach, every ounce she took in earlier, fruit juices mixed with the sour taste of bile.
It doesn't make her feel any better. Puking never does.
"Can you…get off me?" The man squirms beneath her, and to her horror she sees specks of it on his face and jacket. The blue sparks are still there, strangely beautiful in the dark, but she has to concentrate. Relenting, Yelena gets off, and for some inexplicable reason he rolls onto his side where she just—
And now he's puking, too. Harder than her, convulsions that wrack his body, god knows what else exiting his system. He's on his hands and knees gasping for breath. "Oh my god."
"Oh my god," she groans back, wiping a sheen of sweat off her forehead. It's cold, she only now realizes. This time of the year the planet can go well below freezing at night. Rubbing her arms, she watches helplessly until he finally crawls away and collapses on his stomach, dangerously close to the edge.
At this point her consciousness is holding on by a thread, but she keeps tracks of his position as best she can while she floats in and out of her body. His head's down and he hasn't moved in a while. If he's thrown up again he could drown. One inch is all it takes.
"Are you alright?" Yelena manages, righting herself so the horizon is even. That is the horizon, isn't it?
"I'm…fine," he mumbles, but he seems distracted. "Please, just let me figure it…"
A click cracks through the air. Her blaster is no longer back in its holster. "Wait, wait!"
"What?" he says, panicked. "I wasn't gonna, I mean—it's right here."
Pulse in the stratosphere, blood rushing through her ears, Yelena blinks rapidly. "Did you leave a note? Like a goodbye letter?"
"No."
She licks her lips. "Then tell me your name and where you're from. That's what you—it's customary in case anyone asks about you. Name and…and location, or where you…where you're from. Maybe a reason, if you have one."
"They won't ask about me."
"My name is Yelena. This is my ship. If you help me, we can go inside and get cleaned up. I've got a refresher, and water, and heat. It's so cold out here, and I…I probably ruined your clothes. There's a spare set inside I keep in case of emergency. I have heat and a refresher, too. And water. Lots of water."
He sniffs. "You already said that."
Did she? "Well, I'm drunk, okay? I'm doing the best I can. Everything's…look, if I don't get inside soon I'll freeze to death. Can you help me up?"
Great thinking, Belova. Give the strange man a job so he doesn't blow his brains out.
"You walked here…you…you're perfectly capable…" It sounds like he's fumbling with something. "Leave me alone so I can concentrate. God, how do you get this thing to—"
"Give it to me and I'll show you."
That gets him to sit up. Tentatively he looks in her direction, gauges something about her she can't be sure of. Then he scoots forward so he's sitting in front of her, cross-legged like they're a couple of kids.
Ambient light from the ship illuminates his figure—wild, uncombed hair, dirt and sick streaked across his cheeks. The face of a nearly dead man. Cradled on his lap is the blaster, well within her reach if she can coordinate her limbs long enough to grab it.
Raising it like he's never held one before, he aims it directly at Yelena. "Tell me how to do it or I'll shoot."
So desperate that he's willing to take someone with him? She'd call his bluff if not for the look in his eyes, and yet the threat disturbs her less than it should. There are worse ways to go. "What's your name? You never told me, remember?"
"It doesn't matter. Tell me how to do it."
"I will once you tell me your name."
"Stop. Stalling. I'll pull every lever here until I figure it out and then we'll both be dead!" The blaster wobbles in his grasp, thumb hovering over the safety. There's a maneuver she can pull in this scenario, blaster up, boot firmly to his head. Two seconds. How much is she willing to chance it? "Tell me!"
Damn it, there's no time. She leans forward to yank it from his hands, whacks him over the head with it, and that's that, out like a bantha after a good meal. A mild concussion but at least his death won't be on her conscience, not that saving one person would make a difference. Some people keep a body count. Hers could populate a small planet.
Sighing, Yelena hauls herself to her feet to complete the ship's biometric scan. The boarding ramp folds down and it's no small feat to drag her captive up and inside the ship. He's heavy despite his stringy build. She deposits him in the small bunk area and plops herself in front of it to make sure he's there when she comes to—or, the other way around.
Darkness claims her. Sweet, sweet nothingness.
She wakes before he does, mouth parched, neck aching for relief. Restful sleep evades her even during those brief periods of sobriety. Alcohol should make it worse in theory, but the forgetting part does a lot of heavy lifting.
From the cockpit window ahead, bands of deep and light purple stain the sky. The view is what drew her up here in the first place, the solitude a close second. A grim thought enters her mind: if she ever jumped off a cliff, now would be the time to do it. The man said it would only last three seconds, or was he referring to the countdown? Either way, it's quick.
Still fast asleep, he looks relaxed for a change. Soft lines crease his forehead, premature aging from the spice and other substances. His hands are tucked under his neck, nails caked with dirt.
Yelena also looks like hell. The refresher will take care of that, but right now nothing feels better than a damp washcloth against her skin. The man turns over on his side, lips parting to murmur something she can't quite catch.
Dipping a fresh washcloth in warm water, she kneels next to him and begins to dab at the crusty flakes of dried vomit on his hair and face. Pink skin emerges under the layers of grime. It must be a while since he's had a good wash.
Words she uttered to Sonya last night echo in her head, but this isn't nurturing, not really. Like ships that pass through the night, they'll never see each other again. If Antonia is anything to go by, either of them could be dead in ditch a week from now.
A hand tugs at her wrist.
Yelena lowers the washcloth, embarrassed for having been caught in the act. "Oh, you're awake. Sorry, I…I don't know what I was thinking. There's a change of clothes on the chair. You're welcome to shower before you go. Refresher's down the hall to your left."
"Why didn't you let me do it?" he whispers, voice rough from sleep. He looks neither confused nor relieved.
"You were on—" She clears her throat and puts some distance between them. The crick in her neck could use a good pop. "Well, it doesn't matter what you were on. It wore off, that's what's important."
"I know what I was on," he says, pushing himself up to a sitting position. "That's why I took it. I want to know why you didn't let me follow through. It was—I was so close."
Hazy images surface, a struggle, a lot of throwing up.
"Hey, I'm sorry if it was none of my business, but you looked like you needed help. And I—it felt wrong not to intervene. Plus, you asked…I think. Yeah, you…you stole my blaster!" Her eyes widen as it all comes back. "You got me involved, man. What was I supposed to do?"
"It was the only thing left, and I…not even this one thing. This one thing," he says, his breaths coming in shudders as he rubs his hands for warmth.
Could it be withdrawal already? He was on—it was glitterstim, right? That would explain the blue sparkly stuff. If she hadn't been drunk out of her goddamned mind she wouldn't have been so mesmerized by a basic party drug.
"No, you cannot have this one thing. At least not while my ship is parked here." Getting him off this cliff feels like the most important thing in the world right now, and she knows it's futile—he can always come back—but it doesn't matter. "Do you want some breakfast? I make a mean omelet. After, I can take you back to where you live. You know, for all the trouble I've caused."
Somehow that agitates him more, so she backs off, tosses the washcloths in a bin and strips off her dirty jacket.
He eyes her suspiciously from the bunk. "The shower's free, right? There's not, like, a catch? You don't have a security cam strapped in there? No one will jump me after?"
What a strange question. Strange and horribly sad.
"No," she sighs, folding a blanket. "It's a piece of shit like the rest of this ship, but it works. If it doesn't you can use regular water. I keep soap on hand in the cabinet."
"I…I kind of prefer water. It feels cleaner somehow."
"Knock yourself out."
He stands, gathers the clothes up to his chest, and leaves. Yelena's not sure what to do with herself. She still doesn't know his name, but she knows enough to draw conclusions about what his life must be like. Poor guy's not even happy under the influence.
Happiness...she'll be closer to it on Coruscant. All those people to exploit, not like the poor souls here who have so little to contend with, fighting over scraps while the wealthy watch on. And speaking of wealthy people, Val might have updates on her target, more bars to scope out. The file was sparse when she sent it, a hologram and little else.
Her new friend might be able to give her a lead, and it would be a way to some spend time with him, get him to the right people who can look after him once she leaves.
Yelena pulls up the file.
Name: Reynolds, Robert
Species: Human
Sex: Male
Age: 31
Midi-chlorian Count: 28,400
Home Planet: Corellia
Last Known Location: Black Spire Outpost, Batuu; frequently spotted at Oga's Cantina, Docking Bay 7
Biography: Earliest available hospital records indicate Robert "Bob" Reynolds was a victim of domestic abuse throughout his childhood. There are no records of criminal charges filed in relation to these reports.
Following a transport accident, Reynolds was addicted to orally-administered ryll during adolescence, but was able to finish the eighth year of secondary education before ultimately dropping out.
He has a history of drug related arrests for nonviolent crimes including breaking and entering, larceny, and burglary.
Same info except for a new location. Well, at least that's somewhat helpful. She flicks past the file to get to his hologram.
Oh god. It's him.
Cleaner, a lot less grime, but no less dejected. Same downcast eyes, same hunched shoulders.
Yelena's going to be sick. Her stomach rolls with absolutely nothing in it as she hugs the data pad close to her chest. Val doesn't go after people for no reason. So what is it? Was he a witness to something horrible and she's trying to get rid of the evidence? Is she going to…kill him?
The files say nothing else, the instructions minimal: bring him back alive. Why not dead? Does he have information she needs? This is too little to go off of. The answers have to be found at O.X.E. Group's headquarters, or at the very least the dropoff point they arranged. Which is, coincidentally, also here. Some little shop in the market. Until she gets that info she has to keep this man by her side.
"Do you have a second?" she calls through the crack in the refresher door. The only thing stopping her from bursting in is the comment he made earlier. A victim of domestic abuse throughout his childhood. She's a thousand percent certain it didn't stop there.
"I-I'm almost finished," he replies over the sounds of water pouring through the shower head she rigged up. "Sorry, I didn't…I'm using up your supply."
"It's fine," she says thinly. "I'll have breakfast ready for you when you get out and I won't take no for an answer. It's um, hangover food, probably good for your—for the both of us. And then I—" She scratches her brow, takes a deep breath. "And then I have something I want to talk to you about. Nothing bad. I need supplies and don't know where to get them."
"What's in it for me?"
Not dying.
"More glitterstim," she says, already beginning to regret her plan. "I'll give you as much as you want. It's cheap where I'm from."
Bob is back out in seconds, hair dripping wet, a towel wrapped around his bare torso. He's breathing heavily, and she can't help but notice the little crescent-shaped birthmark on his left pectoral.
A man. Definitely a man.