A/N: This is the last slowish chapter, we would be going a bit faster after this one. Time-skips and stuff as no-body would want the same speed journey of Ezra in the next 7-8 years.
This chapter is a bit on the bigger side, like 3.5k words around and its mostly Slice of Life, so if you don't like that, you can skip/skim through it. Through do read the Author Note at the end.
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I watched her tell the story, gesturing with one hand while she held the glass of water I'd brought her in the other.
Ohh so she's on a quota system.
That sucks. I'd worked enough dead-end jobs in my past life to know exactly what that meant. One bad piece of machinery, one "fiddly" job, and your whole day is shot. You spend hours wrestling with one problem while the clock ticks down on the ten other things you were supposed to get done.
Then came the part that really got my attention.
"...I beat it," she said, with this flash of genuine, tired pride. "Got it done, but didn't have time to rush through the rest of my list. But it wasn't a big deal. Just have to make up for it tomorrow."
I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. 'Not a big deal.' Yeah, right.
She was downplaying it, that much I could guess.
She took another sip of water, looking at the plain glass in her hands like I'd handed her a solid gold credit chip.
Her lekku did this little twitchy thing, and for a second, I swear her eyes got all shiny.
"Thanks for asking, little guy," she said, her voice softer than before. "And thanks for this." She held up the glass.
"I needed it more than I knew."
Before I could sort out why a glass of tap water deserved a medal, her hand landed on my head and gave my hair a noogie. A lightning bolt of annoyance shot through me—twenty-seven inside, thanks—and I swatted at her, too slow.
She pulled away, still smirking. "Alright, kid. Gonna scrub off a few layers of engine grease. I feel like a walking oil stain." She set the empty glass on the bench with a soft clink. "I will wash them up too." She reached toward the counter, where a purple meiloorun peeked from a bag.
After picking it up she stretched, spine popping like Wookiee knuckles, and turned toward her room. That's when my brain—always on gremlin duty—noted the sway under her shirt. No straps, no cups, no engineered lift. Just natural physics at work.
Huh. Not a one-time thing, then. Bras really aren't a thing here.
A slow, evil grin snuck onto my face.
Oh, galaxy. You have no idea what's coming. Somebody's about to make a fortune in boob engineering.
I let gravity pull me down onto the couch until the cushions puffed around me like a slow-motion explosion. The ceiling above was a patchwork of old glow-strips and darker squares where patches had peeled off. Perfect blank slate for my mental whiteboard.
All right, Bridger, business plan time. Name the product first: the Bridger Bouncer—nah, too on the nose. The Ezra Encaser—catchy. Materials: synth-weave with micro-vents, maybe a hint of nerf-hide for structure. Flex-straps that never twist, sizing dials you could spin one-handed. Adjustable tension zones, anti-chafe lining, maybe a hidden credit pouch for smugglers who like their assets and their assets organized.
I could become a titan of titty textiles, , a sultan of support, a mogul of mammaries. I'd be providing a genuine service, liberating women across the galaxy from the tyranny of uncomfortable, unsupported bouncing.
They would thank me for saving them from the unspeakable horror of unchecked jiggle physics.
I was already picturing holo-ads: a women waking up on her bed in loose clothes, doing a good stretch that would push those assets to the face, then sliding into one of my prototypes, smiling at the camera like she'd found religion. Credits would roll in so fast I'd need a repulsor sled just to haul them to the bank.
Tiny snag: I'm currently the size of a houseplant. My total capital is half a protein bar, lint, and whatever loose change Vasha hasn't swept out of the couch. My manufacturing plant is… well, the couch. My distribution network is my two bare feet.
Also, I'm literally freeloading in the apartment of the person whose chest just jump-started this whole scheme. If she figures out I'm reverse-engineering her anatomy for profit, I'm back to sleeping in an alley.
While I'm busy inventing cup-size profit tables in my head, the 'fresher door hisses. Vasha steps out toweling her lekku, skin a shade lighter now that the engine grime is gone. She smells like plain soap and something faintly spicy—maybe the cheap shampoo she buys in bulk.
She pads over, drops onto the opposite couch, and tosses me the meiloorun she'd rescued earlier. "Here. Don't chew the seeds—they'll make your tongue hate you."
My empire evaporates in a puff of citrus. I catch the fruit. It's warm from her hand, purple skin slightly fuzzy. I dig a thumb in; the rind peels away like it's eager. Inside is sunset orange, soft and dripping. First bite floods my mouth with juice so sweet it's almost floral, like someone blended ripe mango, honey, and a hint of pepper. I blink hard. "Whoa."
"Told you," she says, already halfway through hers. Juice glistens at the corner of her mouth. She wipes it with the back of her wrist, relaxed in a way I haven't seen before.
We sit there demolishing fruit. No words, just the wet tear of rind, soft slurp of flesh, the low hum of traffic far below. The quiet feels earned.
I lick sticky fingers and break the silence. "Hey, Vasha?"
She tilts her head, chewing.
"About me being your assistant…" I pitch my voice higher, aiming for harmless kid. "I peeked at your datapad earlier. Couldn't make sense of half the schematics."
The corner of her mouth lifts. "That's because it's grade-nine propulsion math. You're, what, seven?"
I nod like that's an insurmountable obstacle instead of a temporary costume malfunction. "Exactly. If I'm gonna be any help, I need study stuff. Books, datapads, whatever. I don't even know where to buy them around here." I wave the meiloorun core like it's a pointer. "I just... don't know where to get them here."
I hesitated, then reached into my pocket and pulled out the worn credit chip I'd scavenged from the house and left after throwing it to the junkies. It was probably worth less than the meiloorun in my hand.
"I've got some credits," I said, offering it. "Not much. But I can pay. Don't need anything fancy—just something to read."
Vasha stopped chewing. Her gaze flicked from my face to the pitiful chip in my palm, and her expression softened. She chuckled, shaking her head.
"You're really serious about this, aren't you?"
I nodded, jaw set.
She pushed my hand—and the chip—back toward me. "Keep your credits, little guy." Her voice was warm.
"You're not paying for books while you're under my roof."
She finished her meiloorun in a few more bites, then leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. The amusement in her eyes was replaced by a thoughtful, practical look. "You're right, though. If you're going to stay here… you need something to do besides stare at my schematics."
She was quiet for a moment, her gaze drifting to the cluttered workbench. I held my breath. Was this it? Was she going to kick me out? Tell me to go to some Imperial-run youth center?
"Alright," she said finally, her decision made. "I know a place. An old friend of mine runs a shop down in the lower levels. Sells used tech, datapads, old textbooks… mostly junk, but you can find some gems if you dig." She looked back at me, her expression serious. "We can go tomorrow. But you have to stick close to me. No wandering off. Understand?"
Relief washed over me so intensely my shoulders sagged. "I understand," I said, nodding vigorously. "I promise."
"For tonight, though, no more studying. You've done enough for one day, Mr. Assistant."
A small smile tugged at her mouth. "Good. Then tonight you're off the clock, Mr. Assistant."
She stood, rolling her shoulders until something in her back gave a soft pop, then crossed to the workbench.
One swipe across the datapad killed the schematic, and the screen went dark.
"So," she said, turning back, "what do you like to watch?"
I blinked. "Watch what?"
She gave me the universal look for are-you-serious-right-now. "Shows. HoloTV. You've got a favorite serial, right?"
"Oh—uh, HoloTV." The word felt clunky, like borrowed clothes. "Wait. You have one?"
She tipped her chin toward the low table in front of the couch. "Right there."
I stared. It looked like a slab of dark metal, no buttons, no screen, no projector lens. Just a smooth rectangle squatting between the two couches. I'd been using it as a footrest.
Oh. That was the HoloTV.
Vasha caught my expression and tilted her head. "You… didn't know?"
The silence stretched. I could almost hear the gears in her brain slotting "weird kid" pieces together. My pulse did a little sprint while I scrambled for something—anything—that didn't involve alternate dimensions or twenty-seven-year-old hindsight.Her expression made it clear she found this incredibly weird. Which it was. I honestly had no idea.
The Bridgers, from what I could recall from Ezra's hazy memories, didn't have one of these. They had some kind of portable, projector-like thing that cast a flat image on the wall. This sleek, integrated unit was completely new to me.
My mind raced, scrambling for a plausible excuse. I couldn't just say, 'Sorry, the last TV I used had a flat screen and came from a different dimension.'
"Uhh…" I started, looking down at my feet and kicking at an imaginary spot on the floor. I let my voice get small.
"I actually… don't watch. Dad said HoloTV was too expensive. Said they didn't have good things on it anyway."
There. I threw my hypothetical, emotionally neglectful parents under the bus again. It was becoming my go-to move. I just hoped Mira and Ephraim, wherever they were, never found out about the character assassination I was performing on them. If they did, they might just die of a heart attack.
The lie worked perfectly. And that made me more guilty dammit. I really got to keep my lies under control but as much as I wanted to bury my past and move on, somewhere or somehow it always came up. You can't really expect anyone to not ask questions about past to a newly met small boy.
Her lips thinned into a sad line. "Oh," she said softly.
"Well, your dad was wrong. About the second part, anyway. There's plenty of junk on here, sure, but there's some good stuff too."
She stepped over, tapped the edge of the slab, and a soft blue grid flickered to life above it. "This one's older than me. Picked it off a derelict freighter. No fancy features, but it works."
The grid widened into a menu of icons hovering in midair. She flicked through them with two fingers, then glanced back at me. "Pick something. I've got everything from Corellian soap operas to pod-racing reruns. Or we can find cartoons. Everybody's got a cartoon phase."
I swallowed. Cartoons sounded safe. "Cartoons work."
"Cartoons?" she asked, scrolling through the options. "There's a decent one about a gang of mischievous tooka-cats"
I stared at the floating images, mesmerized. "Yes please!," I said immediately.
I could have suggested the Wookie show I was watching earlier too, but I didn't knew whether it was available in 3D or not, and anyways, it was not the kind of shows children would watch afterall.
Vasha smiled, a real, genuine smile this time. "Tooka-cats it is."
...
...
A few minutes later, I realized my mistake.
Gawd, this show was dumb as fuck.
It wasn't just the simplistic plot about a blue tooka-cat trying to steal a fish from a grumpy-looking droid. The animation itself was… jarring. Stiff. The characters moved with the herky-jerky awkwardness of cheap puppets.
For whatever reason—cultural preference, technological stagnation—it seemed like animation in this galaxy hadn't progressed much past the "Saturday morning cartoon" phase of my old world. It was almost painful to watch.
I couldn't take it anymore.
Vasha had gone to the kitchenette after starting the show, and the clinking of pots and pans was far more interesting than the cartoon cat's shenanigans. I slid off the couch and padded over to her.
She was at the small counter, chopping some kind of knobby, orange root vegetable with a surprisingly large knife. She looked up as I approached, a bit of surprise on her face.
"What's up?" she asked. "Don't like the cartoon? We can change it."
I shook my head. "The cartoon is kinda dumb," I said honestly, "but even besides that… it's not much fun watching alone." I looked up at her, putting on my best hopeful-orphan face. "I thought… we could watch it together."
Her hands stilled, the knife resting on the cutting board. Her expression softened. "We can, Ezra," she said gently. "But first, I need to make dinner. People gotta eat."
The opportunity I was waiting for!
"I can help!" I piped up, my voice bright. "I used to help my mom in the kitchen all the time."
This was true.
Vasha looked down at me, then at the large knife in her hand, then back at me. A wry, skeptical smile played on her lips. "You know your way around a hydrospanner and a kitchen? What can't you do, kid?"
Her tone was teasing, but the question landed with a weird weight. I shrugged, shuffling my feet. "I'm a good chopper," I declared, perhaps a little too confidently.
She chuckled,"I bet you are. But maybe you can start with something a little less sharp."
She nudged a bowl of the purplish, lentil-like legumes toward me. "Here. Your job is to wash these. Think you can handle that, Mr. Assistant?"
"Yes, ma'am," I said, puffing out my chest with mock seriousness.
I lugged the heavy ceramic bowl over to the sink, the little purple legumes rattling inside. This was a masterclass in domestic infiltration, I thought smugly.
I turned on the faucet, letting the cool water run over my hands and into the bowl. The legumes felt slick and smooth, like tiny, polished stones. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Vasha. She handled that big knife with the same easy, no-nonsense confidence she used on a power conduit. Chop, chop, chop. The orange root vegetable fell into perfect, uniform cubes. There was a rhythm to it, a practiced efficiency that was honestly kind of mesmerizing.
She was in her element, whether it was rewiring a droid's motivator or just making dinner. It was… cool.
Once the legumes were thoroughly rinsed, I drained the water and padded back over to the counter, sliding the bowl next to her cutting board. "Task complete, boss."
She glanced down, giving me a nod of approval. "Good work, assistant."
I leaned against the counter, watching her sweep the pile of orange cubes into a sizzling pan. The smell of frying vegetables filled the small apartment, and my stomach rumbled audibly.
"What's that orange thing?" I asked, pointing with my chin.
"This?" Vasha stirred the pan with a wooden spoon. "It's just a sun-root. Grows all over the plains here. Sweetens up a stew if you cook it right." She added the legumes to the pan, the sizzle getting louder. "Pretty much a Lothal staple."
She gave the pan another stir, then shot me a casual, sideways glance. "So, where'd your folks drag you from, anyway? Must not have had many sun-roots there."
My brain stalled. A blue screen of social error.
Crap. Crap, crap, crap.
I'd spent all my energy crafting the "who" and "why" of my sob story—deadbeat parents, abandoned kid, so sad, please feed me—but I'd completely, utterly forgotten the "where." Where was I before they supposedly dumped me here? I needed a planet. Somewhere plausible. Somewhere remote enough and poor enough that a family might realistically pack up and leave in search of better prospects. Definitely not a core world.
My mind raced through a list of planets from the games and movies, frantically trying to find one that fit. Raxus Prime? Too much of a junkyard. Felucia? Too… mushroomy.
My mouth opened before my brain finished rebooting, grabbing the first, most iconic backwater hellhole it could find.
"Umm… Tatooine!"
"Tatooine?"
Vasha didn't even pause her stirring. She just repeated the name with a little frown of concentration, like she was trying to place a part number. "Huh. Can't say I've heard of it. Must be way out there."
"Its sandy there. I don't like it through. Its too coarse and gets everywhere." My mind supplanted the first information it got of the place. Dammit Bridger, you just monologued on lying and here you are, doing it again.
She chuckled in response but that was it. No follow-up questions. No quiz on its primary exports or native species. To her, it was just another meaningless name from the ass-end of the galaxy. My internal panic fizzled out, leaving me feeling a little foolish. Of course a dock worker on Lothal wouldn't have a map of the entire Outer Rim memorized.
I leaned my chin on my hands, watching her work. She moved with an easy grace, adding a pinch of this and a splash of that, tasting the broth from the spoon with a critical hum. It was strangely fascinating.
"Aren't you bored?" she asked, glancing down at me. "I can put the tooka-cats back on."
"No, it's okay," I said, a little too quickly. "Watching you is better." I searched for the right words, something to sell the sweet-kid persona. "It's… like watching butterflies dance. All your movements are so precise and pretty."
She stopped and stared at me for a beat. Then she let out a short, surprised giggle. The sound was warm and genuine, and she reached over to ruffle my hair again. "You're a weird little poet, you know that?"
I just gave a wry smile. Right. Just a kid saying cute, nonsensical things. When would the day come when a compliment from me would be more than just ramblings of a child? When would someone see the adult mind behind the childish words? Hah, woe is me, and childhood sucks sometimes..
Soon, the stew was done, a thick, fragrant concoction that smelled a hundred times better than nutrient paste.
Vasha ladled it into two bowls, and I carefully carried them over to the couch, setting them on the low table where the dumb cartoon was still playing out its mind-numbing finale.
Vasha followed with spoons and napkins, slumping onto the couch with a tired sigh.
"Hey," I said, picking up my spoon. "Can we change this?"
She looked at the floating cartoon cat, then at me. "You sure? We can find another cartoon."
"No," I shook my head. "Put on what you want to watch. The cartoons aren't very interesting."
My 8 year old impersonation can kill itself, I ain't burning my braincells on that shit.
Vasha gave me a long look, her spoon halfway to her mouth. The surprise on her face wasn't pity this time, but something more like genuine curiosity.
"You sure, kiddo?" she asked, her voice low. "Specter of the Spire is pretty boring for a seven-year-old. Lots of talking."
"It's better than tooka-cats," I said, shrugging as I took my first spoonful of stew.
The warmth spread through my chest instantly. It was rich, savory, and real. The sun-root was sweet, the legumes were earthy, and it tasted like something I felt I had eaten, but what i couldn't remember.
A small smile touched her lips. She picked up the remote and with a few clicks, the hyper-colored cartoon vanished. It was replaced by a gritty, rain-slicked street corner and a man in a long coat, his face cast in dramatic shadow.
"...the only thing colder than this city's streets," a gravelly voiceover intoned from the holoprojector, "is the truth."
Vasha let out a soft snort of amusement. "See? Cheesy."
She took a bite of her own stew, her eyes fixed on the show. We ate in a comfortable silence, the only sounds the clinking of our spoons against the bowls and the dramatic dialogue of some hard-boiled detective.
The show was kinda good too, through a bit low on pixels but that just gave an retro feeling.
We watched till the food lasted, and then watched more after that too, but later on it didn't took long for me to start feeling sleepy. Body of a growing child and all. With my eyes droopy, I held on for some time, but sleep claimed me the same.
I did feel someone move my body onto something softer and warmer...It was nice.
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Today, ranking is going to reset(I think it does on each sunday) so I would implore you guys to vote with powerstones as much as you can if you liked the story till now!
This is the best moment to bring more readers to the book so your support is very vital. Lets show'em how many fans Star Wars Rebels has!
As an incentive, how about 200 stones in next 2 days for a bonus chapter?
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