#featuring teenage sassmaster Theron Shan

[inyri]

84. “I can’t believe you talked me into this.” SWTOR OCs!

(Another cheat, sorry- not exactly an OC, but I’ve been rolling this idea around in my head for ages and it latched onto this prompt. It does feature half of my usual SWTOR duo, though, so I hope it will suffice.)

“I can’t believe you talked me into this.” He glances down at his caf cup for a minute- this stuff is fucking terrible, even by his usual low-budget standards- before he returns his attention to the detention room window. “You told me you had someone for me. He’s just a kid.”

“Seventeen, he says. No papers to back it up, of course-” Jannah slides a datapad across the desk toward him- “not like they ever do. But this one’s good, Dev. Got past the physical perimeter at EvaCorp and sliced through three layers of security with just a basic spike. He had a dozen files halfway cracked when their shock net went off.”

As she keeps talking (she was Coruscanti to the bone, a thousand words when ten’d do) he watches the kid through the mirrored glass. Skinny and spiky-haired in a red jacket about a size too big, he picks idly at the locked cuff chaining his wrist to the table- seventeen’s probably about right. Much younger than that and they’re usually scared; much older and they’ve usually got a record.

“Given that shock nets are on the banned list as of last year,” she finishes, “they’re keen to keep this quiet. I can’t just cut him loose, but I thought of you. You keep saying you’re short on recruits again, and-”

“We are.” Draining the last of the caf, he flicks the cup into the garbage. “He tell you why he did it?”

It’s warm in here, and Jannah unzips her uniform jacket as she kicks back in her chair. “That’s the other reason I thought of you. Besides the credits, obviously,” she grins, “apparently he was bored.”

Hm. He can use that, maybe. “You think he’ll bite?”

“I don’t know. But he seems like a good kid, and if I’ve got to send him down he’s not going to stay that way.”

“Yeah.” He pushes away from the table as, beyond the glass, the boy glances up toward the door and then back down toward his cuffed hand. “Yeah. Twist my arm. I’ll go talk to him.”

She smiles. “Thanks, Dev. We still on for dinner tomorrow?”

“Seven o’clock. I’ll pick you up.” One last read over the datapad and then he turns the doorknob, steps into the interrogation room, and he’s four steps in before the kid finally speaks.

“I wondered when they were planning to send in the bad cop.” Looking at his features, he could be from anywhere, his accent a hodgepodge- not Imperial, but not straight Core, either. Clear eyes. No track marks, no tattoos. No bad habits to break, hopefully. “I’m guessing that’s a no on the sandwich, then.”

He chuckles. “You really think I look like SecForce? Yikes.”

The kid glances sideways toward the door again but it stays closed; his mouth settles into a narrower line. “You work for them, then? Look,” he says, “like I told her before, I was just paid to get the files. I didn’t read ‘em, so if you’re going to-”

“How’d you do it?”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“You cut through corporate-grade encryptions with a ten-credit spike. That takes some talent.” Sitting down across the table, datapad between them, he rests his elbows on the table and leans forward toward the kid. “Who taught you to slice?”

“Self-taught, mostly. I picked up stuff here and there.” His wrist must be sore- he’s still rubbing it as he shifts in his seat, a few burn lines snaking dark red and angry up into the cuff of the jacket. “Y’know. Around.”

“On Manaan?”

The kid blinks again. “Never heard of it.”

“Your racing league record says otherwise, although I’m pretty sure the minimum legal age is sixteen. You were- what? Fourteen?” He gestures down at the datapad. There wasn’t much in the file at all- no birth record, no customs clearances, even facial recognition drawing a big, fat blank. For all that he’s sitting in front of him, the kid’s practically a ghost. “But it was just a question.”

“Almost fifteen when I started, not that they were checking ident cards- the bosses liked their racers lightweight. What’re you going to do, arrest me?”

Smartass.

He likes this one.

He’s got a cuff key in his jacket pocket and digs for it, flips it up and down between his fingers, working his way around to the important questions. “You got any family? Friends? Anyone who can put up bond for you?”

“Not really.” Eyes tracking the key, the kid shrugs. “No one with that kind of credits, anyway. This job was supposed to be... never mind. And no. No family.”

“Someone must have raised you. You don’t strike me as a Temple foundling, and you sure as hell didn’t grow up down here. You can read, for one thing.”

That gets a response, a split-second flash of anger. “Raised is a word, insofar as I could live up to what they wanted, which I couldn’t. If you’re trying to get me to go to the Children’s Home, forget it. I’ll be eighteen in two months and then I’ll be out on my ass again, just like-” Free hand curling into a fist, he flinches. That hand’s got char marks, too.

Void, he’s prickly. “Not what I was going to suggest. The way I see it, you’ve got two options. Nobody’s coming to bail you out, so: you can either tell me to fuck off and take your chances with the Coruscant legal system, or you can listen to what I have to say.”

The kid quiets, sinking lower in his chair.

“Very good. Now, what’s your real name?”

He makes a face. “You guys know my real name- it’s right there on your datapad. Theron Shan.”

“Well then, Theron Shan-” leaning forward again, he touches the key to the still-locked cuff- “take this as a show of good faith. My name’s Dev Andress. I work for the Strategic Information Service.”

A nod, a raised eyebrow as the cuff springs open. “I’ve seen the recruitment posters on the Holonet- ‘now hiring data analysts.’ Very suit-and-tie sounding. Not really my thing.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that. You know what Imperial Intelligence is? What they do?”

“Not personally,” Theron says, “thank fuck. One of my friends got picked up by the Imps last year. He came back short three teeth and about half his brain cells. I learned to steer clear real fast.”

“The SIS is the Republic’s answer. It’s data analysis for some of our people, sure, but it’s also slicing. Field work. Hands-on. You seem like you’ve got a talent for it, and we need people.”

He opens his mouth and then shuts it again, tilts his head, considering. “Is this a joke? You’re kidding, right?”

“No joke. The pay’s not great and it’s dangerous as hell, to be honest, but you won’t find a better cause.” Might as well be honest. Idealists never last long, not in this line of work.

They sit there, silent, for at least a minute.

And then- “Anyone ever tell you you’re a shitty recruiter?”

“I’ve been told that before, yeah.”

“All right,” the kid says, and sits up straighter. “I’m listening.”