Chapter Text
Trapped:
A Star Wars story
Remember who you’re staring at
is me
Dedicated to Chief
You were generous, we never truly knew each other
64 BBY (Years before Battle of Yavin)
Chapter 1
Kota has a creed. His creed, although changed slightly, still stuck solid, he still upheld the honour and loyalty he always held to his name. They could try to shed him, get rid of him. Try to point the finger, but the fact is, it ain’t Kota’s fault he’s in here. They don’t show him respect. They don’t show Kota Fett respect.
He’s on red alert in this facility, and he’s staked his claim. He’s established himself quickly in the prison, establishing his former Mandalorian status, and that he won’t be kriffed with. No one will kriff with Kota.
Kota turned the page of the book, but found his imagination had already wandered, to his circumstances. Seems to be a problem, his attention spans gone these days. It’s not even the book, it was one of his favourite ones. ‘The Long and Brutal History of Mandalore’. Covers a lot of interesting ground about his ancestry, his history.
Mandalore’s wars with the Jedi, their short alliance with the Sith, guy named Exar Kun. Then, their war with the Sith, in the aftermath. Then, when they ended up fighting both the Jedi and the Sith, at the same time. That’s when the devastation of Mandalore came. Sounds about right. Kota grimly thought.
He sighed, glancing out through the bars and the force field. He tossed the book on the floor, which could have been an act of defiance, and boredom. Probably both. Hasn’t made his mind up yet.
Kota Fett should not be in prison.
Listen, most prisoners would say that. But Kota should honestly not be in prison. He ain’t innocent. But he shouldn’t be in here.
His black hair was kept short, slightly spiked, but mostly combed, when he found the opportunity to in this craphole. He took pride in his hair. It’s not for the whole appearance, the aesthetic, its just cause you got to look after your best assets. His brown eyes were concealed, hardened and accusing, as if blaming every being he laid his eyes upon for his situation.
His skin was also a tanned brown, bronzed for days spent on Mandalore, farming and his military service. Calloused. “When’s recess?” Kota called to the guard by his cell, also reading. Kota stood, revealing his lean bulk and average height. Lean enough for fast movement and fit enough for explosive strength.
The prison shirt he wore, a navy blue short sleeved, with slacks to match, was slightly unkempt, top button opened. A deep circular scar lay across the top of his bicep, that twisted and distorted as he flexed the large muscle.
The guard glanced up lazily, with the most exasperation and boredom a man could possibly achieve. “It’s half an hour late, Fett.” He yawned. “New arrivals today.”
“New arrivals?” Kota questioned. “I never heard that!” “Well, it’s not your business to know, is it?” The guard cut across him. “Sit down, and shut up, Fett.”
“Yeah, yeah. Kriff you.” Kota said, audibly enough so the guard could hear. New arrivals? Great. A whole new group of scumbags to crowd up this hellhole and try bother him.
Kota had been fortunate he had gotten a cell on his own, he had to say that. Usually, the facility is pretty unbiased about who they put together. He once saw a Trandoshan get thrown in with a Wookie. With Trandoshans slaving Wookies all the time, he heard the reptile lost one of his legs, part of his elbow and a single nostril.
But Kota just wants to be left alone. All that’s happened in here leaves him feeling even more sick, even more disgusted. After how he ended up here, it just left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Man, it’s time like these that he hates it. Too much silence, too much thinking. You need to keep yourself busy, even when doing time. Whether that’s hitting the gym during recess, reading, starting up a side hustle by trading or even just small talk.
The little things keep you going in here. You really live for them. His thoughts no matter what, will just keep wandering to his family. “Half an hour late.” Kota remarked loudly. “What a joke.”
The ship rattled once more, as the stench of newly arrested filled his nostrils. Saul sat in the back corner, only adding to the ominous air that filled the prison. There were some that tried to make conversation, however, it was nervy. The ashen white men, the shaky aliens and all in between. Nervous, unsure and most of all, distracting. Nervous men trying to distract themselves from their impending condemnation.
Saul Blur isn’t that friendly, nor is he that nervous.
A tall man, standing at over six and a half feet, with unkempt brown hair that complimented that. His hair glanced over the bottom of his neck, slightly messy and uncombed, with a thick brown beard that matched his hair.
His dark blue eyes stared silently out the window, relishing the few moments of silence and privacy, within his own mind, as the familiar side of Coruscant came into view. He ordained a dark grey denim jacket, with similar shirt and trousers. It was discreet, yet flexible, and looked well.
This was not the clean, metropolis Coruscant, that the planet was known for: this was the underworld. The parts that were not only crime-ridden but ridden with Republic ‘facilities’ and ‘correctional institutes’ meant to clean up that crime.
Saul was destined to go to one of the ‘best’ of these facilities, the Coruscant Correctional Penitentiary, in order to serve his sentence. Not a particularly grandiose, or even purposeful, destiny.
He kept silence, as the tension and desperation grew among the new detainees. They had reached the prison, a vast omni plex of dark blocks. Ports lay all over the large, dark circular building, that seemed to stretch to the eye’s peripherals.
A large courtyard, filled with sand, and various other equipment, lay at the back, heavily fortified. The front contained several more fortifications.
Saul knew how to control himself. He always prided himself on his self-control, and most of all, his silence. His silence came to benefit him more than his words, although the side effects were admittedly harmful. But Saul was a visual learner, and an audible one too.
The word that described all those qualities was equanimity. So, Saul was a man of equanimity.
Not the image you’d think considering Saul’s occupation.
Well, smuggling can be more difficult if you’re a smart mouthed. That’s what he’s experienced.
You live your life on the move. One score to the next, one job to another, moving from planet to planet. Some smugglers Saul is associated with are grounded, in their little hidden base. But Saul never had. He could never stick one place for too long. Well: looks like he’s grounded for the foreseeable future.
He felt the ship shudder once more, before coming to a sudden halt. The engine shut off, and once again, the ship was engaged in a frightened silence. Many convicts stared panicked, or angrily around, as if they could escape in their final moments as official ‘free’ men.
Saul had condemned himself already. He was stuck here, whether it be his own doing or not. And, Saul knew with the anger that festered under his poker face: it was not his fault. Not his doing he has been trapped here.
“What’s the hold up? Get up, get moving!” The guard, demanding, waved a blaster around. The prisoners eventually trudged to their feet, and slowly, began to move.
Saul, after some hesitation, departed his own rough leather seat, leather clinging desperately to the metal backing of the chair, and began to stride down. Many prisoners had their heads down, not Saul. Saul would at least have some dignity, if he was going to spend- what was the sentence again? 15 years?
That’s a hefty murder sentence.
His body lay on the ground, cold, unmoving. All Saul could do was lower his weapon, feeling a sense of numbness and yet also sadness at what had occurred.
Saul walked off the ship, taking heavy, slow steps. He ignored the beefy Kel Dor guard barking at him, and looked out once more, at the black circular confinement that was his home now. He knows he can find answers here.
Saul must. If it’s through other prisoners, the guards or even spending more time in the comfort of his thoughts: he will find answers. To why he is here. Because, at the moment, he knows why in some sense; but isn’t satisfied with that answer.
“Just a few more, man.” He wiped his nose again, sniffing, as he looked expectantly upon Kota. Kota looked at Jarlo again. A frequent customer of his, in the side hustle Kota had built up: selling deathsticks. There were plenty of addicts stuck in the slammer, their urges flaring up being trapped in these cells. Scratching away at themselves, jerking and twitching. Veins visible, along with the puncture marks, and the bloodshot, faraway eyes.
Kota did not take the stuff, and no way in hell did he enjoy dealing this poisonous crap: but, most of his customers were already hardened addicts. There were no curious kids, or depressed men wanting to escape here. Just the same old stickheads. Don’t jump to conclusions either. He didn’t get put in here for dealing. Kota is a Mandalorian, not some seedy dealer.
“Here.” Kota shoved two more at Jarlo again, his dark skin slightly pale from his substance abuse. He had shaved himself bald, but had not done the greatest job: there were flecks of black beginning to sprout from his skull. He also was growing a ‘beard’, a dirt moustache, accompanied by the thin black hairs. Jarlo was useful guy to know, he could literally access anything from anywhere. He was the prison hacker.
“You owe me a favour though.” Kota insisted, keeping a tight grip on the deathsticks. “Yeah, yeah. Sure, man.” Jarlo hurriedly remarked, prising at the death sticks. Kota let go of the death sticks, waving him away dismissively.
His eyes lay again over the courtyard, where the hour-long recess took place. There were bodies everywhere, criminals from all corners of the galaxy gathering in their respective cliques and moving around. The only fraction of satisfaction that these prisoners can get, they basically spend every second milking whatever the hell they can get out of this little bit of freedom. It’s like giving a caged animal a bigger cage, with shinier toys, and juicier steaks. The steak still has tranquilizers in there though.
Whether that be playing sports, hitting the gym, selling drugs, or more often than not, settling a grudge, they would do them all in the short hour. You gotta be careful about the last two, the guards around here aren’t slackers.
His eyes lay on the rickety old transport ship that was shuddering to a halt, curiously watching as the newbies departed the ship. A bunch of freshies. Some are going to submit, others aren’t gonna handle it. Few are able to rise above. But, those few will be heads above the rest.
You don’t start a fight with the biggest dog, that’s myth. You’ll get your ass kicked. You just gotta show you won’t take crap. If the big dog comes up to you, you don’t back down. But you don’t start the fight. Unless, you know you can win. Kota Fett never loses.
That’s how Kota handled it. Nobody messes with a Fett. Either that, or you’re already influential in the underworld. You work for a Hutt, or a Senator: you’ve got the gang equivalent of diplomatic immunity. Or, if you work for that piece of -
Kota shook his head. He didn’t even want to think about that him. Kota glanced over the new lads. Kota snorted. By the looks of these guys, there seems to be no one special. Or, more goons that could be the clan, out to get him. He needs to make sure Shay hasn’t sent anyone to grab him.
Kota turned, deciding to head back to his cell. He’s got some more planning to do. He ain’t gonna break out here by doing nothing. He ain’t gonna get revenge by looking at a bunch of new drugees and skinheads.
Saul was shoved past the courtyard, which seemed to house most of the prisoners. Many had gathered around the forcefield, jeering and yelling at the new transfers, as the guards banged their blasters and vibro-swords against the force field, hungry for blood, and much darker things, as they glared out at them.
Saul stared back calmly, as they feasted hungry eyes upon him, and the other prisoners, foaming at the mouth and hollering like a pack of wild animals. Half of it was the pack mentality, Saul was well aware of that. But the other half was something much darker: revealed how truly capable these men were of anything.
Underneath it all, they were primal: men who had disregarded all sense of control and intelligence, succumbing to their very basic urges. I suppose I am no different. I am one of them now.
Saul was shoved again into the entrance hallway of the dark prison, met with the usual gloomy background. The other new prisoners did not seem to be handling this well, but Saul was still calm. He has experienced worse that this, far worse.
In fact, he almost felt sorry for the young Twi’lek that was in front of him. The young man could not have been older than twenty, and he seemed to realise how he’d be easy prey. If Saul ever sees him around the prison, he’ll make sure to give him a hand. Even, if it’s a small way.
They were heading straight to the prison block, past the rows and gates of securities and force fields. That began the arduous process of handing in all his belongings. Reluctantly, he was forced to take off his jacket, empty his pockets with the lockpick, the photos of friends, and his most treasured possession, the dull green crystal he wore around his neck.
That was one he took a while to depart from, taking it slowly off, and placing it on the tray, much to the chagrin of the impatient overweight guard. It wasn’t any old crystal. It was a memory crystal. It helped him remember his life, before it was torn from him.
When they were shoved into the cell blocks, most of the cells were empty. After all, it was recess, from what Saul could gather. They all were on the upper floors, the first, second, third…... but the ground floor was just a plain floor.
Well, what did surprise him was sheer amount of, not only cells, but security. Not just bars, but a plasma field, blue force field that restricted any man or alien to reach his hand further than the bars. As solid as an unbreakable wall.
Who was that? Was that a prisoner Saul could see strolling up there, with his cocky stride? His black hair seemed to defy gravity, and his blue shirt had been rolled up, to bicep length. Was that a ….?
Kota made his way quickly through the cell blocks on the first floor, reaching the checkpoint. It was relatively unguarded past the checkpoints, you could walk freely through the halls. During the day. It was an advantage, and a small one at that.
Kota knew this whole craphole inside out by this stage. He spent too much of his goddamn time studying it. You need to prepare to escape here.
After being patted down, and after Kota gave the guard plenty of lip with that, Kota made his way through the cell blocks. He walked down the solid walkway, that overlooked the dark empty hall that currently housed the newbies.
Kota took a glance down at the rookies, his eyes passively scanning them all. He saw one pair of eyes stare up at him. A tall guy, looking late twenties, messy brown hair and his blue eyes too curious. Kota didn’t like the way that guy looked at him.
When people looked at him like that, they either wanted something from him, or they soon wanted to know something. Everyone here does. Well, looks like they’ll all face ‘the talk’ soon.
Kota had stared down at the guy for too long, too wrapped up in the rookies, that he had missed the cinderblock shaped man that had been walking towards him.
The large bulky Trandoshan was leering at Kota before he realised his intentions, and he had his scaly, large hand around his head, grabbing him and slamming him against the wall.
“What the-“ Kota began, in shock and frustration. The Trandoshan hissed, tongue flickering in his face. “Shay is watching you.” His scaly lips turned into a smile. “Remember that, Fett.”
Kota shoved his hand away, and defiantly shove the Trandoshan. The threat annoyed him, but the mention of Shay even more so. “Kriff off! Get the hell out of my face!”
“Break it up!” a human guard intervened, shoving both the prisoners away from each other. “Back to your cells, both of you!” “Get out of my face!” Kota repeated louder, and angrier, shoving the guards’ hand away.
Before the guard could raise a hand, Kota had marched off, calming his temper. He has bigger fish to fry, bigger stuff to sort out. He’s not worried about Shay. He’ll see Shay soon.
Saul had seen the confrontation with interest. He knew he recognized that Mandalorian, and he knew the Trandoshan too. Mon’pho, Saul believes the assaulters name is. A bounty hunter.
Kota Fett was well known around certain circles, his own bounty hunter status interesting given his patchy past, and his Mandalorian heritage. But that was not the aspect that had intrigued Saul’s interest the most. It was the mention of ‘Shay’. Shay is watching you.
That cursed name followed him everywhere. That cursed man.
“Hey! The governor is here!” Saul’s attention was snapped back to the floor, the guards shoving him again. The guards stood to attention, as the governor walked into view.
A Mon Calamari, his skin was orange and dome shaped, black bulbous eyes and webbed hands. He was dressed in dress robes, and to Saul strongly resembled a failed politician. Saul not only grew a dislike, but also a natural disgust, formed when meeting these upper class, oblivious fools.
Tried to run for Galactic Republic and got relegated to running the Coruscant Correctional Penitentiary. Saul could easily call that life, but that would be too cliché. You don’t always achieve your dreams. Sometimes, your dreams won’t bring happiness.
True. It wasn’t Saul’s dream to be here either, Governor. But Saul won’t become a bitter, jaded and generally dislikeable old man who deflected his manic depression upon his prisoners.
The governor strolled in front of them, his black eyes scanning them as if they were mere annoyances. “I will keep this short.” He began, in his warbled voice. “We have a no tolerance policy in my facility.”
The governor began to stroll again. “No illegal trading, no fighting. You listen to all guards’ orders at all- all times. You will be assigned various labour activities, working seven hours, six days a week. Trust me, this will be much simpler if you follow the rules.”
The Mon Calamari stopped again. “We are not Jedi here. Nor are we the Senate. We have a more effective, and less… tolerant way of dealing with criminals.”
The Twi’lek kid raised his hands, shaking slightly. His ran a hand over his dark blue tentacles upon his head, his green eyes looking warily at the governor. “When are…. When are visiting times? For family?” The governor stopped, staring at the Twi’lek in cold amusement. He turned to the guard, with a look.
The guard slammed the butt of his rifle into the Twi’leks stomach, and the Twi’lek doubled over, groaning in pain. He coughed, and groaned, as the guard roughly hauled him to his feet. Saul felt a tinge of sympathy again for the young man.
Saul had expected this: the corrupt, jaded governor. He had to abuse his power at some point, reveal to everyone his inferiority complex. Governor looked over the prisoners again, a cold mask, hiding his triumphant dominance. “ A prime example. It is time for you to go to your cells.”
Saul himself was at cell number T-15. T-15 was a generally fine cell. It was middle of his hallway and was a single cell: he was alone. He had already set up shop, in the small cell that contained nothing but a bed, a toilet and a sink. Luxury was never something Saul did enjoy in his line of work. T-15 suited Saul just fine.
But…. Well, he was not expecting the cellmate in T-14.
Kota Fett lay on the cell, silently reading a Mandalorian philosophical book. He had a series of pencils beside him, and was scribbling on the book, his face screwed in intensity as he scribbled.
The first thing Saul noticed: was that the Mandalorian had a pencil in his book. And, maybe Saul is presumptuous, but Kota Fett does not seem like the type who has an interest in studying old texts.
Saul had stared at him too obviously, as Kotas irritated glances turned into downright frustration.
“What?” Kota snapped, turning to his next-door neighbour in indignance. “Is this a kriffin gallery?” Saul shrugged, blue eyes gazing at him unobtrusively. “No. Sorry.”
An awkward silence filled the cells again, as Kota returned to his book, muttering. But Saul had a spark. An idea, even if it sounded ridiculous. It was far-fetched: but he was in prison now. The rules are different here.
Kota’s encounter with that Trandoshan established two things for Saul: that Shay had influence in the prison, and that Kota was, just as Saul was, in trouble with Shay. Two trivial points, but they were important to Saul. Ones that showed similar circumstances…. To an extent, obviously.
Saul did come here to get answers. And, Kota Fett is clearly the one to provide those answers.
This guy really likes to piss me off. Kota can barely get any work done, not with that lanky idiot staring over his shoulder. Getting attacked, and now being watched: he hates this place.
That’s a part of his Mandalorian creed: trust no one, and honour that rule.
Kota wouldn’t snoop in someone else’s personal business, unless that person deserves it. Or, he had good reason too. This lanky guy clearly has no problem doing that. What reason would this guy have?
Another reason why this place is a hellhole: the nosy cellmates constantly trying to ruin your privacy. “It’s the little things.” Kota muttered to himself. “The little things matter."