Chapter Text
part i: the twins [a pair of good-for-nothing shits without two credits to rub together and all the stubbornness of the Galactic Senate]
It happens like this: he takes one look at them, scowling at some faceless imperial officer as their ship is impounded right before their eyes, and his heartstrings sing like a Bastanian fiddle. He doesn’t even realize he’s moving towards them until he’s halfway across the docking bay.
Scanlan’s no Jedi, but there are some things he just knows.
“Oi, officer,” he calls across the platform, weaving between impatient passengers and scowling merchants and faceless troopers; spaceports tend to blur into the same mass of life and machinery and engine grease when you’ve visited as many of them as Scanlan has. The trio look up as he approaches, all of their faces equally guarded. The ship crouches behind them, a top-of-the-line yacht that was probably beautiful once but has seen the business end of a blaster turret one too many times. Scanlan’s momentarily amazed they actually want to go anywhere in that thing; it’s one short jump from falling apart. “’Scuse me, is there a problem here?”
“Nothing that concerns you, sir,” says the Imp, face and voice flat and lifeless, and Scanlan has seen enough disturbing stuff in space that nothing much fazes him anymore but these guys still make his skin crawl. “Move along.”
“Well, y’see, I would, but these two work for me, so if they’re in trouble...”
“We’re not––” one of them starts, and the other one makes expert use of an elbow.
“In trouble,” she finishes, and ooh, Scanlan likes her. She smiles up at the officer, her eyes wide and guileless, and the utility droid behind her whirs a query. “Just some paperwork mixup. I thought we had the shipping manifest, but I guess I must have left it with you. Captain.”
“I told you I had it,” Scanlan replies without hesitation, already sizing up the officer as best he can, deciding how to play this. Irritated captain, he thinks. Or maybe clueless captain? Imperial agent? Conning Imperials isn’t exactly rocket science, but some of them are clever. He doesn’t think this is one of the clever ones––if he were, he wouldn’t be asking a couple of kids for shipping manifests on a muddy backwater moon like this. “Go on, take your useless brother back to the ship. I’ll deal with this.” He’s guessing brother, anyways. They look identical; either it’s a brother or they’re out of Kamino. Maybe both. You never know with clones, not since the war.
“Now hold on––” the officer starts. Scanlan musters his most impatient smile and makes sure it doesn’t reach his eyes. The man frowns. Ah, so he can show emotion.
“Officer, these two are absolutely useless to you and every minute they’re not working for me they’re wasting my money. Let’s you and I talk about this. Man to man.”
The brother scoffs at that, and Scanlan smiles with an edge. Believe me, he pushes, layers it with honesty and authority, and the man caves.
“Alright,” the officer says. He sounds uncertain. “If you’re the one to talk to.”
“I am,” Scanlan assures him, oozing self-confidence. It’s not particularly difficult. He’s a confident kinda guy.
“Your employees are free to go. You should teach them some manners.”
“Oh, I will,” Scanlan agrees, nodding. “Definitely.”
“Can’t wait,” mumbles the brother. Scanlan decides he likes him too, the shit.
“Get out of here,” he says to them, eyes flicking between the sister––clearly the brains of this operation––and his ship. She’s a refitted TL-1800 with a distinctly purple paint job, the ugliest damn ship he’s ever seen and his pride and joy. “Go, uh, work. Like I pay you.”
“Yes, captain,” says the sister with a quick two-finger salute, and she drags her brother across the platform. The droid trails them, whistling as they go. Scanlan turns back to the officer.
“So, what exactly is the problem?”
“Your shipping manifest.”
“Right.” Shit. “Well, actually, I haven’t got one.”
“Excuse me?”
Think fast, Shorthalt. "I’m not supposed to tell anyone this, but I’m on a very important mission for the Empire. Top secret stuff. You’re going to blow my cover.”
“I’m going to need to see some identification.”
“You don’t need to see my identification.”
The officer frowns. “Sir––”
“Listen.” Scanlan interrupts him before he can get started, leaning in close. The officer has to bend over to hear him. “I’ve got information to send to the brass. Right to the top. You’ve already stopped two of my top agents, and if we don’t get off this moon immediately there’s going to be hell to pay from high up. Real shit. So why don’t you just let me go do my job, and I won’t tell your boss I’m late because I got held up talking to a customs officer. Sound good?”
“I don’t know who you are––”
“Burt Reynolds, esquire. Go ahead, look me up. I’ll be waiting.”
The officer frowns. Scanlan frowns right back, and crosses his arms for good measure. The moment stretches, so tense he thinks it might snap. He hopes the kids know how to prime a ship. He hopes they’re not gonna steal it out from under him. That would serve him right, for getting involved.
Shit.
The officer pulls a datapad out. “One moment,” he says stiffly. Scanlan makes a show of drumming his fingers against his arm as the man puts something in. A minute later, the pad chimes. Scanlan watches with a pleased sort of interest as his face drains of color.
“I–– Agent Reynolds, I’m so sorry, sir––”
“So I can go?”
“Yes, of course sir, my apologies––”
“Don’t let it happen again––” He looks at the man’s rank and mostly guesses, “Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I don’t want any trouble with traffic control on my way out.”
“None at all, sir.”
“Good man. As you were.”
“Of course, sir.”
Scanlan turns smartly on his heel and marches back across the port as if he owns the place. He’s pleasantly surprised the Cube is still docked where he left her. Two faces peer out at him as he steps up the boarding ramp.
“Who are––” the boy starts, and Scanlan shakes his head and closes the door The ramp rises with a slow hiss.
“Is there anything on your ship you still need?” Scanlan asks as he strides down the narrow hall, the two of them in his wake.
The sister trips on the uneven flooring where Scanlan hasn’t quite locked down the smuggling compartments. He’d planned on having more time on the moon, but given the choice between picking up another shipment and getting away from here before the Imperials flags his alias, he’ll take the loss in profits. At least he’ll still have his head. “What–– no, we’ve got everything on us, what is this––“
“Good,” Scanlan says. “Cause we’re leaving.”
“Going where ?” the boy asks––he’s going to have to get their names eventually, he thinks, when they are far, far away from this moon. The droid beeps.
“I’ll let you know when I figure it out,” he tells them, strapping into the pilot’s seat, starting the preflight checks as the board goes green beneath his fingers. The two stare with wide eyes and buckle in, fumbling with the safety harness.
They pull away from the port in a haze of exhaust, leaving the once-silver hull of the kid’s ship behind them. The girl stares at it as they go, and Scanlan pretends not to notice the way her face falls. The boy reaches over to grab her hand.
“We’ve done it before,” he murmurs, and she nods. Scanlan focuses on the space lanes, hands tight on the controls. He doesn’t want to know.
They burn through the atmosphere, his fingers anxiety-tight on the controls, waiting for the Imperials to order them down, but no one stops them or calls them back as they tear free of of the moon’s gravity well, and Scanlan breathes out a sigh of relief as the muddy ground gives way to the vastness of space, the planet above them blocking out the light of the system’s sun. The kids are quiet.
“Now what?” asks the girl, eyes trailing the rotation of the moon as it makes its slow turn behind the planet.
“Ever been to Corellia?” Scanlan decides, question half rhetorical as he punches in coordinates. “You’re gonna love it.”
“This is a terrible idea,” says the boy unevenly, full of false bravado. Scanlan grins.
“Yep. Welcome aboard.”
The stars stretch into lines and they lurch forwards into the emptiness of hyperspace.
Their names, he learns, are Vex and Vax. Well, Vex’ahlia and Vax’ildan, but that’s a mouthful in a firefight, so nicknames it is. Scanlan snorts.
“That’s terrible. Who named you?”
“Our mother,” snaps the boy. Vex. No, Vax. Shit. “What kind of a name is Scanlan Shorthalt anyways?”
“Mine,” says Scanlan. “And that’s Captain Shorthalt to you two.”
“We weren’t asking for help, you know,” says the girl. Her droid––a retrofitted T3 utility droid, designation T3-K7––twitters in agreement. “We can handle ourselves.”
“Well, what can I say. I’m a bleeding heart.”
Her eyes narrow. “Sure.”
“And you owe me one.”
"Bullshit,” says the boy. Vax. Right. He’s getting the hang of this. “No way. You want to help us out, fine, but we don’t owe you shit.”
“You practically kidnapped us,” says Vex, hand tight around some kind of weapon on her back; it looks vaguely like a vibrostaff. “We aren’t working for you.”
Scanlan holds his hands up, the universal gesture for surrender. Or to cool it; Scanlan’s not quite sure which he’s going for right now. Bit of both, probably. “Listen,” he says calmly. “I’m not a slaver or a bounty hunter, just an honest freighter captain.” Mostly honest, anyways, but anyone with a courier as retrofitted as theirs probably isn’t strictly on the right side of the law either. “I don’t want any help you’re not willing to give. I just need a few extra hands to help me pick up some, uh, cargo from Corellia and bring it to a couple of people who’ll pay a whole lot for it. Some help from two strapping young folk like yourself would be a weight off my old bones. And then we’ll all go our separate ways, debts paid. Sound good?”
“You’ll pay us,” the girl says. Scanlan’s eyebrows rise.
“Excuse me?”
“For services rendered. A split of the payment. Forty percent.”
“Fifteen,” Scanlan corrects.
“Thirty.”
“Twenty, with room and board.”
The twins look to each other.
“And no questions asked,” Scanlan tacks on. He knows that look, the wide-eye wariness. He remembers the fear that anyone might take advantage of a kid on his own in this wide, hateful galaxy. “I promise.”
“What about our ship?” demands Vax. “How are we supposed to get her back?”
“Vax,” says Vex quietly.
“We’re not just going to––“
“Well what do you want to do?” she snaps. Both of them look utterly miserable, shoulders slumped, hands fisted at their sides, and Scanlan feels his heartstrings sing again, but he doesn’t know what he can do. Not against something as big as the Empire.
“We already––” Vex starts quietly, almost too quietly for Scanlan to hear, and Vax’s expression goes still, eyes disappearing into shadow.
Vex purses her lips. “Give us a moment,” she requests, so Scanlan ducks out of the hold to give them their privacy.
He’d love to get them back to their own ship, of course. Well. He’d probably help, for a little compensation. But he’s seen his fair share of impounded vessels on Imperial-occupied planets, and short of stealing it from the Imperial compound before they scrap it, there’s no way anyone’s going to get it back. He’s hardly the Rebellion; all he does is play music and smuggle spice. Sometimes both at the same time. Sticking it to the Empire is for people with nothing left to lose.
Really, they’re lucky they aren’t on their way to a penal colony right now. That’s about the best folk like them can manage, all things considered. He scuffs a foot against the floor.
A few minutes later they step out of the hold, faces drawn. They look to each other, and Vax nods. Vex steps forwards.
“We’ll stay,” she says. “We’ll work for you. Twenty percent, room and board, and we’ll stay until we decide to go.” She holds her hand out. “Deal?”
Scanlan doesn’t need to consider it. There’s something about them that’s–– not honest, exactly, but true. A feeling deep in his gut, deeper than instinct. He takes her hand. “Deal.”
Her handshake is firm and strong, and she meets his eyes without backing down. The droid beeps. Scanlan grins.
“Welcome aboard,” he says. The twins offer tentative smile.
The rest, as they say, is history.