Heritage

[Calian Tarr]

In case this looks familiar, I did post this "short story" about a year ago, but later abandoned it due to being unable to finish it. I've trimmed it and finally managed to finish it, so thought to repost it. Due to the limbo it's been, the story also takes place about a year ago. Naturally, unless Calian tells you ICly, his background would still remain a mystery!
​

The Clue​

A chime rang from one of the terminals.

It snapped the half-asleep Calian awake, the unlit cigarra falling from his lips to be crushed by the wheel of his chair. He leaned forward to the central monitor to see a flickering timestamp.

MATCH FOUND — DOCKING REGISTER C201
8 ATC 23:05:01
UNDERCITY, LEVEL 3, NAR SHADDAA
— MATCH FOUND

He leaned back, eyes glued to the blinking text. The screens lit both him and the room with cold, sterile glow, interrupted by the red timestamp at regular intervals. Around him were the heads of droids hanging from the ceiling and propped against the walls; with no light in their eyes and the only sound coming from the hum of the fans cooling the processors re-purposed to scour decades worth of flight logs, shipping manifests and worst of all, false leads.

He reached out to press a button, then retracted his arm like he'd touched a hot stove. His eyes scanned the manifest's details: cargo listed - excluding the unmentioned child - recipients named, but none of that mattered. Not the end destination. Only one thing mattered. The who and where.

As he reached the end of the manifest, there was a weight in his chest: the sender's name staring right back at him.

SENDER: IVAR KOSH

This was the man who inadvertently made Calian the man he was: from heir to a criminal empire, to forgotten gutter rat, to the Sith he is today. After that name was etched into his brain, his gaze slid to the right.

DOCKING REGISTER 200B
8 ATC 09:12:43
IZIZ, ONDERON

Onderon.

He stared at the name like he'd never heard of it before. Slowly tilting his head back, he ran a hand over his temple to push back hair glued to his face from the sweltering heat in the room. He sighed deeply, eyes drifting upwards to the row of droid heads above.

"Onderon…" he muttered the planet's name as if to taste it, conjuring images in his mind. Jungles. Predators. Royalty. That last thought lingered. He stood abruptly, the crushed cigarra crunching under the wheel of the chair. He didn't care: he was already halfway to his ship.

The Trail​

Yet another chime that snapped Calian awake: rather than a terminal, the shuttle alerting passengers they're docking soon.

He rubbed his eyes and looked out the viewport. Iziz stretched out in the distance: sharp lines and polished stone. His gaze drifted from building to another, but his thoughts lingered elsewhere. This may not be his home, but it is where he’s from, and the people from there - the ones tied to his origins - are closer than ever.
With a worn cloak over his shoulders he moved towards the front of the shuttle, disregarding etiquette even though he was sat near the back. He could feel the unhappy stares and whispers, but decided to wait silently by the door.

The door slid open with a hiss, and his tattered boots descended onto the streets of Iziz. He stretched his limbs before venturing further into the port, simultaneously scanning the faces in the crowd.

"Maybe some of these people are my flesh and blood."

A curious thought crept into his mind, his imagination warping some of the faces to look similar to what he sees in the mirror. He forced these thoughts to the side and stepped further in.

"Pardon - which way's Kosh's Cargo?" he inquired, putting on the best Core Worlds accent he could muster. His Shaddaa twang must've slipped in, judging by the strange look he received, but got an answer regardless: a simple nod over his shoulder.

He followed the directions, eyes focused on the signs. They weren't as bright or loud as they were back home. To him they might as well have blended into the buildings. He bumped shoulders with a dozen people before finally stopping, turning to face the building.

KOSH'S CARGO

It was a warehouse on the edge of the dock, where foot traffic had decreased drastically. He approached the door and opened it. It didn't even slide open on its own, like doors generally do even in the worst neighbourhood of the Smuggler's Moon. It was a simple office, where a graying old man with an eyepatch, clad in a blue jumpsuit, greeted him.

"You sending or receiving?", the man immediately posed a question, jumping straight to business. Calian could tell that this man had some skeletons in his closet - a criminal knows a criminal.

"Receiving."

He turned his head left and right to inspect the decades old posters on the walls, shelves full of dusty old mementos and what he assumed to be paperwork. The floor creaked under his slow footsteps as he planted a hand against the clerk's desk. At this distance, he could read the old nametag on the jumpsuit.

Kosh, Ivar.

"From where, from who and-" Ivar's monotone words were cut short as Calian lunged over the counter with superhuman speed, grabbing the old man by his throat and pushing him against the wall behind the desk.

"Twenty-five-ish years ago, you OK'd a shipping container with a kid in it." Calian hissed through his teeth as he slightly tightened the grip on Ivar's throat, who was busy trying to escape. "I'm sure y'remember it, or d'ya make a habit of shippin' off kids without adult supervision?"

Ivar's legs scraped against the floor as he made desperate attempts to get footing, accidentally kicking folders off a nearby shelf. Calian's grip, however, was firm: a mix of training, unnatural strength, and purpose. He loosened his grip to give the old man a chance to answer.

Ivar glared at him with his one good eye as air went in and out of his lungs once more, bracing himself against his desk as he caught his breath. He didn't go for a blaster or pull the alarm, just wheezed and stared.

"Must be the kid then, judging by the accent." It was the first thing out of Ivar's mouth, immediately following it up with a bitter laugh, which quickly turned to another wheeze. "Was sure you were dead."

Calian stared, unimpressed. Whether he realised it or not, he was anxiously squeezing his hands into fists, keeping track of the surprisingly calm Ivar's every movement, almost expecting a sucker punch.

"Whose orders?"

He took a step towards Ivar, who raised his arms in surrender.

"Must've been your mother, boy!" Ivar laughed in a mocking manner, like he'd just pulled the pin off a grenade. Calian's fist immediately crashed into Ivar's gut, causing the man to collapse onto his knees, then roll over onto his back, writhing in pain.

"You've got her eyes, y'know." He pulled out a rag from his jumpsuit, spitting some blood into it. "Same heat in them. Hard to forget."

"Name. NAME." Calian raised his voice, his foot shuffling ever-so-slightly closer to Ivar's head. He could feel the blood starting to boil inside of him—and so did his paranoia. His attention kept darting to the door that he'd left unlocked, not aiming to get the local authorities after him.

"Something with an S-" Ivar answered, his sentence cut short by a coughing fit. "Sindia, I think. Deeda, Deerdra- something- something like that." He drew a deep, raspy breath, remaining on the floor as if he's already resigned to his fate. "Said something about how it'd be trouble for the court. Musta been a little… Lordling with a title too small, but a name too big to bury." He accompanied the statement with a wide smirk, showing off those bloodied teeth of his. "Do you feel blue-blooded, boy?"

Calian remained silent: he was both judging Ivar to gauge if he was lying through his teeth, or if he spoke the truth. A part of the silence was also due to him taking in the chapter of a life he didn't know he had lived, and considering what could've been. Him - royalty?

He was almost in a trance, just staring at Ivar even after he'd posed a question. He managed to snap out of it, the mocking look in Ivar's good eye drilling deep into his subconscious. His boot rose from the ground and was planted beside Ivar's throat. "Don't fuck with me. Where can I find her?"

"Try the graveyard, pretty sure I read her obituary a while back!" Ivar burst into another fit of mocking laughter and wheezing immediately after, calming down only to speak once more. "Why didn't she take the easy way out and just kill you? She think the heartless void would take you, or did she think you'd be better off there?"

Calian put his weight onto the boot, effortlessly crushing Ivar's throat under it. The old-timer quickly went limp and his only good eye rolled up into his skull. Calian stepped over the corpse before any of the blood stained the bottom of his boots, and jumped over the counter once more: he stepped out of the establishment, but only after making sure the door was locked. At least for the day.

 

[Calian Tarr]

The Dead End​

There it was. A humble, crumbling stone wall slowly being swallowed by the native flora of the planet. It would be easy to mistake these for the foundations of ancient buildings, if it weren't for the gravestones visible through the gate. Calian took one last glance at the map on his datapad before stashing it under his cloak, stepping inside.

For better or for worse, Ivar hadn't lied. He looked into the obituaries and the woman he had named indeed had died - and was buried somewhere here. As he stepped through the gates, it took only a few steps to realise this wasn't the most prestigious place for your final rest. The stones under his feet might've once been stable, but by now most of them had been dislodged by the jungle trying to reclaim what was its, subsequently creating an unstable path full of trip hazards.

Calian's gaze slowly circled the grounds as his steps took him further in. Some graves were better kept than others, while some had been long forgotten, tipped over and the names no longer visible through the foliage. Calian couldn't help but feel a weight settle in his chest, knowing that was the fate of his mother as well - even if she were a stranger to him. He shook his head in an attempt to clear his mind, and focused on the names he could read.

Surprisingly enough, not everyone there was forgotten. Even if not exactly rush hour, Calian could see people coming and going. Some bringing flowers, some talking—some just quietly reminiscing; whatever they did, he could sense unifying melancholy within all of these people. Worst of all, he could feel it within him as well.

Strolling there felt like a very, very long walk in the park; the sunlight shined through the foliage of the trees that covered the graveyard, giving just enough warmth to not get cold, with the shade ensuring you don't get too hot, either. His cloak shifted at the whims of the wind and the movement of his legs, the latter stopping at a quiet corner of the graveyard. Calian stared at a stone and approached it, crouching as his cloak settled in the dirt below. A hand brushed aside the overgrown flowers from covering part of the name.

Sindia Deedra

He tilted his head as the name engraved on the stone was revealed. He took in each letter like he was just learning to read for the first time, and then sighed. The hand completed the motions of pushing the flowers aside before letting both arms rest over his thighs.

"Hello, mother."

Calian uttered the two words in a hushed tone. A grueling silence came after, tapping a digit against his thigh while he looked for the right words. Usually they came out from him without having to think about it too much, but now it was like he'd forgotten even the simplest words of Basic. A cocktail of emotions stirred within him: there was sadness, there was a bit of joy. Even anger. It almost felt like the grave was mocking him. His flesh-and-blood were this close, but he'd found her just a couple years too late. "What kind of woman was she, was she kind? Was she temperamental? What kind of dreams did she have, how did she end up here?" were thoughts running through his head. Despite their relation, this woman was nothing but a stranger to him.

As he was about to open his mouth once more, he felt a presence from behind him. It wasn't malicious, so he acted like he didn't know any better.

"She doesn't get many visitors." An elderly woman's voice rang from behind him. The words were kind, but had a hint of oh-so-familiar sadness. Calian looked over his shoulder, briefly inspected the woman and stood up. Is she his flesh-and-blood as well? A grandmother? An aunt?

"Wouldn't have guessed. In decent shape, compared to the neighbourhood." He gestured towards the forgotten graves his mother's grave was in the middle of.

The old lady slowly turned her head to the graves and furrowed a brow. If she was offended, she certainly didn't address it.

"Because Sindia died only three years ago. The neighbourhood has people from decades, if not centuries ago."

Calian followed her movement with his gaze, before circling his attention back to the grave. "Ah. That'd explain it." The answer was short.

"She was a family friend, I moved off-world years ago. Didn't find out she had passed until I came home for business."

He wasn't even sure why he said that; an answer to a question not asked. The words came before he'd even decided to lie, like a habitual defense mechanism.

The older woman remained quiet, her visage turning to face Calian. He could feel her judging gaze: she clearly was skeptical of his story. He shot a brief glance the way of the woman, and swore there was a glint of recognition in her eye. As fast as that glance came, he brought it back to the grave.

"My kids and Sindia grew up together in the same neighbourhood." The old woman seemingly had doubts, but decided not to mention them. "She had a big heart, trusting to a fault. And heavens, did she have ambition!" The words sounded sad, even a little bitter, but as the sentence went on, she couldn't stop the bittersweet smile that grew on her face.

"She might've worn hand-me-downs, but she had grace that some of the nobles can only dream of. Observed them whenever she could to walk like they walk, talk like they talk. Wanted to be one of them."

Calian, without realising, had given his full attention to the woman. He certainly wasn't listening to the recollection like he was listening to the description of someone he knew. His half-assed lie might crumble from the intrigued look in his eye, but he didn't care.

"A little bird told me she in fact DID get with a noble?" he managed to squeeze in a brief question, seemingly deep in thought. He scanned her expressions: that bittersweet smile quickly faded. At first she didn't even respond, just let out a frustrated huff.

"That's what she thought, and he claimed, at least." The old woman furrowed a brow, the question energizing her in a way he hadn't seen yet. Calian sensed the regret, the anger and bitterness that stirred within the woman. "He talked the talk and walked the walk, but I never fully bought it. I could tell something was up from the get-go: he was full of shit." The sweet old lady spat out the words like poison.

Calian noticed that the old lady shot a glance towards him at that very moment. He acted oblivious to the fact and let her carry on with the story. "Something just felt off. His clothing looked more like polished formalwear of the military than anything - besides, why would a noble come down to our neighbourhood for a drink?"

An uncomfortable realization crept into his mind. He could only hope it was wrong, so he shoved it aside behind a heavy lock. He'd fallen deep into thought for a second, silently staring back at his present company. Fixing this mistake, he quickly nodded his head a couple times, attention now returning to his mother's name. "Could've been a real romantic? Plenty of stories of a noble and a commoner finding love." A short, forced laugh exited his lips after.

The familiar sensation of the judging glare from the lady returned. He acted equally oblivious as he had until now. "Seems you're a glass half-full kind of man, but even if that were the case, doesn't excuse the fact he swept her off her feet and then left without a trace. Poor girl never was the same after that. Valen - worthless noble family. Never even heard of it."

"Can't comment, not that well-versed on the nobility of Iziz, unfortunately." Another short, forced laugh to try and calm the granny down. "Though, could you point me towards the neighbourhood she grew up in? Feel a little regret over not knowing her better while she was alive. Parents said good things about her - would love to know what made her HER."

With some reluctance, the old woman nodded. "I'm Ilja, ask for me when you drop by the neighbourhood - I'll gladly be your tour-guide!" She flashed a smile and showed Calian on the datapad where his mother had grown up, lived, and died, bringing him even closer to his past.

 

[Calian Tarr]

The Answer​

Throwing the name "Valen" around gave him nothing. Just laughs and confused looks.

Frustrated, he dropped onto the steps leading to a better part of town. Below, the worn streets showed years of neglect: poverty not unlike what he'd grown up around. Clotheslines with patched clothes. Kids playing. Buildings with amateur repairs and dangerous expansions skyward.

Through his scowl, a wooden sign caught his attention:

THE PARCHED AKK

He needed a drink. A beggar appeared from an alley as he approached: Calian's eyes passed over him without stopping. The locals stared. They knew he wasn't one of them.

The door creaked open. Inside: cigarra smoke, sticky floors, dim light through grimy windows. Some tables loud with games, others whispering intensely. He felt at home.

"Get me a beer." He set a credit on the counter.

The balding bartender popped a cap, slid him the bottle. "Haven't seen a face like that in a while. Got a reeeal mean look in your eye. Something else than thirst has to be gnawin' at a man with eyes like that." He restocked the shelf. "Almost familiar," he muttered.

Calian relaxed his scowl. "Keeps the beggars away. Make my day, heard of a man named Valen?"

The bartender crossed his arms, sighed. "Valen…" He scanned the establishment, snapped his fingers. "Oi! Bev!"

A middle-aged man approached. Unkempt hair, sunken eyes. "Whaddaya need?"

"Valen. Name rings a bell - but can't quite place it."

Bev's gaze drifted to the bottles behind the bartender. "Didn't Golm go by Valen?"

"GOLM! That's the one! Used to go by Valen back in the day when he was doing business around here. Real piece of work. Haven't seen him in a long time."

Bev shrugged. "Guys like that are dime a dozen. Very forgettable."

The bartender shooed him away. "Valen's Golm… But can't say where he's been lately. Though, last I saw him, he didn't seem to be in a position to do business anymore." He frowned, wiping the counter. "He got on spice."

Calian grimaced. "Thanks for the drink."

He stepped back into the street, frustration boiling over. Just missed his mother. Just missed his father. The universe mocking him. He walked aimlessly, glaring at passersby - it felt like they recognized him. Knew him for what he was.

A thud in a dark alleyway.

An open door, unnatural hues from the inside. Two silhouettes: one large by the door, one scrawny scrambling up from the floor. A brief argument, then the door slammed. The scrawny man wobbled toward the street, leaning on the wall.

Unkempt hair, dirty face, labored breathing. When he stepped into the setting sun's light, Calian froze.

Those features were his. The nose, the cheekbones: what he saw in the mirror.

The vagabond sneered. "The fuuuck are you looking at?"

Calian narrowed his eyes, glanced left and right. "Golm?"

The vagabond's brow furrowed, scanning him up and down. "What, did I knock you around back in the day or something?"

"Oh, come the fuck on, who do I owe money to now?"

Calian shoved him back into the alleyway, hand around his throat. A Force-enhanced dash brought them to the dark corner. He released by throwing him into the wall: pained groan, wheezing.

"Usually - you get – creds out of a man easier if you tell where you're - from– "

"Sindia Deedra."

"Wh- Huh? Who the hell's that? I've had a lot of broads."

Calian crouched beside him, and reached out to his feelings: no recognition, no shame. He slammed his fist into Golm's face. Blood spurted from his nose.

"Y'really don't remember her, d'ya, Valen?"

He stared at Golm's bloodied features, unmistakably his even after the wear of time. An insult: the hunt after his bloodline led here. Not nobility. Not even a conman. Just gutter trash.

He was angry at himself too. For thinking he might have had beginnings more grand. But worst of all, for how much of himself he'd discovered in his father. How angry he was at Golm for what he did to his mother: yet he loathed himself for recognizing the same actions he had done in the past.

Like father, like son.

"Dropping my aliases isn't gonna help me remember any sooner!" Golm yelled, anger and fear mixing in his voice.

Calian remained quiet, the fists squeezing tighter and tighter.

“Lied to her about who you were, lied to her about a better life…”, head cocked from left to right, right to left with each detail he drip-fed to Golm. “Got her pregnant, spun a tale about how bad a commoner’s and a noble’s bastard would look…”, the fists opened, spreading his arms to the side as he leaned in. “Ring any bells?”

Golm cleared his throat and spat a blob of bloody phlegm onto the cobblestone beside him, then shook his head. “ It’s all a blur, kid. Don’t remember. Might- mighta been that blondie…”, he answered, his hand turning a beat-up ring on his finger.

Calian felt his blood boil, giving Golm a blank stare in return. Ilja’s words echoed in his mind; “She had a big heart, trusting to a fault.” The following motion happened in the blink of an eye: his arm jerked rapidly forward, grabbing Golm’s head and slamming it into the stone below. The vagabond went limp, and a slow dripping reached Calian’s ears. His hand lingered against Golm’s head, drawing shaky breaths, eyes just focused on Golm’s features.

The dripping sound was quickly drowned out by the same distant sounds of the street that were there earlier. The wind and the scents it brought with also hadn’t changed. Similarly, that feeling of his blood boiling lingered. Finally lifting the hand from Golm’s head, his hands were brought up to his face, where he held them momentarily before dragging them down his features. He gave Golm one last glance before standing up and making his way out of the alleyway.