Private Orphans of Nar Shadda

[Kaia Korr]

She waits at the disposal gate. The machines breathe. Trash drums whisper. The city clocks tick loud in the dark.

Minutes leak by. The sky above Sector 8 is a bruise of drones. A couple of low-level runners pass, fishing for favors. Kaia watches their faces and memorizes their postures — any change could mean trouble.

Then she notices the scrap crew refill the back bins. The lid slams. A worker swipes a wristpad; the chute gulps and groans. That's her cue. She slides forward, heart steady, boots silent. She's two steps from the chute when a shadow falls over the kitchen doorway — and Riven steps out like he was never gone.

He's cleaner than she expected. His jacket is straight, his smile easy, like he told her he would be. For a second the relief washes through her so fast she almost believes it. Then he turns and the inside of his jacket flashes — a ridge, a slight bulge where a credstick sits.

Her hand goes to his arm. "What'd you get?"

 

[Riven Korr]

Riven's face is his best weapon — open, innocent. "A little something." His voice is flat, practiced.

 

[Kaia Korr]

"You said scraps," Kaia says. "You said—"

 

[Riven Korr]

"Don't be a saint," he snaps before he can stop himself.

The edge in his voice is a magnet for everything she's trying not to be.

 

[Kaia Korr]

She studies him. The jacket hides more than a credstick. There's a tremor near his jaw, the kind the city teaches you when it takes too much. His pupils are pinpricks in the neon light.

"You okay?" she asks, softer.

 

[Riven Korr]

He laughs, a brittle spark. "Watch me."

 

[Kaia Korr]

She knows that laugh. It's the one that comes right before he breaks something that matters.

 

[Riven Korr]

He should've left it at that. He should've handed it over — slide it across to Kaia, simple transaction, shared relief. But there's a voice behind his ribs that counts debts differently. It whispers of opportunities. Of brokerage. Of a line that could chase the hangover into a few clean hours of sleep.

He knows what he's doing. He knows it and does it anyway.

"Maybe I'll pawn it," he says. "Maybe I'll—"

 

[Kaia Korr]

"You'll what?" Kaia presses. "Save us? Buy us a bed? Or blow it on some glow-dust and leave me to clean up the mess?"

Her eyes narrow. That last word lands and he flinches, because even callused skin remembers the cut.

 

[Riven Korr]

"I said I'd be back," he mutters. "I didn't say I wouldn't help."

 

[Kaia Korr]

"Help for you, sure."

 

[Riven Korr]

Heat flares behind his ribs. Old anger, old hurt. He steps closer and for a breath the space between them becomes a fight ring. People here give distance to siblings like them; it prevents blood on the plates.

"Don't make this a sermon," he says badly. "Not tonight."

 

[Kaia Korr]

She says nothing. She watches him. She measures the cost of believing him against the cost of not.

A clang — the chute accepts a new load and a worker curses. The noise fills the alley for a second and the city blinks.