The Weight of Heritage

[Josef Ibn Abad]

“Bloody archaic.” Josef muttered to himself as he made his was through the throngs of people on Garangs streets.

The capital of Dantooine was heavy with both foot and speeder traffic on this workday. Most were humans though checkered among the populace was the occasional other off world species. Dantooine, known for its lush and fertile soils, helped to feed the galaxy. From a small backwater farming planet to one that was now just as commercialized as any other; it had come a long way. Everything on the planet had evolved with the ages; well almost everything.

Josef Ibn-Abad drew the occasional glance from passerby’s. It wasn’t his shoes, his pants, nor shirt that drew the attention. They were actually similar to what many wore. What people took note of was the head scarf he wore; white with black stitching that covered every strand of hair.

They knew him for what he was.

One of those religious nuts.

That’s what his people had been referred too. A people that did not grow with the times. A people that claimed a small suburb outside the capital and refused to intermingle with anyone who was not one of them. Secretive. Avoidant. Deeply suspicious of others the old ways were the new ways for Josef’s culture. Nothing short of a miracle would ever change that. Boy, did Josef yearn for a miracle at the moment.

Inside his pants pocket his phone buzzed which caused the man to purse his lips. The normally calm and at peace man was angry. Anyone looking at him could see it.

“How could they do this to me? Why could my wishes not be honored?” Josef muttered to himself as his attention fell to the concrete sidewalk in front of him.

“This... what they want me to do... what they’re forcing me to do should be illegal. I thought they’d let me...” Josef said just as he slammed into the back of a man.

Josef was much larger. Broad shouldered and well built he was easily a half foot taller than the pudgy man in front of him whose arms flailed in the air and snatched white papers as fast as his fingers could snap at them.

Josef watched as a stack of papers the man held were flung into the street and then tossed throughout the air by passing speeders.

“Sir I am so very sorry!” Josef said in a surprisingly gentle voice.

Like a light switch, his own personal problems hit the back burner and his full attention given to this gent. Gone was his scowl and in its place concern.

“My reports! You’re going to be sor...” The Gent said as he turned to Josef.

A sneer crosses his face as he took note of Josef’s headscarf.

“Damn. It had to be one of your kind. Do you know what you just did? That report was for the CEO of Garang Steel. It was meant to help bring more money planet-side but I guess you wouldn’t care about that now would you, towel wearing buffoon?” The man shouted which had drawn the attention of others.

“Sir,” Josef ignored the mans ignorant statements as best he could. They hurt and did get under his skin but Ibn-Abad had been raised to show respect at all times; even if that meant turning the other cheek.

“Allow me to help gather your paperwork.” Josef offered.

“It’s no good now. They’re soiled thanks to you. I can’t walk in with a dirty report. Why couldn’t you just stay in your own little area, praying on your stupid little mat, and leave the rest of us civilized people alone?” The mans face was red by this point, something that caused the hairs on the back of Josef’s neck to stand.

Josef did his best to push aside the now completely bigoted statements. His patience was thin now. One could attack Josef personally; he could not care less but the moment his faith or family were brought up the entire game changed.

“Again I am deeply sorry.” Josef said as he bent down to begin picking up the papers.

“Take your sorry and shove it.” The man spat as his knee suddenly caught the side of Josef’s head. One of the cheapest shots a person could give.

The contact with his temple send a sharp pain through the front of his cranium. His eyes clenched as he fell over, a hand now rubbing the area that had been hit. What Josef did not see coming was the foot being swung towards his face.

Pom Stych Tivé

 

[Pom Stych Tivé]

Sith space, it used to feel like home. Having recently learned that men could even possess the capacity to render love, the Nightsister realized she had been gypped all these years. Dathomir nestled along its outskirts, and a den for all things superficial, like their procreation. Only an unfathomable circumstance lead her to even dream of returning to her roots.

Somewhere within Sith space she felt a calling to lend direction to someone else, just as it had been rendered freely unto her through those among the Grayson Imperium; her new objective sidetracked her intentions of returning to her homeworld for the time being. She would do what she is called to do by the goddess, returning to her own personal will at a later date.

So many lives lost and miserable, subjugated and absolutely without hope. Why? The goddess wants her to locate one among how many?

She could be here for days…weeks…
Yawn. Pomsty rubbed her eyes, focussing upon the street laid out in front of her.

Sidetracked from her own direction, and waiting on what? Intuition?

She came back to the same café every day, watched and waited, saw the same people go back and forth, having no idea what they did, where they went to, or why. But she stayed in the same stool, sipping what they call coffee here. She couldn't tell if it was just dirty water, but it sure as hell isn't coffee. She hardly ever finished a single cup of it. Maybe because she never finished it, she was actually given dirty tap water.

'There goes that little guy, rushing by again; always seeming late for something, all fluff and looking to appear self important. And here is someone on his communicator…and…BAM!'

The situation escalated quickly. She could tell the taller man hopes to avoid confrontation, but the smaller one has something to prove for the sake of his own ego, perhaps.

Only days it is now!

"This is it? Oh good. About time," she said not so much to herself but to the renderer of her Intuition.

Pomsty did not like what she saw occur, the smaller man beating the apologetic one in the head. "Pathetic! And when he is already down." She rose off her stool. "Coward!" she called out as she approached.

Her presence alone must have caused the man to look twice for he stumbled backward upon his heels. She held her head high and did not speak further just yet. She had drawn all of his papers off the street before he even noticed it had been accomplished. She simply held them in her hand. As he snatched them from her grasp, she raised a brow at him and with a mere flick of her countenance the papers began to catch fire.

The man grumbled and cursed her, to which she replied, "It is only by sheer grace that the papers are the only thing aflame."

At that remark, she watched the little man race away without turning back.

Pomsty lowered a hand to the man on the ground. "Those little guys know not to pick on anyone smaller than they are." She looked over the street. "I do believe it wise to move on. Are you alright?" she asked, unsure of just exactly how much Ashla expects of her out of this whole ordeal.

If Josef Ibn Abad decides to take her hand offered to help him up off the ground, she shall gain suspicion regarding an answer.