Like a Father

[Nen Lev'i]

I always felt nervous whenever I went to visit Arlan Galaar. I mean sure, it's understandable - he's a scary bloke and all - but it was different, somehow. Especially lately. At least, I think it's especially lately. I'm not really sure.

Problem is, I don't really have a frame of reference. Before a few years ago, I don't remember anything. Arlan thinks it's amnesia brought on by post traumatic stress. He doesn't know what the trauma was, mind; and he reckons I may never get my memories back.

I don't even know my name. It's Arlan who says I'm called Nen. But I could be anyone. I could be a celebrity. Royalty, even. None of us would know. Arlan says he's looking to find out about my past, but he hasn't found anything yet. I keep wanting to look myself; but Arlan says that it's safer if I don't; safer if he does it. He thinks he can protect me, in case there's anyone dangerous in my past who comes looking.

Yeah, right. Who'd want to hurt me, eh? Everyone loves me.

But anyway. I was nervous as hell, like always, as I climbed my way up the stairs into Arlan's loft. The place was chaos - but that magical kind of chaos where, no matter where you look, your eyes land on sometihng awesome. I always thought that I had the ultimate gadget pad, but there were tools and gizmos and components and all manner of mind-numbingly cool stuff everywhere. Arlan was a Professor, or something. Not entirely sure where from, or what of; that Vhiran jerk told me he was a Mandalorian, and that he was a Professor of Art, or something stupid like that. Now admittedly, I don't know that much about Mandalorians, but I'm pretty sure that 'art' isn't really their thing. Not like they're a bunch of pacifist pansies, or anything like that.

Settled atop a pile of research notes transcribed onto flimsy, nestled an incredibly inviting box; one of those self-pressurising airtight things. It looked innocent enough, and yet, I couldn't help but feel drawn to it; couldn't help grabbing it, peeling back the corner of the lid -

[Arlan Galaar]

"Don't touch that," he growled, voice resonating from some hidden corner of the loft. He stalked, and despite his pitifully simplistic civilian garb, it took absolutely no effort to imagine him clad in the menacing armour of his heritage. A gentle but firm hand pressed the lid closed, his narrowed eyes fixing Nen with a look of reproach. "That's my lunch."

One eye twinkled, and an almost wink shattered the illusion of disapproval. He beckoned silently, leading Nen back through the weaving towers of everything he'd collected over the years and never thrown away; they approached a lone cabinet flush with the wall, a vast and bulky vivarium dominating much of it's surface. Arlan reached inside, careful not to disturb the half-metre lizard that perched on a thick branch, and extracted some sort of device from beside the wooden length.

"It's a Ysalamir," he explained off-hand, detatching some segment of the device, and rummaging through something or other with his back to Nen. "They're a species of lizard native to Myrkr. In the wild, they latch onto the trunks of trees, and draw various nutrients directly from the pholem tissue through hollow channels in their claws."

He turned, displaying his device to Nen, a glass canister of thick, viscous liquid now in the place of the component he had removed. "In captivity, we have to be a wee bit more resourceful."

[Nen Lev'i]

Everything in my mind was trampled and shoved aside by the stampede of curiosity that rushed through my consciousness. I crouched low, peering through the transparisteel of the tank at the creature within. It looked at me, cocking its head to the side in a way that almost mimicked intelligence, the frill atop its head twitching as it scrutinised me with its reptilian gaze.

"Where did you get it?" I asked eagerly, my own head tilting subconsciously to mimick the Ysalamir's movements. From what I'd learned over the last few years - trying to cram my head with as much knowledge as possible to make up for the lack of memory - Myrkr wasn't exactly a regular tourist destination.

I considered my own words in hindsight. "It? He? She?" I wondered, frowning a little, a hand tipping back the hat on my head so I could lean even closer to the glass. More puzzlement crept into my tone. "And aren't they meant to be brown? Why is this one so green?"

[Arlan Galaar]

Arlan smiled at the child-like curiosity. It was easy to forget that, despite his outward appearences, Nen had the mind of a young boy. All things considered, he did a pretty good job of acting adult, but there were moments like this when he let the act slip; though he wasn't even remotely related to him, Arlan couldn't prevent a swell of almost paternal pride.

"One question at a time," he requested gently, arms folding across his chest as he watched Nen and the Ysalamir sizing each other up. "She," he answered, covering one question in a single word, "Was found abandoned in the warehouse district near here. He's only a wee juvenile, and couldn't fend for himself with all the vermin and critters about the place; had to bring him here to take care of him."

He scratched at his cheek, frowning slightly as his mind collated the questions Nen had asked, checking which ones still went unanswered. "Well spotted, though. In the wild, Ysalamiri feed on nutrients from trees; the minerals in that lend pigment to their scales. This wee fella on the other hand appears to have been hand-reared, using an artificial nutrient mix with slightly different properties, which has resulted in a different colouration."

[Nen Lev'i]

I couldn't help a slight ironic laugh from escaping me. "I guess these guys really are what they eat," I mused. "Or the same colour as it, anyway." I frowned, pondering for a moment what colour I'd be, if I took on the colour of what I ate. Probably a browny orange colour, given the amount of processed pseudo-cheese and snack food that I'd been eating lately. I lingered on that thought, imagining myself that colour, and wondering what I'd have to do to make myself turn something cool, like blue, or red.

"Only a juvenile, eh?" I said softly, easing myself out of that particular reverie. For some reason, I felt a strange affinity for the Ysalamir; another helpless creature that Arlan had found as a stray, taken under his protection, and nursed back to some semblance of health. I pressed my fingers gently against the glass, voice almost a whisper. "Poor Sam."

I blinked, not entirely sure where that particular name had come from. I glanced up, eyes meeting with Arlan's. "Does she have a name?" I asked, curious.

[Arlan Galaar]

He smiled, and shook his head. "Sam sounds fine," he assured.

He stepped past Nen, and went about reattatching the device; a pump, which delivered the nutrients direct into the plant tissue of the branch on which the newly christened Sam sat, allowing him some semblance of the natural way in which his species fed, to help keep his natural instincts as intact as possible. Those instincts were essential, and Arlan was desperate to keep them intact if he possibly could.

The task complete, and a fresh dose of nutriants flowing through his perch, Sam shuddered, almost happily. A faint smile lingered on Arlan's features as he stepped back; it didn't fade until it shifted to regard his other charge. His arms folded across his chest in a posture of parental judgement.

"Now," he stated, slowly. "You didn't come here to watch me feed my pet, since you didn't know I had him. So why are you here, Nen?"

[Nen Lev'i]

I blinked. "I can't just come around to visit?"

The expression on Arlan's face answered that question for me.

I sighed, shoulders slumping. There were all kinds of things that I wanted to ask of the only man who'd ever offered me any kind of guidence or advice. I wanted to ask about Dana: wanted to ask how you tell someone capable of shattering you into a million pieces that you want them to stop doing the job that they love, because it breaks you inside every time that they get hurt, and you can't bear to go through it anymore.

I wanted to tell him about the crystal, too; about what had happened when I touched it; about what I felt. But I knew that he'd be too distracted by how it had happened - too distracted getting angry over the line of work I'd wound up involved in. I mean, sure, he was a tough-as-nails Mandalorian and all that, and he certainly wouldn't frown on me picking fights or anything like that. Hell, he'd probably be proud of me if I was a bounty hunter, or a mercenary, or something like that. Petty crook? Not so much.

I delved a hand into my pocket, and pulled out the crumpled flimsy that I'd scribbled down the symbols on - the same symbols that I'd found on my black market lightsaber. Didn't plan on telling him about that, either, hence the scribbling. I passed the flim across, making nervous eye contact as I did. "I saw these symbols, and couldn't translate them. I wondered if you knew what they meant."

[Arlan Galaar]

Arlan took the scrawled note, peering at Nen's slightly sloppy recreation of the letter forms. "It's old writing," he mused, pasing slowly back and forth in the limited space that his cluttered appartment provided, a hand scrubbing across his stubbled chin as he thought. "It appears to be an ancient variation on Tionese -"

His mind stalled, as hours of study into such languages resolved the text before him into words. He battled with his reflexes, fighting to keep any indication of the recognition from his face. He formed his features into a frown, turning the expression on Nen, willing himself to somehow stop the worry in his heart from clipping his words into an angry tone.

He aimed for curious. "Where did you find this?" he asked, eyes probing Nen for a reaction.

[Nen Lev'i]

"Just... around."

I tried to be deceptive, but unfortunately it wasn't a talent I'd yet managed to acquire. Whenever I was confronted over a lie or an evasion, I instantly shrank back into myself, turning into a timid five-year-old with my hand caught in the cookiee jar. It was pretty pathetic, to be honest; though with Dana, it seemed to be adorable enough to soften her mood when she was angry at me. Well, it was most of the time, anyway.

I sighed, my shoulders slumping in defeat as I reached inside my jacket, and pulled the lightsaber from a convenient inside pocket. "I bought this," I admitted slowly, reluctantly presenting it towards Arlan, my fingers wrapped tight around it just in case he tried to snatch it away. "It's just a collectable; I haven't, and won't ever use it to fight anyone, I swear."

I twisted the weapon slightly, so Arlan could see where the strange symbols were engraved into the metal of the hilt. "What does it say?" I asked, hoping that my mix of pleading and curiosity would have the same effect on Arlan as my sheepishness did on Dana.