I hit the sidewalk at a jog, my bag bouncing against my spine with each step. School was about fifteen minutes on foot if I kept a good pace, and I had maybe ten minutes before the first bell.
The morning sun was already cooking the pavement.
Above me, hanging in the sky like a reminder that someone really hated rodents, the Imperial Rat Destroyer cruised slowly eastward. Its shadow swept across the street, turning everything dark for exactly six seconds before moving on.
Mayor Palpatine's face smiled down from every telephone pole I passed.
PALPATINE: TOUGH ON RATS, TOUGHER ON CORRUPTION.
Below that, in smaller print: "Vote Yes on Proposition 66: Orbital Pest Control Expansion."
Then I saw the recently deployed Stormtroopers on every corner. Literally. Mayor called them the soldiers of democracy, retiring the older Clone Patrol.
Two of them stood at the intersection of Maple and Fourth, helping Mrs. Chen carry groceries to her speeder. One of them dropped a bag, and cabbages rolled everywhere.
The other one slipped on a cabbage, crashed into a mailbox, and knocked over his partner.
Mrs. Chen just smiled and patted them on their helmets.
"Boys will be boys," she said, walking away.
I dodged around the produce disaster and kept running.
The construction site for the Planetary Sanitation Sphere dominated the town square.
It was supposed to be finished by next month, a massive black ball that would somehow incinerate all garbage within a fifty-mile radius using "targeted ionization." I didn't understand the science, but the mayor had promised it would also improve property values and cure male pattern baldness, so everyone was on board.
Welding sparks showered down as I passed.
A foreman in a hard hat was yelling at a worker dangling from a crane. "I said SECURE the thermal exhaust port! If a rat crawls in there, the whole thing could blow!"
"It's ray-shielded!" the worker yelled back.
"Ray-shields don't stop RATS, Jenkins!"
I didn't stop to watch.
The neighborhood started to shift as I crossed into the next block.
The neat lawns and pastel houses gave way to something darker. The pavement cracked. The trees grew gnarled and twisted.
The smell hit me first—sulfur, burnt rubber, something organic rotting under concrete.
Mr. V's house.
It squatted at the end of the street like a tumor.
Three stories of blackened wood and iron, surrounded by a fence that looked like it was designed to keep things in rather than out. The lawn—if you could call it that—was a wasteland.
Weeds tangled together into something that resembled a rainforest crossed with a nightmare. Dead vines hung from dead trees. Somewhere in there, I swear I saw a rusted speeder bike half-swallowed by thorns.
And then I heard it.
BRAAAAP-P-P-CHHHHSSSSS-THUNK-THUNK-WHEEEEZE.
The lawnmower.
It sounded like someone was torturing a machine that was simultaneously having a stroke and shitting itself. A plume of black smoke rose from somewhere deep in the overgrown jungle.
I couldn't see him, but I knew Mr. V was in there, pushing that ancient, diesel-belching monstrosity through grass that hadn't been properly cut in a decade.
The mower screamed again, a sound like metal grinding bone.
I walked faster.
There were stories about Mr. V, though most of them were probably bullshit.
Someone at school swore they'd seen him leaving the house at three in the morning, dragging trash bags so heavy they left wet trails on the sidewalk. And there was that thing about the noise complaint—supposedly someone's dad tried to file one and got a visit from guys in suits who "suggested" he reconsider.
Nobody went near that house if they could help it.
The smell faded as I put distance between myself and the property line.
The air got drier. Hotter. The houses shifted from Gothic horror to sun-bleached beige.
Ahead, I could see the Tatooine Block shimmering in the heat.
A tumbleweed—a real, honest-to-god tumbleweed—rolled across the intersection, bouncing off a parked landspeeder with a hollow thunk.
Everything here looked like it had been dipped in piss-yellow filter and left to bake.
Adobe houses with flat roofs. Cracked driveways. Sand somehow accumulating in places sand had no business being. The Holonet said it was a "microclimate phenomenon." I just figured the sprinklers didn't work.
I slowed to a walk, catching my breath as I approached Kenobi's Kuts.
The shop wasn't really a shop—more like a covered patio with a barber chair and a lot of ambition.
Ben Kenobi stood over some kid I vaguely recognized from the junior class, wielding what looked like a plasma cutter attached to a propane tank. Blue flame roared from the nozzle, controlled and precise, as he guided it over the kid's head.
The kid was sweating. A lot.
"Hold still," Ben muttered, his eyes half-closed in concentration.
The flame danced across the scalp, burning away hair with surgical precision. Not a single singe mark.
"You want the Coruscant fade or the Mandalorian buzz?"
"J-just a trim, Mr. Kenobi!"
"Boring." Ben sighed, flicking his wrist.
The flame died with a soft whoosh. He grabbed a spray bottle labeled JEDI JUICE and misted the kid's head. Steam rose.
"That'll be eight credits. And tell your mother I still have her casserole dish."
I grinned, slowing as I passed. "Morning, Ben."
He looked up, his weathered face cracking into a smile. "Ah, young man. Running late again?"
"Pau's gonna execute me."
"Then you'd better execute a faster pace."
He winked, reigniting the torch with a casual flick. The flame roared to life, blue and beautiful.
"May the Force be with you. Or at least a good excuse."
I laughed, waving as I jogged past.
Behind the barbershop, I could see the smoker Ben ran on weekends.
MUSTAFAR GRILL, the sign said, with a picture of a grinning Bantha wearing sunglasses. Best ribs in town, supposedly, though I didn't ask where he got the meat.
There were rumors about Ben and Mr. V, actually. Old rumors, the kind that got passed around until nobody knew what was true anymore.
Supposedly they'd been friends way back—close friends, even. And Mr. V had been different then. The town heartthrob, people said. Charming, successful, had a pregnant wife and everything.
Then Ben opened the Mustafar Grill, and something happened.
Nobody agreed on the details, but the story always involved some kind of incident. A conflict. Something about "high ground" and "burned beyond recognition."
After that, Mr. V's wife disappeared, and he became... whatever he was now. Recluse. Weird radiation suit he wore sometimes. That asthma that made him sound like Darth Vader when he breathed.
Probably just bullshit, though. Small town rumors usually were.
The street opened up ahead, splitting into a T-intersection.
Left led toward the school—a squat, gray building visible in the distance, surrounded by speeders and transport buses.
Right led toward the industrial district, where the garages and workshops clustered together like rusty barnacles.
Her garage was that way.
I stopped at the intersection, checking my chrono.
Seven thirty-four.
If I sprinted, I'd make it to class with maybe a minute to spare. But if I took a detour...
No. Bad idea.
She wouldn't even be open yet. Probably still setting up, organizing tools, doing whatever it was she did before customers arrived.
And showing up sweaty and desperate before school even started would just make me look like an idiot.
I could go after school. Yeah. That made sense.
Maybe bring her a coffee, play it cool, see if she needed help with anything. She always needed help with something.
I turned left, toward the school, ignoring the way my chest tightened at the decision.
---
I spun the combination on my locker—three clicks right, two left, one right—and the lock popped with a satisfying clack.
Jax was already leaning against the one next to mine, picking at a loose thread on his backpack while staring intently at the water-stained ceiling tiles.
"I'm just saying," Jax muttered as I pulled out my history notes, "the ventilation system on that Rat Destroyer is way too specific. You don't design an exhaust port that wide unless you want something to go in."
I shoved the notebook into my bag and slammed the locker shut. "Maybe they just really hate rats and want to suck them up fast."
"They're not rats, man. They're metaphors." Jax finally looked down, adjusting his tinfoil hat so it sat straighter.
He'd upgraded the design this week, adding actual copper wire antennae that wobbled when he walked. "The administration doesn't care about rodents. They care about controlling the narrative."
Arno appeared at the end of the row, moving with the careful precision of someone trying not to spill a full cup of caf. He had his history textbook open already, flipping through pages so fast I was surprised he didn't start a fire from the friction. His uniform shirt was tucked in so tight it looked painful.
"Please tell me you studied the Trade Federation tax disputes," Arno said the moment he was in earshot. He stopped next to me and snapped the book shut, then opened it again immediately. "Pau said forty percent of the grade is pre-Clone Wars economic policy. I can't remember if the tariff rates were thirty-five percent or thirty-six percent in thirty-two BBY."
"I studied," I lied, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "It's gonna be fine. Just breathe."
"I am breathing," Arno said, but his voice was coming out in short little puffs. "I'm breathing very efficiently. Optimized oxygen intake. If I hyperventilate now, I'll get dizzy and fail the test and never get into the Engineering Academy and my dad will disown me and I'll have to work at Mustafar Grills forever."
Mira came up behind him and clapped a hand on his shoulder hard enough to make him squeak. She was wearing her leather jacket over the standard uniform, the collar popped up like she was expecting a storm. Her hair was pulled back in that severe ponytail that somehow never moved, even when she walked.
"You're not failing," Mira said to Arno, then looked at me and nodded. Her version of a warm greeting. "You actually study, unlike some people who think historical accuracy means remembering which side won the Battle of Endor."
"Hey, I know we won," I said, falling into step between them as we started down the hallway toward the classroom wing. "That's all the history anyone needs."
Jax snorted and fell in behind us, still fiddling with his antenna. "My dad says the history books are written by the victors anyway. The Clone Wars were just a labor dispute that got out of hand."
The hallway was packed with the usual morning chaos. A group of freshmen had set up a card table near the water fountain and were selling what they claimed were genuine vintage hubcaps, though they looked suspiciously like they'd been spray-painted silver five minutes ago.
Then the wheezing started.
It sounded like a broken air compressor having an asthma attack, getting closer with every clank of metal on linoleum. The sea of students parted down the middle without anyone really looking up or acknowledging it, just automatic deference to the rhythm of the sound.
Principal Grievous rounded the corner.
He was having a bad morning. One of his four prosthetic arms was clutching a clipboard, another was adjusting his respirator mask, and the other two were gesturing wildly at a sophomore who was walking too slow. The principal's mechanical legs pistoned with each step, and his trench coat dragged behind him, collecting floor wax.
"You there!" Grievous wheezed, pointing two arms at a kid near the lockers. The kid froze, mid-bite into a protein bar. "Your shoelaces... are untied... a bold choice... for someone who wishes... to remain upright!"
"Sorry, Principal Grievous," the kid mumbled, bending down to tie them.
The principal's respirator hissed and clicked. He turned his head slowly, his yellow-tinted goggles scanning the hallway until they landed on our group. For a second, I thought he might stop us, but then he just hacked into his mask and kept moving, the sound of his assisted breathing fading into the general noise of the hallway.
"That guy needs a vacation," I said.
"He needs a new respiratory system," Mira corrected, adjusting her bag. "My cousin said he saw Grievous trying to eat an apple last week. Took him twenty minutes. Just kept stabbing it with his prosthetic fingers."
We turned the corner toward Room 304, and that's when I saw her.
Leia Organa was standing by the classroom door, surrounded by the usual cluster of cheerleaders in their gold and white uniforms. She was holding a pom-pom in one hand and a stack of fundraiser fliers in the other, laughing at something one of her friends had said, her head tilted back in a way that probably looked great in photos.
She saw me before I could pretend I hadn't noticed her.
"Ez!" Leia's face lit up, and she broke away from the group, moving with that terrifying cheerleader energy that seemed to defy physics. She was in front of me in seconds, grabbing my arm with both hands and pressing the fliers against my chest. "Perfect timing. We're doing a fundraiser for the new football field. You should buy, like, twenty tickets."
I tried to extract my arm without being obvious about it. "Hey, Leia. I was actually just gonna—"
"Or maybe you could help me sell them?" She squeezed harder, her nails digging in slightly through my sleeve. She smelled like expensive perfume and citrus. "We could go door-to-door after school. Just you and me. It would be so fun. My dad said he'd donate a thousand credits if I met the quota."
Mira made a sound that might have been a cough or might have been laughter. I shot her a look, but she was suddenly very interested in the ceiling tiles.
"I can't," I said, finally managing to peel Leia's fingers off my arm. "I promised Vasha I'd help her at the garage after class. She's got a truck engine that needs recalibrating."
Leia's smile faltered for exactly half a second, then snapped back into place even brighter than before. "Oh, the mechanic? That's cute that you help her. But surely she can wait one afternoon? I mean, it's for the school."
"She's already got the parts ordered," I said, backing toward the classroom door. "And you know how she gets when people are late. She threw a wrench at the last guy who stood her up."
"That was you," Arno pointed out helpfully. "And you ducked."
"Still counts," I said, grabbing the door handle. "See you in class, Leia."
"Save me a seat!" she called after me.
"There are assigned seats," I muttered, but she was already turning back to her friends.
We filed into the classroom. It was standard issue—rows of desks, a chalkboard, and a faint smell of old wood polish. I took my seat by the window, third row back. Arno slid into the desk next to me, immediately opening his textbook again and mouthing silent facts to himself. Mira sat in front of me, spinning around to face backward so she could rest her chin on her folded arms.
Jax sat in the back corner, putting his tinfoil hat on the desk and pulling out a notebook covered in scribbled diagrams of the Rat Destroyer with red circles around its thermal ports.
"You really should just ask Leia out," Mira said, her voice low. "Put everyone out of their misery."
"I don't want to ask her out," I said, leaning back in my chair. "I want to fix engines and not think about cheerleading fundraisers."
"She's rich," Mira pointed out. "Her dad's a councilman. Rich guy I heard."
"She's too much" I countered. "She looked at me like I was a vanity to be decorated and stuff."
"Maybe you are," Arno said without looking up from his book. I just sighed.
The bell rang, loud and sharp, cutting through the hallway noise. Everyone settled into their seats. The room went from the chaos of twenty teenagers rearranging themselves to sudden, attentive silence in about three seconds.
The door opened.
Mr. Pau stepped inside, moving with the eerie silence of a predator. He was wearing his usual long coat, the collar turned up, and his hands were clasped behind his back. He didn't look at anyone as he walked to the front of the room, his gaze fixed on some distant point only he could see.
He reached his desk, turned slowly to face the class, and placed a single, long strip of white plastic on the surface. The ruler.
He picked it up and smacked it against his palm. Thwack.
"History," he said, his voice soft but carrying to every corner of the room. "Is written by the victors. And yet... so many of you choose to repeat the mistakes of the defeated."
His eyes swept across the room, lingering for a second on Arno, who looked like he was about to pass out. Then they landed on me, heavy and judging.
"Put away your phones" Pau commanded. "Today, we discuss the cost of peace. And I expect... absolute attention."
He tapped the ruler against the chalkboard, the sound sharp as a blaster shot.
"Let us begin."
___
The final bell sounded like a death cry from a dying air horn, which was fitting because that's exactly how Mr. Pau's history tests made me feel. I grabbed my bag and practically bolted for the door, weaving through the crowd of students who were moving like molasses.
I almost made it to the front gates before the talons descended.
"Ez! Wait up!"
Leia appeared from behind the pillar near the entrance, her cheer uniform still pristine even after a full day of classes. She intercepted me with the precision of a veteran athlete, stepping directly into my path so I had to skid to a stop or barrel into her.
"Where are you going? We have cheer practice observation in twenty minutes. You said you'd watch."
My brain short-circuited. "I—what? No, I didn't."
"You did!" She grabbed my sleeve, her eyes wide and insistent. "Yesterday. In the cafeteria. I said 'you should come watch us practice' and you said 'yeah, maybe.'"
"That's not a promise," I said, trying to peel her fingers off without being too rough. "That's... ambient noise. I have to go. Urgent work."
"What work?"
"Family business," I lied, already backing away. "My mom needs help with... laundry. Big laundry emergency. Delicate cycle. Gotta run!"
I sprinted toward the gates before she could process the stupidity of that excuse. Behind me, I heard her call out something about Friday, but I was already through the metal bars and into the free air.
Jax was waiting by the curb, leaning against the stop sign with his hands in his pockets. Arno was next to him, furiously scribbling something in a notebook. Mira stood a few feet away, smoking a cigarette she definitely shouldn't have had on school property.
"Laundry emergency?" Jax asked, pushing off the signpost as I came to a halt in front of them. He adjusted his tinfoil hat with a grin. "That's a new one. Usually, it's 'helping the elderly' or 'feeding the strays.'"
"Shut up," I panted, checking my chrono. "It was the first thing that came to my mind."
"Running away from the Princess again?" Mira blew a cloud of smoke toward the sky, not looking at me. "You know, she's going to realize you're dodging her eventually."
"I'm not dodging her. I'm... prioritizing," I said, shifting my weight. "I have important things to do."
"Important things," Jax repeated, drawing the words out. "Important things that involve a certain garage? A certain blue Twi'lek? A certain wrench set?"
"I'm volunteering," I said stiffly. "It's important to give back to the community. Vasha does a lot for the neighborhood. I'm just being a good citizen."
Mira snorted, flicking ash onto the sidewalk. "You're like a lost puppy. If she whistled, you'd probably break your legs trying to get to her."
"At least she appreciates my help," I countered. "Unlike some people who just mock my civic duty."
"We mock because we care," Arno piped up, finally looking up from his notebook. He adjusted his glasses. "Or maybe because you've spent every afternoon there for three months. Are you actually learning anything? Or just watching her work?"
"I learn plenty!" I said, feeling my face heat up. "I learned how to calibrate a flux coupling yesterday. It's complicated stuff."
"Uh-huh," Jax nodded. "And did the flux coupling happen to be located near her... engine block?"
I stared at him. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"He means you're blinded by love," Mira said, crushing her cigarette under the heel of her boot. "It's pathetic, really. She snaps her fingers, you come running."
"She doesn't snap her fingers," I protested. "I go because I want to. Because I like fixing things. And she needs an assistant. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement."
"A mutually beneficial arrangement," Jax laughed. "That's what we're calling it now. Does your mom know you're 'assisting' so much?"
"Don't bring my mom into this," I said quickly. "Look, I gotta go. She said she might need help with the speeder bike today."
"Did she call you?" Arno asked. "I didn't hear your comms buzz."
"No, she didn't call," I admitted. "But I know her schedule. Tuesdays are usually speeder bike maintenance. If I get there early, I can prep the tools."
"You memorized her schedule," Mira deadpanned. "That's not creepy at all."
"It's efficient!" I insisted. "Look, are we done roasting me? I have to go. Tools aren't going to prep themselves."
"Go on, puppy," Jax waved his hand dismissively. "Run along to your mistress. We'll see you tomorrow when you smell like grease and heartbreak."
"Shut up, Jax!"
"Don't mind him,"Mira smirked and patted me on the shoulder. "Go get 'em, tiger. Just remember to wear protection. Grease is hard to get out of clothes."
They all started laughing again, even Arno, though he was clearly just laughing because everyone else was. I flipped them a friendly gesture over my shoulder and turned down the side street that led toward the industrial district.
The walk to the workshop took six minutes and thirty seconds. I knew because I counted every second while trying not to sprint. The Imperial Rat Destroyer was still up there, casting its shadow over the city center where the half-completed black sphere gleamed in the afternoon sun. They'd finished the northern hemisphere yesterday. Mayor Palpatine was calling it a triumph of municipal engineering.
I turned onto her street. The garage was right there, the corrugated metal door rolled up to reveal the dim interior. I could smell the ozone and engine grease from twenty meters away. My palms started sweating.
I stopped three steps from the entrance.
Okay. Okay, get it together. I pulled out my phone and checked my reflection in the dark screen. My hair was too neat. I ran my fingers through it roughly, mussing it up until it looked like I'd just been wrestling a Wookiee. Better. Rebellious. Cool.
I checked my breath by huffing into my cupped hand and sniffing. Smelled like the caf I'd stolen from the teacher's lounge. Acceptable.
I adjusted my shirt collar, popping the top button like I'd seen the seniors do. Then I unbuttoned it. Then I buttoned it again. Then I left it unbuttoned.
I took a deep breath. This was stupid. She was just a mechanic. I was just a guy who liked machines. This was purely professional. I was here to learn about... exhaust ports.
Yeah.
I stepped forward, my boots crunching on the gravel, and tried to look like I wasn't about to have a heart attack.
----
A/N: Long awaited waifu return!?
Jokes aside, what are your thoughts bout the Arc till now? Someone guess what's the theme is going to be?
And I understand that this might not be everyone's thing so I wouldn't hold it against you if you decide to skip the Arc, you wouldn't lose too much of plot through I wouldn't recommend it. I loved the character interactions in this one, and it also allowed me to write characters in a way that's not constrained by plot yet part of it. (I loved writing the R18 content of this Arc specially ehhehe)
I would try to wrap it up this week up with one chapter per day so if someone doesn't like it, you won't have to spend too long waiting
___
NON-BOOK RELATED
I am thinking of writing an Elden Ring x Dark Souls fanfic about being reborn as Miquella, thoughts and ideas?