violencetobasic | (no subject)

Son'ja smiled at the Devaronian's humiliation, then braced herself to face off against the admittedly more impressive opponent.

And then blinks as he says that, and as he turns away.

She'd known she barely stood a chance against the blasted horned rat, who had obviously not stood a chance against this boy.

...she was at his mercy, so she couldn't ignore him.
...and he hadn't taken sadistic advantage, so there was no reason to despise him.

She looked back on what she'd told the Moff shortly before she'd tasted blood. That you think you're entitled to anyone is the surest sign that no one worth having will ever truly be yours.

Everything has its opposite, maybe. Maybe. She couldn't be positive that this really was his intention yet. She steps closer. "I'm Son'ja." A pause. "Would they eat me?"

"My brothers and sisters will not eat you." Pause. "If I ask them not to." he replies, turning back to look her way again. "There is nowhere safer."

"I would appreciate your asking them not to, thank you." She grabs the bars as high as she can with one hand, then looks to him. She bites her lip for a moment, then holds her free hand out. "Please."

A small smile, and a look at the Nexu. Then he takes her hand - just long enough to pull her in so he can carry her in leaping back up to the top of the bars, pulling both over.

And over they go, and once they're inside, she sits in the cage and catches her breath, takes it all in as she scampers a little more into the corner.

She's still not dead. Not assaulted. ...Safe, as much as the word can be used. She's still sitting in a filthy, dank corner of a filthy, dank pit that she is unlikely to ever leave with not much in the way of food...

A set of rocks right next to the bars catch her eye. Son'ja quietly mutters a little -- the type of rock. The known features of the planet, a few comparisons to Ryloth, the distinctive soil -- and her fingers start digging into the ground to pry the rocks up, then use them to press into the dirt

He waits quietly, crouching among the Nexu for the moment, seemingly curious about what she's doing. He doesn't ask, just watches and listens for a while.

Finally. "You've been educated."

She continues scraping away dirt diligently until he speaks, then looks up at him. She nods a little. "I was going to be a teacher, not a toy." A twitch of the lekku, shruglike. "Somebody disagreed." A pause, a smile. "I disagreed back." More scraping, delving through the dense dirt as much as she could. And then, she reached in and tore at something.

He nods. "They disagree a lot here. In their nature. If you want to live, you will need to learn to fight. Maybe we can teach each other."

She listens. "Maybe." After enough digging and tearing, she pulls out a small, dusty chunk of fungus. "Should be safe for humans." Son'ja rips it in half and hands him one. "Yours."

He takes it, sniffing at it, then takes a bite. "Better than the rations - except near fight days. They need to keep the gladiators healthy. More reason to learn to fight... live longer... and eat better."

She listens as she eats. "Hard to go wrong there. Who are you?"

"In the arena, they stopped calling me 'slave' and began calling me first Son of Krayt, then just 'the Dhrakon'. It has more meaning than any other name I can remember. You?"

"Son'jarar. Son'ja. You've... been here a long time."

"I was a small child, yes. I grew up here, but I was born in space, on a great ship."

"Raided?" she assumes.

"I think so. I don't remember very much. A lot of noise, explosions. I think my birth home crashed. I think they killed most of the people captured with me - or tortured them for information. A few may have ended up here too. There are no others left."

She listens, then just nods. "I didn't leave Ryloth, didn't get sold off, until my mother died."

Okay, that was established. Now on with the business of living. "What's the most important thing when fighting?"

"Awareness - know where you are, where everything else is. Who you can trust not to stab you in the back. After that, performance. The arena is a fight to survive for us - but money and entertainment for its masters. Fight poorly, or boringly... they will find ways to kill you. Slaves you bring in no money are a waste of food and water. Make them money, make the crowds cheer - know who to kill, who not to. Even if you lose, the good gladiators will not kill you if they know the masters of the arena want you to live... to fight again."

"That makes sense." And she really hates it, but that certainly went without saying.

He nods, glancing upward. "I will fight to live, fight their fights, give them a show - until the time comes. I will not die here. I will die free."

"...I believe you," she says, and means it. He sounds so certain. Of course it doesn't stop the thought from chafing, performing far too close to being a toy of the unworthy. ...But there is something worthy here.

"And yes, we can teach each other. Anything you want to know."

"I want to know about the stars, what's out there. I only barely remember them. And perhaps to read... and write. My mother... I think she liked books. I remember a lot of books. But only a few words. When people manage to bring books or writing here, I try and collect them. I should know more, for when I see stars again."

She listens. "Then there's no sense wasting any time, is there?"

And she'll start scratching in the dirt, seeing what he knows of phonics and , etc. and expanding. She includes among the examples a relevant word or two on interstellar travel and Galactic politics just to get those introduced as well. The urge to help him is overwhelming, for various reasons but mostly because he deserves it.

And they'll be at it until enough is enough and she curls up in the corner of the cage and sleeps. They can start on her lessons the next day

He frowns. "If gets very cold here. Sleep next to the Nexu. They'll keep you warm, and it will help them trust you." he starts - having been a very intent student. Not the fastest or brightest - he lacks basic context for a lot of things... though he seems to recognize a few words by rote memory for some reason, but they're an odd mixture.

For an angry, defiant little thing, she sleepily moves to lie down with the nexu. She's noticed some of the memorizations and assumed it's what his writing-hoarding has obtained for him. She hopes to have time to flesh our more context for those words soon.