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Lyra	By : Wanabee Category: Star Wars (All) > General Views: 3598 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. These characters are mine, and so is Ruy.

Chapter List
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You hear a crash and a shout, but not much fazes you any more, and your concentration doesn�t waver. You continue pounding out Smelly Brew on the only piano in the galaxy. The stench of the bar would overpower a newcomer, but after the first month you found the noseplugs more of a nuisance than a help. Now there is only the initial hit as you walk in and out of the bar. In � B.O.; out - methane leaking from the mines. If OSHA came and survived the shock of conditions in the mines, they�d insist on B.O. and non-B.O. sections in this bar, but that would pretty well divide the patrons and the bar-workers. But it�s just the sort of place you need. They ask few questions on Ruy, and none at all in this establishment. In addition, Ha-Boara, the owner, has been most accommodating about the piano. It�s a rough bar but most men know enough to leave you alone. Almost nightly, a stranger tries to hassle you, but you know how to defend yourself, and Ha-Boara just snickers because he knows you�re more valuable than a one-time customer. Music not only calms the savage beast, it keeps the savage beast from breaking chairs over his neighbor�s head. Damage was down 80% since you started here a year ago even as sales went up.

Ruy is one big methane mine, which has the disadvantage that it is so revolting it�s barely livable, and the advantage that it�s so revolting that no one comes here voluntarily. The bosses make enough money to be able to pay off sector authorities; there isn�t a single unit assigned here. Normally a place like this would attract lots of foreign scum, but they all seem able to find Federation-free planets without methane mines. And so the planet is capably controlled by mine owners, who are smart enough to let incentives do the work to keep as much peace as is needed to secure capital and reasonably content indigenous labor.

Finally you have finished your set, two hours of the crappy local tunes these idiots love. The next act is about to begin and you are gathering your music to leave the stage when Bozo, egged on by friends, jumps up on stage. Obviously he�s new here to be trying something with you, but you just call them all Bozo. Tonight Bozo is a big guy, but his face is of course indistinguishable from any of the others, since it�s covered with dust from the mine. God forbid anyone on this planet should shower. Bozo leers at his friends and tries to talk to you. Continuing to leave, you politely rebuff him. But Bozo is seldom put off; he gets huffy and grabs your arm. You barely break your stride, and he is flipping into the audience, to a burst of laughter and jeers towards this nitwit newcomer. It looked as though he did it himself, and he has no idea what happened. You and the regulars know it is skill and practice. Nightly practice.
The next act begins as you disappear backstage, following the cramped and crowded labyrinth past the kitchen towards the women�s dressing room. You change from your black dress into your street clothes, black pants and tank top. You pack your dress and shoes carefully in your duffel bag and leave the dressing room, heading for the staff exit.

But another man tries to speak to you. Oh, this night just isn�t going to end. Twice in one night just isn�t fair, and you can�t muster any politeness. "Not interested," you cut him off and attempt to pass the twerp in the narrow crowded hallway.

"Wait, please!"

"Beat it." You feel a hand on your shoulder, and hear the conversation and bustle in the hallway quiet; this is always worth seeing. You�re getting angry at being pawed, and so you use a little more force than usual as you spin into his arm and raise your elbow in the air, bringing it down on his forearm with gusto. But his arm isn�t there anymore � you can see that he has coiled back from your strike, and now unwinds to grasp your extended arm. You can�t see his face under the shadow of his hood. You adjust your stance and follow his pull, which throws him off balance since he was expecting you to pull away. But he recovers, and while the onlookers see only an odd tug-of-war, you know you are outmatched. This particular Bozo has taken some classes. "What do you want?" you hiss.
"We only want to talk to you" he replies quietly, aware of the spectators.

You pull him in close, as though threatening him. He is a few inches taller than you, so you have to look up as you snarl in an undertone, "If you defeat me here, they�ll think I�ve lost my touch. I�ll have to fight this battle every night." You think a moment, poke a finger at him and continue in a whisper "I will meet you next door at Galgiet�s, at the back. For talking." He considers and nods, pushing away from you. You shove him to take credit for the push, and shout, "Get the hell out! Who let him back here?!" Immediately the commotion continues, with everyone avoiding your eyes and scattering. You storm out the stage door and into the dark alley, the door slamming against the railing before meekly closing with a soft click.

Who did these assholes think they were?! Every g.d. night, someone thought they had the right to touch your person. Someone seriously thought you would put up with that shit. You are about to walk past Galgiet�s, when you stop, seethe, turn and go into the diner. You try to keep your irritation from being too obvious, so you nix the stomping and muttering. The point is to avoid a public scene. "Lyra! You sounded great tonight through the kitchen wall. I�m telling you, you should attach a few cupboards to that piani thing � it makes it sound terrific! Hey, what can I get a tired pianist?"
You smile in spite of yourself. Galgiet has that effect on you. "I�m not staying tonight, just going to talk to someone a minute. I�ll make it up tomorrow, I promise." You head for the back table, which is out of sight of most of the rest of the booths. Galgiet holds it for you after your show, because you always hide out and eat your dinner here.

You have hardly sat down when you hear the quiet buzz of the door, and then hear Galgiet politely greet someone. And then two of them are in the back, cloaked, looming over the table, and you�re not so sure this was a good idea any more. There is the one who accosted you a few moments ago, no lightweight, but next to him is a man a head taller. They see the uncertainty in your eyes and sit down across from you, but still pointedly blocking any escape. The big one speaks in a low, calming voice. "Lyra, we are not going to hurt you. We are here to protect you."

This is not what you expected, but you�re not about to show your soft, fuzzy side. You respond tersely, "You know me. Who are you?"

"I am Ridan Bristel and this is my apprentice Doujo Keden. We are Jedi."

Oh. You had heard of Jedi but never seen any. They weren�t any more interested in Ruy than anyone else. "The Council sent you two all the way out here to protect me from drunks?"
They look at each other and chuckle. Ridan replies, "That clearly would not be necessary. No, the Council has received information that you are the target of a renegade ex-Jedi. Your defense skills would be useless against him, as they were against Doujo."

"A target? I don�t think I play that badly. You�re lying."

"Jedi never lie. And you are more than a musician."

How much does he know, you wonder desperately. "Well, patron-flipping is just a hobby."
"You are aware that you are�special?"

You put up your poker face. "Everybody�s special," you quip.

The Jedi have been ill at ease throughout the conversation, as though they are unsure of you. "You are unlike any living creature we have ever encountered."

Oh, no. "I bet you say that to all the girls," you say, attempting to be light, but they catch your gulp, and they pounce.
"We have been sent to bring you before the Council."

"On what charges? You have no right to arrest me."

"True. Perhaps it could be better termed �protective custody.�"

"Hmm, let�s just call it �bull shit� instead. I agreed to talk, I�ve talked. I refuse to go with you, blah blah blah, I formally demand that you stay away from me, and all that other legal crap. So, we�re back to �Beat it.�" You stand up.

"You�re making a mistake," the other one says quietly, and as he leans forward his face comes out of the shadow of his hood.
You look at him. It wasn�t said self-righteously, it was just a statement, and you have never seen advice offered so earnestly. Truth be told, now that you take the time to look at him, it�s time well spent. He is actually clean and has a charming, boyish face. Then the other one is beside you, towering over you, and much too close. He is massive, with strong features and eyes that can change from soft to hard in a flicker. "We are nice guys. The other ones�they won�t kill you; you�d be no use to them dead. But they will use you any way they can. Against us." He shrugs. "Yes, we don�t want them to have a new weapon."

The other one is close on your other side now. He adds, "But we also don�t want them to hurt you."

"And they will."
Wow. These guys could turn a girl�s head. They could also be lying. At best they�re going to drag you halfway across the galaxy to face the Jedi Council. What will the Council do when they discover what you are? Your best guess is that they will destroy you for their own safety. And many worse scenarios spring to mind. They could be rogue Jedi, mercenaries, heck, they could even be ordinary rapists. "Hmm, you make a great case, but I�m still not convinced. How about I sleep on it and let you know tomorrow? After my show?" There is a very long pause. Buy it, buy it, buy it.

"Agreed," the older man replies. They bow, turn around and walk out.

Well, the only question now is, whether to stop at your apartment before heading for the transportation platform. No, there�s one other question: how will you live away from your piano? It�s all you have left of your other life, all there is to this one. You come to a decision. You sit at Galgiet�s for a long time, until the lights start going out. You come out from the back room, startling Galgiet, and give him a soft, "bye." You go back next door to the bar, which is closing down for the night. Ha-Boara is not all that surprised to see you; you often return after closing to play for yourself, to play the music that moves your soul. Neither of you notices a dark shadow entering the bar before Ha-Boara locks the door and leaves. You sit down at the piano, and feel your fingers begin to pulse. You place them over the keys, and they begin, sorrowfully, tenderly, to play the haunting strains of Clair de Lune. You will probably never hear it again, and it is an emotional goodbye. You don�t see the shadow in the back of the bar stir and lean forward expectantly, nor does the glint of green eyes moving into the dim light from the stage catch your own eyes, which are fixed on your hands now flowing over the keyboard like water bubbling up from a deep spring. When you have finished, emptied yourself, you cannot bear to be at the piano any longer � you quickly get up and walk backstage. You are out the door before the shadow has regathered itself, coming back to life as the Jedi realizes you have gone.
You thought this day couldn�t get any worse, but you forgot that it was actually a new day. So it comes as a surprise and an outrage when you feel a fist connecting with your jaw before the back door has clicked shut. Immediately afterwards you hear curses and another dull cracking sound, followed by an irritated "What part of �Don�t hurt her" didn�t you get? Bring her to the street, you idiots." That voice! But by now you�re fighting back, and in the pitch-dark confusion of the alley several more strikes are landed, coming and going, before a light is shined in your eyes, you�re grabbed and dragged towards the street. You hear a powerful pounding at the door you came out of, followed by an explosion. The force knocks everyone down, and there is a shattering pain in your arm. You hear the thudding of feet pounding down the street, but after a mechanical puff of air in your face, you begin to lose consciousness and feel yourself thrown into the storage trunk of a personal vehicle. The lid slams down. "This wasn�t my escape plan�" is your last thought, as the vehicle accelerates away.
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Lyra