Optional prompt: It was the rarest of spices due to the fact that harvesters had a 40% fatality rate. by TuesdayNightCompany.
This is a continuation to [Sept21] Tribble Month 29: A Trusty Dictionary and ends the storyline.
I was trembling when we docked at Feshural. This trip couldn’t end well.
“So, what’s the big deal about this shipment?” Tymon asked.
“It’s one of the rarest spices because the harvesters have a 40% fatality rate due to plant toxins and local predators,” Myrial explained.
“Yikes,” Kanan remarked.
“Hm… I wonder how I’d do, being immortal.” Tymon scratched his chin.
“Tymon, no,” I whimpered. “Don’t.”
Tymon looked at me. “You alright, Bolotseseg? You’re acting strange.”
“I don’t like this place.”
Myrial hummed. “You can stay on the ship. I’ll handle the interpersonal stuff anyway.”
I feared that it wasn’t going to be enough.
When the last man I wanted to see boarded, my fears were confirmed.
He recognized me instantly. “You.”
Our job was now in jeopardy. They wouldn’t let us handle the spices, not with an escaped spice slave onboard. I could either surrender and suffer or make us lose the job — or something worse.
Myrial looked at me. “Trouble?”
My father spoke up, “She is indeed.”
Myrial turned to him. “Then I must ask you to leave the ship. I’ll handle whatever trouble she brings.”
“No. We will handle it our way. That’s why you’re here.”
My father grinned. “Did you really think a freelancer ship would be allowed to move Devil’s Tongue? No, you’re here because she is with you.” He turned to me. “No one escapes the spice fields forever.” He lifted a device I knew far too well.
I dashed at him to stop him, but I wasn’t fast enough. Explosions and screams took over the deck. I looked at my dying found family and decided that I would not let my blood family take me alive.
I jumped into the explosions around Tymon and Myrial and everything went black for good.