He skidded to a halt in deserted spot in the market populated by only a few outdated maintenance droids. His feet – numbed to the bone by chilled rainwater - kicked up a spray as they scrambled for friction on slick ground. It was easy to see why no one frequented this area. Bursts of vapor obscured the air in billowy white but ultimately harmless clouds. They issued in choking puffs from a network of pipes laid into the outside guard wall. The boy, sides stitched up in knots, placed the paper bag between his teeth and clambered up the slippery metal. He heaved his weight up with arms that barely supported him until his chest laid on the edge, his head dangling into the dark maw. The open air dropping from the lip blurred into clouds the further it fell until he could make out little but the shadowy shapes of the unknown below them. Had he not done it so many times before, he would’ve lost the contents of his stomach. With the most miniscule of movements, he twisted flat onto his stomach so that the flat grey sheen of wall burst from underneath his chin, like a guide line, and sucked in deep gulps of air. From here, if he twisted his head to the side, he could see the pipes twisting down, down, down in the grey filtered light to the lower levels parsecs below. One pipe stood out from the winding column. It was a behemoth of rough iron as dark as the depths of Droumnd Kaas’ black heart that ran not down but straight on into the fog. Wide enough to fit four of the boy and one of Balthzaar, if the Mandalorian made the most of it, harsh metal lettering emblazoned with the Imperial seal was stamped into the side. The boy wasn’t able to read this writing, but with the grip railings running along the top and a meshed hatch that could be lifted open with no effort for even a little boy, he suspected it was a now largely unused access pipe from days before speeder access had become public. He sucked in a deep breath that filled his lungs until they burned with pressure, then gripping the wall’s edge with his knees and elbows, the boy slid forward inch by inch and counted every movement. Breathe. The edge of the wall pressed into his little sternum and ribs until they threatened to break, but only if the pressure kicked into his belly didn’t force him to vomit over the side first. Breathe. It wasn’t a precise science, but it hadn’t yet failed him. Exhale. At the end of ten scoots, he stopped and gauged the murky depths. His vision swam with ripples of already hazy vision and the gusty white fog that had seemed so harmless before but was choking now. At times the pipe below seemed like a solid reality, at others a mirage that he’d plummet right through on his way through the stratosphere. Thunder rumbled in the sky above. It was a long way off, but it urged the boy forward through a routine he’d done a hundred times before – not with an encouragement of “be brave” but with “hesitation brings the promise of worse things to come.” The boy closed his eyes. And felt a warm breeze press a cool hand against his clammy skin. Sometimes he felt like the world spoke to him when he wasn’t paying attention; It filtered through his skin, like errant thoughts through the sieve of the mind. The nothingness whispered nonsensical tales to him that ended only in death, the people below obsessed over details in their lives that he didn’t quite understand, and the wind’s words weren’t real. The boy breathed all of this in, swallowed his queasiness deep into his hips, then swung his other leg over. He felt when the muscles in his arms still clutching the wall gave, small and unable to support his weight dangling from a precipice. The drop was only a third of a meter, short enough for his feet to accept the impact without giving, but long enough for his stomach to rise into his throat. The pipe echoed a mournful reverberation down its length when he fell onto it, but the metal was built sturdy to last and didn’t betray him.
Dumbguts
