From the moment he spotted the guy making his way through The Asteroid Belt’s dim, noisy, smoky interior to seat himself at one of the empty tables in the back, Kanan hadn’t been able to take his eyes off him: the stranger—human, male, mid to late teens perhaps (fair game here on Gorse), with dark hair and golden skin and eyes whose striking blue could be made out even from a distance—wore an orange jacket, tall brown boots, had a holster strapped to his right thigh, and sat with his back to the wall, scanning the crowd as if he were looking for someone. Kanan, who typically found his courage at the bottom of a bottle and was already feeling lucky—and like getting lucky, or at the very least trying his luck—tonight, downed his beer with a single huge swig, wiped his mouth, belched, and strode over, running a hand over his head to tame any loose hairs.
The guy, who Kanan saw had a strange pair of scars on his left cheek, caught sight of him immediately and went still, those pretty blue eyes widening in what Kanan could only assume was wonder, and, bloated with confidence, he straightened up a little bit more and prepared to lay on the charm; if he played his cards right, he wouldn’t have to spend the evening with a handful of his favorite holos.
He slid into the seat beside the stupefied young man, flashed him a dazzling, tipsy smile, and proceeded to launch into one of his 200 pick-up lines, tonight’s being, “You got a name, sweetheart, or should I just call you mine?” when his eyes drifted downward and saw what was hanging off the stranger’s belt.
All of Kanan’s alcohol-fueled bravado rushed out of him like water from a shattered glass, and it was only when he felt a hand grasp his chin and turn his face upward that he realized he was not looking at a thief, nor a rich collector of banned weapons, but the real, genuine thing.
“I don’t have time to explain,” the handsome young Jedi said in a calm voice, “and I know you have no reason to trust me right now, Kanan, but that’s exactly what I need you to do.”