Calcariidae

It wasn't the nicest cantina on Nar Shadaa, but it wasn't the worst either. It was perfectly nondescript, one among many. Cal tried to recall if he had been here before, but it blended so much into every other cantina that he couldn't say. The closed door on the second floor, third from the end of the hall, looked much like every other door.

His father still knew how to arrange a meeting, even after a decade in prison.

With a quick glance to his sister, affirming for the last time that she wanted to be here, Cal pushed the door open, not bothering to knock.  

Inside, the room was scarcely furnished, no signs of personal touches or belongings. It looked barely lived in, like it was merely a stepping stone until the owner could achieve better things. Cal knew the look well. He had spend much of his youth in rooms like this.

“Calcariidae, is that you? Or a holovid star?”

Just the sound of his father's voice sparked a hatred in Cal, stronger and hotter than he expected. He clenched his jaw, set his teeth together in anger. How dare he greet him like nothing had happened. How dare he use that subtle, effortless charm on him, of all people.

“It's me,” Cal forced out, closing the door behind him as soon as Gelathora stepped through.

Their father entered the room then, coming in from a hallway that branched off further into the apartment. He was wiping his hands on a towel, as if he had just been doing something as mundane as the dishes. He didn't look a day older than the last time Cal had seen him, being dragged away through the filth of some dark Nar Shadaa alley. A little rougher around the edges, leaner and harder. Ten years in a dangerous prison would do that to you.

Cal was shocked at how similar he looked to his father. It was almost like looking into a mirror, one that distorted the expression and lines that made you you. It was unsettling. Another reminder of the past that he tried so hard to leave behind.

“Look at you, so tall and handsome. Come give your old man a hug.”

“I don't think so.”

“Too old now, huh?” He grinned and dropped the towel on a nearby table before stopping to get a better look at the two people still standing by the door. His eyes grazed over Gelathora and then back to Cal.  “And who's this lovely lady? Your girl?”

“That's your daughter,” Cal spit, unable to contain his disgust any longer. He took a step forward, unconsciously putting himself between his father and his sister. “I shouldn't be surprised you didn't recognize her. Your kids never meant much to you, did they?”

The shock on his face was real – but it only lasted a fraction of a second before he recovered. “Gel-Gelathora?” He stammered, playing the part of the loving, if estranged, parent. “You look beautiful sweetheart. You're so grown-”

“Stop it,” Cal interrupted, refusing to let the charade continue. Every word out of his father's mouth was a lie. Blatant, meaningless lies. Cal was done listening to them. He had been done a long time ago.

“Stop what? Cal, what's the matter with you? Aren't you glad I'm out? I've missed you, kid. Both of you.” He opened his arms, as if expecting his children to run into them and forgive him all his misdeeds. “We can be a family again now.”

That was it. Those simple words were all Cal needed to hear to break his carefully contained rage. He knew the trick the old man was playing. He was trying to toy with their emotions, to win them over to his side and make them think it was their choice. He would not be manipulated like that. Not now, not again.

“Again? When were we ever a family?” He took another step towards his father, this time without thinking. His voiced was raised, shouting louder than anyone he knew had ever heard him do.   “When you hit mom and pretended like she fell down the stairs? Oh, yeah, I knew about that. Don't look so shocked.” Cal was so focused he didn't spare a glance at Gela to see if this was news to her or not. “Or when you took me away from our 'family' and used me to make a handful of credits for years?”

“What? That's what you think?” The look on their father's face was the perfect imitation of surprise. His voice the perfect pitch of hurt. “Cal, I didn't use you. We were a team.”

“I was a kid,” Cal yelled, slamming his fist on the table. “You were supposed to look out for me. To protect me from people like us.”

“Come on bud; you had fun. You had a great time.” He was inching closer to Cal, leaving his arms at his sides and his stance open and easy. He even had the gall to smile.

Cal shook his head, resolute. He was not going to be won over with the same smile he used so readily. “That doesn't matter. You should never have made me do those things.”

“Made you? Kid, you wanted to. It was a game.”

“A game? I was thirteen years old when you told me to 'get rid' of someone, any means necessary.” Cal's voice lowered as he recalled the first time he killed someone. It was messy and terrifying and he was certain he hadn't wanted to. “That wasn't a game.”

The older chiss shrugged, disregarding the entire conversation. “Look at you now though. You're better than I ever was. You've got everything you ever wanted thanks to what I taught you.”

All the fire left Cal's eyes, their red glow almost visibly dimming. Suddenly he was tired; of this conversation, of this room, of everything he could no longer deny. “Yeah. Look at me now.”

He turned away, back to his sister, still standing by the door. Her face was as impassive as ever.

“Gela, do you have anything you want to say to our dear father?”

He thought she might reach for her blaster, or the device on her arm that she relied on so much. But instead she walked forward, pushing him aside with a rough knock of her shoulder against his. She reached their father,  stood before him with unwavering calm. Then she pulled her arm back and hit him with all the strength of a full swing.

He reeled back, stumbling into the chair behind him. Still he manged to stay on his feet, bent over and clutching his midsection where Gela had punched him. He opened his mouth to say something – more lies, no doubt – when she hit him again, this time in the face. Blood spurted from his nose, now broken, and dripped down his freshly pressed shirt.

Now he tried to fight back, shock gone. He curled his arm around Gela's stomach, attempting to get her into a tight hold. She was too strong for him though, and flung it aside as easily as she would a child's arm. His defense spurred her on, and each new hit was harder than the last. A swift kick to his knees sent him tumbling to the floor, where she continued her onslaught. Her boots crushed his fingers, her kicks knocking loose a tooth.

Cal merely watched from his spot a few feet away. He had no desire to intervene. Let Gela beat their father to death. It saved him the trouble.

When he was certain she would land the killing blow she pulled back. The corner of her mouth twisted into a sneer as she looked down at the broken man. Then she spoke the last words she ever would to him.

“You're not worth it. You're nothing.”

Gela turned on her heel and walked away, pushing past Cal again and taking up her position back at the door. Waiting.

His father still lay on the cold floor, spitting blood from a mouth that showed only red. He was curled up, legs pulled towards his chest as his muscles slowly started to unclench. Cal had never seen him like this before – small, weak, nothing more than a huddled mass of washed up notoriety and pride. He should feel something. He knew he should feel something. That smoldering anger from a moment ago, the icy grip of guilt, even heartache at the sight of his once hero breaking in front of him. But Cal felt nothing. He lacked even the motivation to pretend.

“Cal, come on.” His father's voice was strained, wet and thick with the blood that stained his teeth. He reached out a hand, skin a color the exact match to his own. “You're not going to just leave me here, are you?”

“No.”

From the ground his father grinned, pushed himself up to his knees. “That's my boy.”

Cal had known the moment he decided to meet his father how it would end. He knew he wouldn't give in to his charm and false sense of affection. He watched the man on the floor, disgust threatening to rise in him but losing out to that same nothingness. This was the man who had meant so much to him. The man who had at one point been his only means of survival, his only tether to life. The man how had taught him everything he knew. Who had turned him into what he was today.

“Your daughter was right.” Cal reached to the holster on his hip, pulled out his blaster with a steady and sure hand. “You're nothing.”

His father's shocked expression didn't even register to Cal as he brought the blaster to rest against the old man's temple and pulled the trigger. The muted shot didn't echo around the room, didn't cause a grand flash of light or heat. It simply shot through skull and flesh, leaving a splatter of bone and brain against the far wall.

Cal stared at the body as it slumped forward, face down onto the floor. There was nothing inside of him left to care. He had just killed his own father and he felt not one hint of remorse or guilt. Given the chance, Cal was certain his father would have done the same to him. They were two of a kind, after all.

Blood pooled around the body, reaching ever closer to Cal's boots. He stepped aside as it trickled past him, forming rivulets out of what once was his father's life. This is what it came down to – a mess of blood and brains and the distant sound of the galaxy continuing on. His father had no one  at the end of his life. There was no one to mourn him, no one to remember him fondly. He reaped what he sowed.

The echoing, hollow feeling inside of him still expanding, Cal turned from the body of his father. He placed the blaster back in its holster, rubbed a smudge of blood from his cheek, and walked away.