Chapter One: Death Sticks

It was so easy to forget that Ezra grew up on the streets, since when he wasn't picking pockets and slicing locks on missions, he had the personality of a mooka pup, all bright eyed and eager for attention.

But then there were some moments when it was really driven home that there was a lot more to Ezra beneath the cheerful teenage façade he showed the world. The streets aren't kind to anyone, let alone children, and seven years spent scared and alone, not just believing but knowing that no one was going to save him, had left scars beneath the physical ones from his time on the streets.

Those moments never failed to take Kanan, Hera, and the others by surprise, and always left them reeling and stunned. Like, for instance, the death sticks incident.

It was supposed to be a routine smuggling job. They'd pick up cargo from a supplier, who Vizago supplied them coordinates for, with assurances that they'd be expected. They'd bring the cargo back to Lothal and drop it off with Vizago. They'd get paid. It was one of the easier jobs the broken horned thug handed off to them. Or at least it was supposed to be.

Kanan knew the moment he laid eyes on the suppliers that they were there to meet that this arrangement had just gone south. Drug peddling slythmongers always had a certain feel to them, like their life force was dampened in the Force. That and numerous other symptoms, since most of them were addicted to their own merchandise. Shaking hands and twitching eyes being the major two, but there were plenty of others. Kanan had seen more than his share of addicts and drug peddlers and knew that the people they were meeting were exactly those. So it came as no surprise to find out what their cargo was.

"They're all here. Twelve cases of death sticks, as promised," the lead slythmonger said with a greasy smile as he opened to one closest to them for them to see.

Uncomfortable glances were exchanged amongst the Ghost's crewmates who were present. Transporting spice was always a gray area for them, and one that was darker than they liked to go into, but at least spice had medicinal value.

Death sticks on the other hand were a recreational hallucinogen, and highly addictive. They were essentially poison and Kanan didn't want anything to do with them. But unfortunately, they didn't have much of a choice. The slythmongers were armed to the teeth, and were all too twitchy to even think that they would take kindly to the Ghost crew backing out of their deal. Trying would likely result in a shootout. Kanan was confident his team could win it but there were other factors to think about too. Like Vizago, and what it would mean for their future in working for him if they left this deal hanging.

So Kanan had to make a tough decision. "Right. Load 'em up," he ordered his team. Zeb and Sabine stepped toward the crates with only slight hesitations, trying to hide their uneasiness for the sake of the mission. Ezra stayed where he was.

"I think perhaps you are forgetting something, my good human," said the lead slythmonger. "It is one thing to dispense with formalities. But it is quite another to ignore the time honored procedures of this trade."

"What procedures?" Kanan asked warily.

"We need to sample the merchandise," said Ezra, his tone flat.

"What?" demanded the other three rebels in unison.

"The transaction won't move forward until we do," Ezra told them.

"The boy is right of course," the slythmonger said with a leer.

"That's not happening," Kanan said flatly.

"Kanan, they're not going to give us the crates until we do," Ezra said, looking at him sideways. "They're not even going to let us leave without trying to fill us with holes unless we do."

"And the boy is right again," the slythmonger said, fingering his blaster, left within easy reach. "For how else do we know you are not Imperial customs agents, no?"

"Do we look like Imperials to you?" Zeb demanded, stepping forward, hoping to intimidate.

"Imperials won't sample the merchandise because their own backup would turn them in for it. They have a zero tolerance policy when it comes to drugs, and all Imperial customs agents work on commission. And they're cutthroat enough to eliminate anyone in their way of a larger cut," said Ezra, his tone making it clear that he was surprised the others didn't know this. "If we want these crates, one of us has to sample it, Kanan."

"If that's the only way we get these crates, then we don't want them," Kanan said, his eyes boring into the slythmonger's.

"Then, my friend, it seems we are not friends after all," said the slythmonger dangerously. "It seems we have a problem."

Behind him, the other slythmongers started reaching for their weapons.

"Oh for crying out loud," Ezra said.

Then, before anyone could think to stop him, before Kanan, Zeb, or Sabine even realized what he was doing, Ezra reached into the open crate, snagged a death stick, and popped the top off, one handed, the way only someone with experience could.

Sabine didn't even have time to gasp. Kanan and Zeb didn't even have time to order Ezra not to, or make a grab for him, before Ezra had put the cylindrical vial to his lips and leaned his head back, holding the tiny glass tube with his lips alone, draining the entire contents down his throat.

Then he spit the empty vial to the ground at the slythmonger's feet.

"There. Satisfied?" he asked, right as Kanan grabbed his shoulder roughly.

The slythmonger tossed his head back and roared laughter. "You, you have spirit, human boy. Most must mix death sticks in a drink. Few can toss them back and not even make a face."

"The trick is you don't let it touch your tongue," Ezra said, looking defiantly at the slythmonger, but not resisting when Kanan pulled him back a few paces. "Now do we have an agreement?"

"Yes, yes. The crates are yours," the slythmonger said. "Take them and give Vizago my greetings."

"You. Back on the Ghost. Now," Kanan ordered.

Ezra shrugged him off. "I'm fine. I've got a few minutes before it kicks in."

"I don't care. Get on the ship right now."

Ezra, stubborn as always, quickly activated the antigravity mechanism on a row of three joined crates and started pushing them back toward the ghost. "Aye aye, captain."

"Karabast," Zeb swore, looking like he didn't know whether to throttle the kid or the slythmongers.

"What were you thinking?" Kanan shouted the moment they were all on board, with the damn crates in the hold.

Without even thinking, he'd latched onto both Ezra's shoulders, hands squeezing hard enough to leave bruising behind. "Damn it, kid! Don't you ever do that again!"

"What's going on? What happened?" demanded Hera as Chopper beeped in alarm at this confusing development.

"That cargo Vizago sent us after? It's twelve crates of death sticks!" said Kanan furiously. "And when the slimy slythmongers offered us a sample, Ezra took them up on it!"

"Ezra!" Hera gasped, both hands flying up to cover her mouth.

"That's not what happened!" Ezra argued. "They didn't offer. They expected one of us to take it, to prove we weren't Imperials. They wouldn't have given us the crates without it!"

"So we would have left the stupid crates!" Kanan roared.

"We would have had a firefight on our hands then," said Ezra.

As he looked defiantly up at Kanan, Kanan swore he could see the kid's eyes dilating as he spoke, the black centers growing to blot out all the blue.

"We would have handled that!"

"And what would we have told Vizago? What would he have said when we showed up without his crates?"

Kanan tried to reel in his anger, but it was in vain. "I don't care what Vizago would have said! I care about you!"

"Kanan, I'm fine," Ezra said, trying to shrug Kanan's hands off his shoulders. Unsuccessfully. "It's not like this is my first time being a tester."

"What?" Kanan asked, grinding his teeth, then repeating the question with his jaw still clenched. "What?"

"I used to do that kind of work for Ferpil," divulged Ezra. "Don't look at me like that, I'm not an addict. Ferpil made sure I had enough time between each dose so that I wouldn't get addicted. He treated me better than most."

Chopper beeped a not so friendly opinion about that. Kanan ignored both the droid's very accurate commentary, and Ezra's idiotic belief that Ferpil treated him in any way resembling decent even remotely. That was a rant that wouldn't be finished anytime soon and would likely end with Kanan ordering Hera to set a course for Capital City so he could hunt that poison peddler down and teach him what happened to people who pushed drugs on Kanan's Padawan.

"Kid! Every time you use death sticks, it shortens your lifespan! They wreak havoc on your immune system and they dampen your connection to the Force!" Kanan shouted. "Let me make one thing clear, right here, right now! As long as you're my Padawan, as long as you live on this ship, you will never use death sticks or any addictive, recreational spice, ever again!"

"But if I hadn't –"

"I don't care what the reason is! Never again, Ezra! Do you understand me?" Kanan said sternly.

Ezra stared up at Kanan with big eyes that were almost all pupil. There was only a slight ring of blue around the edges of his eyes.

His breathing patterns had changed, growing more shallow, and faster, but there was understanding in his eyes that made Kanan think that what he'd just said had gotten through to the kid. Then the kid went and opened his mouth.

"Your eyes are blue."

"What?" asked Kanan dangerously.

"Your eyes are green," Ezra seemed to change his mind.

A dangerous growl was emitted from the back of Kanan's throat.

"Stop, Love," intervened Hera. "Now is not the time."

Kanan opened his mouth to argue.

"He didn't understand why what he did was wrong before the drug took effect," said Hera. "He's certainly not going to understand now. Wait until he's himself again. And wait until you're yourself again."

"I –"

"You're so angry, you're growling more than speaking. I can barely understand you. And now's not the time to be yelling."

Kanan looked down at Ezra, who was staring intently at Sabine's armor, probably fascinated by the colors, or more precisely, the way the death stick had changed how he was interpreting colors.

Kanan had learned all about death sticks. All Padawans in the temple learned about drugs, especially ones that could affect their ability to use the Force. He wished that he'd thought sooner about putting that into Ezra's training. But he also realized that probably wouldn't have made a difference.

Because Ezra undoubtably knew all the side effects of death sticks except maybe how they dampened his connection to the Force. And he had taken one anyway. For the mission.

Hera was right about him not understanding just why what he'd done was wrong. Someone had conditioned him to think that it was okay for him to toss back death sticks if he thought the situation required it, regardless of the drug's long term effects. Kanan would have liked five minutes alone with whomever that someone was.

"Hera. Hera, since when is your skin pink?" Ezra asked suddenly, trying to make an escape from Kanan's grip, or rather, trying to get to Hera and not seeming to realize he was being restrained. He looked confused when he didn't make it far. "Hera, I thought you were green, like a daisy, but now your skin is pink . . . or . . . orange?"

"Come on, kid," said Kanan, his anger turning into exhaustion. "Let's get you some water –"

"I want juice!"

"Then you're going to sit down for awhile," Kanan said, wishing they could let him sleep this off, but he knew they needed to keep him awake, so if he had a bad reaction to the drug, they could catch it immediately. "Hera, go ahead and take us to hyper space –"

"I want to watch!"

"No." Kanan didn't want to see the kid's reaction to the stars turning into lines as they made the jump, or the cloudy, blurry nothingness of hyper space. The kid was in a state of euphoria now, but Kanan didn't know how long that would last before it gave way to a panicked or depressive state. He'd rather the kid not be in the cockpit when that happened. "You're going to come with me, and sit in the common room, and drink your juice, and stay calm.

"Yay. Juice."

Kanan kept an eye on Ezra throughout his little episode. It was worrisome but Ezra was better behaved when he was high on death sticks than he was normally. Aside from his tendency to get hung up on the psychedelic colors that he and he alone could see, he seemed almost normal, just subdued.

At first.

As the drug's effects wore off, over the course of the hour, he grew more quiet and seemed to shrink in on himself. Unexpected noises startled him, from Zeb unexpectedly entering the common room, to Chopper coming in and beeping a query about Ezra's mental state. By the end of the hour, Ezra retreated to a corner and scrunched up in it, knees drawn to his chest, his face pressed against them, and his hands clamped over his ears.

"Kid?" Kanan asked hesitantly, causing Ezra to flinch. "Ezra?"

"Go away," Ezra whispered.

Kanan sighed and sat down beside him, close enough for their shoulders to brush, causing Ezra to flinch even further away, trying to make himself even smaller in his corner. Kanan eased away, but only an inch or two.

"I'm not going anywhere, kid. You're not alone."

Two hours later, Ezra finally uncurled from his ball, lifting his head wearily toward Kanan.

"Hey," said Kanan, his heart seizing up a little at the defeated look Ezra was giving him. "Feel better?"

Ezra stared at him like Kanan was missing something. "Drug's worn off," he said finally, and let his legs slide down so they weren't clamped to his chest. He winced slightly from having held that position for so long.

Kanan stood and held a hand down to Ezra, intending to help him up. He frowned when Ezra recoiled again, as though he'd brandished a knife at the kid. He fought back a sigh and retracted his hand. "What do you need, kid? How can I help you?"

"I just . . ." Ezra lowered his gaze and didn't answer.

Kanan watched him for several seconds then sat down beside him again. "This might not be the best time . . . but this is too important for me to put off for later, Ezra. What you did today . . . you are never to do again."

"But I didn't do anything wrong," Ezra protested, giving Kanan a look like a puppy that had been kicked and couldn't understand why.

"You did, Ezra," Kanan said, steeling his resolve. "You risked your life for nothing."

"For money. We needed it –"

"No. Kid, just no." Kanan was careful to keep his voice gentle, but firm. He couldn't shout at the kid, not when he was looking like his heart was made of glass, but he couldn't let what he'd done stand either. "Those things take chunks out of your lifespan. The money isn't worth it. It's not even close to being worth it."

"But –"

"No buts," said Kanan. "Kid . . . Would you be okay with me taking death sticks and carving weeks off my lifespan?"

"No, but –"

"I – We feel the same way about you," Kanan said. "You do things like that and you'll break Hera's heart. And mine."

"But I'm used to it. Better me than any of you –"

"No," Kanan said, raising his voice slightly, then pausing for a breath when Ezra flinched. He could tell he wasn't getting through to him. "I don't care if you've – actually, that's not right. I do care that you've used death sticks before. It makes me angrier than you can imagine. Not at you," he added quickly when Ezra started to shrink in on himself. "At the people who gave them to you. You're a kid. You're not supposed to be carving pieces off your lifespan with drugs, for money. And you're not going to ever again. Your life is worth too much to risk it so carelessly."

He could tell that Ezra still didn't understand why what he'd done was wrong. And maybe it wasn't within his power to make him realize that, at least at this time.

Hopefully in time he could make his Padawan see the value he and the rest of the crew placed on their youngest member's life. But until that day, Kanan would have to use temporary measures to achieve what he wanted.

"If I ever do catch you using drugs again, whether it's because you think we need it for a mission or any other reason, we'll be suspending your Jedi training for three months while you meditate on what you've done."

From the horrified look on Ezra's face, Kanan could tell that, at least, had gotten through to the kid.

I usually don't read, watch, or play any books, movies, or games that aren't space themed. Because I'm a bit of a space opera junkie. But I met the author of the Façade Novellas while playing Destiny, so I made an exception and read her urban fantasy books, and her character Stray reminded me of what I wanted to see more of in Ezra. Don't get me wrong, I love Ezra, but his character has definitely been Disneyfied.

Kids who grow up on the streets, are at constant risk of starving, exposure, and being victims of horrific crimes. They grow up faster and tougher, and drop their guard a whole lot less than anything rated PG would have you believe, and they often have different perspectives on what's right and wrong. I'd just like to see more of those tough edges and grey areas when it comes to Ezra's character. But hey, that's what fanfiction is for, am I right?

Death sticks are a Star Wars canon drug. More info on them is available on Wookieepedia, your one stop reference for all things Star Wars. Seriously. I practically lived on that site for a month after I discovered it.