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SW Gray Tale 13 : Mogul of Mammaries
🕑 Added 2025-07-08 21:15:16 +0000 UTCVasha stared at the glass of water in her hands like I’d just handed her a solid gold credit chip instead of, you know, water. Her lekku did this little twitchy thing, and for a second, I swear her eyes got all shiny.
Huh. Weird.
Like, dude, it’s water. But she was looking at me like I’d single-handedly won the Clone Wars and then personally served her a five-course meal on Coruscant’s fanciest rooftop.
"Thanks, Ezra," she said, voice all soft and weird, and before I could duck, her hand was in my hair, ruffling it like I was some kind of overeager tooka.
"Hey!" I swatted at her, but let’s be real—it wasn’t unpleasant. Kinda nice, actually. Like when your cool older sister messes with you just to remind you she exists.
Vasha smirked, finally pulling away. "Alright, kid. Gonna go scrub off the engine grease. Feel like a walking oil stain."
She stretched, her back cracking like a Wookiee’s knuckles, and as she turned toward her room, my brain—always on maximum gremlin mode—suddenly registered something.
Oh.
The way her tits moved when she walked. No straps, no cups, no weird fabric lines—just free-range, baby. Full natural swing.
Huh. So it’s not just a one-time commando thing. They really don’t do bras here, do they?
A slow, evil grin spread across my face.
Oh, galaxy. You have no idea what’s coming. Somebody’s about to make a fortune in boob engineering.
I flopped back onto the couch, staring at the ceiling as my inner entrepreneur woke up and immediately started drafting a business plan.
My mind was already racing, designs were practically scribbling themselves inside my skull. The Bridger Bouncer. The Ezra Encaser. Durable, breathable synth-fabrics? Check. Some kind of magic flex-strap situation? Absolutely. Adjustable everything? Duh.
I could become a titan of titty textiles, , a sultan of support, a mogul of mammaries. I'd be providing a genuine service, liberating women across the galaxy from the tyranny of uncomfortable, unsupported bouncing.
They would thank me for saving them from the unspeakable horror of unchecked jiggle physics.
It was practically a public service. And yeah, okay, I’d be rolling in credits so deep I could swim in ‘em like a Scipio oil baron.There was just one tiny problem.
I was seven.
No credits. No factory. No clue how to actually make any of this shit. My entire net worth was the half-eaten protein bar in my pocket.
I was basically a fugitive dust bunny living off the generosity of the very woman whose… uh… free-range assets had inspired my capitalist brainwave.
My entire survival depended on her not kicking me out. And how was I repaying her? By mentally blue-printing her chest and planning to get filthy rich off it. Smooth, Ezra. Real smooth.
Just as I was mentally calculating profit margins per cup size, Vasha padded back in. Fresh from the ‘fresher, grime gone, hair damp. She looked… softer. She walked over, holding out one of those weird purple scaly fruits, a small, real smile on her face.
"Here," she said. "Try this. Called Meiloorun, quite famous around here."
I blinked. Looked from her kinda-sweet expression to the alien fruit. My galactic lingerie empire? Poof. Vanished like smuggler contraband at an Imperial checkpoint.
Right. Priorities.
First step: Mystery fruit. Then, financial domination of the undergarment sector.
I took the meiloorun. Heavier than it looked. Scales cool and smooth, like lizard skin. Dug my thumb in, peeled back the rind. Boom. Bright orange flesh. Smell hit me first – like someone smashed a mango and a pear together in the best way. Took a bite.
Juice EXPLODED in my mouth. Sweet, creamy, intense. My eyes probably bugged out like a Kowakian monkey-lizard seeing a shiny thing.
"Whoa."
"Good, right?" Vasha plopped onto the opposite couch, already biting into hers.
We just… munched. Silence, but the comfy kind. Just the squish of fruit, the city's distant hum, and the quiet death of my immediate billion-credit boob-plan.
"Hey, Vasha?" I wiped juice from my chin.
She glanced up. "Hmm?"
"About me being your assistant..." I pitched my voice a little higher, leaning into the kid act. "I looked at your datapad earlier. Didn't understand most of it."
A small, knowing smile curled her lips. "It's complicated stuff, Ezra."
"Yeah, I know." I pressed on. "That's why I need to study. If I'm gonna help you, I need books. Or datapads. Whatever." I waved my half-eaten fruit vaguely. "I just... don't know where to get them here."
I hesitated, then reached into my pocket and pulled out the worn credit chip I'd scavenged from the house and left after throwing it to the junkies. It was probably worth less than the meiloorun in my hand.
"I've got some credits," I said, offering it. "Not much. But I can pay. Don't need anything fancy—just something to read."
Vasha stopped chewing. Her gaze flicked from my face to the pitiful chip in my palm, and her expression softened. She chuckled, shaking her head.
"You're really serious about this, aren't you?"
I nodded, jaw set.
She pushed my hand—and the chip—back toward me. "Keep your credits, little guy." Her voice was warm.
"You're not paying for books while you're under my roof."
She finished her meiloorun in a few more bites, then leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. The amusement in her eyes was replaced by a thoughtful, practical look. "You're right, though. If you're going to stay here… you need something to do besides stare at my schematics."
She was quiet for a moment, her gaze drifting to the cluttered workbench. I held my breath. Was this it? Was she going to kick me out? Tell me to go to some Imperial-run youth center?
"Alright," she said finally, her decision made. "I know a place. An old friend of mine runs a shop down in the lower levels. Sells used tech, datapads, old textbooks… mostly junk, but you can find some gems if you dig." She looked back at me, her expression serious. "We can go tomorrow. But you have to stick close to me. No wandering off. Understand?"
Relief washed over me so intensely my shoulders sagged. "I understand," I said, nodding vigorously. "I promise."
"Good," she said, her tone softening. She stood up and stretched, the long day finally catching up with her. "For tonight, though, no more studying. You've done enough for one day, Mr. Assistant."
She walked over and picked up the datapad from the workbench, her fingers moving deftly over the screen to shut down the schematic. "So," she said, turning back to me with a small smile. "What do you like to watch?"
I blinked. "Watch what?"
She gave me a look, the kind of obvious, are-you-kidding-me look that transcends species. "Shows? On the HoloTV? You gotta have a favorite one, right?"
"Ohhh, HoloTV," I said, the word feeling foreign in my mouth. "Wait… you have a HoloTV?"
"Yeah," she said, gesturing with her thumb toward the low, flat table in front of the couch. "Right there."
I looked at the table. It was just a plain, dark grey slab of metal. It didn't look like any kind of entertainment device I'd ever seen. Oh damn. That was a HoloTV?
Vasha was looking at me with open confusion, her head tilted. "You… didn't know?"
Her expression made it clear she found this incredibly weird. Which it was. I honestly had no idea. The Bridgers, from what I could recall from Ezra's hazy memories, didn't have one of these. They had some kind of portable, projector-like thing that cast a flat image on the wall. This sleek, integrated unit was completely new to me.
My mind raced, scrambling for a plausible excuse. I couldn't just say, 'Sorry, the last TV I used had a flat screen and came from a different dimension.'
"Uhh…" I started, looking down at my feet and kicking at an imaginary spot on the floor. I let my voice get small. "I actually… don't watch. Dad said HoloTV was too expensive. Said they didn't have good things on it anyway."
There. I threw my hypothetical, emotionally neglectful parents under the bus again. It was becoming my go-to move. I just hoped Mira and Ephraim, wherever they were, never found out about the character assassination I was performing on them. If they did, they might just die of a heart attack.
The lie worked perfectly. The confusion on Vasha's face melted away, replaced by that familiar, heart-wrenching pity. Her lips thinned into a sad line. "Oh," she said softly.
She picked up a small remote from the table. "Well, your dad was wrong. About the second part, anyway. There's plenty of junk on here, sure, but there's some good stuff too."
She tapped a button, and the surface of the table shimmered. A three-dimensional image flickered to life, hovering a few feet above the surface. It was a dizzying menu of glowing icons and scrolling text.
"What do you feel like?" she asked, scrolling through the options. "Cartoons? There's a decent one about a gang of mischievous tooka-cats. Or there's 'Specter of the Spire,' that detective show. It's cheesy, but it's not bad."
I stared at the floating images, mesmerized. "Cartoons," I said immediately.
I could have suggested the Wookie show I was watching earlier too, but I didn't knew whether it was available in 3d or not, and anyways, it was not the kind of shows children would watch afterall.
Vasha smiled, a real, genuine smile this time. "Tooka-cats it is."
...
...
A few minutes later, I realized my mistake.
Gawd, this show was dumb as fuck.
It wasn't just the simplistic plot about a blue tooka-cat trying to steal a fish from a grumpy-looking droid. The animation itself was… jarring. Stiff. The characters moved with the herky-jerky awkwardness of cheap puppets. For whatever reason—cultural preference, technological stagnation—it seemed like animation in this galaxy hadn't progressed much past the "Saturday morning cartoon" phase of my old world. It was almost painful to watch.
I couldn't take it anymore.
Vasha had gone to the kitchenette after starting the show, and the clinking of pots and pans was far more interesting than the cartoon cat's shenanigans. I slid off the couch and padded over to her.
She was at the small counter, chopping some kind of knobby, orange root vegetable with a surprisingly large knife. She looked up as I approached, a bit of surprise on her face.
"What's up?" she asked. "Don't like the cartoon? We can change it."
I shook my head. "The cartoon is kinda dumb," I said honestly, "but even besides that… it's not much fun watching alone." I looked up at her, putting on my best hopeful-orphan face. "I thought… we could watch it together."
Her hands stilled, the knife resting on the cutting board. Her expression softened. "We can, Ezra," she said gently. "But first, I need to make dinner. People gotta eat."
The opportunity was too good to pass up. "I can help!" I piped up, my voice bright. "I used to help my mom in the kitchen all the time."
Vasha looked down at me, then at the large knife in her hand, then back at me. A wry, skeptical smile played on her lips. "You know your way around a hydrospanner and a kitchen? What can't you do, kid?"
Her tone was teasing, but the question landed with a weird weight. I shrugged, shuffling my feet. "I'm a good chopper," I declared, perhaps a little too confidently.
She chuckled, a low, warm sound. "I bet you are. But maybe you can start with something a little less… sharp."
She nudged a bowl of the purplish, lentil-like legumes toward me. "Here. Your job is to wash these. Think you can handle that, Mr. Assistant?"
"Yes, ma'am," I said, puffing out my chest with mock seriousness.
I lugged the heavy ceramic bowl over to the sink, the little purple legumes rattling inside. This was a masterclass in domestic infiltration, I thought smugly. Step one: feign helplessness. Step two: offer to help with a menial task. Step three: profit. Or, in my case, not get kicked out onto the street.
I turned on the faucet, letting the cool water run over my hands and into the bowl. The legumes felt slick and smooth, like tiny, polished stones. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Vasha. She handled that big knife with the same easy, no-nonsense confidence she used on a power conduit. Chop, chop, chop. The orange root vegetable fell into perfect, uniform cubes. There was a rhythm to it, a practiced efficiency that was honestly kind of mesmerizing.
She was in her element, whether it was rewiring a droid's motivator or just making dinner. It was… cool.
Once the legumes were thoroughly rinsed, I drained the water and padded back over to the counter, sliding the bowl next to her cutting board. "Task complete, boss."
She glanced down, giving me a nod of approval. "Good work, assistant."
I leaned against the counter, watching her sweep the pile of orange cubes into a sizzling pan. The smell of frying vegetables filled the small apartment, and my stomach rumbled audibly.
"What's that orange thing?" I asked, pointing with my chin. I had to sell the act. A curious kid, new to the big city. "My mom… she never cooked with those.""This?" Vasha stirred the pan with a wooden spoon. "It's just a sun-root. Grows all over the plains here. Sweetens up a stew if you cook it right." She added the legumes to the pan, the sizzle getting louder. "Pretty much a Lothal staple."
She gave the pan another stir, then shot me a casual, sideways glance. "So, where'd your folks drag you from, anyway? Must not have had many sun-roots there."
My brain stalled. A blue screen of social error.
Crap. Crap, crap, crap.
I'd spent all my energy crafting the "who" and "why" of my sob story—deadbeat parents, abandoned kid, so sad, please feed me—but I'd completely, utterly forgotten the "where." Where was I before they supposedly dumped me here? I needed a planet. Somewhere plausible. Somewhere remote enough and poor enough that a family might realistically pack up and leave in search of better prospects. Definitely not a core world.
My mind raced through a list of planets from the games and movies, frantically trying to find one that fit. Raxus Prime? Too much of a junkyard. Felucia? Too… mushroomy.
My mouth opened before my brain finished rebooting, grabbing the first, most iconic backwater hellhole it could find.
"Umm… Tatooine!"
"Tatooine?"
Vasha didn't even pause her stirring. She just repeated the name with a little frown of concentration, like she was trying to place a part number. "Huh. Can't say I've heard of it. Must be way out there."
And that was it. No follow-up questions. No quiz on its primary exports or native species. To her, it was just another meaningless name from the ass-end of the galaxy. My internal panic fizzled out, leaving me feeling a little foolish. Of course a dock worker on Lothal wouldn't have a map of the entire Outer Rim memorized.
I leaned my chin on my hands, watching her work. She moved with an easy grace, adding a pinch of this and a splash of that, tasting the broth from the spoon with a critical hum. It was strangely fascinating.
"Aren't you bored?" she asked, glancing down at me. "I can put the tooka-cats back on."
"No, it's okay," I said, a little too quickly. "Watching you is better." I searched for the right words, something to sell the sweet-kid persona. "It's… like watching butterflies dance. All your movements are so precise and pretty."
She stopped and stared at me for a beat. Then she let out a short, surprised giggle. The sound was warm and genuine, and she reached over to ruffle my hair again. "You're a weird little poet, you know that?"
I just gave a wry smile. Right. Just a kid saying cute, nonsensical things. When would the day come when a compliment from me would be more than just ramblings of a child? When would someone see the adult mind behind the childish words? Hah, woe is me, and childhood sucks sometimes..
Soon, the stew was done, a thick, fragrant concoction that smelled a hundred times better than nutrient paste. Vasha ladled it into two bowls, and I carefully carried them over to the couch, setting them on the low table where the dumb cartoon was still playing out its mind-numbing finale.
Vasha followed with spoons and napkins, slumping onto the couch with a tired sigh.
"Hey," I said, picking up my spoon. "Can we change this?"
She looked at the floating cartoon cat, then at me. "You sure? We can find another cartoon."
"No," I shook my head. "Put on what you want to watch. The cartoons aren't very interesting."
My 8 year old impersonation can kill itself, I ain't burning my braincells on that shit.
Vasha gave me a long look, her spoon halfway to her mouth. The surprise on her face wasn't pity this time, but something more like genuine curiosity.
"You sure, kiddo?" she asked, her voice low. "Specter of the Spire is pretty boring for a seven-year-old. Lots of talking."
"It's better than tooka-cats," I said, shrugging as I took my first spoonful of stew.
The warmth spread through my chest instantly. It was rich, savory, and real. The sun-root was sweet, the legumes were earthy, and it tasted like something I felt I had eaten, but what i couldn't remember.
A small smile touched her lips. She picked up the remote and with a few clicks, the hyper-colored cartoon vanished. It was replaced by a gritty, rain-slicked street corner and a man in a long coat, his face cast in dramatic shadow.
"...the only thing colder than this city's streets," a gravelly voiceover intoned from the holoprojector, "is the truth."
Vasha let out a soft snort of amusement. "See? Cheesy."
She took a bite of her own stew, her eyes fixed on the show. We ate in a comfortable silence, the only sounds the clinking of our spoons against the bowls and the dramatic dialogue of some hard-boiled detective.
The show was kinda good too, through a bit low on pixels but that just gave an retro feeling.
We watched till the food lasted, and then watched more after that too, but later on it didn't took long for me to start feeling sleepy. Body of a growing child and all. With my eyes droopy, I held on for some time, but sleep claimed me the same.
I did feel someone move my body onto something softer and warmer...It was nice.
