revivalproject | there's a little child running 'round this house

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there's a little child running 'round this house

WHO: Boba Fett and you!
WHERE: Boba's calibrations room
WHAT: Calibrations
WHEN: June-July 10th
WARNINGS: Boba's memories that can be accessed here include content warnings for character death, decapitation, animal death, violence towards children, and slavery.

The door opens on a child’s bedroom.

Clearly, it is a child’s. There is a small bed, a cluttered desk, a shelf of proudly displayed model starships. It would look perfectly mundane, if not for two things:

One, the smooth, sterile-looking white walls that put one more in mind of a laboratory or a clinic rather than a child’s room. And two, the sea of red sand that buries the floor several inches deep, creating a tiny desert underfoot.

A ten-year-old Boba Fett sits in the center of the bed, legs drawn up from the floor as if he’s afraid to touch it. In his arms is a silver-and-blue Mandalorian battle helmet [cw: character death, decapitation]. He stares at his visitor, tense and unhappy.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says. “It’s supposed to be a secret.”

Still, he won’t move to stop anyone from walking around or touching things. He really does seem to be trapped, penned in on his bed by the red sand that surrounds him. He won’t direct his visitor to any particular objects, but several may still stand out besides the helmet in his arms.

There’s a clear glass bowl sitting on the shelf alongside his model starships, half-filled with water [cw: animal death]. There’s a scrap of violet and red fabric half-buried in the sand. And, in the center of his desk is a pencil tracing of a child’s hand—likely Boba’s—with what seems to be a crude sketch of an eye in the center of the palm [cw: violence towards children, slavery].

It’s Boba’s first Calibrations here, so it’s with some puzzlement that this manifestation of him watches his visitor make their way around his room.

“What are you even looking for?” he asks.

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"I know I'm not," Reeve says as he looks at the boy. He hadn't wanted to come here, but Calibrations are not a space that cares much about what people want. For now he stays in place, hands in his pocket, trying to be respectful of the space.

"In general I try and look for ways to leave without violating people's memories. To share your history and knowledge is something you should do because you choose it, not because people force it on you."

"Well... that's good." Boba still looks uncomfortable, but perhaps a little less tense than before. "I don't think any of this was my choice. But I don't know how to let you out..."

His eyes move around the room, as if he, too, is searching for some hint. All of this is still so new to him. Even here, in the space where some part of him should theoretically be in control, he feels like a prisoner himself.

Outside the room, there's the muffled sound of thunder.

"The memories... Is that how people usually get out?"

"Time can let me out," Reeve says. "But yes, memories are often a route."

For now he moves to sit down right in the sand. It won't be there in the morning, so it's fine.

It's weird, having someone who isn't either him or his dad in his room. Boba wonders if it would be better just to let the man see one of his memories and let him out rather than have him awkwardly sit there for however long it takes for this to end. None of his memories are quite a secret, per se, but... they're his. And he doesn't like the thought of letting a stranger see.

And so, for a while, Boba just lets him wait in silence. He doesn't know how long it will take for the stranger to be released—for all he knows, maybe it will just take a few minutes. However, as those minutes tick by and the man still remains sitting there in the sand, Boba starts to get bored. Maybe it would be better to say something, just to pass the time.

"Uh... My name is Boba," he supplies. "Who are you?"

"I am Reeve Tuesti. I am from a world called Gaia," he says. Better to offer some context. "My universe has both magic and technology. Not all the worlds people come here from have both."

Gaia isn't a planet Boba has ever heard of, but that's hardly shocking when they might not even be from the same universe.

"Some people have magic where I'm from, too, but they don't call it that. They call it the Force." Boba makes a face when he says it; clearly, there's something about the concept he doesn't think highly of. "Do you think that's how they're linking our dreams like this? With magic?"

“You’re from the same universe as the Jedi then.”

As Poe. Reeve tucks that pain aside and then shakes his head. Magic seems unlikely.

“Those of us who have been heeded longer believe a race called the Atroma are the cause of a lot of the bad things that happen to us, this included. We heard their voice last time we came here. So it would make sense that they are doing this, and they don’t seem magically inclined.”

Surprise flashes across Boba's face when Reeve mentions the Jedi. "Yes," he says. And then, muttered, "I wish I wasn't."

The Jedi have only ever been a cause of misfortune and grief for his family. Boba is sure it would be better if they never existed in his galaxy.

Speaking of enemies, the ones Reeve identifies now are not those that Boba expected. His brow furrows as he stares back at the man. "The Atroma? I thought it was the Agrii who did this to us."

Wishes he wasn't? How strange. Reeve had found them agreeable. But he supposed there were people that might not like Cloud as well.

"The Agrii bring us, but it's through old Atroma technology, and they interfere with our return. We once saved the lives of the Agrii, and they promised to send us home then and there. The Atroma stole the means of it from them. Even now we don't know for sure if the Agrii bring us or the Atroma, but those of us who have been here a while are certain the Atroma are the cause of our misfortunes."

He gestures around them at this room. Because that would absolutely be a good example.

"This place, these shared memories? The Atroma, I guarantee it. I remember what the voices sounded like last year when we came down here. And when I think back... the fake Agrii that led us? They didn't speak like an Agrii."

"This just keeps getting weirder..."

Donnie doesn't look all that happy about finding himself in yet another strange place. He arches a brow at the kid there on the bed. "Not sure secrets are working very well around...here," he says as he takes a step further in, looking back to confirm- yep, the door's gone.

He nearly jumps as he realizes he's stepping into sand. It's a very strange sensation between his toes when he's not expecting it.

"Okay..."

Boba watches as the green-skinned figure startles at the sand. "That's not supposed to be here either," he supplies helpfully. Despite the room's desert-like floor, rain can be heard drumming against the roof and thunder rumbles lowly in the distance.

"You didn't mean to come here, did you?"

The turtle teen shakes off a foot, not that it makes a difference when he's going to have to step back in the sand. He tilts his head at the sounds somewhere overhead, even as he casts another look around. So many elements to this space are clashing. His home looks way more welcoming and they live in a sewer!

"No, not really. I'm...not sure how this all works. But I sure didn't mean to intrude. This is...your room?"

"Yeah. This is how I remember it, anyway." He looks around, seemingly unperturbed by the clinical white walls. "Except the sand. That's from... somewhere else."

His gaze drops for a moment, then he shrugs.

"I'm not sure how all this works, either. The last person here said these places let you out if you wait long enough, though." He doesn't mention that the man had also said viewing the host's memories would will let visitors out even faster. Boba can't do much to stop anyone from seeing them if they really want to, but he's not going to encourage it either.

"Who are you, anyway?"

"Sand in one's room would have been an...interesting preference," the turtle observes. He takes a few steps further into the room, clearly unused to walking on sand as he keeps looking down at his feet.

The bit of fabric catches his attention, but that's a given for the choice colors.

"Me? Oh, right. I'm Donnie. You are?" he prompts in turn, even as he stoops down to try pulling the scrap out of the sand. What have we here~~?

“My name’s Boba,” he says, watching as Donnie reaches for something in the sand. “What’s—oh.”

It’s about as much commentary as Boba manages to make before the scene suddenly changes. The perspective shifts, dream-like, to Boba’s own, though not here, not now. Still, it’s clear he’s at least in the same apartment; the walls are the same immaculate white as in his bedroom, delineated with blocks of dark blue. They border a wide window, looking out at a seemingly endless dark ocean with silver, bauble-like buildings pushing up from the depths. But Boba’s attention isn’t on those. Instead, he’s staring up into the gray, stormy sky.

A few seconds pass in silence. Then, there’s a sigh.

“He’s fine, Boba.” A woman’s voice says behind him, tone one of familiar exasperation. “You aren’t really going to sit there all day, are you?”

Boba turns, bringing her into view. The woman is short and pale skinned, with a crop of messy orange-bronze hair. She’s standing with her arms crossed, expression skeptical.

“He said he’d be back this morning.” This voice is clearly Boba’s—in fact, he doesn’t sound much younger than he does now. “It’s not morning anymore.”

“Everyone’s late sometimes. Even your dad.” She steps closer with a huff of wry laughter. “Anyway, I already did all the hard work for this job. Your dad’s just tying up loose ends.” She tugs lightly at his shoulder. “Come on, I want to beat you at sabacc again.”

Boba turns away from her, back towards the window. “I don’t want to play,” he mutters.

The hand on his shoulder lingers, then falls away. She sighs again. “Fine.”

Out of the periphery of his vision, Boba can see her settle on a nearby sofa. For a while, there’s silence again. He can't be sure when he's not looking directly at her, but he thinks she’s looking out the window, too. The silence stretches on.

“Hey.” Zam's voice again. “I just thought of a joke.”

Boba looks back at her. She’s smiling in that self-satisfied way she does when she has a joke that’s particularly bad. Boba isn’t even sure he wants to know.

Except, yes. He does.

“What is it?” he asks cautiously.

Zam’s smile widens. “What do you call it when a Kaminoan spits?"

Already, Boba can feel the corners of his own mouth twitch up at the silly image. He thinks for a moment, then gives up. “I don’t know. What?”

The smile on Zam’s face blossoms into a grin. “I can’t tell you—it’d just go over your head.”

Boba stares at her for a long moment, then quickly looks away. “That’s the dumbest one you’ve ever told.”

Zam laughs. “Then why are you smiling?”

“I’m not!” It’s clear from his voice that he is, or at least trying very hard not to. “How do you even come up with this stuff?”

“What can I tell you, I’ve got a natural talent,” she answers, clearly pleased. Boba sees her stand up out of the corner of his eye. “Tell you what: you come up with a better one, you can come and find me, okay? I’ll be at the table. Bet your dad will be back by then, too.”

Boba glances back as she leaves, then turns back towards the table and allows himself a secret grin. The sky is still as dark as ever and he is still worrying about his father. Still, he can't deny it: there's part of him that's also thinking about how to one-up Zam now, too.

And just like that, the memory fades. Boba is back on the bed in his room and Donnie is still standing in the sand with one hand gripping the scrap of fabric half-buried there. There’s a slight smile on Boba’s face now.

“It was a pretty bad joke. Wasn’t it?”

Donnie's still looking at the scrap when things fade back into whatever strange sort of present they're in. He carefully lets the piece go, glad it had been a relatively tame memory.

"I've heard worse," he says wryly, even as he thinks of Leo and his awful one-liners. "I'm assuming Kaminoans are tall or something?" That'd probably help understand the joke better. But at least the kid looks to be in a more cheery mood.

"Boba, huh? Like with the milk teas?"

"Yeah. They have long necks." He gestures at their surroundings. "They're the ones who built this place—or the place it looks like, anyway."

As for the question about his name, it just gets a rather confused stare. "Uh, no. I don't think so."

Is there another Boba out there who makes tea? If there is, Boba hasn't heard of him.

"So this definitely isn't from some place on Earth then..." For some reason it hadn't occurred to him that there were other worlds or universes where humans existed elsewhere.

"O-oh, it's... Never mind. It's an Earth thing." Donnie's not sure how much he wants to get into explaining tapioca pearl drinks. Instead he turns his attention to the more normal things within the room, gravitating towards the shelf with the starships.

"Whoa, these are cool! Are... There actually ships like these where you're from?"

Boba is content enough to let Donnie drop the tea thing—especially when he turns his attention to the model starships instead.

"Yeah, all of them are based on real ships," he says, smiling at Donnie's interest. "I made all of them myself." He moves to the end of the bed closest to the shelf, still not daring to step into the sand beneath. He points to two of the ships. "I've even seen that one and that one in real life!"

It's clearly a topic of interest to Boba; he's suddenly more animated than he's been for the entire time Donnie has been in his room. "None of them can beat my dad's starship, though. But I don't think there's a model for that..."

"Oh man, I'd love to see these things in person. My brothers and I have always wanted to ride in a real spaceship!" Donnie hesitates before gesturing in that 'may I?' kind of manner, wanting to pick one up to see the details.

"Your dad has his own ship? Now that is really cool. Wish my dad had a ship. Have you ever flown it?"

Boba nods to Donnie's gesture, happy to let someone else admire his hard work. It's not like he ever got the chance to show these off, at least not to anyone who wasn't his dad or Zam.

"Yeah," Boba answers proudly. "Lots of times. I even know how to control the weapons' systems."

He sits at the edge of his bed, watching as Donnie looks over one of his models. "That one's a Tri-mark Seven Interceptor," he says. "Those cylinders are its Turbodyne engines and those round parts are the hardpoints for its laser cannon turrets—and it has a ventral concussion missile launcher."

He speaks with the excited tone of someone who could go on for very, very long about this topic.

Donnie eagerly but carefully takes up the model in his hands. Just the thought that it represented something life-sized is a thrill.

"The weapons too? Lucky! That sounds amazing! I wish my dad had cool stuff like that."

He inspects the details of the ship he holds as Boba points them out. "Ugh, laser cannon turrets and a missile launcher? How's the maneuverability? It looks kind of clunky because of the engines but I guess in space it doesn't have to be too aerodynamic if it has enough boost."

Donnie doesn't mind, he's interested in hearing about starships, and he recognizes the tone of someone who's been asked about something they like. There's not many who take interest in his tech, so being able to vibe on any ground with someone is kind of exciting.

Steve looks around the room and immediately thinks of Dustin. He would love the starship models that he can see on the shelf. For a second he almost reaches out to touch one before remembering that can be dangerous. Exposing. At the sound of the small voice, Steve turns and looks at the child and his helmet. The kid doesn't look familiar but Steve is nothing if not the world's best babysitter.

He moves closer and crouches in front of the small kid.

"Uh. I'm not sure," he answers honestly. "I'm sorry if I...crashed in or whatever. It's not really my call." He looks at the helmet and then back up at the kid. "My name is Steve. What's your name?"

He shrugs. “It’s okay. The others already told me; no one means to come here.”

Which makes sense. Why would anybody want to be trapped here in this little room? Boba doesn’t mind it so much, but then, it’s his. And, if he’s being honest, it’s kind of nice to see it again—even if not everything is as he remembers it.

It is weird seeing other people here, though. In real life, there’d only been a handful of people who ever saw the inside of this apartment at all and fewer still who’d seen inside his room. It leaves Boba feeling a little exposed, even when there’s nothing he really has to hide in here.

“My name is Boba,” He answers, then pauses. “I think… it’s okay if you touch something. Someone else did earlier and it wasn’t so bad.”

Steve looks around and hates the fact that he once again is going to be poking around someone's mind. The consent helps but this is a little kid. Smaller even than Erica, maybe. It rubs him the wrong way to just force him through what might be trauma or hidden pain. It was bad enough to go through it himself and he's practically an adult.

"Is there anything you'd like me to see?" It's worth a shot. "Or anything here that's...nice?" He shrugs a shoulder. "I can also just sit down and we can talk, Boba. I am not gonna just...make you do this shi- stuff. We can just....figure out what to do together?"

“Um… I don’t know you, so there's nothing I want you to see," Boba says, quite honestly. "And I can't control what you see, anyway." Can other people do that in their rooms, he wonders? He hadn't been able to pick what was shown to the last person in his room; the memory they'd seen was as much a surprise to Boba as it was to them.

"But everything in here is something that's already happened to me," he continues, "So, even if it's bad, I'll be able to take it." He shrugs. "Nothing is ever as hard the second time."

Even as he says it, he shifts the helmet in his arms, moving it to his side away from Steve. What Boba said may be true—about most of his memories. There's one he suspects might be an exception.

"Or... I don't know. What do you want to talk about?"

Steve isn't sure he believes that. Things can be just as hard no matter how many times you are experiencing it. But this is a kid and he's not gonna get existential and serious in his brain about this stuff. Especially not now.

Steve looks around the room and decides maybe not to go poke things. Maybe he and Boba can talk. Just talk. Maybe not every brain he gets plopped into has to be put through the ringer.

"Where are you from? Like...originally? I've been figuring out that people are from all over..."

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there's a little child running 'round this house

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I went time blind! Sorry for the delay :(

it's okay! it happens

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