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poetic-justicesong · 10 months

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Chapter 4: Purpose

“It’s going to be tight,” the Mandalorian warns, his visor aimed at the telescopic sight of his blaster rifle. He’s propped up on one knee, most of his body behind the ledge of the rooftop you two are now serveiling from. “The corridor is short, but not heavily guarded in their rotation.”

The Imperial base on Nevarro, you learn, is more than just a stubborn Warlord refusing to give up the old ways. In fact, it’s the size of their numbers that leaves you uneasy; there’s well over fifty storm troopers manning the front half of their safe house alone. Irritation snakes its way into your core as you cross your arms over your chest. How is it that you haven't heard anything about this? No rumors, no whispers, no speculation. Nothing. A base of this caliber on a heavily trafficked planet going unfound and unreported…it’s concerning. I wouldn’t have been able to intercept on my own.

“It’s long enough,” you assure him from where you’re seasted, resting your head against the brick ledge pressed into your back. I need to get this to the Rebels, and soon. Coordinates, blueprints, anything you can get your hands on. “After I slip in behind you, I can navigate from the vents, and from there make my way to their mainframe.”

“While I deliver him,” Mando agrees, hopping on the opportunity to review the plan. “If all goes well, kid’s returned, I secure the Beskar, you get intel. Sure you’ll be able to get out?”

“I’m sure,” you muse. Might’ve done this once or twice..or twenty times before. “If it doesn’t go well, I navigate my way to him, get him to the south side-”

“Where I’ll meet you,” he finishes, lowering his rifle and shifting his weight so he’s on the balls of his feet with his back against the ledge. “Your Comlink?”

“Active.” You touch your earpiece, adjusting the volume out of habit. “It’ll be enough time to replace your armor, secure your next job?”

It takes him a moment to answer. “It’s going to be tight.”

Something in his tone catches your attention, and you look over at him. His helmet is tilted towards the sky, painting his visor yellow as it reflects the sunlight. He seems deep in thought. From the inside of his pod, the Child knocks quietly but consistently against its shut frame. Maybe antsy to get out, you guess. The Mandalorian unconsciously rests one of his hands on the floating carrier, his gloved finger rhythmically tapping a response to the kid’s knocking, letting him know he’s still there. Your shoulders drop a fraction.

“Hey,” you say gently, and Mando’s visor turns its aim at you. “It’s enough.” Determination straightens your posture and squares your shoulders. “I will guard him until you get him out.” I swear it.

When he says nothing and just continues to hold your gaze, a sardonic smile hides itself behind your dark red gaiter. You add, “If it doesn’t go well.”

“If it doesn’t,” he agrees, voice deep and grim.

Your arms fold over your chest, gaze moving towards the horizon, eyes roaming over the dilapidated structure masking the Imperial remnant not two-hundred feet away. It takes considerable effort not to imagine the possible horrors within. Your smile falls. “Let’s hope for Plan A.”

————————————————————————

The Child’s eyes take a minute to readjust. He sits up as soon as the pod opens, blocking the sun with splayed fingers and squinting at the bombardment of light after being encased in the dark for so long. His attention automatically shifts to the silhouette of the Mandalorian, who pulls the carrier into a patch of the ally’s shaddows. He didn’t mean to blind the kid.

Mando takes a moment to secure the make-shift binding wrapped around his left thigh and right hand; it’s the only thing keeping the armor plates in place after the damage on Arvala-7. He tries very hard to ignore the kid, who’s intently looking up at him, but he fails. Mando’s visor meets the Child’s gaze before he lets out a sigh. It’s time.

A dark, metal doorway tucks itself into one of the walls of the alleyway. It’d be easy to walk past it, if you didn’t know where to look. The Mandalorian stalks up to the door and pounds on it with his fist.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

The kid gasps in surprise when a black, spherical droid springs out of the wall, looking eerily like an eyeball popping out of its socket. Eyeball-Droid gurgles out instructions in some alien language. The small child watches Mando pull out a chit, hold it up and wait while the machine glows red to scan the card. And then, as suddenly as it came, it disappears back into the wall.

When the door opens, Mando watches the Child sink back into his seat, immediately and visibly afraid.

Two stormtroopers emerge from the dwelling, their eyes instantly latched on the Quarry before them. Mando doesn’t miss the way the Child starts to tremble. His hand twitches, some deeply buried instinct wanting to comfort him. But he doesn’t, even as the little boy turns in his seat to look up at him with big, concerned eyes.

Nobody speaks a word. After a minute, one of the troopers turns his helmet to nod at Mando, indicating for them to follow as he disappears back inside. Trooper Two stands by the door, obviously waiting for them to enter first. The kid peers down the hall, and then looks up at the Bounty Hunter, expression scared and confused, before his pod starts floating after Trooper One through the entrance. Mando follows him inside before Trooper Two takes his place as the caboose.

And then, before the mechanical door clanks shut, you come behind.

Just like you assured Mando, you slip through, a phantom, unseen and unheard. The Hunter wouldn’t even have noticed your entrance, had he not known to listen for it. Impressive.

Trooper One grips the lip of the kid’s pod, yanking it roughly to keep up with his pace while they make their way down the corridor.

“Easy with that,” Mando almost growls, voice low.

“You take it easy,” Trooper One bites back, snatching the carrier with a now intentional harshness through the door at the other end of the hallway. The action mixed with the kid’s responding whimper has one of Mando’s hands balling into a fist while the other flexes towards his blaster. He turns his head back, acting as if he’s throwing Trooper Two a warning look. Really, he’s checking for you, and as promised, you’re already deep into the vent systems of the base.

“Yes!”

An old, balding man stands from his desk as the group enters the room, eyeing the Child almost hungrily. He wears a black leather robe, a golden Imperial medal hanging from his neck; he’s the same Imperial Officer that Mando had met with when he accepted the tracking fob and downpayment for the kid’s bounty.

A younger man sporting a lab coat and glasses hovers by the Officer’s side. Dr. Pershing, Mando remembers. Mando believes he’s the one who could possibly be the child’s father, just based on their similar complexions and dark hair. But Dr. Pershing doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak, doesn’t show relief in the way a parent would if their lost child was being returned to them.

“Yes, yes, yes!” The Imperial Officer walks closer to the Child, a tracking fob in hand, until he’s hovering over the carrier. Dr. Pershing joins him pulling out a hand-held device that scans the Child’s face.

The little boy flinches away from the bright red lights, whining softly as the two strange men crowd him against his seat. It makes Mando lean infinitesimally closer, nerves on edge. He can’t recall the last time he’s ever felt uneasy in this way, usually confident and secure in all of his exchanges.

“Very healthy, yes.” Dr. Pershing announces after reading the scanner’s results, his excitement evident on his face. He nods at the Imperial Officer in some sort of confirmation.

Meanwhile, underneath his helmet, Mando is studying. He analyzes their voices, their facial expressions, the way they look at the Child. All of it.

A chill runs down his spine. This very fucking clearly does no t seem like a reunion.

And if it doesn’t?

“Your reputation was not unwarranted.” The Imperial Officer stands straight, his lips pulled into a sick grin as he addresses Mando.

“How many fobs did you give out?” Mando asks, successful in keeping his tone subdued, coming across as both disinterested and pompous.

“This asset was of extreme importance to me. I had to ensure its delivery,” The Imp croons, making his way back to his desk.

Asset. Its.

‘And if it doesn’t?’ His earlier question starts to play in a loop in his mind, almost as if he had actually been asking himself for that answer, and not you.

“But to the winner,” the old man leans down to grab the handle of what looks like a large metal cylinder before heaving the container onto his desk, “goes the spoils.”

WIth a press of some buttons and a twist of the handle, the camtono hisses open.

Inside is more pure Beskar Steel than the Mandalorian has ever seen outside of the Covert.

Like a moth to a flame, Mando finds himself suddenly in front of the desk, picking up two of the steel bars. He fans them out, rubbing his gloved thumb over the smooth surface.

“Such a large bounty for such a small package.”

That snaps him out of it. The Mandalorian glares at the older man’s words, and from his peripherals, sees Dr. Pershing leading the pod out of the room.

The Child sits up and leans towards Mando, starting to whimper in the way children often do before beginning to cry. He looks so tiny and helpless when the door he’s led through shuts behind him. Mando slides the steel bars back into the camtono, his visor still trained on the door.

“What are your plans for him?” It’s difficult , but Mando manages to sound indifferent. Even still, the Imperial Officer’s eyes narrow.

“How uncharacteristic,” the old man raises an eyebrow at the Mandalorian, his tone cold and menacing, “of one of your reputation. You have taken both commission and payment.”

The same door that the Child was just taken through opens once more. Six stormtroopers emerge, one by one, their eyes all aimed at the Mandalorian, blasters at the ready. Including the two troopers that led them into the base, there are now eight total.

The last time Mando was here, Dr. Pershing had entered their meeting unannounced, prompting the hunter to draw his weapons on him. The stormtroopers had tried to subdue him into lowering his blasters, declaring they had him outnumbered four-to-one. ‘I like those odds,’ he had said.

Seems they don’t, he scoffs, the sound swallowed by his modulator.

“Is it not the Code of the Guild that these events are now forgotten?” The old man questions with a cock of his head.

When the Mandalorian doesn’t respond, visor trailing the line of stormtroopers circling the space, the Imp Officer switches tactics. “That Beskar is enough to make a handsome replacement for your armor. Unfortunately, finding a Mandalorian in these trying times,” he steps closer to Mando, too close, “is more difficult than finding the steel.”

The stormtroopers, now fully surrounding them, wait for any sign of aggression from the bounty hunter.

Mando stands tall and solid, unphased as he twists the handle of the camtono, and the dingy container closing with a hiss. He lifts the heavy object off of the desk with a deadly grip. His eyes never leave the Imperial Officer’s, the two men all but chest-to-chest.

And if it doesn’t?

The stormtroopers part like the red sea for the Mandalorian as he exits, giving him a wide berth before the door latches closed behind him. His boots echo down the short corridor with every heavy footstep. The second door slides open, exposing him back into the sunlight, a sharp juxtaposition to the cloudiness he feels within.

“Come in,” he murmurs into the Comlink.

“Received,” you answer in a whisper.

And if it doesn’t?

“Plan D.”

————————————————————————

Mando’s words make you swallow. Even though you had a feeling it would go this way, the confirmation feels like being doused in ice water.

The mainframe is, naturally, the most heavily guarded area on the base. The stormtroopers travel in pairs of two at all times, four of them moving in a consistent sweep of the wing, but never actually probing the rooms inside. During rotation, there are always at least two guards at the entrance of the unit waiting to be relieved before moving to their next station in a different wing.

You’re currently onwest side, while the Child is somewhere on the east.

“T-minus five,” Mando reminds you of the timeframe. In the event of Plan D, you agreed to meet him with the kid on the South Wing in exactly five hours. It’ll be tight.

You continue to watch the guards from your place in the shadows, mindful of the cameras you spotted while mapping out the base from the vents. With the kid being taken on the opposite side of the building, there’s no way you can get back to the mainframe once you find him. Your only chance at securing the intel for the Rebels is if you do it now.

“Copy. Over and out.”

Your eyes slip closed and your earpiece hums through different channels, catching bits of different conversations until you find him; the Child. He’s crying. Your stomach sinks as your heart pounds against your ribs. It means he’s alive, you remind yourself, forcing a deep breath into your lungs and holding it in. I need to see if he’s danger.

So look, It whispers.

For the first time in a very, very long time, you let your mind go there; to its quiet place, buried deep in the innermost part of your soul. It’s the place where you hope, where you pray. Your breath releases slowly, all of your focus on the sound of the Child’s weeping, wrapping your awareness around it until it bounces around the recesses of your brain.

And to your great surprise, the image comes to you almost instantly. It’s gray and beyond blurry, but you can see it. The Child, alone, locked in some sort of box The closest bodies to him seem to be a few feet away, probably keeping watch. Unable to make anything else out, the picture slips away until your back behind the blackness of your eyelids.

At least for now, he’s not at risk for immediate harm. Thank you.

You inhale a hiss between clenched teeth when your earpiece switches channels abruptly on its own accord, volume loud.

“Come on, Scote,” a stormtrooper on a rotation from the northwest complains to her partner.

“No!” Scote hisses back, annoyance in his tone. “Are you fuckin’ serious?”

“I’ll let you bum one! Please, five minutes, I swear.”

“I need the damned fresher -“

“You just went!”

“Exactly, we can’t both take our breaks on the same rotation. Just wait-“

“We only have fifteen minutes left! I can’t wait that long!”

“Alright, alright, fine, but you owe me a smoke, and I get to choose when.”

“Deal!” She snickers, turning to trot down the hall before he can change his mind. “West side entrance!”

Her armor. You crawl back into the vents, zooming your way towards the closest possible exit the stormtrooper could use for a cigarette break. Your skin skims over the cold metal of the duct at each turn, until you're dumped out by the West’s side entrance. The timing is uncanny. Just as you slip back into the shadows by the door, the stormtrooper bounds down the hallway in quick strides, smacking her pack of cigarettes eagerly against the palm of her hand. The light spills in as a metal hatch opens and the stormtrooper steps into the alleway.

And you apparate behind her, the ghost that you are, cutting off her airway so she doesn’t make a sound.

————————————————————————

Mando’s stride is usually purposeful, cool and calculated. It’s quite the contrast to the way he’s currently rushing through a sea of people in the hub, barreling past whoever isn’t quick enough to move out of his way. He finds the hidden entrance of his covert and bounds down spiral steps leading into the sewers of Nevarro–home of what remains of the Mandalorians. His arrivals and departures are always lackluster affairs; the Tribe knew their hunter as dutiful, stoic, and quiet. So, when he all but jogs his way towards the Armorer’s station, he coaxes quite a few curious glances from his covert members. It’s not until he approaches the giant, steel Mythosaur hanging above the Armorer’s forge that he slows his pace.

The Armorer looks up from the tools she’s cleaning and greets him with a nod of her golden helmet, her burgundy armor aglow with the blue flames of the forge lit behind her. She gestures toward the wooden table at the center of the rotunda and takes the seat facing him.

Mando sets the camtono on the table without preamble, clicking the switches and turning the handle so it hisses open. The Armorer stares at the stacks of Beskar steel bars, visibly shocked at the amount, before steadying her gaze on the man who sinks into seat before her. He can’t help but sit a little taller, feel a little proud, but deflates when his mind wanders back to the kid.

“This amount can be shaped many ways,” The Armorer sounds pleased once her shock wears off, her words slipping back and forth between Basic and Mando’a. His do the same.

“My beskar’gam has become compromised. I may need to begin again.”

The Armorer’s eyes graze over his exposed chest plate, battered vambraces, and the thigh and hand guards secured to his body with strips of cloth. Her helmet tips in agreement. “Indeed.” She starts pulling the stacks of Beskar out of the camtono and stacks them onto the table. “I can form a full cuirass. This would be an order for your station.”

“That…would be a great honor.” Mando bows his head in display of his humble gratitude; earning their armor is a deeply meaningful part of their creed.

“I must warn you.” The Armorer speaks seriously, though if he didn’t know any better, there was a hint of a smirk in her voice. “It will draw many eyes.”

Mando nods his understanding, but his attention shifts to the sound of heavy footsteps coming from behind him. He keeps his visor facing the Armorer and remains motionless as five other members of their covert crowd into the space of the Forge. The group brings a hostile energy, and Mando rolls his eyes under his helmet in impatient irritation. Vizsla. I don’t have time for this.

The biggest of them–Paz Vizsla, a giant of a man in blue, pure Beskar armor–marches up to the table and aggressively snatches one of the bars from the surface. He examines the steel and seems to find exactly what he’s looking for, because he scoffs.

“These were cast in an Imperial smelter.” Paz seethes, his voice booming through his modulator and richocheting around the small equatorial room. “These are the spoils of the great purge! The reason we live like sand rats.”

Completely unbothered by his outburst, the Armorer continues to stack the Beskar into piles. “Our secrecy is our survival,” she reminds them all patiently. “Our survival is our strength.”

“Our strength was once in our numbers,” Paz fires back, discarding the steel back onto the table. The others murmur their agreement, adding fuel to the big blue Mandalorian’s flames. He zones in on Mando, growing increasingly annoyed at the man’s relaxed silence and stillness. “Now we live in the shadows and only come above ground one at a time,” he growls. “Our world was shattered by the Empire, with whom this hu’tunn shares tables.”

Paz is out for blood, calling him the worst possible insult to their people. Coward.

Anger shoots through Mando like a lightning bolt, the hands resting on his knees balling into fists as he shifts his posture into something dangerous. The room is electric with the tension, the slur startling the instigators into silence. His voice is low and deadly. A warning.

“Ne shab’rud’ni.” Don’t fuck with me.

Taking that as a challenge, Paz does just that. He aggresses Mando, but not with a blaster to the neck or a fist to the ribs. Instead, he curls his fingers underneath Mando’s helmet with all intent to rip it off his face.

Mando grabs the arm connected to his helmet, being yanked to his feet in the process. He pulls his head back and slams it into Paz’s, both of them grunting at the impact, but it dazes Paz for just a second. That’s all he needs. In the next breath, Mando’s in a fighting stance with his vibroblade in his grip, ducking under Paz’s powerful swing. He slices Paz’s arm through the gap in his armor, pulling an angry groan through Paz’s teeth, whose own blade has now joined the fight. Paz slashes Mando across his already fucked-up chest plate, blocking the attack to his other arm. The two Mandalorians start to grunt as the fight becomes more and more violent, quickly approaching lethal.

“The Empire is no longer.”

Both of them pause when the Armorer speaks, chests heaving up and down, blades pointing at each other's throats.

She rises from the table and walks over to their confrontation, the others hastily moving out of her way as they watch and listen. Her helmet’s visor trains on Paz. “And the Beskar has returned. When one chooses to walk the Way of the Mandalore, you are both hunter and prey. How can one be a hu’tunn if one chooses this way of life?”

Paz doesn’t answer or drop his blade, but he’s clearly listening. The Armorer turns to Mando.

“Have you ever removed your helmet?”

“No,” his answer is automatic and solumn, also not dropping his blade.

“Has it ever been removed by others?”

“Never.”

“This is the Way,” The Armorer bows her head, and the other members around them echo her sentiment.

“This is the Way!”

Mando and Paz hold each other’s glare for a few more moments, until Paz finally drops his weapon in resignation and straightens. “This is the Way.”

“What caused this damage?” The Armor asks, nodding to Mando’s armor and lowering herself back into her seat at the table.

“A Mudhorn,” Mando answers gruffly, returning his knife to its place in his boot.

“Then you have earned the Mudhorn as your signet. I shall craft it.”

“I can’t accept. It wasn’t a noble kill,” Mando settles into the chair across the Armorer once more. His mind drifts back to the Child, and his tone reflects the confusion and uncertainty he feels inside. “I was helped by…” He struggles to find a descriptor. A kidnapped hostage. A sorcerer. A little boy. “An aru’e.”

The Armorer tilts her head curiously. “Why would an enemy help you in battle?”

Mando pictures the Child– trembling, afraid, tears staining his face. But also with his small hand raised in the air, shaking, the Mudhorn that was supposed to kill Mando magically floating above the ground. We saved each other. An unfamiliar emotion floods into his chest in a way that almost physically aches.

“He did not know he was my enemy.”

The Armorer pauses to study him, but moves on when he doesn’t offer any further elaboration.

“… Since you forgo a signet,” she isn’t successful at keeping the questioning out of her voice, “I shall use the excess to forge whistling birds.”

“Whistling birds will do well. Reserve some for the foundlings.”

“As it should always be,” the Armorer replies, approval clear in her voice. She speaks a little louder to address everyone else in the space. “The foundlings are the future. This is the Way.”

The group is immediate and enthusiastic in their agreement. “This is the Way!”

The words have Mando replaying the scene in his head; the way he let them take the kid, the way his eyes swam in fear, the way his small hands reached out for him, a silent plea.

The Mandalorian did exactly what he was trained to do. He acted in the role of his station, found good paying work, kept his word, and secured Beskar for his people.

Yet he’s never felt less honorable.

Decades of suppressed thoughts and feelings begin to unearth within him as he finds his voice again. “This is the Way.”

He remains in his seat as the room clears and the Armorer begins melting down the steel bars in the forge. The crafting of their armor is sacred in their creed, and they practice observance of the forge as a time for reflection. Usually, he thinks of the battle that earned him his seat in the Armorer’s station. But as she starts slamming her hammer down in a steady pattern to bend the Beskar into its new shape, he’s taken back to a place he hasn’t allowed himself to go in years.

Aq Vetina.

***

He remembers the way his mother had looked at him that morning.

Her green eyes were dancing with fondness and amusement, harboring nothing but patience for her son’s whining and restlessness. He leaned against her side with his head thrown back dramatically as she sat at her piano, playing a pretty melody.

It was scorching hot outside, so his parents had decided to wait until that afternoon to go to the Life Day Festival. To a nine-year-old, it had felt like forever. “Is it time yet, Mama??”

She smiled, but his father interjected before she could reply.

“What have we already discussed?” His father scolded, having answered the question an absurd amount of times already.

He stuck his bottom lip out in a stubborn pout, but his tone was contrite. “Listening, and patience.”

“To me, please,” his father beaconed, exchanging a humorous glance with his wife, who had turned around to face the both of them.

He obeyed, shuffling his way to stand in front of his father sitting on the sofa. “Yes, Papa?”

The man’s hand combed through his son’s soft curls, slid down to cup the back of his neck, and stroked his cheek with his thumb. “Why is it important to know how to listen to the signs? Like the heat leaking through our windows this morning?”

He leaned into his father’s touch easily, and they smiled at each other. “So you know whether it’s meant for you, or not,” he dutifully regurgitated the lecture he’d heard many times before.

“And why is it important to know patience?”

“Because it is the virtue that overcomes anger, and allows you to…to, uh…um...”

“See the truth of your desires, so you may enjoy your journey,” his mother provided, coming over to plant a kiss on his temple. Her eyes sparkled as they met her husband’s. “I think he’s sufficiently practiced for today, wouldn’t you agree?”

His father chuckled and scooped him into his arms, throwing him over his shoulder and standing to spin him around. “You spoil him,” he declared, relishing in his son’s high pitched squeals.

They made their way into town, all quickly melting into the excitement of the festival. Everyone was bustling with cheer, kids giggling as they chased each other through the crowds, and the delicious smell of the vendor’s food stands wafted through the streets. Everything was decorated, streamers and banners everywhere. He tugged his father’s hand over to the nearest vendor selling apparel, and the three each got a red hooded Life Day robe to wear for the parade.

He remembers his mother guiding him through the fair until they had a good view of where the parade would be. He jumped up and down, buzzing with excitement, occasionally standing on his tip toes to see the different costumes and stands. His father had come up behind them, surprising him with his favorite flavor of ice cream.

He remembers giggling whenever his dad would bend down and steal a bite from him, only half-heartedly trying to keep it away.

He remembers squeezing his mother’s hand when the parade had started, bumping his shoulders in between his two parents like a pinball, and how they beamed at just how excited he was.

He remembers the first explosion making him cover his ears, thinking it was part of the celebrations.

Everything happened so fast after that.

They fled through the chaos, people screaming, crying, shoving past as they desperately tried to find safety.

Before the B2 Super Battle Droids descended upon their town.

His eyes had widened when they started shooting, not quite comprehending what was happening, even as the bodies of his community members started to hit the ground. He struggled to keep up when his mother pulled him along as they ran, his father having a tight grip on his other hand.

A battle droid stalked through the intersection infront of them, showering its blaster fire into the street.

His father had screamed for his mother, who pushed her son behind her and against the wall of the closest building; a bakery he had loved.

Something hot, wet, and red splattered across his face.

His mother slumped to the ground.

“Mommy?” He had cried, bending over her chest to try and pull her upright. She wouldn’t move. He had hugged her, started screaming at the top of his lungs. He felt his dad’s shaking hands scoop him up, forcing his fingers to release his mom’s robe.

“Mama! Mommy! Mommy!” He reached for her over his dad's shoulder, continuing to scream, begging not to leave her behind as his dad ran farther and farther away from her.

He doesn’t remember what his dad was saying, only that his voice had been loud and horse over the explosions, his face wet with blood and tears. The steeets were clouded with blaster smoke and soot, people wailing over their dead and fleeing for their lives.

They were surrounded, a B2 droid barging in from every corner. His dad had clutched him close, hand cradling the back of his head, looking around frantically to find shelter.

He remembers his father making it to an open bunker, a local resurant’s outdoor wine cellar. The man scrambled to lie flat on his stomach as he lowered his son inside. “Quickly, get down!”

He looked up at his father anxiously, wanting him to hurry up as the man started to climb down to be with him.

He remembers jumping at the loud noise it made when the B2’s laser cannon went off, the sizzling of his father’s body being burned through, the way he dropped in a crumpled heap before his feet.

He didn’t scream that time. Just stared in shock.

“Daddy?” His mouth had formed the word, but no sound came out.

He had looked up to see the B2 aiming its weapon directly at him, and he stood like a deer caught in speeder light.

Another explosion knocked him down next to what remained of his father’s body.

He remembers seeing a gloved hand reach down into the cellar, taking it, and being pulled out.

A Mandalorian.

“You’re safe, I’ve got you. I need to pick you up, get you away from the war zone.” He remembers nodding at him numbly, his eyes blank in the reflection of the man’s visor, before being lifted into the Mandalorian’s arms and wrapping his arms around the man’s neck. The jet pack roared to life and shot them into the air, pushing the hair back from his face.

He remembers looking over his shoulder, the hood of his Life Day robe still on his head, and watching as what once was his entire world grow smaller and smaller the farther they went.

Until it disappeared altogether.

————————————————————————

“Took you long enough,” Scote yawns, heaving himself up off the wall he was leaning against while waiting.

“Aww, what, you missed me?” You tease, altering your pitch and speech pattern to sound like his patrol partner. The stormtrooper’s armor fits you well enough, and both things combined successfully fool him into thinking you’re her.

“Like an ear infection,” he retorts, leading you down the hall and towards their next scheduled rotation: the mainframe. He nods in greeting at the two stormtroopers taking their place, and spins his arm around in an attempt to loosen his shoulder. “These morning drills are killing me,” he groans, “pointless bantha shit.“

“Probably not pointless for you,” you quip, watching as he types in a code on the panel you approach for the North wing. The door clanks open and feeds you into a new section of the building. The walls here are made of glass, displaying the computer systems within. The mainframe.

“Fuck you. I have to take a shit,” he complains as you walk through the cold, gray hallways. “Cover me?”

Perfect. Much preferable to having to subdue him.

“Ah, no, you said a smoke break, and we just got here,” you say, making sure you sound annoyed, setting the trap.

He takes it.

“I’m nice enough to let you smoke, but you deny me a good steamer?” Scote shakes his head, already walking backwards towards the bathroom. “Just give me a sec. You owe me!”

You don’t waste any time.

The mainframe’s central processing unit wraps around one of the rooms. You do a sweep, making sure you’re alone and out of the security camera’s range, before using your stolen badge to get in. The door snaps closed behind you, the room’s artificial fluorescent lighting flickering to life.

Let’s get to work.

The coding is tricky, but you manage to hack into their system without setting off their security measures. WIth open access to their dashboard, you flick through the data on several of the holo projector screens, eyes scanning for any bits of information you can feed to the Rebels.

Blue prints. Weapon designs. Coordinates. Sister base. Correspondent messages from other Imperial remnants. It’s a fucking goldmine.

You plug in your hard drive into the port, fingers flying across the holograms to start each individual download.

Come on, come on, come on.

One of the devices on the stormtrooper’s belt starts vibrating, and you have no idea what it means. You take it as a sign to hurry it the fuck along.

The hologram displays a progress bar, showing you a forty percent download competition so far. You stick a hand under your helmet to adjust your earpiece settings, listening for Scote or other Troopers nearby, willing the download rate to go faster.

You suck a breath through your teeth when your earpiece, once again, flips stations on its own.

“I don’t care,” a man’s voice through a Commlink says .”I order you to extract the necessary material and be done with it.”

“He has explicitly ordered us to bring him back alive,” another man answers, desperation in his voice.

“Finish your business quickly, as I can no longer guarantee your safety.”

Muffled screeches fill your senses. There’s a struggle, and beeping, voices shouting out commands for blood draws and restraints. You hear grunting and what sounds like bodies hitting a wall.

The Child. He’s in danger.

A tinny voice blasts through the speakers of your helmet.

“All guards on North and South, report to East Lab 305 to assist with asset restraint immediately!”

The device on your stolen belt starts beeping again. It’s an alert for backup, you realize. They’re calling the troopers to the Child.

Karking hell. Fuck!

Your mind starts going a mile a minute, sprinting through your options. You could respond to the alert and join them, but then what? You wouldn't be able to fight off an entire infantry of guards to protect the kid, even if they’re just stormtroopers.

Your earpiece picks up Scote’s quick footsteps jogging out of the fresher and into the hall.

And then it hits you. Maybe you can’t fight them off, but you could stop the North and South guards from responding to the alert…by providing a new one.

Only chance they’ll ever get at catching me, you tell yourself, gritting your teeth. You quite literally can not put yourself in a worse position than the one you’re about to be in.

But this is my path, right?

The dashboard beeps, displaying a one-hundred percent download completion. You slip it into the strap hidden on your ankle before entering a code sequence into the mainframe that’ll wipe out all the contents within.

Scote skids to a stop in front of the door just as you finish rewiring the code panel, disabling all badges from granting access inside.

“What the hell are you doing? Didn’t you get the alert? East needs back up for the Asset.”

You stare at him, opposite the other side of the glass, watching him try and fail to get the door open with his badge.

“Lumer, what the fuck?” Scote pounds on the door in earnest, and before you can answer, four more Troopers emerge into your hallway.

“Scote, Lumer! Let’s go!” One of them calls out, making their way closer to you.

Scote’s suspicion finally starts to kick in, and he starts banging on the door more aggressively. “Open the karking door, Lumer! ”

The other Troopers see this and start running faster down the hallway, one of them calling for backup when he sees what room your in. “We have a breech in the mainframe! Code black! I repeat, code black!”

When you hear their back up storming through the halls, you remove your helmet. You tug at your robe stuffed underneath your trooper armor, pull your hood back into its rightful place and hold your head up high, red mask on full display.

Scote starts body slamming his weight against the glass, screaming now. “Intruder! She stole Lumer’s gear!”

“Holy shit, she’s the merc spy! ”

His comrades surround the glassed room, all hell breaking loose. Your eyes sweep over the blasters pointed at you from the other side of the glass, and three of the troopers are now actively trying to break into the room and override your coded lock on the keypad.

You sigh and touch your earpiece.

“Come in.”

“Received,” Mando replies rather quickly, striding away from Karga’s booth, tucking his next bounty’s puck and tracking fob into his security belt, his voice deep and horse through the Commlink. He steps out of the catina, shoulder’s squared, the sinking sun’s light glimmering off his new, shiny, pure Beskar armor covering him from head to toe—intimidating as ever.

“Something’s happening with the Child,” you report, willing a calm wave to flush out your adrenaline with pracriced skill. “He’s on the east side of the building, adjacent to the end. I have their reinforcements distracted.” You watch the troopers working together to break the door down.”Won’t be able to hold them long, probably about to go dark.”

“Copy. On my way.” His breathing sounds uneven now.

“Don’t worry about me, just save the kid.”

“Over and out.”

You sigh, and touch your earpiece.

“Come in.”

“Something’s happening with the Child,” you report, willing a calm wave to flush out your adrenaline with pracriced skill. “He’s on the east side of the building, adjacent to the end. I have their reinforcements distracted. You watch the troopers working together to break the door down.”Won’t be able to hold them long, probably about to go dark.”

“Copy. On my way.” His breathing sounds uneven now.

“Don’t worry about me, just save the kid.”

“Over and out.”

—-------------------------------——————————

Beep…beep…beep…BOOM!

The base’s east side wall crumbles from the explosion of a bomb.

The Mandalorian walks through the gaping hole, and over the ruble, smoke from his bomb blanketing the halls with a thick gray mist. A warm orange light reflects off his armor in flashes, syncrinized with the alarm blaring through the facility. He knocked the power out, shrouding the East side in blackness.

It’s to his advantage.

He quick-draws his blaster and shoots the first Trooper he sees, stepping over him and deeper into the shadows.

Coming behind another trooper, Mando whips his rifle from his back and wraps it around the guard’s throat, yanking upwards and breaking his neck. He drops the body carelessly, continuing on his war path to the Child. Four guards try to intercept him after he gets past the northeast’s security droid.

The first of the troopers flies back and hits the wall when mando shoves the electric end of his rifle into his gut, and then swings the blaster around expertly to bash two of the other’s heads in. The last one shoots Mando from behind before ending up on the ground with a severely bruised neck and broken wrist. The bounty hunter steps over him, shooting him dead as he makes his way into the faculty’s lab. His rifle disintegrates the room’s double doors

What he sees stops him in his tracks.

There, lying on the bed of some sort of scanning machine, wires attached to his bare chest, torso and forehead, is the Child.

Ping!

A blaster bolt bounces off Mando’s chest plate, and he turns on the trooper who delivered it. He uses his whip cord to pull the guy close and then slits his neck with his vibroblade.

“Wait, wait please no, don’t!”

Mando knocks Dr. Pershing to the ground and points his blaster barrel in between his eyes.

“Please!” the smaller man begs, his hands shaking as he keeps them raised over his head. “Please d-don’t hurt him, he’s just a child!”

The hunter’s voice is dangerous when he demands, “what did you do to him?”

Dr. Pershing trembles, stuttering a nonherent response.

“What did you do to him?” “Mando barks, and Pershing flinches in response.

“I protected him! I p-protected him! if it wasn’t for me, he’d already be dead!”

Mando stares at him, contemplating pulling the trigger, but to Pershin’g luck,he believes him. The hunter slings his rifle over his shoulder to secure on his back and hurries to the kid’s side, hurrying to freehim of all the wires attached to his little body.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, remorse rolling off him in intense waves. In the process of lifting him off the machine, the little boy is roused back into consciousness. Mando kneels and adjusts the kid in his grip so he can give him a quick once over.

The Child blinks slowly, his vision blurred as he comes to, and immediately starts flailing and whining in a panic. But the glimmer of the silver Beskar grounds him enough to recognize the Mandalorian.

The boy throws himself in Mando’s arms, wrapping his own little ones around the man’s neck, his frame shaking violently.

The Mandalorian stills for a moment, surprised, and his hand automatically rests on the kid’s back before finding its way to the back of his head. “I’m so sorry, kid,” he says again, the guilt crushing him under its weight. “I’ve got you.”

Mando sets him carefully on his feet to check him over, anger coursing through him at the site. The Child has no clothes on apart from his briefs, and his skin is covered in red circles from all the wiring. “You’re safe. Are you alright?”

The small boy looks at him and nods his head. Relief floods through the Mandalorian and he lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

Wait.

He answered me.

This is the first time he gave Mando any indication that he understands him at all.

“Are you hurt?” Mando tries, his hands never leaving the boy’s shoulders.

The Child shakes his head, sniffing as tears start to fall down his face. His finger pokes at one of the red marks on his tummy, and Mando scoffs incredulously.

Because he understands him.

“They scared you?”

The little boy looks into his visor and nods.

Mando starts pulling the fabric tucked into his chest plate and removes his cape. He drapes it over the child’s head like a hood and uses the rest to wrap around his body. “Okay kid, we’re going to get out of here.” He lifts his chin up to hold his gaze. “I need you to keep your eyes closed, understand?”

When he gets a nod in answer, Mando lifts the boy into his arms. Over his shoulder, the Child squeezes his eyes shut.

—--------------------------------

You sprint down the hallways with your arms handcuffed behind your back.

Stripped out of the stormtrooper armor, you’re now only in your black jumpsuit and red neck gaiter. The fuckers took your robe—or rather, ripped it off in attempt to stop your escape.

Another trooper comes at you down the hall, and you backflip over to wrap your legs around his neck, twist, and roll on the ground.

The trooper remains motionless as you get back on your feet, running towards the back of the facility. The blinking orange alarm allows you to see while you search the now blacked-out base, going from room to room, looking for the Child.

“The Mandalorian’s almost to the West! With the asset!” Someone screams into their Commlink. “Intercede NOW!”

You spin on your heels and start flying down the hallway in the opposite direction.

“Split up, we’ll flush him out!”

Your breath consumes your hearing, so you have to rely on your sight for any clue to where they could be. A group of about ten troopers emerge at the end of the hallway, and you press yourself into the wall to remain unseen. They make their way down the steps and into the supply rooms, and you tail them, heart pounding in your ribcage.

“GIve it up! There’s nowhere for you to go!”

“Freeze!”

“Drop your blaster!”

“Don’t move!”

“Hands up!”

Sliding against the wall and behind a stack of wooden boxes, you see them.

The Mandalorian holding the Child in his arms. He did it, he found him.

“Wait,” Mando’s deep, modulated voice rings out clear in the room, one hand raised while the other keeps the kid secured to his chest. “What I’m holding is very valuable,” he says, getting down on one knee to place the child on his feet. “Here.”

The little boy whimpers, but you can’t see his face from where you are.

“Now stand up!” A guard orders. “Turn around and face me!”

You charge into the space and slide on your side, knocking one trooper to the ground. Swinging your body over, you wrap your ankles around another’s to do the same.

Mando’s vambrace glows blue in your peripherals, and a whistling sound whizzes past your ear.

All eight troopers drop to the ground, while the other two already there gurgle as a tiny ball of Beskar goes through their necks.

They’re all dead.

You look to Mando, who gets on his feet and lifts the Child back into his arms. The little boy has his eyes closed when his carrier turns to face you. The two of you give each other an impressed nod of respect.

“Not exactly Plan D,” you pant, turning around when Mando gestures for you to do so. You feel the cold metal of the handcuffs slip off your wrists before they clank to the floor.

“But close enough,” he replies, letting you lead them out of this Maker-forsaken building.

The sky looks so beautiful when you escape that you have to stop yourself from kissing the ground. Relief floods through you. We made it out alive. The two of you navigate through the labyrinth of Nevarro’s streets with haste.

“I can take you to the nearest spaceport,” he offers, heading towards the Hanger where his Razorcrest is parked.You can just make-out his ship from where you stand. Oh, thank the Force.

“Thank you, that would be-”

Your earpiece starts screeching and you flinch and adjust the settings. Mando stiffens when your eyes widen.

“What is it?”

“The Guild.” Your eyes fly to his visor. “Our fobs are going off all over the planet. They’re coming to find us.”

Mando taps the side of his helmet and scans the heat signifiers in the surrounding area. His body language isn’t promising. “Shit,” he hisses. “We’re about to have company.”

“We need to split up,” you realize. Not giving him a chance to respond, you book it down the road and disappear around the next bend.

-———————————-

“”Welcome back, Mando!” Greef Karga stands with his legs spread, blaster trained on the Mandalorian and the Child in his arms. The area is surrounded with dozens of the Guild’s bounty hunters, all of which follow Karga’s lead and aim their weapons at the two. “Now put the package down,” he demands in a low voice. “And while you’re at it, you can tell us where your other friend is. Seems like you’ve been keeping yourself busy with these direct commissions.”

“Step aside,” Mando replies steadily, “I’m going to my ship.”

Karga chuckles humorlessly, pointing to the kid with his blaster. “You put the bounty down and perhaps I’ll let you pass.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t back down. “The kid’s coming with me.”

“If you truly care about the kid, then you’ll put it on the speeder and we’ll discuss terms.”

Mando glances at the speeder parked to his right side. Over my dead body. He stalls. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“Because I’m your only hope,” Karga scoffs darkly.

Clutching the kid closer to him, Mando gets ready to pull out his blaster and jump onto the speeder, hoping its damn operating droid adheres to his commands.

That is, until another speeder zooms down the street and crashes into the back of Karga’s, sending it flying forward and into the crowd of bounty hunters.

“Get in,” you shout.

Mando doesn’t need to be told twice. He shields the Child from the blaster fire that rains down on the three of you,and shouts back, “drive!”

The force of the snaps your heads back, and Mando adjusts the child underneath him so he can grab his big bad blaster rifle. You barrel through as many hunters as you can, the speeder jolting every time it collides with a body. Mando braces himself against the back seat, the speeder swerving—it doesn’t affect his aim.

“Shit!”

Three speeders pull up next to you, blocking you in You yank the wheel all the way to the left, sending the vehicle into a spiral, slamming into one of them until finally screeching to a holt.

Mando makes sure the kid’s alright, and then resumes disintegrating their attackers as they come. “Get down,” he yells, and you sink into the cockpit, avoiding the onslaught of blaster bolts

“That’s an impressive weapon!” Greef calls out to Mando.

“Here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna walk to the ship with the kid and her, and you’re gonna let it happen.”

“No, how about this? We take the kid and the girl.” Karga counters, lip snared. “And if you try to stop us, we kill you and we strip your body for parts.”

The speeder lurches forward, and by some miracle, you’re able to pull it around one of the dividers on the road. Mando’s heart pounds in his throat, jumping out of the speeder to peek around the divider and disintegrate three of their attackers before settling back behind the wall.

He’s out of bullets for his rifle, and they’re completely surrounded.

There’s no way out.

He meets your eyes before looking down at the kid in the back seat. Mando kneels over him, and the little boy pulls an arm free from his wrap to grab Mando’s hand. The hunter takes in the Child’s face, the sound of blaster fire, and puts his other hand over the Child’s. Please.

“Mando, look!” You point to figures zipping through the sky with their jet packs, shooting down on their enemies from above. Another group emerge from behind, rampaging through the bounty hunters, ruthless with their slaughter. “Other Mandalorians,” you whisper in awe, not believing how many there are.

“My covert.”

The relief washes through Mando so fiercely his knee almost buckles.

A big blue Mandalorian lands next to them with a heavy thud.

Paz karking Vizsla, Din huffs in disbelief.

“Get out of here!” Paz bellows, releasing his blaster cannon onto the enemy. “We’ll hold them off!”

Mando scoops the Child into his arms, catching your eye to make sure you’re ready to follow. He watches your eyes dart to one of the dead bounty hunters from the speeder collision just within reach, wearing a dark brown robe. Impulsively, you dart over, pull the clothing off it’s body, and shrug into it. You give Mando a quick nod.

“You’re going to have to relocate the covert,” Mando yells over to Paz.

“This is the Way,” Paz represses another round of cannon fire.

“This is the Way,” Mando nods, holding the kid closer to his chest plate.

The three of you flee to Mando’s ship, the pilot presses a button on his vambrace that opens the Razorcrest’s doors. You don’t stop running, ascending up the ramp as soon as it touches the ground.

“Hold it, Mando.”

Greef appears at the ship’s entrance, blaster pointed. “I didn’t want it to come to this. But then you broke the code! Hand them over, or someone dies.”

Someone dies. Mando smirks, quick-drawing and shooting Karga in the chest. The man falls back, and you slam your hand on the control panel to shut the door.

The Mandalorian shifts the child’s weight to one arm and climbs up the cockpit ladder two rungs at a time, you close behind.

You watch him flip switches and push button, the ship roaring to life and lifting off the ground. Both of you breathe easier when you’re finally in the air.

The big blue Mandalorian from before appears next the Crest, giving Mando a salute before pulling back and heading down again.

“I gotta get one of those,” he tells the kid, whose eyes grew big at the spectacle. He stands next to Mando, his free hand absently finding the little metal ball attached to one of the levers.

The Mandalorian looks at it for a moment before unscrewing the little ball, and drops it into the kids hand.

The little boy looks up at him and giggles.