Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter I: Starting Over

Location: Hyperspace

The Razor Crest zips through a tunnel of never-ending blue. In the small area of the cockpit, the child shuffles around, a strip of Nexu jerky clasped in his three-fingered hand. Every few seconds, he nibbles on the end with his pointy teeth. And watching his little ward, sitting in one of the passenger’s seats, is the Mandalorian bounty hunter.

Two days have passed since he packed up the gifted infant from Cholganna. Two days since he left that Nexu-infested planet and decided to do what he had planned after first escaping Nevarro: run and find a place to lay low.

“Cholganna was one extreme place to hide,” an Onderonian accent whispers through his memory.

It has been two days since the owner of that elegant voice was swept away as quickly as the blue swirls of hyperspace race past the Crest. And he had done his best to force her out of his thoughts, to not dwell on their . . . brief history whilst on Cholganna.

But his resolve begins to dwindle like molten Beskar. He reaches a gloved hand towards his neck, his fingers searching for a thin, black cord hidden underneath his armor and tunic. Once he finds it, he pulls out the simple necklace. When he glances at it, his Mythosaur skull stares up at him. The Mandalorian symbol, though small and light-weight, represents who he is and where his loyalties lie. It is a burden yet a privilege to uphold the doctrines and traditions of his Tribe. The silver pendent gleams with strength and honor, reminding him why he keeps it hanging around his neck and so close to his chest.

But there, dangling next to the fearsome skull, is a black gold ring embedded with amethyst stones. Her ring. It sparkles in the blue streams of space-travel, boasting of wealth and even friendship between Mandalorians.

When the owner of the ring slipped the valuable piece of jewelry in his glove, he had not known what it was at first. His mind had been preoccupied with watching the woman being treated like a dangerous criminal, sedated and then hauled away on a transport ship as if she was cargo. The ring had been forgotten until his hand clenched in a tight fist. The smooth metal and sharp jewels dug into his palm, prompting him to check what his former companion had given him. Back then, seeing the ring twinkle at him surprised him just as much as seeing it now in his hand still does.

As he marched onto the Crest two days ago, he was unsure of where to stash the jewelry. He did not want to risk losing nor misplacing it because the ring did not belong to him. She gave it to him as a loan, knowing full well that he will, at some point, travel to Onderon and return it to her. So, he ended up looping the ring through his simple, black cord necklace. It had made a soft “clink” as it collided with the Mythosaur skull. The two pendants had looked quite the pair, rubbing against each other. And they still do.

The child’s shuffling has stopped, causing the Mandalorian to tear his gaze away from his necklace. He sees the little one staring up at him. He is now chewing on the rest of the dried meat, his eyes wide. Their gazes fuse together, and the man notices the child squint at him. Questions and a hint of sadness float in the little one’s brown eyes, making the Mandalorian quickly tuck away his necklace underneath his tunic.

On Cholganna, the child had searched the ship for any signs of their Onderonian companion. The only explanation the bounty hunter gave to him was, “She’s gone. She went home.” He did not want to say more. Besides, he doubted the baby would even understand him or the circumstances that forced the woman to be escorted back to her homeworld. Since then, he sometimes catches the green baby staring at him with curious eyes, silently asking him where she is. But he ignores the looks every time.

As soon as the Mandalorian had stalked his way to the cockpit, deciding to leave Cholganna, he had tried to push the woman from his thoughts. What happened on that jungle planet has passed. They met; they fought, together and with each other. She gave the child a name, and the little one grew attached to her. She bonded with both of them, but she had to leave. Her life, her path, her personality—it was and is and could not be compatible with theirs. And the bounty hunter is determined to label their encounter as just an unimportant event that should be stored away in his mental archives.

However, the more he tries to convince himself of this, the harder it is for him to replace thoughts of her, for the memories of the woman grow stronger with every attempt. They linger in his mind like the sweet scent of rain. Out of the corner of his eye, he sometimes thinks he sees her Onderonian clothes whisk past him. Flashes of her dark eyes and sincere smiles catch him off-guard at the strangest of moments. And her refined accent, as it lightly rolls words off her tongue, whispers to him during the quiet travel of hyperspace.

The child waddles towards him, his little arms outstretched. With a sigh, the bounty hunter reaches down and grabs him. He then relocates them both to the pilot’s seat. As he slides into the chair, he sets the child onto the dash-board.

While the gifted alien stares ahead at the endless swirls of sapphire and aquamarine, the Mandalorian flips some switches and commands the Crest out of hyperspace entirely. He feels the ship groan as it pulls to a halt. He had been traveling non-stop from Cholganna, and he figures that two days of running are enough to take him and the alien to another sector on the other side of the Outer Rim Territories.

With both hands clutching the flight controls, he glances at his navigation computer, searching for a planet to find sanctuary on. The baby, still sitting on the dashboard, glances around at the stars zooming past him. In his peripheral vision, the bounty hunter sees his charge press a green button on their right, turning it off. The engines make a breathy sound, so he flips two switches into response, calming the Crest. However, the baby presses the same button again.

“Stop touching things,” his guardian flatly orders him. He sends the kid a warning look, to which it is met with innocent eyes.

After the Mandalorian focuses on flying again, the alien still stares up at him; however, he slowly leans towards the control panel for the third time, his tiny arm reaching for another button. Before the man can give him a second warning, his ward flips the switch, which causes the ship to shutter. Quickly, the Mandalorian reverses the alien’s mischief by flipping the switch himself; then, he relocates his ward, placing him on his lap. The alien releases a gleeful “woo” as he is being lifted in the air.

Now, with one hand holding onto the kid, the bounty hunter uses his other to fly the ship. He then fixes his gaze back onto the nav-computer.

“Let’s see. Sorgan,” he reads off to the little one. “Looks like there’s no star-port, no industrial centers, no population density. A real backwater skug hole—which means it’s perfect for us.” Turning to look at the child, who then glances up at him, the Mandalorian rhetorically asks, “You ready to lay low and stretch your legs for a couple of months, you little womp rat?”

The coo that baby throws at him sounds cranky; he probably does not like the nick-name. But the bounty hunter refuses to use the name christened to the baby by the Onderonian woman.

Ignoring the negative response, he says, “Nobody’s going to find us here.”

He plugs in the coordinates for Sorgan. Two months, maybe three, should be enough time for the child to forget any memories of Cholganna, land-octopi, and a woman with a long, black braid. They can get lodgings at a small settlement where they can finally sleep on actual mattresses and be served fresh food. He is certain he can find some kind of cantina that may match his expectations, despite that such indulgences will probably cost him more credits than he would like. But he figures he may as well treat both him and the kid to some luxury.

Yeah, he thinks to himself, Sorgan should be better than . . . Well, just better.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Location: Sorgan

While holding the baby on his right, the Mandalorian lands the ship. He can feel it heave a shuddering sigh as it plants its landing gear on the hard ground.

Figuring he should not bring the child with him as he explores the village that they had flown over, the bounty hunter prepares the Crest for his absence. He presses some buttons on his left, but he feels the child wiggle forward. His green hands reach for the flight controls his guardian his holding, his little fingers grabbing onto the stick.

“Now, listen,” the Mandalorian says while stopping the child from jiggling the controls. His charge whines at him, but he ignores it. Instead, he explains, “I’m going to go out there, and I’m going to look around.”

He tightens his hold on the baby before he pushes his pilot’s chair backwards, giving him enough room to slide out of his seat.

“Shouldn’t take too long,” he assures the kid before placing him on the chair, alone. He towers over the gifted alien and instructs, “Now, don’t touch anything. I’ll find us some lodging, and I’ll come back for you.”

When the baby looks up at him and blinks, the bounty hunter has a feeling his commands have gone over the baby’s green ears. He points to the little one, his voice firm as he slowly orders, “You stay right here. You stay. Don’t move. You understand?”

In response, the kid tilts his wrinkly head to the side. Taking this as an affirmative, the Mandalorian points to him one more time and says, “Great.”

As he climbs the ladder down to the main compartment of the ship, the man hopes the infant has truly understood his repetitive instructions. He does not want the baby to follow him into unknown territory like on Cholganna, right before they had met their Onderonian companion.

“I thought I told you to stay inside,” he remembers saying to the child when he suddenly appeared next to him. But this time, he had said his instructions slowly and clearly. He even emphasized it with hand motions. The alien would have to be deaf and blind not to understand his guardian’s meaning. And with ears that long and pointy, the child should not have misheard him.

His feet hit the metal ground of the Crest with a loud thud. Deciding to leave his Amban sniper rifle onboard, he walks over to the side-hatch of the ship. He presses a button on the nearby panel, and the door hisses open, its mechanics joining in with their own groans.

Sunlight greets him as the door lowers, and he figures it to be around noon. About half a mile away is a small settlement. If there is a cantina in it or even some kind of common house, it should be full of patrons enjoying the mid-day meal. This will give him the opportunity to find out how many people live there and to assess their temperaments.

His instincts alert him of a presence, and he looks down to his right. There, standing next to him, is the child. His ward has the audacity to glance up at him with a sweet, innocent smile spreading across his green lips. He releases a baby whine, and his brown eyes beg to accompany his guardian.

Before he can stop it, a heavy sigh escapes the Mandalorian. “Oh, what the hell,” he says, facing forward. “Come on.”

He stalks off the loading ramp, wishing the baby was old enough to entertain himself—and to do it without getting into trouble.

As they venture in the forest, the bounty hunter encounters a dirt path. With the baby hobbling behind him, he leads them down it, looking around at the planet’s environment.

Sorgan seems to be dominated by forests and plains. The pale blue sky above is free of clouds, and the air smells of fresh pine and moist earth. He senses a slight chill in the air, but the climate feels pleasant enough. His computer back on the Crest had not alerted him of any dangerous animals, so he allows his muscles to relax, somewhat. There is a sense of comfort in knowing that nothing as vicious as a Nexu will come bounding through the forest.

In a flash, his mind takes him back to a cargo box stored in his ship. Inside the case are the white furs with ebony stripes of the Nexu mates that he had killed. He had hidden them away, not wanting to be constantly reminded that one of them belongs to . . . her. She never did get the chance to take hers back to her ship, and he had forgotten about it completely until it was already too late. The kid had given out a cry of disappointment when the bounty hunter folded both pelts, stuffed them in the box, and closed it with its lid.

Trying to tear his thoughts away from the soft fur that made his former companion look like some kind of royal, he asks the child, “What do you think of this place, huh?”

When he sends him a glance, he sees the response in the form of raised ears and curious eyes.

“Well,” he mutters, “I think it’s a step-up from . . . before.”

He disliked the damp jungles of Cholganna and the scent of on-coming storms on the wind. He is thankful Sorgan does not appear to be too wet of a planet; he would prefer not to be cooped up in his ship or in a hovel as the weather pours down buckets of rain.

“Come on,” he says to the child. “We’re almost there.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He passes through the curtains acting as doors to the settlement’s common house. The building’s circular structure is made up of wood and is held up by thick pillars. There are gaps in the upper walls, allowing a refreshing breeze to clean out the house’s stuffiness. Above, the roof is also designed with breaks, but a large tarp covers the building, giving the common house a tent-like feeling. The only light comes from the sun, its rays emanating cheerfulness and neighborly conversation.

As the Mandalorian slowly walks through the establishment, he observes various kinds of people enjoying one another’s company. They hardly give him a second look. He sees humanoids boasting of tanned, dark, and pale complexions. There are a couple of Twi’leks and a handful of other aliens that he is not familiar with. And hiding underneath one of the many tables is a strange feline. It is fat with tall, pointy ears sticking out of its round head. It is covered in orange and brown striped fur and has a pudgy face. Instead of furry paws, the feline has bird-like talons for feet. Once it spots the child, its golden eyes turn into slits. It snaps at the baby, showing him who runs the lower regions of the common house. The child gasps with fear, and the feline hisses at him.

The tent-establishment is filled with laughter and excited chatter. The bounty hunter hears meat frying on an open grill, soups bubbling in their metal pots, drinks pouring into cups, and steam hissing into the air.

He can smell seasoned meat cooking on open flames. A man plunges a thin wooden skewer through bite-sized portions of his cooked meat before calling out to another patron. A woman, stationed next to a pitcher of glowing blue spirits, distributes a generous serving of yellow noodles in a bowl.

A small cooing reaches the Mandalorian’s ears. He finds the child looking up at him, his lips smacking. So, he searches for an empty table; he figures the child should have a better meal than the Nexu jerky they have both been living on for the last couple of days.

As his gaze sweeps across the common house, he notices a big-boned woman sitting alone with a cup of tea, or spirits, placed in front of her. She has short black hair and tanned skin. Her armor is a forest green, and her arms boast of muscle and strength. He also spies a dark red tattoo stamped around one of her biceps. There is a grim expression on her hard face, and she surveys him with obvious suspicion.

Bounty hunter? he wonders as he walks by her. Better keep an eye on her.

He finds a vacant table with two wooden seats. The child makes a chattering noise, and the Mandalorian carefully sets him on one of the chairs before sitting down himself. With his back to the wall, he has a good view of his surroundings, especially of the potential bounty hunter wearing green armor.

A woman, probably the owner of the common house, approaches him and his charge. She gives him a friendly smile as she wipes her wet hands on her thin, leather apron.

“Welcome travelers,” she says. “Can I interest you in anything?”

“Bone broth, for the little one,” he replies, his tone flat. Ignoring the proprietor’s next sentence, he tries to see past her so he can watch any movements from the woman in green.

“Can I interest you in bone broth as well?” his hostess asks him.

He shakes his head before adding, “Just the one.”

“Very well.”

As she turns away, he asks her, “That one over there.” He points to the woman in armor with his chin, and the proprietor glances in that direction. “When did she arrive?” His interest in the other woman rises when he notices that she pretends to look oblivious to his conversation with his hostess.

So, she’s been trying to listen in. Why?

“I’ve seen her here for the last week or so,” the proprietor shares, turning around to face him again.

“What’s her business here?”

“Business? Oh, well, there’s not much business in Sorgan. And so, I can’t say. She . . .” her voice falters when he drops a handful of credits on the table. “. . . she doesn’t strike me as a log-runner. Well, thank you, sir,” his hostess says in awe as she tucks away his bribe in her apron’s front pocket. “And I,” she happily adds, “will throw in a flagon of spotchka, just for good measure. I will be right back with that.”

When the proprietor leaves, he is about to tell her to keep the spotchka, or whatever that stuff is. But when his eyes flicker to where the woman in green armor is sitting, he finds her gone. His lips tightly press together, and he feels his instincts go on red-alert. Without hesitation, he leaves his table. As he passes by his hostess, he flips another credit in her direction.

“Keep an eye on the kid,” he instructs and barely hears her enthusiastic ‘yes, sir’ response.

He heads straight for the common house’s exit, parting the curtain doorway with two hands. As he steps outside, his hand drops to his holstered pistol. He scans his surroundings, searching for the woman in green armor. The path in front of him is empty, save for fallen logs and the Sorgan forest. So, he looks to his left and spies another wooden hut nearby, but there is still no visible sign of the woman.

Trying a new tactic, the bounty hunter presses a few buttons on his left gauntlet. In seconds, his helmet switches his vision to infrared mode. He then glances down at the ground. Immediately, he finds footprints glowing red-orange, and he follows the trail.

The footprints lead him to his left, in between the common house and its neighboring building. The area is narrow, full of crates and tarps and other items belonging to the villagers. Knowing the enclosed space is perfect for an ambush, his hand tightens its grip on his pistol. His gut tells him the woman is leading him somewhere, possibly to a fighting ground of her choosing. He just hopes he can figure out where that is before she attacks.

After less than a minute of stalking the woman, her footprints come to an abrupt halt. His body tenses as he looks around him, wondering where she could have disappeared to. From what he saw, she had no jet-pack, and there are not many hover-crafts loitering in the village.

Instinct warns him to check his right. When he does, the sun almost blinds him. Out of the light, the woman appears, swinging on a horizontal pole attached to the nearby building. She kicks him square in the chest with both feet, and he is pressed up against the wall of the building behind him.

The big-boned woman lands on her feet with a loud thud and marches towards him. Time races as he finds himself engaged in hand-to-hand combat. The woman’s punches are powerful, and he hates that her blows cause him to collide with both the ground and another wall—but not in that order. Luckily, he is able to throw in a few punches himself, causing her to grunt.

When the woman knocks him to the ground, he decides it is time to add some flavor to the fight. Quickly, he uses his right gauntlet to summon a burst of flames. He is about to direct the blaze at the woman, but she stomps on his arm, turning off his fire.

He does not have time to feel annoyed that she deflected his arson attack. In seconds they are both rolling on the ground, each of their hands firmly holding onto their opponent’s wrist. His free hand fumbles for his pistol. When they stop rolling on the loose dirt, he lands on his back, giving him the opportunity to yank out his blaster. He points it at the woman’s head, but he discovers that she, lying on her stomach, has grabbed her own pistol and is now aiming it at him.

Great, he sarcastically deliberates. Two draws in the same week. However, his memory reminds him that his previous fight with the Onderonian woman back on Cholganna had been interrupted, thereby automatically making that particular fight incomplete.

As he and the woman in green armor stare at each other, the sound of slurping reaches his ears. Having a feeling of what—or who—is making the noise, he spares a glance to his right. And there, he finds the alien baby loudly drinking a cup of his bone broth.

Well, it better be the soup, he thinks. If spotchka’s what I think it is, that server-lady should know better than to let any kind of alcohol near the kid.

The baby lowers the cup from his green lips. He stares at the woman still lying on her stomach then at him. The Mandalorian can only imagine what is going through the baby’s mind.

Feeling that he should offer his opponent some kind of peace offering, because he does not want the kid to see him paint the building’s wall with her brains, the bounty hunter asks her, “You want some soup?”

The woman breathes out a quick laugh. “Is that your way of admitting defeat, Mandalorian?”

“A deadlock,” he flatly replies.

“Fine.”

She pulls her blaster away from his helmet, and he holsters his own weapon. Then, as one, they release the grips that they each have on the other’s wrist. The Mandalorian sits up, and beside him, the woman is dusting off dirt and dry grass from her clothes.

“He’s yours?” she asks, nodding at the baby.

“Yeah, he’s with me.”

“Cute. Why’d you come after me?” She rises to her feet, and so does he.

“Why’d you attack?” he throws back at her.

She shrugs her broad shoulders. “Thought you were a threat.”

“Same,” he admits. “I was just looking out for me and the kid. Nothing personal.”

“Okay,” she says, nodding at him. Then, she extends a hand for a friendly shake. “Carasynthia Dune. ‘Cara’ for short.”

Figuring there is no harm in forming an acquaintance, he accepts the handshake. Dune’s hand is big, and her grip is firmer than most women. But he makes sure his hand meets hers in strength.

The shake is brief, and once they drop their hands, he moves over to the baby, who has been curiously witnessing their temporary alliance. He picks him up and starts walking back to the common house.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Dune calls out to him. He can hear her heavy footsteps trailing behind him.

“I didn’t throw it,” he replies.

“So, I guess I’ll just call you ‘Mando’ then, huh?”

“Fine by me,” he says over his shoulder. It is a nickname he has grown used to over the years.

As he nears the common house’s curtained entrance, a sad Onderonian voice murmurs to him, “I would’ve dearly liked to have known your name.”

He has the urge to give his head a violent shake. Perhaps the blows to the helmet, compliments of Dune, have stirred up memories of . . . her. But he forces himself to stash away any thoughts of his former companion. He needs to know more information about another woman who has tumbled into his and the kid’s lives. He cannot be distracted by a soothing accent and dark eyes.

Pushing aside the door’s curtain, the bounty hunter re-enters the common house. The lady proprietor spots him immediately, and she rushes over to him, her hands dripping with water.

“I am so sorry!” she says, gesturing frantically which sends water droplets falling onto the dirt floor. “I was watching the kid. I took my eyes off him for one minute, and he was gone!”

“Yeah, he does that,” the Mandalorian admits. That bad habit of the baby’s is the only reason why he does not give his hostess a good, verbal thrashing.

“Whatever you order next,” the woman tells him, “will be on the house. Guaranteed!”

“Another bowl of soup. For her,” he nods at Dune, who has joined him. “And a re-fill for the kid.”

The proprietor glances at his new acquaintance, her eyes wide. But she then schools her expression and gives him a hostess smile. “Sure thing. I’ll have that for you before you can say ‘Sorgan spotchka’!”

Walking past her, the bounty hunter carries the child back to their table. He places his ward on a chair before re-claiming his own. Meanwhile, Dune grabs an empty seat from a nearby table and drags it over so she can join them.

As promised, the proprietor returns with a bowl of soup in one hand and a cup in the other. She serves the bowl to Dune, who thanks her. Their hostess brightens at the appreciation before setting the cup of broth in front of the child.

Once their hostess leaves, Dune lifts her bowl of soup to her lips. She is about to drink it until she raises it to him, toasting his “generosity” with a smirk. He nods at her, and she then loudly slurps the soup. From the noise she is making, he is surprised that some of the broth has not escaped her lips and trickled down her chin.

While Dune and the child are both enjoying their meal, the Mandalorian takes the time to survey the woman in front of him. From her dark green armor, he figures that she is a soldier hailing from the Rebel Alliance or the New Republic. But since there has not been a presence of either faction on Sorgan, he deduces that Dune, like him, is on the run or simply passing through. It is not unexpected to come across a fellow fugitive; the Outer Rim is a popular territory in the galaxy to hide in.

“Former Rebel?” he asks.

Dune smirks. “Did the tattoo give it away?”

Not knowing the body art’s significance or association to the Rebels, he lies, “Yeah. And your armor.”

“Guilty.”

“But you’re not New Republic,” he states more than asks.

The dark-haired woman sighs, and it sounds tired in his ears. She takes another gulp of her soup then sets her bowl down. He readies himself to soak in all the information she is about to give so he can store it in his memory for future purposes. He just hopes that it is easier for her to open up than it was for a certain, evasive Onderonian that he knows. He is not in the mood for word-plays and double-meanings, especially not after a fight ending in a deadlock.

Over the next few minutes Dune reveals that she is a former Rebel Alliance Shock trooper, a military position that he is impressed with. She says that, after the Battle of Endor, she was a part of a team that “mopped up” ex-Imperial warlords. According to her, the New Republic wanted it done quietly, so Dune and her fellow troopers were known to be sent in dropships to complete their missions. However, they had no support to back them up.

After the influential ex-Imperials were eliminated, the politics started, which meant soldiers like Dune were responsible for protecting delegates and suppressing riots. She sounds bored just talking about that element of her job, and it comes as no surprise to the bounty hunter when she admits that her new duties were not to her liking.

Well, she is a soldier, he observes. And not a bodyguard.

“How’d you end up here?” he asks.

She says something about an early retirement, which does not concern him. But what catches his attention is when she explains why she attacked him only minutes before. Apparently, there is a bounty on her head, and she figured he arrived on Sorgan to collect her.

Another woman of mystery who expects that there’s a bounty on them, he thinks to himself as Dune swallows another mouthful of her soup. He cannot stop himself from wondering how she would have gotten along with . . . Talia.

Fine, I thought her name, he inwardly retorts. Not thinking of it, let alone saying it aloud, has been a goal of his, and he has just failed.

He is so deep in his own thoughts that he catches half of Dune’s sentence.

“. . . unless you want to go another round, one of us has got to move on. And I,” she says while rising to her feet, “was here first.”

With a pointed look directed at him, Dune finishes her bowl of soup then walks away from their table. The Mandalorian glances at his charge and finds the little one staring up at him.

“Well,” he tells him, “it looks like this planet’s taken.”

And we have to start over. For the third time.

Chapter Text

Chapter II: A Change of Mind

Ridha. Click. Kavan. Click.

As the Mandalorian tinkers away at the insides of his ship, tightening a screw with a wrench-like tool, he repeats the unfamiliar names to himself.

Qasim. Click, click. Thea. Click.

Bezden Cass. Click. Dacob Ryk’ken.

He has done this before sleep ever since Cholganna. If, or when, he manages to convince himself to actually do some research on those people, at least he will have their names memorized.

Talia. Click. Dewan. Click, click. Kex.

He is still unsure whether he should look for more information on his former companion. Not thinking of her has been an on-going wrestling match for him, which is why he has stopped himself from any kind of research relating to Onderon and Dxun. What is the point of learning more about those names and faces if he is trying to put what happened on Cholganna behind him?

Crickets chirp in the night, and an occasional bird wakes up from its slumber with a startled screech. The pine trees of the forest stand tall and regal, their needle-like ends reaching for the stars above. There is a sense of peace here on Sorgan, one that he has not felt while on a planet in years, especially during the quietness of night.

And I’m going to have to leave, he reminds himself. This is Dune’s turf now. I guess she doesn’t like sharing an entire planet.

He has thought about simply relocating to the other side of Sorgan; it will take the ex-Shock trooper a month or so to find out that he was still here. However, he knows he should respect her implied “request” and move on. It is the honorable thing to do.

As he lodges himself between the ship’s insides and the metal panels covering it, he notices that the nocturnal sounds have softened. It is as if the wildlife knows that people, other than himself, are near. But it cannot be the baby disturbing the nightlife; he is in the Crest, asleep, his small belly full of bone broth from the common house hours ago.

The bounty hunter is about to dismiss the “softer” noises of the night until he realizes that it has become even quieter. Curious, he glances over his shoulder and spies, deep in the forest, a light. It floats in the darkness like a firefly, glowing yellow, warm, and friendly. He figures it is a lantern of some kind. If the wielder of the lantern is someone who wishes him and the child harm, then they would not be alerting their presence with a beacon in the night.

So, he dismisses the light and its carrier as a Sorganese villager just passing through, and he returns his attention back to his ship. He is currently working on a lose pipe beside one of the Crest’s landing gear; yet, after a minute or two, he hears two pairs of footsteps approaching him. They seem hesitant.

“Excuse me,” says timid voice belonging to a man.

They’re probably lost, the bounty hunter thinks. But he ignores the two visitors and waits.

“Excuse me, sir,” another voice tries again. Also belonging to a man, this voice is louder and is sprinkled with determination.

He ducks underneath his ship’s landing gear and asks, “Is there something I can help you with?”

Though his tone is neither hostile nor friendly, he hopes they will identify him as a traveler and figure out that he is not familiar with Sorgan’s terrain and its inhabitants.

“Um,” the second voice begins. “Raiders—”

“We have money!” his companion blurts out, desperation painting his tone.

As if that alone is enough to make me interested in them, he inwardly retorts.

“So, you think I’m some kind of mercenary?” he asks in a neutral tone. He does not see the point in snapping at them. After all, the men are unaware of the fact that he is not some low-life merc whose only code of honor reflects their boss’ purse strings. At least working with the Guild on Nevarro, he and his fellow bounty hunters are required to follow certain guidelines. And if they chose not to, they would be kicked out of the Guild and disgraced.

“You are a Mandalorian, right?” the first man clarifies.

“Or at least,” his friend says, “wearing Mandalorian armor? That is Mandalorian armor, right?”

Satisfied with his repairs, the bounty hunter turns around and quickly surveys his visitors. The men both have tanned skin and dark hair and are wearing faded green clothing. While the first man is tall with long, straight hair and scruff under his chin, the other is short with curly hair and a light beard and is wearing a green covering wrapped around his head.

As he walks past them, he answers, “It is.” He needs to fiddle with one more module in his landing gear before he is done for the night.

“See?” the bearded man says to his friend, excitedly. “I told him! Sir, I’ve read a lot about your people—um, Tr-Tribe. If half of what I read was true—”

“We have money,” the first man interrupts again.

With his back turned to them and his hands busy securing a module inside his ship, he decides to humor them. “How much?” he asks. But judging from their ratty clothes, he doubts they can offer him a sufficient sum to accommodate both him and the kid.

They sound like they need help, a thoughtful voice says to him. It reminds him of his Tribe’s Armorer.

And it’s not my problem, he responds back to the voice.

“It’s everything we have, sir,” the man with long hair reveals. “Our whole harvest was stolen.”

“Krill,” his friend supplies. “We’re krill farmers.”

“We brew spotchka.”

And I didn’t come here to get involved with the planet’s domestic troubles, the Mandalorian thinks to himself as finishes with his repairs. But he is curious with the amount of credits that the men are offering, so he turns to face them.

“Our whole village chipped in,” the man with long hair reveals. He is holding a small, leather pouch in his wrinkled hand. The currency inside does not even fill up the entire bag, and the bounty hunter estimates that there can be no more than fifty credits.

Yeah, not worth it.

When he reverts his gaze back to the men, he finds them looking directly at him with bated breath. Hope etches across their tanned faces.

“It’s not enough,” he tells them before walking alongside his ship.

“Are you sure?” the bearded man asks, his steps shuffling across the dirt. “You don’t even know what the job is.”

“I know it’s not enough,” he flatly says. “Good luck.”

You’re going to need it.

“No, this is everything we have,” the first man explains with desperation. “We’ll give you more after the next harvest.”

Whenever that is, the Mandalorian muses as he stands next to the Crest’s side-hatch.

He commands the door to open, and when it does, steam hisses right beside the two men. Startled, and looking almost scared at the sudden noise, they jump away. The bounty hunter cannot help thinking that if these men are an example of their village’s strength and spirit, then no wonder raiders are picking on them and stealing their livelihood. To him, they seem like easy prey to bullies, and he finds himself pitying them. They should have learned by now to defend themselves, especially if they have families.

As the ramp lowers, he moves away from the door so he can ascend the metal incline the moment it settles on the ground. Meanwhile, the men look at him with disbelief at his refusal.

“Come on,” the man with the hat says to his friend. “Let’s head back.”

The bounty hunter sends them a nod and strides up the ramp. He can hear the first man vent out, “Took us the whole day to get here.” There is resignation and defeat in his voice. “Now, we have to ride back, with no protection, to the middle of nowhere.”

Nowhere? That last part catches his attention, making him stop underneath the door’s threshold. Maybe that is enough payment for me.

Standing at the top of the ramp he turns around. The men are walking towards a repulsorlift speeder with a light attached to it. Before they reach it, he calls out, “Where do you live?”

They halt and face him.

“On a farm,” the man with long hair states. “Weren’t you listening? We’re farmers.”

Farms equal food and lodgings and a boring yet quiet life, the Mandalorian calculates. The kid just might be safe there.

“In the middle of nowhere,” he double-checks.

The men stare up at him, confusion written across their sun-tanned faces.

“Yes?” the first man hesitantly replies.

I can’t protect an entire village from a gang of raiders on my own. Or eliminate them quickly enough without them catching on that it’s just me, he figures. Maybe with some help though. He thinks of Dune, bored and restless on this forest planet. But they’re gonna have to provide for her, too.

“You have lodging,” he states more than asks.

Now, the men seem to understand what his questions mean. Hope lights up their expressions, and the bearded man quickly says, “Y-yeah. Absolutely.”

Looks like I’m not going anywhere after all.

“Good,” he tells them. “Come up and help.”

Without waiting to see either of them look overjoyed or shocked at his change of mind, he turns around and walks inside the Crest. Immediately, he plans what weapons and other items he should take with him. He will have to pack weapons, the kid, a change of clothes for himself, tools to fix his armor or gauntlets if need be, and a blanket or two for the kid.

He grabs an empty cargo box near the side-hatch’s entrance and walks over to where he stores his arsenal. Behind him, he can hear the men shuffle up the ramp and enter the ship. He glances over his shoulder and finds them staring inside with fear and awe.

Guess farmers don’t get out much, he muses with a small smirk.

“You there,” he says, nodding at the man wearing the green head-covering.

“I’m Caben,” he replies, his voice quieter than before.

“Hold this,” the bounty hunter instructs as he extends the box towards him.

Amused, he watches the farmer swallow hard, but Caben obeys. When he grabs the box, the bounty hunter opens his arsenal’s closet. He ignores the small gasp escaping from Caben’s friend as he removes a blaster and packs it inside the cargo box.

After stashing away four pistols and a few detonators, he tells Caben to seal the container with its lid. While the farmer complies, the Mandalorian turns his attention to the other man.

“You.”

“Stoke, sir.”

“Stoke, see that long box over there?” he asks, pointing to the case in the corner, stationed next to the privy.

“Do you want me to get it?” Stoke offers, and he is already moving in that direction.

“Yes.” The bounty hunter then looks to Caben. “Help your friend pack up these three rifles,” he instructs, pointing to the designated weapons.

Once he is satisfied that the men are following his directions, he climbs up the ladder leading to the cockpit. The child is reclining on the pilot’s chair, but his brown eyes are wide open. He makes a baby sound at his guardian’s appearance, and his green ears flap down.

“Plan’s changed,” the Mandalorian relays. He reaches for the control panel and initiates the Crest’s defense protocols. When they are set, he grabs the child, saying, “Looks like we’re going to scare off some raiders.”

The baby’s eyes widen at this, and the bounty hunter doubts the little one actually understood him.

Carefully, he climbs down the ladder, carrying his ward in one hand. The men are standing near his arsenal when he joins them. He sees their eyes widen at the sight of the infant.

Stoke cocks an eyebrow before asking, “Is that a—”

“Baby?” the Mandalorian asks, his tone daring either men to contradict him. “Yeah, it is. He’s with me.”

He shuts the doors to his arsenal then puts the child on top of the their already packed load. He walks over to the other side of the Crest, near the cargo door, and finds another box. In the next couple of minutes, he fills it with a fresh set of clothes for himself and blankets for the kid.

Behind him, he hears Stoke whisper to his friend, “You don’t think he looks like that underneath his armor, right?”

“Shh!” Caben hisses. “Of course not.”

“Okay, just checking. I didn’t think he’d be able to get his helmet on if he had ears like that.”

The bounty hunter has half a mind to laugh at how ridiculous that sounds while the other half wants to snap at the man’s lack of intelligence.

“Really, Stoke?” Caben whispers back. “Mandalorians are mostly humanoids. But I did read that thousands of years ago they were aliens at some point.”

Slightly amused at their conversation while he is packing, the Mandalorian asks them over his shoulder, “Can one of you get that small box near the ladder?”

“This one, sir?” He hears Caben answer.

He sends the man a quick glance before saying, “Yeah. That’s coming, too.”

The case is actually his tool box; he had brought it out earlier for his repairs on his ship. Inside are items that can help him make some adjustments on his armor, if needed.

“Hey, little guy,” he hears Stoke say. “What’s that you’re looking at?”

The sound of locks being unfastened reaches the bounty hunter’s ears. He turns around and finds that Stoke had opened up a cargo box at the child’s bidding. And it is that cargo box.

Without thinking, he walks over to where the three are huddled around it. He opens his mouth to chastise them when Caben pulls out the child’s small Nexu pelt. The white fur looks as soft as ever, and its ebony stripes are as dark as the night sky.

“This is beautiful,” Caben says in awe while Stoke tentatively runs his fingers through the velvety pelt. “May I ask, sir? What is this?”

His first reaction is to snap at him and bark out something like, ‘No, you may not ask. Now, put that away.’ Instead, he scoops up the baby. The little one whines at being torn away from his pelt again, and the Mandalorian feels guilty.

“It’s Nexu,” he answers, trying not to stare at the fur himself. “But I’m leaving it here. Stoke, I need you to put that box in the compartment back there.” He points to the long closet near his arsenal—it is actually where he sleeps.

Turning to Caben, he says, “Bring your speeder closer to the ship. We’re going to be loading up soon.”

While both men do as they are told, the bounty hunter puts the child down, grabs the big case containing his rifles, and picks up his Amban sniper rifle. He then exits the Crest, descending the ramp. Behind him, he hears the child shuffling on the metal incline.

When they reach the bottom of the ramp, Caben has already moved his speeder next to the ship. The Mandalorian unloads his rifle and the box on top of their ride before putting the child there also. The little one squeals excitedly during the transfer, making his guardian smirk. He notices a blanket, old and worn, is also in the speeder, so he uses it to cover up the child. He does not want his charge to be too exposed to the chilly night air.

“Stay here,” he softly tells the baby. “I’ll be right back.”

He returns to the ship with Caben trailing behind him. He notices that Stoke had hidden away the cargo containing the Nexu pelts for him.

When the compartment seals shut, a small part of him is tempted to change his mind and take the furs with him. But he ignores the tug. Going to a village in the middle of nowhere for who knows how long should help weaken any emotional ties the child may have towards the pelts.

In order to distract himself, he designates to the farmers which box each should carry. He then picks up a case himself and leads Stoke and Caben down the ramp once more.

“I’m going to need one more thing,” he says to Stoke before putting his box on the speeder. “Give me those credits.” He extends a hand to the other man, ready to accept the money.

As Caben walks behind them, also carrying some cargo, Stoke sets his case in their ride before handing over the leather pouch filled with credits. The bounty hunter attaches the bag’s strings to his belt.

“We can give you more,” Stoke assures him. “After our next harvest of course.”

The Mandalorian presses a few buttons on his gauntlet, commanding the Crest to close its side-hatch. He says, “This isn’t for me.”

“What?” Caben asks next to him. “But we’re paying you to—”

“Lodgings and food,” he interrupts. “For me and the kid. That’s my payment.”

“S-so, who are the credits going to?” Caben asks, exchanging an alarmed look with his friend.

“More help.”

“Who?” Stoke wonders.

“Trust me,” the bounty hunter states. “We’re going to need it.”

“Is it for another Mandalorian?” Caben asks, a hint of excitement in his voice. “I read that some Tribes have been known to travel together.”

“No, an ex-soldier.”

“A woman, right?” Stoke says. “She wears green armor?”

The bounty hunter sends him a sharp look. “How’d you know?”

“We went to the common house. Less than a mile away. Before we came here,” Stoke explains. “We asked around for help. They mentioned a woman with green armor. They said she looked tough.”

“She is,” the bounty hunter remarks with a half-smile. He has a few stiff joints to remind him.

“And they mentioned you.”

“But I said we should look for you first,” Caben interrupts. “It’s because of what I read about your people. I figured it would be a good idea to get your help, you being a Mandalorian and all.”

“And we couldn’t pay both of you,” Stoke admits, rubbing the back of his neck with a weathered hand.

“Well, you can now,” the bounty hunter tells them. “Did the people at the common house say where the woman is staying? Or where she’s camped?”

“Yeah,” Stoke replies, gesturing for him to get in the speeder. “We’ll take you there. It’s on the way back home.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As he sits in the repulsorlift speeder, the Mandalorian stretches his legs in front of him, finding it to be a better position than crossing them. Riding in the front are Stoke and Caben, leading their group to their village. Meanwhile, he is sitting at the back of the speeder, settled between the child and Dune.

About ten minutes ago, he had recruited the former Rebel soldier to help him fend off the raiders terrorizing Caben and Stoke’s village. Dune had been a little reluctant to leave her warm fire, but after he mentioned food and a roof over her head as a part of the deal, she packed up her meager belongings and followed him back to the awaiting krill farmers.

“So, we’re basically running off a band of raiders for lunch money?” she asks him, breaking the calming silence. Her voice betrays the second thoughts she is having about the job, and he figures that, if he did not have the kid to look out for, he would be just as doubtful.

“They’re quartering us in the middle of nowhere,” he explains. “Last I checked, that’s a pretty square deal for somebody in your position. Worst case scenario: you tune up your blaster. Best case? We’re a deterrent.”

The woman still seems unconvinced that her involvement is a good idea. And from the look she gives him, he knows she is thinking that the job does not match her skill-set. After all, she is a soldier known to complete missions without any kind of back-up. In addition to that, she had left the New Republic because she had no interest in becoming neither a bodyguard nor a simple law enforcer. So, he chooses a new tactic to bring her around.

“I can’t imagine there’s anything living in these trees that an ex-Shock trooper couldn’t handle,” he says, a challenge hidden in his tone.

Dune sends him the smallest of smiles. It boasts of pride and experience, and the bounty hunter gives himself a mental pat on the shoulder. He sees that his reasoning, painted with a hint of flattery, has worked on her, and she is officially onboard.

Satisfied, he leans back. He lifts up his arms in a stretch and places his hands on the back of his seat. A major part of him is more than ready to stay somewhere quiet so he can finally rest without having to sleep with one eye open. But still, there is a small part of him that knows he should be on the alert, especially while they are all traveling at night.

Before he closes his eyes, he glances at the baby and finds him staring up at the stars. His brown eyes are filled with wonder.

Craning his neck to get a better look himself, the Mandalorian gazes at the night sky. He thinks the stars do not appear to be as bright as before, not like where the Crest is sitting. But the stars that do shine seem warm and reassuring.

In a flash, he spots a meteor racing across the inky night, its tail sleek and silver. It reminds him of Starlight, Talia’s ship. It was an elegant vessel, and flying it had been easy. When he re-located it closer to the Crest while Talia was unconscious, he had liked how graceful it felt when it lifted into the air. Starlight had been roomier than his ship, and he remembers thinking that there was a barren kind of grandness to its interior design.

With a deep breath, he closes his eyes, allowing his body to relax. Though slumbering in the back of a speeder is not what he had in mind for his first night on Sorgan, it is better than his coffin-like closet onboard his ship.

As sleep beckons him further into its tempting embrace, he feels the ghost of Talia’s thumb rubbing against the inside of his wrist, offering him comfort. Her touch is gentle and soft with every stroke, just as he remembers it to be. Too tired to berate himself for not ignoring this memory of the Onderonian, he soon surrenders himself to it.

Within seconds, sleep claims him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Location: Stoke and Caben’s Village

They arrived about ten minutes ago. Caben had pointed to a barn where the Mandalorian and the baby will be housed. One of the women had said something about the widow Omera, his designated hostess, making it more comfortable for him. Meanwhile, Dune had been dragged to a barn of her own about three or four huts away from his.

So, with a cargo box full of his personal items, the bounty hunter walks over to his quarters. The baby is trailing behind him, oohing at his new surroundings.

When the Mandalorian reaches the barn’s entrance, he finds a tall woman inside, opening the main window of the storage building. He assumes she must be Omera.

In a matter of seconds, he takes in her dark, long hair as it flows freely down her back. She is about five-foot-six with a pleasant figure, and she is dressed like the other members of her village, green and modest.

Not wanting to intrude when she is not ready for him, he simply stands by the entrance and waits. He can hear the child shuffling towards him.

Omera must have sensed his presence because she glances in his direction. “Please come in,” she tells him with a welcoming smile.

With slow steps, he enters the barn, the child hobbling behind him. The place seems well attended to. It has a bed for him, and his body is very eager to sleep on its mattress.

As he puts his cargo box down, he hears Omera say, “I hope this is comfortable for you. Sorry that all we have is the barn.”

His back is to her as he replies, “This’ll do fine.”

From what he can tell, his temporary quarters looks clean and airy, especially with the window open. It is dry and will keep both him and the baby warm in the night. There is a small table in the corner with a chair, and he even notices a cradle stashed to the side.

He also spies baskets, crates, nettings for krill fishing, and other items one can find on a farm. He figures the barn must be used mostly for storage since there are no signs of large animals wandering the village for heavy labor. At least, none that he can see right now. He makes a mental note to do a thorough reconnaissance of the village after he settles in.

“I stacked some blankets over here,” he hears Omera share.

Still not facing her, he unfastens his rifle from behind his back. He remembers his manners and says, “Thank you. That’s . . . very kind.”

He kneels in front of his box and sets his rifle next to it. His gut warns him of a presence sneaking up behind him. Since he is neither familiar nor comfortable here, in the village and in his new lodging, his hand settles on his pistol. Like lightning, he spins around, ready to gun down his unknown assailant. The back of his mind notices that his abrupt movement startles not only Omera but also whoever it is trying to sneak up on him.

Seeing through the reed-like walls of the barn, he deduces the unknown person to be one of the many kids who had greeted him and his group minutes earlier. A twinge of annoyance towards the kid pricks him. If he or she had not tip-toed behind his back, he would not have been provoked into reacting so harshly.

In a few moments, Omera walks over to the unknown person and beckons them into her arms. It is then revealed to him that it was a girl. She is about nine or ten and has Omera’s dark hair and tanned skin.

As he removes his hand from his weapon, the little girl wraps her arms around Omera’s waist. His hostess cups the cheek of the younger version of herself and smiles at her.

“This is my daughter, Winta,” Omera explains to him, stroking her daughter’s hair. “We don’t get a lot of visitors around here. She’s not used to strangers.”

As he stares at them, he is reminded of his own mother. He used to wrap himself around her just like that, and he would feel her fingers lovingly comb through his messy hair. It dawns on him that Winta is afraid of him. But as her mother holds her, he sees the fear slowly disappear and is replaced with comfort. Such is a mother’s love and protection—he knows that only too well. He feels guilty for driving her into Omera’s arms out of fear.

“This nice man is going to help protect us from the bad ones,” Omera reassures her daughter who shyly thanks him.

All he can do is nod at the little girl. Omera’s words, her calling him a “nice man,” only deepens his guilt. Self-control is the only reason why he had not yanked out his pistol and fired it. If Omera and the villagers knew that he is a bounty hunter who has coldly captured murderers and people skipping bails, they would not entrust him to protect their home and their children.

“Come on, Winta,” Omera says, taking her daughter’s hand. “Let’s give our guest some room.”

Before she leaves, his hostess sends him a warm smile, and for an unexplained reason he feels something inside his chest flutter. The sun’s rays catch Omera’s dark hair, coloring it a shade lighter than before. Half of her long locks sway down her back at her movement, and he finds himself wondering what her hair would look like when it is completely loose and free. Her tanned skin glows with tenderness and good health, an observation that keeps his gaze fixed on her as she walks away.

Though a widow, Omera is a beautiful woman. She is alone in raising her daughter, and he realizes how unprotected the two of them are, raiders or not. She must have a fighting spirit to want to stay here and attend to whoever the villagers had chosen to hire for protection.

A coo breaks into his thoughts, and the Mandalorian sees the baby trying to climb into the cradle. He moves to pick up the small piece of furniture and stations it in the middle of the room before placing the baby inside.

“Here you are,” he says with a half-smile. “You like it?”

The infant runs his three-fingered hands on the cradle’s railing, and the bounty hunter supposes that he should find some kind of mattress or thick blanket for the child to sleep on. He eyes the cradle, his gut feeling unsettled. It is as if, by a stroke of luck, that the two of them are being housed in a building with this specific kind of furniture.

It’s a village barn, he reasons as he begins to unpack. I bet no one has any babies right now, which is why it’s here.

Though he does not believe in coincidences, he refuses to call the cradle’s presence as the products of Fate. Or Destiny. Either idea is based on meaningless superstition, and he will not believe in it.

“You will,” a voice whispers to him, but he ignores it. Just like he has been doing since Cholganna.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A couple of hours later . . .

Around noon, the villagers had gathered their resources together to feed him and the child, Stoke, Caben, and Dune. He merely watched as the other three ate heartily and drank spotchka. Sitting beside him, the child was fighting sleep with heavy eyelids. His three companions had talked to the villagers with enthusiasm and glee, making him feel like he did not belong.

So, while Stoke and Caben shared how they found him and Dune, the bounty hunter had slipped away from the gathering of the small community, taking the sleepy child with him. He had wandered back to the barn and placed the baby in the cradle. He took advantage of his charge’s nap by trying to make himself feel more comfortable in their quarters.

About an hour later, he is breaking down his Amban sniper rifle, preparing to clean it. The baby had awoken and is now standing in his wooden cradle. His brown eyes watch him with fascination, his long ears twitching every so often.

His back is to the door when he hears a friendly voice call out to him.

“Knock, knock.” It is Omera.

He waits for a few seconds, thinking of how she had watched him at the village gathering. His gloved hands clean the pronged-end of his rifle with a red rag as he says to the widow, “Come in.”

Hearing her enter, he turns to acknowledge her. He finds her carrying a food tray for him, a hospitable gesture indeed. She sets her wooden platter down just as Winta races into the barn, probably looking for her mother.

He continues to polish his weapon, his back facing the pair. His hands slide over the double-prong piece when he hears Winta ask, “Can I feed him?”

The simple question stops his hands from rubbing across the rifle’s piece. He moves his body around so he can look at the child. Then, he glances at Winta. She has a pleading smile on her face, and he does not have it within him to refuse her.

“Sure,” he answers.

Her smile grows with gratitude, and so does her mother’s. He watches Winta show the baby a scrap of food; it looks like some kind of nut. The green alien coos at her, his lips forming into a grin.

Keeping an eye on them, the Mandalorian runs his rag across his weapon’s end. He hears Winta ask the child if he is hungry. After she pops the food in the little one’s mouth, she giggles.

“Can I play with him?” she asks him.

He puts down his rag and the piece of his weapon. Why not? he thinks to himself as he swallows a sigh. I guess the kid can do with some playtime. He doesn’t get many chances with me.

“Sure,” he repeats, walking towards the child.

He picks up his charge and removes him from his cradle. The baby releases a “woo” as he is set onto the floor right in front of Winta. The bounty hunter watches the girl beckon the baby outside to play. Much to his disapproval, his charge follows her like a puppy.

Instinctively, his guardian marches after them. He has not had the chance to patrol the village yet. He does not know the ins and outs of the place, and with the village being terrorized by raiders, he feels uncomfortable with the idea of the baby being possibly exposed to unnecessary danger without him nearby.

“I don’t—”

“They’ll be fine,” Omera interrupts him with a soft smile.

When he looks at her, he notices just how close he is standing in front of her. Her hair looks darker in this light, and from the way she stares at him, he feels his neck warm up.

Pushing aside these thoughts, he points in the direction of the baby and says, “I don’t—”

“They’ll be fine,” she repeats in a motherly tone, full of authority and assurance. Her gaze is that of a parent who is confident of her child’s safety, and it tells him that he should trust her.

Well, meaning no disrespect to Omera, he does not trust easily. However, he complies and takes a step back. The barn’s window is to his left, and it gives him a clear view of the children and the baby playing outside. He figures he can keep an eye on his ward from where he is after all.

“I brought you some food,” his hostess reminds him. “I noticed you didn’t eat out there. I’ll leave it here for when I go.”

Her words touch him. He appreciates that she is respecting his privacy. Most of all, he appreciates that she is not pestering him with questions as to why he will not take his helmet off.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” he says before turning away. He should go back to cleaning his rifle rather than stare at her kind smile.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?” he hears her say.

“Go ahead.”

She waits for a few seconds before asking, “How long has it been since you’ve taken that off?”

“Yesterday.”

Well, I thought too soon, he muses to himself. I guess she was bound to ask me that at some point.

“I mean,” he hears her admit, “in front of someone else.”

The question strikes him as odd. Most people are curious as to why he does not remove his helmet while others jeer at him, asking if he has something to hide. But Omera seems interested if he has taken it off with another person nearby, like a member of his Tribe or a loved one.

Holding onto the prongs of his rifle and a red cleaning rag, he faces her. Her expression displays innocent curiosity. She truly does not know the importance of a Mandalorian wearing his helmet at all times. Perhaps Caben did not reveal why during his absence at the village gathering. Maybe the krill farmer had not come across it in his reading of the Mandalorian culture.

His thoughts travel back to his adoptive mother. He remembers the talk she gave him about the meaning behind the Creed and the honor that is tied to it and a Mandalorian helmet. She had explained that there were some disadvantages, such as not being able to take the metal head covering off whenever he felt like it. But she had assured him that he would grow accustomed to wearing it, that it would feel unnatural not to have it on. And she was right.

The desire to share with such an innocent person as Omera prompts him to move closer to her. His gaze is focused out the window where he can see kids around Winta’s age playing together. The baby is with them, smiling like a bounty hunter after being paid.

The Mandalorian points at children, and Omera looks, too. “I wasn’t . . . much older than they are,” he says at long last.

He watches Omera’s expression intently at this revelation. Her eyes widen, and her lips part in surprise. When she faces him, he sees pity and disbelief, the first emotion making him want to turn away. But he holds her gaze.

“You haven’t shown your face to anyone since you were a kid?” Her voice is kind, yet he can also detect sadness hidden in there. He bets she is thinking that he had his childhood stolen from him by the members of his Creed.

“No. I was . . . happy that they took me in,” he explains, wanting her not to think badly of his Tribe. “My parents were killed. And the Mandalorians took care of me.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, offering him an understanding smile. Being a widow, she would know what it is like to lose a loved one.

“This is the way,” he automatically replies, his tone as neutral as ever.

For several seconds, they stare at each other. He is again reminded of how beautiful she truly is. She is kind, thoughtful, and compassionate. From how Winta dotes on her, she seems like a good mother. He can tell that she is a tender and gentle soul, which reminds him of his own mother.

He finds himself wondering what had happened to her husband. How long has she been a widow? And why have none of the village men married her yet? He figures they must be fools for letting her slip past them. Omera seems like a treasure.

Every time she looks at him, he catches curiosity and innocence sweeping across her face, and they reflect the general expression of the farmers here in the village. She is the embodiment of her community and represents who they are, especially the innocent character trait. And for some reason, he wants to protect that, if he can.

“Let us know if there’s anything you need,” she tells him, breaking the silence.

“Thank you,” he says, watching her leave.

Once she exits the barn, he turns to look at the kids again. He then moves closer to the window while grabbing the plate of food Omera had brought him. As he sets it on the window sill, he notices that the plate contains bread, fried krill, and slices of fruit that he is not familiar with. However, he is willing to try it; he needs something fresh.

Confident that no one will interrupt his late mid-day meal, he removes his helmet and sets it on the window sill beside his food.

Maybe this raider business can be taken care of quickly. The village seems like a nice place to raise a kid—although he has no intention of settling here for too long. It is a good sign that the baby is getting along with the other children, and he is glad they are including him while they form a game of hide-and-seek.

Yes, he thinks to himself as he pops a piece of bread into his mouth. A couple of months here will be good. For both of us.

Chapter Text

Chapter III: “They’re Klatooinians”

“This is more than I signed up for,” Dune says as they stare at the large footprint of the All-Terrain Scout Transport.

“Yeah. Me, too,” he remarks, circling around the deep impression.

And here I hoped this would be easy, the Mandalorian thinks as he walks over to another AT-ST footprint.

When he used his infrared vision to study the trail left by the raiders and estimated that there were about twenty of them, he was not too discouraged by the numbers. He figured he and Dune can pick them off one by one, terrorizing them with fear as they eliminate them with ambushes and midnight visits.

However, knowing that the raiders somehow got their hands on an AT-ST Imperial Walker, his plans and resolve dwindled like a single flame burning in a rainstorm.

“They didn’t tell us about it on purpose,” Dune mutters, joining him. “Stars! What were they thinking?”

“They weren’t,” he answers. “They’re scared. And they’re tired of their livelihood being ripped from them. Last week was the third raid this past year.”

“And I’m sorry this is happening to them. I really am.” The look Dune sends him displays pity for the villagers. “But we don’t stand a chance,” she says, donning her soldierly mask. He sees regret at losing a battle chisel onto her face, but it mingles with contentment that there is another way handle the situation.

“Agreed.”

“Then let’s head back,” she decides, already sauntering towards the village. Except, he remains where he is.

His eyes are fixed on the trajectory of the raiders’ footprints when he says, “I think we should follow the trail.”

“Why?” he hears her call out to him, surprise painting her voice. “What for?”

“To find their camp,” he explains. He turns to face her. “Confirm their numbers. I want to know what species these raiders are. Omera didn’t go into much detail.”

“Well, neither did Stoke and Caben. Who cares?” She gestures for him to follow her back, but he still does not move.

“I need to have as much information on the situation as I can get,” he reveals. “Before I can go back.”

Dune’s forehead crinkles with disbelief. Crossing her arms, she states, “I don’t see the point. The villagers can’t be protected where they are. If they want to live in peace, they’re just gonna have to make a settlement somewhere else.”

So, that’s her solution, he realizes. But that’s not enough for me.

“I know,” he replies, keeping his tone even. “But they hired me to do a job. I want all the facts before I tell them how serious this is.” He does not expect her to understand, yet he would prefer it if she can stick around and have his back—which is why he glances over his shoulder and asks, “So, you coming?”

The sigh Dune lets out is one of resignation. She uncrosses her arms and strides past him, her boots making deep impressions in the dirt.

“Fine,” he hears her mutter. “I need to stretch my legs anyways.”

With half a smirk, the bounty hunter trails after her.

Over the next hour or so, they follow the raiders’ footprints. As they wander further into the forest, they eventually slow their pace, being mindful to walk as soundlessly as possible.

While they track the raiders, the Mandalorian tries to remember what he knows about an AT-ST vehicle. He has seen them before but has not personally fought against them. From what he knows, an AT-ST is equipped with three types of weapons, which makes it an adversary not to be trifled with. Its two-legged design allows it to transport itself fairly quickly, though not quietly. He figures he would be able to hear it stomping its clawed feet into the ground from less than a mile away.

“What do you know of the AT-STs?” he asks Dune. Since members of the Rebel Alliance have been known to battle against many of the Empire’s weapons and vehicles, he assumes his companion has been exposed to the schematics and weaknesses of a two-legged walker.

“They’re Imperial,” she deadpans. “And they can wipe out squads of soldiers.”

“Besides that.”

“They have a light layer of armor,” the ex-Shock trooper begins as they use a cluster of shrubs as cover. “They’re designed to be a ground combat vehicle with infantry as support.”

“What can penetrate the armor?” he asks, thinking of his Amban sniper rifle. His most prized weapon can literally disintegrate people, and it has been able to breach metal, which is why he wonders if it can make some kind of dent in a walker.

“Well, not blasters if that’s what you’re thinking,” Dune reveals, dashing his hopes. “Only cannons.”

They separate for a moment, each one finding a tree trunk to hide behind. When they reunite, still following the raiders’ trail, he questions, “It has three weapons, right?”

“Yeah. At the front, a double-breasted cannon.”

“Range?”

“About 2 kilometers. Then, on the port side, there’s a twin-blaster cannon. I think it’s an E-Web.”

A loud snap echoes through the air, causing him and Dune to scramble for cover. He spies a fallen pine tree to his left, and he races to it, wanting to use it as a shield. With his hand on his pistol and his back to the pine-smelling trunk, he looks around him and waits. In a flash, Dune joins him, searching behind him while he studies their rear side.

Birds chirp, and a few squirrel-like rodents scurry around the forest floor, fighting each other for pinecones. The sun is waning, lazily falling to the west. Dusk will approach in about an hour from now. In the east, he can hear the river flowing, but there does not seem to be anything out of the ordinary.

When he senses that there is no real threat, he turns to Dune and asks, “And the third weapon?”

The woman in green armor rolls her eyes. But thankfully, she humors him and answers. “A concussion grenade launcher. It’s on an AT-ST’s starboard side.”

He rises to his feet, his hand still settled on his holstered pistol. “It’s been five years since the Empire collapsed,” he reasons. “Perhaps not all of the weapons are functional on this walker.”

“Maybe,” he hears Dune remark, but she does not sound convinced.

They continue following the trail. After a few minutes, he asks, “Does it have any weaknesses?”

Dune does not answer right away, and he gives her time to roll his question in her mind. “Their legs,” she admits. “They’re not good on rough terrain. And then there’s the visor openings in the front. You can throw a grenade or detonator in it if you’re close enough. But that’s not much.”

“It’s something,” he reasons.

“We can’t go up against it, Mando,” she lets out a frustrated huff, and he knows she is done humoring him. “If we do, the whole village will get slaughtered.”

“So, we’ll tell them that,” he says. “All that you said about the walker and whatever we find at the raiders’ camp.”

Dune opens her mouth, but suddenly they hear grunts in the distance. The bounty hunter feels his gut twist. He shares a glance with his companion, and from the look on her face, he knows they have finally found the raiders’ base.

As quickly and as soundlessly as they can, they advance. While he uses the thick trunks of the pines for cover, Dune huddles behind large shrubs. They take turns moving forward and finding cover. The grunts from the raiders soon turn into murmurings, and the Mandalorian recognizes it as another language rather than Galactic Basic.

After a few minutes, he kneels amongst some thick bushes and tall grass, both of the greenery growing along a small open area. And there, in the middle, are the raiders. So, while Dune slowly makes her way to join him, the bounty hunter surveys the camp.

He recognizes the raiders as Klantooinian, and he counts about fifteen of them wandering their base. Hailing from the planet Klantooine, this species is known for their heavy brows, short canine muzzles, and protruding bottom teeth. In his experience, he has known that their skin color usually ranges from olive green to dark brown; however, these Klantooinians have skin so pale it is almost white. Their muzzles are dark, nearly black, and he spies freckles of the same color peppering their faces.

They have made two large huts made of timber and tarps, and they look well-built and not quickly constructed. There is a makeshift kitchen off to the side of the biggest hut, and he sees fire pits surrounding their encampment, forming a perimeter. Some of the Klantooinians carry blasters while the rest of them own clubs and bow-staffs. However, he does not see any signs of their prized AT-ST.

When Dune kneels beside him, scanning the camp for herself, he murmurs, “They’re Klantooinians.”

“So, you’re familiar with them?” she whispers back.

“They mostly work under the Hutts,” he shares. “Their homeworld’s been ruled by the fat slugs for hundreds of years. They’re known as the muscle for them.”

“And their species is like what? Criminal henchmen?”

“More like slaves. But after the Galactic Civil War,” he quietly explains, “some of them broke away from the Hutts. They were tired of being trapped in servitude.”

“But they still act like criminals,” she observes, pointing at two of the raiders fighting over something he cannot see. “Must be in their blood,” she mutters more to herself than to him.

“Perhaps,” he remarks. He nods at the Klantooinians’ shacks. “Look there. Seems like they’re here to stay.”

“So, I guess we’re going to help the village move,” she sighs.

He begins to retreat from their position and says, “We’re done here. Let’s head back.”

“Never thought you’d ask,” Dune smirks, following his lead.

Once they are out of earshot of the Klantooinian encampment, they both pick up their pace. Time flies by as they retrace their steps, and before the bounty hunter knows it, they are on the outskirts of the village.

“So, are you going to tell them the bad news?” Dune asks him as they stand within the forest’s perimeter, watching the villagers prepare for the evening meal. “Or do you want me to?”

“No,” he replies. “I’ll do it. They hired me first. It’s my responsibility.”

“Fine by me,” his companion says as she moves towards the village. “Can’t say that I envy you.”

As he walks beside her, he shrugs. “It’s not a big deal. I’m just going to give it to them straight. I won’t do them any favors by beating around the bush.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Bad news. You can’t live here anymore.”

The villagers, all gathered together before eating their evening meal, stand in front of him and Dune. His words cause a stirring amongst them. From their mumbling he catches the questions ‘What?’ and ‘Why?’ as they look at them and then at one another.

Next to him, Dune murmurs, “Nice bedside manner.”

The sarcasm in her voice, though serious, has a touch of comradery in it; however, her response reminds him of someone else’s.

“Your bedside manner astounds me,” an Onderonian voice teases him again.

Not being able to push aside his frustration at trying to forget Talia, it bleeds through when he throws at the ex-Rebel, “You think you can do better?”

“Can’t do much worse,” she honestly tells him. Taking up his challenge, she breaks away from him and steps forward. Her shoulders straighten as she addresses the community. “I know this is not the news you wanted to hear. But there are no other options.”

The Mandalorian searches the small crowd for the gifted baby. He finds the little one in Winta’s arms. There is a smile on his green lips, showing his guardian that he does not have a clue as to what is going on with the people around him.

“You took the job,” Stoke tells them, his entire village nodding their heads.

He hears Dune raise her voice a notch, and he can detect a sliver of annoyance as she replies, “That was before we knew about the AT-ST.”

“What is that?” Stoke asks.

The rest of the community seems to be just as naïve as the farmer, but the bounty hunter notices that Omera’s face briefly flashes with recognition at the Imperial walker’s name. However, it disappears in the blink of an eye, and he tells himself that he imagined it.

“The armored walker,” Dune explains, “with two enormous guns that you knew about and didn’t tell us.”

The villagers chatter amongst themselves, their mumblings sounding like a swarm of insects. One of them calls out, “Please! We hired you!”

“You’re supposed to help us,” Caben says.

“We have nowhere to go,” Omera joins in.

Her voice catches the Mandalorian’s attention. She was calm when she spoke up, but as she wraps an arm around Winta, he sees her struggling to keep on a brave face for her daughter’s sake.

As Dune tries to convince the villagers that Sorgan is large enough for them to start over in another area, he looks around at the community, studying their expressions. They are afraid—that much is clear. But not enough for them to leave their homes.

“But there are only two of us,” Dune tries to reason with the people.

“No, there’s not!” Stoke calls out with determination. “There are at least twenty here.”

At Stoke’s declaration, the Mandalorian is reminded of the night before when both Caben and Stoke found him. They had been so jumpy when the Crest’s side hatch opened, making him believe that they, along with their village, greatly lacked a fighting spirit. But now, surveying the tight-knit community as they support Stoke’s claim of twenty volunteers, he finds himself admiring them for deciding to take a stand against their oppressors.

He and Dune together can equal six fighters. If he adds twenty of the villagers, that makes twenty-six. And with that total willing to combat twenty Klantooinians, he figures that they may have a chance to succeed. But once he adds the factor of an AT-ST, he feels the tables turn against him.

“I mean fighters,” he hears Dune counter, which pulls him back to the present. “Be realistic!”

“We can learn!” someone calls out, unleashing a tidal wave of exclamations.

“We can!”

“Give us a chance!”

“Please!”

During their rumblings, the Mandalorian can feel his respect and admiration for these people begin to grow. The villagers had lived simple lives here; they were happy and content, harvesting krill and brewing spotchka. Up until this past year, they have not been given any kind of reason to wield a weapon or to defend their homes. But since the raids began, their families have been living in fear of death and starvation and of watching their children suffer.

He glances at Winta then at her friends, all huddled close to their parents. He knows only too well the fear that grips them and how the body is overtaken by a paralyzing hold during an attack.

His eyes move over to their parents. They must be completely terrified to let their children wander too far from the village or out of their sights. Sometimes he feels the same way whenever the child is not near him. And the gifted baby is not even his blood!

“I’ve seen that thing,” Dune relates, “take out entire companies of soldiers in a matter of minutes!”

Okay, I highly doubt that, he thinks to himself. But he does not counter the woman. He knows she is only exaggerating so the villagers can understand just how deadly the Imperial walker is.

“We’re not leaving,” Omera states, her declaration full of a mother’s bravery and determination.

Immediately, the community is silenced at the widow’s words. She had spoken what is on their minds and in their hearts, and whether she realizes it or not, she had united them. He watches as they all look to her before fixing their eyes on him and Dune.

The former Rebel looks at Omera and says, “You cannot fight that thing.”

Not caring that the presence of an AT-ST stacks the odds against them, the Mandalorian knows he cannot leave this village without trying to help. He does not care that his bounty hunter brain whispers to him that food and lodgings are not worth getting injured or killed for, especially for a bunch of strangers. But their cause is worthy and honorable. They want to fight for their homes, and he has a feeling they will now try to do that with or without him and Dune. He was too young to wage war against the Separatist’s droid army and defend his planet and family. And he could not stop the Empire from trying to eliminate his fellow Mandalorians during the Purge. He can at least prepare these krill farmers well enough so that, when the bandits do return, it will not be a village massacre.

He thinks of Dune’s statement, ‘You cannot fight that thing,’ and he finds himself speaking after minutes of silence.

“Unless we show them how.”

The former soldier turns to look at him, disbelief spreading across her tanned face. “You can’t be serious,” she says to him.

“We just need to get creative. That’s all,” he evenly replies.

Her eyes widen, and she closes the distance between them. “All?!” she nearly hisses, keeping her voice low. “We need a lot more than that, Mando. And you know it.”

Instead of trying to convince her right in front of the people, he steps away from her and addresses the community for the second time that day.

“Dune and I will try to figure out a plan. If we can’t come up with one in two days, then that means there’s nothing we can do. And then, we’ll be leaving. Okay?” he asks them, but he does not give them a chance to respond. He looks over his shoulder at the ex-Shock trooper and says, “Come on.”

Facing forward he strides through the villagers, ignoring their questions and murmurings. He detects heavy boots behind him, and he is grateful that Dune is willing to hear him out—or at least humor him.

He leads his companion away from the gathering and towards the edge of the village. He stops in the general area where the most recent bandit attack occurred.

“What just happened back there, Mando?” Dune demands, joining him. “I thought we agreed it was a hopeless case. What changed your mind?”

He turns his body so he can face her. “We should at least try. You said the mech has two weaknesses: its legs and the visor openings.”

The woman runs a hand through her dark hair as she says, “Well, unless you have a cannon packed up in one of your cargo boxes, we don’t have anything that can destroy, or even damage, the legs. And this ground,” she adds, gesturing to the open area between the village and the forest, “isn’t close to being bumpy enough to make a walker tumble on its chicken legs!”

“Then that leaves us with the visor slots.”

“Oh, yeah?” she scoffs. She crosses her arms and cocks a dark eyebrow at him. “And how do you propose we get close enough to drop a detonator in it?”

He faces the open strip of grass again and waits for two heartbeats to pass before answering, “I’m still working on it.”

Beside him, Dune practically snorts, but she holds her peace.

“Guerilla warfare in the forest is out of the question,” he points out. “It takes nerves of steel and experience to pull it off.”

“Yeah, I know.”

As he expands his imagination to concoct some kind of plan, Dune asks, “Did you figure out where the Klantooinians were hiding the walker?”

“No. But it won’t matter. They’ll be guarding it day and night.”

“So, sabotage won’t work,” she sighs.

He allows his silence to convey his agreement. It gives him time to roll over ideas in his mind. He thinks that, if the farmers were in the lumber industry, he might be able to have them use their expertise in felling trees. They could lure the mech in the forest and have it crushed by a well-timed pine tree falling to the ground at a precise spot.

“How deep do you think these pools are?” Dune wonders aloud.

“No idea.”

Glancing around their vicinity, he searches for a villager and spies an elderly woman cleaning some nets. He walks over to her and says, “Excuse me. Can you tell me how deep your krill pools are?”

The elder lifts up her light gray head and smiles at him. Her face is wrinkled and tanned from working in the sun throughout the years, but he sees a spark of energy in her pale blue gaze.

“Oh, about three to four feet. But that one you’re standing next to,” she says, pointing to where Dune is, “is almost five feet deep.”

“Thank you,” he replies before returning to his companion. “There’s your answer. Why?”

“I was just thinking,” she admits, “that if the AT-ST can walk into it, the bottom might be slippery enough to make it tumble.”

“And the visor slots will be accessible to us,” he adds with an approving nod.

“But it has to fall in, right here.”

Again, he nods. The walker needs to be forced into taking a specific path in order for them to have a shot at damaging it.

“We can have barricades set up,” he suggests, gesturing around him. “They’ll block the surrounding areas.”

“Making them come to us,” Dune finishes for him, and he can hear a smile in her voice.

“We’ll lure them here. On our terms,” he agrees. “And we’ll teach as many of the villagers as we can to defend themselves.”

When he turns to Dune, he finds her slowly nodding her head. She cranes her neck to look at him, and a shrewd smile plays on her mouth.

“Mando, I think we just might have a plan after all.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Over the next several hours, both he and Dune perfect their plan. They relocate to his barn, and they draw up a rough sketch of the village itself, marking the areas where the barricades should go and which krill pool that needs to be dug deeper.

The Mandalorian points out that they will need to designate a safe place for the children and elderly to find refuge in while the fight occurs. After scanning the map, he suggests the barn across the village; it is the farthest building from where they will be taking their stand, and Dune agrees.

Together, they circle an area where they can construct some kind of defensive wall between the village’s perimeter and the krill pool meant as the walker’s trap. He figures the wall can be made up of logs, crates, bins—anything that is hard and thick for the people to stand behind. Dune points out that the villagers who should be stationed there must be the ones with blasters, so they can give the two of them cover fire as they lure the AT-ST out of the forest.

“I don’t have enough blasters to go around,” he shares with Dune.

“Then I guess we’ll have to teach them to fight the old-fashioned way.”

She volunteers to help a team of villagers carve out staffs with pointed ends as makeshift spears. There are a few offensive and defensive maneuvers that she can drill them with, and he does not envy her job. He does not have enough patience to teach one person, let alone a group, on how to fight—which is why he inwardly groans when Dune mentions that he will have to instruct the team of villagers equipped with blasters.

They strategize into the wee hours of the morning, and somewhere along the line, he falls asleep. He is woken up by a gentle hand on his shoulder. When he blinks away the dreams of a woman with long, dark hair, he finds Omera standing above him with a warm smile on her face. She has a tray of food for him and had set it on the table where he and Dune had been planning all night. He looks over to find the ex-Rebel in the position he must have been in only minutes before: shoulders slumped forward with her head buried in her crossed arms. Except, he doubts that his breathing is as loud as her.

After breakfast, he and Dune gather the village volunteers and explain to them their plan of luring the AT-ST into one of the krill pools. They designate four people to work three-hour shifts so they can deepen the small pond, and the job should take—according to Stoke—about a week.

So, within that time, barricades need to be constructed, and the villagers must be taught to defend themselves.

The week flies by. Dune has her hands filled with drilling her teams to fight with their makeshift weapons, and the Mandalorian tries not to feel protective over the blasters that he temporarily entrusts to the villagers.

He is surprised that none of them has any experience firing a weapon, but what stuns him more is that Omera does. Not only does she handle the rifle that he gives her with experienced hands and treats it with respect, but she is also an excellent shot. During the first practice session, about three out of the seven villagers actually hit a pot or pan target at least once. Meanwhile, Omera shoots her goal with several consecutive shots, and she does not miss.

Respect for the beautiful widow deepens within the bounty hunter. He nods at her when she looks at him, seeking for approval. He can feel his mouth go dry at her beaming expression, and his neck heats up. So, he tears his eyes away from her, pretending to find Dune’s training session across the way more interesting than Omera’s glowing smile.

The barricades take up most of the villagers’ time. He and Dune figure that the barriers should be made out of three logs, about eight-feet long, tied securely with rope. The Mandalorian estimates that they will need about two dozen of them positioned in strategic areas so their presence will force the AT-ST down a trail straight towards their trap.

When he or Dune are not teaching the villagers to shoot or fight, they are either out on patrol, keeping tabs on the Klantooinians, or helping fell trees and erecting barricades. Each day is filled with an endless to-do list, and every night the bounty hunter collapses onto his mattress, extremely tired yet anxious for the up-coming fight.

He is glad the child is out of his way during most of the day. Winta and the other children have volunteered to keep the green baby occupied with games and meals so he can work without being distracted. But there are times when the child suddenly appears right next to him and begins muttering a stream of baby-talk. And when that happens, the bounty hunter usually picks up his ward, holding him for a little while, until the village kids come looking for the child.

With his body worn out and his mind focused like it always is when he prepares for a job, the Mandalorian isolates himself from the people around him, except for Dune during the day and the kid at night. Dune is the only person he can rely on and who radiates any kind of combat experience. He finds her to be good company, and he feels himself relax whenever he is around her. There is a comrade-in-arms bond between them, which allows him to open up about some of his bounty hunting missions. In return, Dune shares about her time with the Rebel Alliance. She is a reliable partner in their crusade to protect the village.

However, Dune has a main defect: the inability to hide a smirk every time Omera pays him a visit, reminding him to eat.

“What?” he bluntly asks after the widow leaves.

“Nothing,” the ex-Rebel says, covering her smile with a gloved hand.

Naturally, he does not believe her transparent lie, but something tells him not to press the matter. Yet, near the end of the week he ignores his instinct and insists that Dune explain herself.

“What’s with the look?”

“Nothing,” she insists.

“No, it’s something. Out with it.”

Dune rolls her eyes at him. “I was just thinking that, well, Omera’s pretty attentive to you.”

“She’s my hostess,” he dismisses.

“Well, I say she’s going above and beyond looking out for you.” When he says nothing in response, she adds, “And then . . . I’ve noticed that you keep staring at her whenever she’s around.”

His body tenses at her observation because . . . she is right, though he does not want to admit it to himself. He does watch Omera with a fond and interested eye. From the way she carries her rifle, with such ease and familiarity, he suspects the widow has had some battlefield experience. But he has been either too busy or too tired to ask her about her past, and he tells himself he will have time after they destroy the AT-ST.

Omera intrigues him—that much he will acknowledge. He finds her quiet strength to be . . . attractive. Her hard-working, motherly nature is something he can respect, and he cannot stop his eyes from wandering to her. But there is no way Dune can possibly know that. His helmet, and more specifically his visor, prevents her or anyone from seeing where his gaze lands and for how long it lingers.

When he studies the ex-Shock trooper’s face, he catches a gleam of hope in her brown eyes, making him realize that she said what she did just to provoke a reaction from him. Yet her observation has pushed him into a corner. He knows he cannot deny her remark since it will confirm it, but there is no way in all of Mandalore will he admit it.

After a few seconds of weighing out an appropriate response, he says, “Didn’t take you as the type to stir things up. Getting bored already, Dune?”

The woman cocks an eyebrow at him then shakes her head. When she walks away, he feels his body relax. However, her words echo in his brain, reminding him that he cannot allow himself to get distracted by a widow as beautiful as Omera. Nor can he get flustered by remarks as uncomfortable as Dune’s.

No, he has to focus on their plan to destroy the AT-ST and fend off the bandits. Nothing at the moment should matter. He must wrap his mind in a wall of Beskar and focus it on the task at hand.

“This is the way,” he murmurs to himself, choosing to exchange a plate of food for a quiet patrol around the village.

Chapter Text

Chapter IV: From Beroya to Verd

Today is the day, the day he and the entire village have been waiting for. With nearly a week of preparation, of countless drilling, the Mandalorian has to force himself to believe that he has done everything he can to ensure that his and Dune’s plan will be successful.

While he is carrying the baby to Omera’s hut, Dune is supposed to be checking their defenses one last time. When the two of them leave in the next several minutes, Winta should be taking his ward to where the rest of the children and a few of the elders will be huddled together during the upcoming fight with the bandits. Omera, meanwhile, has instructions to wait with the rest of the community at the defensive wall outside the village.

The bounty hunter is greeted by Winta, who eagerly takes the baby into her arms. The little one coos as she carries him further into her humble home. His guardian rests his arm at the hut’s entrance and leans forward, just enough for him to peer inside. Immediately, he spies Omera putting away her dinner items. When she notices him lingering at her doorway, she walks over to him. He takes a step back as she stands less than two feet in front of him.

“The sun is about to set,” he informs her. “We’ll be leaving soon. When we return, we’ll be coming in hot.”

She nods at him, her face serious yet still kind. He notices that her tone sounds brave when she says, “We’ll be ready.”

In a matter of seconds, her words twist and morph into a phrase quite familiar to him; it is one he will never hear the same again after meeting a certain half-Mandalorian.

“I am ready.”

Dune appears, stopping his brain from dwelling on the saying. He and Omera turn to the woman in green armor. She sends him a nod, and he knows it is time for them to begin the first stage of their plan. Anxious to be on their way, he walks over to his fellow soldier, not even bidding Omera a ‘good luck.’

As he follows Dune out of the village, Omera’s words—about her and the community being prepared when they return—haunt him again. The phrase ‘I am ready’ plays over and over in his mind. He would never have known that it was the maxim of a Mandalorian Clan had he not met Talia. When she explained the meaning behind it, how Clan Kex would respond to Ordo’s call with one voice, admiration for her group’s dedication had stirred within him. He remembers when he felt a chill run down his arms just hearing it.

In the few minutes it takes for him and Dune to walk through the village, his mind is flooded with memories of his former companion from Cholganna. If he is being honest with himself, he has not given Talia much thought this past week. After all, his mind has been preoccupied to the point of exhaustion. But now, as he briskly leads the way to the raiders’ camp, he cannot stop thinking about the Onderonian woman.

Beneath his armor and tunic, he can feel her ring bobbing up and down with every step he takes. It has become a constant sensation since the jungle planet, and he has gotten used to it hanging from his necklace so much that he hardly notices its presence anymore.

Like always, the black gold band is warm, heated from his body. Yet at the moment, it feels heavier for some reason. He raises a gloved hand and presses it to his chest, trapping the ring between his hand and himself. He knows he has to return it at some point—a task, he is certain, is the real reason why Talia had given it to him in the first place. It was such a clever, politician-like move that he has not been able to find it within himself to be angry at her.

“She’ll be fine,” Dune whispers to him as they trek through the forest.

Unexpectedly pulled from his thoughts, the Mandalorian wonders if she had said something beforehand. But after assuming that she had not, he ventures by asking, “Who?”

“Omera,” she prompts as if it was obvious. “Something tells me she can handle herself.”

“I think so, too,” he flatly says, not sure where this conversation is going. “Why tell me this now?”

“Because you’ve been quiet since we left,” the ex-Rebel states. “I know talking isn’t your thing. But it’s the way you’re not talking. Just figured you’re worried about her.”

“Well, I’m not,” he admits before striding ahead of her.

Dune likes to give him a hard time where Omera is concerned, so there is no way he is going to share that he has been remembering a completely different woman since they left the village. He would never hear the end of it. Besides, there are things about him and Talia that should be kept between them—Mandalorian honor and all that.

“Whatever you say,” Dune comments when she catches up to him. He detects a smirk in her voice, and when he glances in her direction, he does indeed find one stretching across her mouth, despite the fact that the sun has almost disappeared in the west.

Not wanting for her to delve deeper into his rapport with his hostess, the bounty hunter scrambles for something to misdirect his companion’s attention.

“I was just thinking,” he lies, “that if we keep up this pace, we’re going to get there before nightfall.”

“You want us to slow down?”

“To stop,” he tells her.

When Dune comes to an abrupt halt and gives him a quizzical look, he swallows a huff. He keeps his tone even as he explains his obvious reasoning.

“We need the cover of darkness so we can get close enough to blow up one of their huts. We won’t be able to pull it off if we’re caught.”

“So, why don’t we just get there now and lay low until it’s dark enough?” Dune crosses her arms, and he suspects the action is her way of disguising how anxious she is feeling.

“And risk getting caught? I don’t think so.” He looks around them, searching for the fallen pine tree; he has used it as a three-quarters marker from the village to the Klantooinians’ camp. Once he spies it up ahead, he points to it and says, “We’ll stop here and wait. Just until the sun goes down.”

“Fine,” she mutters, sauntering to where he suggested. “I’ll look out to our rear. You take the front.”

As Dune settles on the dirt with her back to the fallen tree, he kneels behind their cover, propping his elbows on it. Together, they wait, the crickets and the nocturnal rodents keeping them company.

Nothing out of the ordinary happens in the next few minutes, so he retrieves his Mythosaur skull pendant and Talia’s ring when he thinks Dune is not looking. The two Mandalorian symbols seem dull in the faded sunshine, as if life itself had been drained from them. The Mythosaur skull seems more brutal than normal in this light, radiating discipline and death. But it also reminds him that honor and glory can be found in battle, even one as small as their future clash with the raiders. He must give his all and have a warrior’s heart if he wishes to succeed.

His gaze sweeps over to Talia’s jewelry. He has not seen the black and purple ring since before he landed on Sorgan over a week ago. As he stares at it, he is still blown away with the trust that Talia has in him to keep her ring safe and to return it to her on Onderon.

Above him, the sky is turning darker. With the sun almost vanishing into the horizon, taking its light away, he studies his two pendants again before stuffing them back underneath his tunic.

While doing so, he hears Dune retrieving her blaster. He cranes his neck to the side just long enough for him to watch her fiddle with her weapon. Glad that she is not planning to use it right now, he faces forward again. After a minute or so, he hears the ex-Rebel holster her blaster.

He is grateful she has his back as they fulfill this heavy undertaking for the krill farmers. Her experience in battle during the Rebellion is something that he not only can rely on but also trust in. A walking arsenal like him, Dune is qualified in hand-to-hand combat, various weapons, and battle strategy. If her powerful punches will not help them win this fight, then he figures her quick thinking will.

Somewhere along the line he has come to trust her instincts, and he believes that very same trust is returned. The soldierly bond between them will be tested as they are plunged into this up-coming scuffle; however, he suspects that, when the smoke has cleared, he will stop referring to her as an ally but as a friend.

His mind then wanders back to Talia. She was an unknown variable when they first met, but while the Nexu attacked them on Cholganna, their ruby-colored eyes fixed on devouring the child, she did not hesitate to protect the gifted alien alongside him. The bounty hunter had felt a unique alliance with her during that conflict with the vicious felines. And discovering her Mandalorian roots just solidified that alliance even further. Besides, it was refreshing for him to be around someone who shared and understood his adoptive culture. But this and their mutual interest in the child were not the only links that grew between them. There was something else about Talia that intrigued him. Maybe it was because she always seemed to be shrouded in some kind of mystery.

The idea reminds him of Omera. He had thought she was merely a widow and mother who lived as a krill farmer. Well, her sharpshooter skills with a rifle says otherwise. Not for the first time he wonders how she had gotten to be so good of a shot. Perhaps she, like Dune, has some wartime experience. Or maybe she is simply a natural.

However, hitting stationary targets during a practice session does not mean she is a good fighter. Tonight’s defense of the village will test her, and he hopes that whatever happens will not unload too much baggage on her. Omera is caring and thoughtful and gentle. A battle like the one they all will be facing soon, though small, will steal of some of her innocence, replacing the gap with a kind of hardness that takes time to soften again. A part of him wishes she would stay with the children and elderly during the skirmish, but he knows the village needs as many fighters as they can get. Besides, Omera is just as determined to protect her home like the rest of the able-bodied farmers.

Of course, he does not feel concerned about Dune in the same way he does with the widow. The ex-Rebel can handle herself. Yet it strikes him as odd that, if Talia was here, he would not be protective of her either, even though she hails from his Creed—which can be reason enough.

During the short time that he has known the Onderonian woman, he learned a lot about her skills and her past. She revealed to him that she had fought in the Clone War, and right when he believed he had figured her out, she claimed to have done covert missions for the Rebels. He was impressed with her talents at swordplay, shooting, and hand-to-hand combat. Her quick instincts, her shrewd mind, her sharp senses—all were finer than anyone he has ever met. Knowing this had given him comfort when their backs were pressed together as an unfamiliar transport ship descended upon them in the middle of their Fighting Circle.

Despite their differences and quarrel, Talia had set them aside and had become a companion whom he could look to as a friend. He just did not realize it until she was forcibly driven out of his life. He wished—and still does—that she was more straightforward about herself like Dune has been with him. And yet, he finds himself missing that trust between fellow Mandalorians. Deep down, he actually would like for her to also have his back right now.

“It’s dark,” the ex-Shock trooper announces, interrupting his thoughts.

Dune does not wait for him to reply. Instead, she rises to her feet and hops over the fallen pine tree. He follows her as she takes the lead, glad her back is to him; it gives him a moment of privacy so he can violently shake his head. It is a weak attempt to clear his thoughts, but it helps. He should not be evaluating the three most recent women that have entered into his life, especially not when he is about to start a miniature war campaign.

Stay focused, his mind rebukes him.

After a few minutes, he and Dune approach the Klantooinian camp. They huddle behind a thick tree, confident that the night will cloak their presence.

“You okay?” his companion whispers to him.

“I’m fine,” he quickly murmurs. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You seem . . . off.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats, feeling his jaw clench. “Let’s get this done.”

“Whatever you say. After you,” she jokes, gesturing the way forward with a gloved hand.

Shaking his head, he pushes himself away from the tree. His pace is quick as he leads them through the short distance to the Klantooinian encampment.

The first stage of their plan is fairly simple. They need to sneak into one of the raiders’ shacks, removing any lookouts getting in their way. Once they slip inside, he will plant a detonator, and then the two of them will high-tail out of there. They are hoping the explosion will anger the raiders just enough for them to chase after them with their entire gang and their AT-ST in tow. Then, he and Dune will lure them back to the village for an unexpected surprise.

Here goes nothing, he thinks as he and his companion set their sights on two Klantooinian sentries guzzling spotchka.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Well, the detonator had been set, and the hut exploded in a mushroom cloud of fire and freshly brewed spotchka. He and Dune were unexpectedly discovered and had come across more resistance than they were planning, but they had both escaped unharmed.

As they recover from the explosion, their chests making impressions into the rich Sorganese soil, the Mandalorian silently congratulates them for ridding the village of seven raiders so far.

“I hope the plan worked,” he hears Dune exclaim as she catches her breath.

The second after he glances at her, a loud creaking noise cuts through the night. Still on the hard ground, they turn to his left and see two blood-red eyes shining in the dark, glaring at them. The Mandalorian feels his muscles tense; he rises to his feet just as the two-legged walker reaches its full height. Why does it suddenly look taller than its supposed thirty feet?

“Go! Go!” he shouts at Dune. He is already running in the opposite direction of the machine.

His heart hammers in his chest like a drum as he tries to put as much distance as possible between himself and the AT-ST. Behind him, he can hear Dune’s boots pounding into the ground. As he runs, he makes sure to keep his arms in front of him, hoping he will not slam into a tree. Maybe they should have provoked the raiders while the sun was still up.

Bright red laser bolts screech through the air. They whiz past him and Dune like bees. When the shots hit the ground or trees, the impact results in more explosions, giving him enough light to avoid tripping and colliding with nature. His breaths become shallow, and every time he hears the AT-ST firing at them, he is both relieved to see his surroundings light up yet terrified that the next shot will kill him or Dune.

Speaking of his companion. Right now, she is still alive, a fact that fills him with reassurance. She grunts whenever a laser bolt finds contact with anything around them, and it is the only way he knows that she is behind him, running for her life.

His body switches to automatic pilot mode while it directs him back to the village. For the past week, he has patrolled this area so much that he can do it with his eyes closed—almost. So, he allows his mind to briefly assess his current situation: he and Dune have covered more than half the distance to the village; the AT-ST is shooting at them consistently; and when he spares it a quick glance over his shoulder, he notices that the cannon stationed at the walker’s front side is the only weapon firing. Knowing that the other two cannons are probably out of commission gives him a small comfort. That means the odds may be tipping in their favor. All that he and Dune need to do is stay alive so they can lure the walker into their trap.

“Almost there!” he shouts, hoping his companion can hear him.

“It’s slowing down!” she replies, her comment making him realize that the mech has also stopped firing on them.

Still, his legs continue to run. A trickle of sweat glides down his back, and he tries to regulate his breathing. He hears shouting in a different language and several sets of boots a few meters behind him. He realizes that the Klantooinians are not only pursuing him and Dune but are also gaining on them. The AT-ST must be decreasing its speed so it will not be too far ahead of the remaining bandits.

“Keep going!” he calls out to Dune. “They’re coming after us!”

Seconds later, they break through the forest and sprint across the strip of open land. As Dune passes him, taking lead, he notices that a mist has covered the field, its wispy presence fleeing from them. He can see the pointed barricades above the fog, and he hopes the villagers do not get too trigger-happy and mistake him and Dune for the raiders.

“This is it!” she shouts to the farmers when they both join them behind their defensive wall. “Once that thing steps in the pond, it’s going down!”

Grabbing his sniper rifle, the Mandalorian peers over the barrier. He notices that the crickets have stopped chirping and that the rest of the nightlife is eerily silent. Then, he hears muffled footsteps in the distance, getting closer with each passing second. Beneath him, he can feel the ground vibrate, and he knows it is only a matter of moments before the AT-ST appears.

“Weapons ready!” Dune orders.

He points his rifle forward, focusing on the tree-line, but he sees nothing. His ears pick up the sounds of branches snapping and metal feet stomping. He knows the walker must be plunging through the forest, its metal body indestructible as it carelessly breaks the branches in its way. The ground vibrates even more, and then, the Mandalorian catches sight of two red eyes glowering in the tree-line. Around him, the villagers whisper and shush one another when they see the AT-ST burst through the forest. With heavy steps, it stalks towards their position, right down the path leading to their trap.

“Just a few more steps,” he mutters to Dune. A chill of excitement surges through his blood; their plan is on the verge of succeeding.

The mech is less than a yard away from the deep pool. It marches towards them and is about to take the final step when it suddenly stops. It tilts itself forward, probably giving its drivers the chance to look down. Whoever is controlling the vehicle must see the pond below because it refuses to go any further. Instead, it stares at them with its red eyes, making the distance of one hundred feet seem even shorter.

Come on, you worthless, metal shabuir*! he silently barks at the walker.

(*pronounced: SHAH-boo-EER; translation: the extreme insult of “jerk” but much stronger)

“It stopped,” Dune says beside him, disappointed yet also frustrated. He can sense tension radiating from her body.

The Mandalorian looks around him, checking to see how the rest of the villagers are holding up. His gaze fuses with Omera’s, and he wonders what is going through her mind.

Suddenly, the AT-ST turns on its spotlight.

“Get down!” he shouts in a hushed tone to the villagers. “Get down!”

As he ducks behind their barricade, the walker’s silvery light cascades all around them. It scans the area in front of it, moving its light from left to right. The Mandalorian inwardly groans. Their element of surprise is slipping from their fingers with each passing second as the AT-ST is more than likely observing the village’s new fortifications.

When the walker starts firing at them, the Mandalorian does not even flinch. He had been expecting it. The villagers gasp and shout at the onslaught, but Dune, sounding like the seasoned war veteran that she is, orders them all to hold their positions. A moment later, the AT-ST stops shooting, which gives him a chance to peer over the barricade. He hears a faint grunt coming from the mist-covered field. Dark figures are running towards them, and he realizes that the raiders have finally caught up with the walker.

With weapons raised the Klantooinians launch an assault on foot. Their shouts of attack sound more like growls and grunts, and the Mandalorian counts at least fifteen of the bandits.

“Open fire!” Dune commands the villagers, and they obey, unleashing a maelstrom of laser bolts slicing through the darkness.

Time speeds up as he and the community fire at the raiders, but the mech is still giving them trouble. There is no way in Concordia for them to win unless they can eliminate the AT-ST.

“We gotta get that thing to step forward!” he shouts over the din to the ex-Shock trooper.

“I’m thinking!” she grits out, her brows furrowed. “New plan!”

“What do you have in mind?” he quickly asks. He is amazed she concocted something so fast.

“Give me the pulse rifle,” she orders, turning to him.

Without question, he hands over his most prized weapon. When she takes it, determination in her eyes, he says, “I’ll cover you.” But he has no idea what she is planning.

Dune darts from behind their barricade and heads straight for the walker. The Mandalorian fires at a Klantooinian raider nearing the ex-solider and hits his mark. Meanwhile, the AT-ST shoots at Dune. It misses her because she jumps into a nearby krill pond and uses its edge as her new cover. Then, she turns around, points his rifle at the walker, and shoots it right in its face. It is an incredible shot, and the Mandalorian feels his respect for her increase. He holds his breath when he sees the AT-ST take a step forward, its feet so close to the deep pool.

All around them the villagers are attacking the raiders with blasters and makeshift spears. Humanoid shouts are greeted with Klantooinian grunts, and the Mandalorian does his best to take out as many of the bandits as he can while still supporting Dune with cover fire as she plays a few rounds of hide-and-seek with the AT-ST. She shoots at the walker; it fires back and steps closer to the trap.

“Take the bait, you hunk of junk,” he mutters under his breath, watching the AT-ST still standing tall on solid ground.

It is only after Dune fires a shot at the walker’s visor does it take one final step that plunges it into the krill pond with a loud crash. Immediately, the Mandalorian pulls out a detonator from his belt and races toward the fallen AT-ST. He bypasses laser bolts from both the raiders and the walker, determined to see his part of the mission through. His heart pounds in his chest as he runs up the metal vehicle and tosses the detonator in the open section of the walker’s visor.

With his task complete he scrambles away from the AT-ST and takes cover in the same pond where Dune is hiding. Seconds before the detonator explodes, he plunges into the water, its depths colder than he expected. His neck can feel the heat from the blast, and his ears are close to bursting from how loud the explosion is.

As he huddles beside Dune, his senses recovering from the detonation, he registers shouts of victory coming from the farmers. He hears someone declaring that the raiders are on the run, and he sighs in relief. They did it. Though the odds were against them, they came out as the victors.

Turning to Cara, he jokingly asks her, “Is that the plan?”

With her dark hair dripping with water, she laughs. “Something like that.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The villagers are ecstatic at their victory. They are lighting up torches and carrying lanterns so they can see who has survived the fight.

As the Mandalorian walks around, assessing the area, the villagers race up to him, clapping him on the shoulder or shaking his hand with thanks. He believes he has received more back pats in one night than he has in his entire life. Words escape him as he tries to figure what to say and what to feel. Most people scurry away whenever they see him, but this past week staying with the villagers, training and protecting them, has given him a glimpse of what life could be like living with those who trust him. So, he smiles behind his helmet, glad that he chose to remain on Sorgan and help the farmers despite the risks. If he had walked out on them, his Mandalorian honor would never have left him alone.

“I guess we did a pretty good job, huh Mando?” Cara stands beside him, grinning. Like him, she is soaked to the skin due to their unexpected dip in one of the krill ponds.

“Well, most of the credit should go to you,” he warmly replies.

“Let’s call it a team effort then,” she offers, extending a damp hand to him. He accepts it with a nod, and they give each other a friendly squeeze before dropping their hands.

“We did it!” Omera exclaims as she jogs up to them. Her lose hair drapes over her shoulder, and the smile she gives him is breath-taking, glowing with hard-earned victory.

“You kept your head out there,” Cara congratulates the widow. “Good job.”

“And you were amazing,” she says before giving the ex-Rebel a hug. Cara chuckles at the affectionate embrace and returns it.

The Mandalorian simply watches them, but his eyes turn towards the huts standing tall beyond the women. He wonders if his ward is safe with the rest of the children. Just when he is about to find out for himself, he is suddenly accosted by Omera who decides to give him a spontaneous hug as well. The one-sided embrace is so quick that his body does not even have the time to tense up.

“I’m sorry,” Omera quietly apologizes. She hides a shy smile as she takes a few steps backwards.

“It’s fine,” he awkwardly says, clearing his throat. He notices that Cara is pretending not to watch them, and she is doing a poor job in maintaining a straight face. He doubts she will let this go.

“I need to go see Winta,” Omera announces suddenly. With a smile to them both, she turns around and disappears into the night.

“We need lookouts,” he tells Cara once the widow is gone. He does not want to give her a chance to tease him, not when there are things that need to be taken care of first. “We can’t let this victory make us drop our guard. Just in case the Klantooinians decide to strike again.”

“They wouldn’t dare,” his companion scowls. “But you’re right. How about two teams made up of five volunteers?”

“Sounds good. We’ll do four-hour watches until dawn,” he figures, glancing back at the village huts. “And I’ll go on patrol tomorrow morning. Early. I want to know the status of the surviving bandits.”

“I doubt you’ll find anything, but if that’s what you want to do,” she tells him, shrugging her shoulders, “then I won’t stop you. I’ll set up the watch teams. But you,” she smirks as she claps him on the back, “go check in on your kid, okay? I know you’re dying to make sure he’s all right.”

Though he is not ‘dying’ to see the child, the Mandalorian is itching to find out if the little one is indeed safe. So, he nods his thanks to Cara before saying, “I’ll take the first shift. You deserve some rest after improvising the plan.”

The woman grins at him. “I won’t say ‘no’ to that.”

He gives her a final nod then makes his way to where the children and elderly have been kept safe. As he strides deeper into the village, he can hear Cara barking out orders to the villagers who had fought the raiders.

That woman’s a born soldier, he thinks as he joins a group of parents heading in the same direction as he is.

Despite the villagers’ happy chattering filling the atmosphere, he can still hear the Sorgan nightlife return back to normal. There is a sense of peace despite the boisterous activity, and something inside his chest hums with pleasure. Instead of being the cause of discord like his bounty hunting job usually makes him, he had helped bring about this sense of peace. Tonight, he had fulfilled his promise to the village, a promise he made the moment after he and Cara had perfected their plan to destroy the AT-ST and to rid the krill farmers of the bandits. He was not a beroya¹, risking his life for money and prestige. No, he was a verd² who sought to defend those who were not able to defend themselves, including the child. He did not run away, nor did he hesitate when the time came for him to act. His Mandalorian roots gave him the courage and the tenacity to see this daring campaign to the end.

(¹pronounced: bair-OY-ah; translation: “bounty hunter”)

(²pronounced: vaird; translation: “warrior”)

Tonight, he had made his Tribe and the members of his Creed proud, a thought that straightens his posture and broadens his shoulders.

“This is the way,” he whispers to himself as his pace quickens.

Chapter Text

Chapter V: A Quiet Life

The day after the village’s victory over the Klantooinian raiders is filled with cleaning up. The destroyed AT-ST is dragged away from the krill ponds, its burnt and warped metal scrapped for parts. The villagers throw more dirt into the deepened pond that was used to trap the walker in, and the barricades are torn down, the lumber set aside for firewood and other purposes.

While Cara helps out wherever she was needed, the Mandalorian leaves the village and makes his way back to the raiders’ camp. The trek is shorter than he remembers, and when he arrives, he finds nothing except remnants of the shack he and Cara had blown up the night before. The Klantooinians had abandoned the other hut, and he follows their tracks through the Sorganese forest for half a mile before deciding to stop. He guesses about seven of them had survived their assault on the village, but he doubts they would be foolish enough to attack again.

When he passes through the camp on his way back to Cara and the farmers, he peeks inside the remaining hut, curious to see if there is anything valuable inside. As his gaze sweeps across the wooden shack, he discovers that the Klantooinians had left two spotchka brewers with the blue liquor still fermenting in them. He figures their former owners had been in too much of a hurry to leave the night before that packing up the brewing machines was not worth it since there were only seven of them left.

Well, they’re spoils of war now, he thinks with a smirk. Since the farmers also brew spotchka, he has a strong feeling they will welcome additional machinery.

Quickly, he returns to the village and shares with them of his find. And he was right: they are excited to have new machines to brew spotchka in.

So, over the next hour, he revisits the bandits’ camp with Stoke, Caben, and their repulsorlift speeder in tow. When they arrive, it occurs to all three of them that the brewers are so large that they can only transport them one at a time. The krill farmers’ enthusiasm of getting new machines replaces any annoyance the Mandalorian has in needing to make a third trip back to the camp.

Yet by the day’s end, while he is sipping a cup of spotchka, he is glad fortune had favored the village for the second time that week.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Despite the fact that the raiders are gone, the Mandalorian still goes out on patrols around the village. He checks the perimeters every morning and hikes through the surrounding forest in the afternoons and sometimes, if he is feeling particularly restless, in the evenings.

For the first couple of days, Cara shakes her head and tells him he is wasting his time. But by the middle of the week, she discovers that the reason why he keeps up a patrol routine is because he needs something to do. He has no fear of a counter-strike from the Klantooinians; if anything, he is afraid of going bored out of his mind.

He smirks when Cara ends up joining him. And soon, they decide to each go on patrols at different times throughout the day.

What helps to fight off boredom is spending time with the village men. About half of them approach the Mandalorian and Cara, asking the two to give them further lessons in hand-to-hand combat.

“For future purposes,” Caben explains. Although he is the spokesman, the Mandalorian suspects that it is Stoke who had put this up to his friend.

“Why not?” Cara asks him, shrugging her shoulders. She lowers her voice as she adds, “It’s not like we have anything else to do.”

And she is right. If he is not cleaning the grooves and capsules of his blasters or following the child around, he is aimlessly wandering the village.

So, he and Cara teach the men, and some of the women, new fighting techniques. They even spar in front of the farmers, showing them how to utilize the combat moves they have taught them. Cara sometimes gets too enthusiastic in her punches, and he will walk away from their spar with sore joints and developing bruises. But he cannot find it in himself to get angry at her; she seems restless for a real one-on-one fight.

Also, the two of them instruct the farmers on how to patrol their village.

“Is this really necessary?” Stoke asks. He and his group are following the Mandalorian during one of his patrols.

“He means,” Caben says, “nothing out of ordinary really happens here.”

“You don’t have to scout the forest every day,” the Mandalorian explains. “Just enough to know when something changes.”

“Like what?”

“Like if bushes have been trampled on,” he states. “Or if there are footprints in the dirt. Or if someone, or something, has been lying down in a small pile of pine needles or overgrown grass.”

When a few of men nod their heads in understanding, he shows them more signs to look for. The task is not as hopeless as he thought. Some of the villagers hunt large rodents and a type of deer native to Sorgan, which means they have the skill to track. The Mandalorian decides to focus on those villagers more, indicating to them that patrolling is similar to tracking.

The villagers have good hearts and good intentions, and he admires them for wanting to keep their homes and families safe. So, he does his best to prepare them for future problems. He just hopes that, when he eventually leaves Sorgan at some point, his and Cara’s training will be exercised and not forgotten.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

His second week with the village allows him to watch the community bring in a krill harvest. The Klantooinians had stolen their previous yield nearly three weeks ago, but the farmers are excited that their next batch of the freshwater crustaceans have matured and are ready to be gathered.

The Mandalorian walks around the ponds where most of the people have congregated. Their bodies are hunched over the water as they use their nets and baskets to scoop up the brightly colored krill. The children run around their parents, giggling and splashing water at each other. He smirks when a little boy accidently trips over Caben’s legs, therefore sending the man head first into the pond.

Caben gasps at how cold the temperature of the water is, and the little boy responsible for the accident apologizes to him over and over again. Like an understanding parent, despite the fact that he is not one, Caben tells the boy not worry. As he wades to the edge of the pool, he shoos the child away, encouraging him to go play with his friends. The farmer is about to crawl out of the pond until the Mandalorian points at the man’s head. Quickly, Caben touches his head, and his eyes widen when he realizes that his green head-wrap is gone.

“Over there,” the Mandalorian says, pointing to where the hat is floating across the pond.

Automatically, Caben dives after it, splashing the other farmers kneeling at the pond’s edge. The man reaches for his head-wrap, but his movements push it further out of reach.

“I got it, Caben,” Omera laughs as she plucks the hat from the water.

Hearing her light-hearted response gives the Mandalorian a half-smile. Omera, on her knees wringing out the soaked head-wrap, is chuckling. The sun shines down on her, making her long hair glow. She offers Caben his hat with a kind smile, and the farmer thanks her at least three times.

When he puts the head-wrap back on, he does not get out of the pond. Instead, he wades through it to the other side, an action that makes Omera hide a giggle behind her hand. She glances at the Mandalorian with lifted eyebrows, and he shakes his head in amusement.

For most of the day, he has been lingering around Omera’s designated ponds while she harvests her krill. But it is only because the child is nearby, playing with her daughter. Winta sometimes helps her mother by passing her items, and his ward trails behind the little girl like a doting puppy. The Mandalorian does not want to spoil the child’s fun, so he leaves him alone. Besides, he does not mind catching Omera’s warm smiles and occasional laughter.

At the end of the first harvest day, he is cleaning his blaster pistol with a red rag. He is outside, sitting on a crate. The sun is close to setting in the west, and the community is putting away their dinner items. But Cara is with him, doing the same with her pistol, and so is Stoke and Caben. The two farmers are mending their krill nets for the second day of harvest.

As the Mandalorian disassembles his weapon and removes any build-up of dirt and grime, he thinks about life on Sorgan. More specifically, here in the village of krill farmers. It is a quiet and safe place for parents to raise their kids. The community cares for one another, helping when and where they can out of the goodness of their hearts. Now after some combat training, they can defend themselves and ward off any trouble.

He is amazed at how peaceful the farmers are and how content they seem living here. The planet itself is pleasant with its pine forests and cool temperatures. Though he has not been staying on Sorgan for very long, he has learned from the village that the climate is fairly steady with no severe weather changes like snow, extreme heat, or heavy rainfalls. The planet is deep in the Outer Rim, and nothing interesting seems to happen here. He is willing to bet that most people bypass Sorgan since it is a real backwater world.

It’s a good place to hide, he figures as he runs his rag across one of his blaster’s cylinders. And the kid likes it here.

He thinks of how happy the little one is, playing with Winta and the other village children. The child fits right in, but his guardian does not. Farming, whether raising krill or growing fruits and vegetables, is not the life for him. The people here do not have a restlessness for action simmering in their blood, not like he does. He is a Mandalorian bounty hunter for Concordia’s sake. People from his Creed have been nomadic for hundreds of years, and they had returned to that kind of living after the Purge.

Perhaps they were not meant to plant roots in the first place. Roots mean getting comfortable, compromising tradition. Their culture teaches them to be strong, to fight, and to uphold their doctrines. They are warriors until death claims them. They always have been, and that is all they can ever become.

But some do have families. He just never thought of having one himself. He did not believe any kind of paternal instinct could be found in him. Yet, that was before he met the gifted baby. At any sign of danger, his first thought is to protect the little one at all costs. The baby is his top priority; however, the Mandalorian thinks that he has grown too fond of his ward and his pointy ears.

The kid is innocent and needs to be looked after, and he does not believe he is the right person to raise him. He can offer no stability to the infant. He is no nursemaid, nor is he able to provide the necessities that a child requires. He is a bachelor and intends to remain one. The idea of settling down, of finding a wife or companion, is foreign to him. Besides, he cannot see himself making a home where he can watch the kid for the rest of his days. He would get bored. Though bounty hunting is not the best job in the galaxy, he has learned to be content with it. It controls his warrior instincts and keeps both his mind and body occupied.

He glances around himself. His three companions are chatting with one another, and the village is quiet for now. He should probably check in with the kid before it gets dark in a couple of hours.

Before he can stop himself, he releases a sigh. If he is not trailing after the green alien, then he is either making sure he is fed or is asking the villagers of his ward’s location. Perhaps he is not meant to be a parent, let alone a guardian, to the pointy-eared alien. If he is being honest with himself, he longs to be free again. He does not want—and has never asked for—the responsibility of being the baby’s caretaker. He is not a father, and the alien is far from being his son.

The kid can have a home here, he muses to himself, figuring that the village and Omera can look out for him. Though it is an idea to consider, he knows better than to rush into it.

“How long have you two been friends?”

Cara’s voice breaks into his thoughts. As he re-assembles his blaster, he glances at Stoke and Caben.

“Since we could walk,” Stoke answers, his dry fingers tying up a hole in the net he is working on. “We’ve lived here all our lives.”

“And you guys don’t have families of your own?” the ex-Rebel presses with a surprised look. “Two hard-working farmers like you?”

Caben chuckles at her teasing. “Well, no one will want Stoke, here. He snores like an engine and makes a mess at mealtimes.”

“I don’t snore that loud,” his friend says to Cara.

“I keep telling him to be quiet,” Caben continues as if Stoke had not said anything. “I live next door to him. And I can’t concentrate on my data-files at night.”

The man with long hair throws the net he is working on at Caben. Cara chuckles at this, and the Mandalorian shakes his head.

“This guy here,” Stoke explains, “is too busy reading to even want to settle down. But,” he lowers his voice conspiratorially, “the only time his nose isn’t buried in a datapad is whenever Omera walks by.”

The gossip makes the Mandalorian’s ears perk up. Pretending not to seem interested, he simply holsters his pistol and waits for Stoke to delve further into this topic.

“Really?” Cara asks, sitting across from him. “Did you know that, Mando?” She quirks her eyebrows at him, and thankfully, neither of the farmers catch it.

“That’s not true!” Caben interrupts, finally freeing himself from the net. He throws it back to his friend.

“So, you don’t think she’s attractive?” Cara asks.

“I didn’t say that.”

The Mandalorian smirks underneath his helmet and says, “Kind of sounded like you did.”

“N-no,” Caben replies, dropping his eyes. He then begins to fiddle with the basket he was mending a few minutes ago. “Omera . . . she’s . . . well, she’s nice.”

Stoke barks out a laugh. “Is that all you can say about her?”

When the man with the head-wrap sends his friend a glare, the Mandalorian feels the corner of his mouth raise into a half-smile. The men and their reactions have been most entertaining.

Caben elbows Stoke and says, “Well, what about you, Mr.-I-Can’t-Talk-Whenever-Omera-Is-Around?”

“Hey, it’s better to say nothing than to go on and on about the latest culture you’ve been studying.”

“So, neither of you have made a move?” Cara asks, waving a hand to each of the farmers.

The awkward silence that follows is enough to tickle the Mandalorian’s humorous side. Stoke tries and fails to meet Cara’s gaze, and Caben looks as if he wants his hat to swallow his red face.

“Well,” Cara announces, “one of you better make a move before someone else catches her attention.”

She then stares straight at the Mandalorian with a knowing smirk, and he wants to walk away from this conversation entirely. But he forces himself to stay where he is; he does not want to show the woman just how uncomfortable her comment is making him.

“Really?” Stoke asks, interested. “Like who?”

Before Cara even has a chance to think of hinting at the farmers, the Mandalorian speaks up. “Does the fact that Omera’s been married before and has a kid bother you?”

“No.”

“Course not,” Stoke chimes in. “Winta is adorable.”

“Well, at least it’s not that,” the ex-Shock trooper says, snapping the last piece of her pistol together. “It could be for some men. How about you, Mando? Would it be a deal-breaker for you?”

His muscles tense at the question, and he glares at the woman. Thankfully, neither of the farmers seem to be putting her verbal pokes together, so the Mandalorian simply answers, “These guys have the jitters, that’s all.”

“I’m not afraid,” Stoke declares, though his shaking hands tell them otherwise. “I just don’t want to say the wrong thing.”

“Maybe a little,” his friend quietly admits.

“See?” the Mandalorian insists, glancing at Cara. He does not want to be prey to any more of her teasing, so he rises to his feet and sweeps his gaze across the village. “I’m going on patrol,” he announces, which earns him surprised looks from them, including the ex-soldier.

With that, he strides away from his three friends, heading straight for the forest. Behind him, he can hear Stoke and Caben bickering about who should mend the last net. Their voices begin to fade as he crosses the open plain, and he shakes his head at them. The men have a strong friendship, and he is amazed that their interest in the same woman has not torn them apart. But they both are good-natured and have even temperaments; he doubts anything can breach their bond.

For the next few minutes, the Mandalorian wanders the forest. He had done a patrol earlier that afternoon, so completing one now is unnecessary. There is nothing new to capture his attention, and he doubts there ever will be again on this side of the planet.

Still hoping to avoid any kind of teasing from Cara, he lingers in the forest and eventually sits down on a fallen log. He feels his Mythosaur skull pendant rub against Talia’s ring, so he pulls out his necklace. The black and purple ring twinkles in the light as the sun’s rays stream through the towering pine trees.

As he gazes at it, he wonders if his Onderonian friend has cleared herself of the spice charges. It has been over two weeks since he last saw her on Cholganna, which should be more than enough time to set things right. Her rival, Bezden Cass, seemed fairly determined to undermine Talia in their endless political game.

“I’m going to enjoy taking you back to the palace . . . And I’m going to do it even if I have to drag you by your precious braid.”

Those were Cass’ words, and he still feels hatred for that skinny, puffy-lipped coward. He remembers the slap that the Onderonian man had given to Talia, his topaz ring imprinting itself on her tanned skin. Cass was lucky he was restrained at the time, or he would have shown the cowardly lackey the consequences for hurting a fellow Mandalorian without just cause.

“That’s the second time I’ve seen you look at that,” a voice suddenly penetrates the quiet, wildlife humming.

He turns his head and finds Cara appearing from a hedge of bushes and shrubs. His muscles tense at being caught off-guard, and he is tempted to quickly stuff the ring away and dismiss her observation. However, he suspects that she will just make an even bigger deal of the ring than it really is. So, he forces himself to remain still as Cara walks closer to him. He sees her brown eyes survey Talia’s jewelry with interest, and she nods at it.

“Looks expensive. Bounty payment?”

He tries to sound more informative than irritated when he says, “I’m holding onto it for someone.”

She cocks an eyebrow at him. “A woman?”

He wants to shake his head at her persistence, but instead, he tucks his necklace back underneath his tunic. His first response is to give Cara no response and simply walk away, but that seems rude to him. The woman has become his friend, and dismissing her in that way feels dishonorable.

“A credit for your thoughts?” Talia’s voice echoes in his ears. “You really should open up more. At least a little.”

The Onderonian is right. He should let Cara in despite the fact that he knows she will bombard him with questions and probably mention Omera at some point in her teasing.

Well, maybe I don’t trust her that much, he thinks, deciding to give the ex-Rebel the barest minimum of information.

“A friend,” he flatly says, rising to his feet. “I have to return the ring to them.”

“Really? What kind of friend?” she asks, and there is no mistaking the tease hidden in her voice.

“A Mandalorian,” he replies as he begins to move again.

Behind him, he can hear Cara say ‘oh’ in surprise, and he smirks that his answer had that effect on her.

“From your Tribe?”

He walks around a thick clump of prickly bushes before answering. “No. Another one.”

“I assumed that after you said ‘no’,” he hears her mutter under her breath. “So, what’s her name?” she calls out, still following him.

A part of him wants to ignore her question, yet he figures he may as well share just a little more.

“Kex,” he says over his shoulder. “Their name’s Kex.”

“Touchy,” she mumbles.

About a minute passes, with him leading her to the end of his patrol. He hopes her curiosity has dwindled, but when he hears her delve into another topic, the one he had fled from less than half an hour ago, he swallows a sigh.

“So, the boys both have a thing for Omera.”

He climbs up a rock formation overlooking the village but says nothing.

“I don’t think she’s interested in either one of them,” the woman comments nonchalantly, but he doubts she is as uninterested as she is pretending to be. “What do you think, Mando?”

“If she wanted to find someone,” he replies, “then she would have by now.”

“Well, maybe she has. But maybe,” Cara says as she stands beside him, “she’s just waiting for a specific guy to make a move.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her tilt her head. He can feel her eyes looking up at him expectantly, and his neck begins to warm up.

“Or maybe she can’t move on from her husband,” he throws in, hoping the remark will get her off his back.

“Did she tell you that?”

No, his brain answers for him, but he holds his tongue.

When he turns around, he notices Cara eyeing him suspiciously. He climbs down from the rock formation, and he can hear his companion following him again.

“I find that hard to believe,” she shares with him. “I mean, you’d have to be blind not to notice that she’s always looking at—”

“I’m going to double-back to the raiders’ camp,” he interrupts. He figures a long trek away from her for an hour will be enough for her to drop the subject.

“Why?” she almost chokes out. “You said they’re gone. What’s the point?”

To get away from your teasing.

“I just want to be sure. Tell Omera and Winta that I’ll be back to pick up the kid in about an hour.”

He can hear Cara protest, but it does not stop him from striding further into the forest. Teasing is an element of friendship that he is neither familiar nor comfortable with—at least, not yet. So, the only thing he can think of in order to handle this new aspect is to retreat. Perhaps he will get used to it.

“But not now,” he mumbles under his breath.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

By the beginning of his third week on Sorgan, the Mandalorian has found a routine to keep him occupied. He wakes early before most of the farmers and goes on patrol around the village. Sometimes, the child is up at the same time, and he allows the little one to accompany him. When they return, Winta takes the child to her hut so she can give him breakfast. Omera pays him a brief visit, carrying a food tray for him. They exchange pleasantries before she sets his meal on the table so he can eat in privacy.

In the afternoon, he and Cara spar with a couple of the villagers, drilling in them basic fighting techniques. On certain days, he will take some of them out for another lesson in tracking and patrolling.

A little after early evening he reunites with the gifted baby who has been entertained by the other village children. He feeds his charge then wanders the village with him trailing behind him. When they get back to their barn, the sun has disappeared behind the forest’s tree-line. The community’s activities begin to quiet, so he puts the baby to sleep and waits for Omera to bring him his dinner.

One evening, after the widow hands him his food tray, he is reminded to ask her about her sharpshooting skills. She is standing over the child’s cradle, checking up on him like any mother would do. He clears his throat, and Omera glances over her shoulder, looking at him expectantly.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he quietly begins. “Where’d you learn to shoot so good?”

Her smile falters half a centimeter, which he finds interesting. She presses her lips together before walking away from the child’s crib. With quiet steps, she joins the Mandalorian near his table.

“I used to fight with the Rebellion. With my husband, Kaedan,” she softly confides to him, and he inwardly kicks himself for bringing up the subject. “I came here after he died,” she continues, her expression sad yet not overwhelmingly so. “He was killed on Scarif.”

“You met during the Rebellion?” he asks.

She nods. Her eyes are distant, but her lips form a fond smile. “I was infantry, and he was a pilot. Our paths just . . . crossed.”

And that explains why she can handle a blaster, he thinks. He had heard some of the villagers praising Omera for issuing orders during their fight with the raiders. They said she was calm and sounded like she knew what she was doing. Omera had shyly backed away from the compliments, her humility impressing him.

“I was working in intelligence when Kaedan fought on Scarif. Winta was barely one,” she explains, her gaze fusing with his. “We wanted at least one of us to be somewhat out of harm’s way, which is why I transferred to intelligence in the first place. But after Kaedan died, I didn’t want Winta to lose me, too.”

“So, you left the Rebels to raise her,” he finishes with an understanding nod.

“Yes. I came here,” she sighs contentedly. “And it’s peaceful for the most part. Except for the raiders.”

The fading light from the widow enhances Omera’s dark hair. Her tanned skin is smooth, and his eyes linger on her warm smile.

“You, uh,” he clears his throat. “You have a nice home here.”

“Yes,” she says, dropping her gaze. She nervously wrings her hands together. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Cara was in the Rebellion,” he mentions, though he does not know why. Everyone in the village knows this. “You two should swap stories,” he lamely adds.

“I better not,” Omera answers. She looks at him again, and he inwardly winces at her response. “I try not to think about that part of my life. Except for my husband. I don’t want Winta to feel like she can’t ask about her father.”

“I get that. About not thinking on it. On fighting,” he clarifies, and he hates how uncertain he sounds. What is the matter with him today?

Omera lightly chuckles at this, but it is not out of ridicule, which makes him feel better. “I’ll leave you alone so you can eat,” she says with a smile.

When she turns to the door, he quickly calls out, “Thank you. For the food.”

After she leaves, he reprimands himself for stumbling over his words and for probably sounding like a fool. Why does he act like this whenever he is around the widow? He has come across beautiful women in the past, but he has not struggled to find the right thing to say before, not like this.

He thinks about how his neck warms up when Omera looks at him with admiration and kindness. And how uncomfortable he feels when Cara sends him pointed looks or teases him about the widow. He remembers the times when he finds himself staring at Omera whenever the sun shines on her hair or when she laughs. He can identify her figure from afar off, and he likes seeing her interact with Winta and the child. There is just something about her that appeals to him. She is a hard-worker and a generous hostess. Raising her daughter, alone and on a new planet, must have been a challenge for her, but she has persevered over the years. And she seems to have found some happiness with Winta here on Sorgan.

Perhaps he has allowed himself to enjoy her company too much these past few weeks. Fondness of her has grown more than it should have, including this quiet life amongst the krill farmers. Maybe it is time for him to move on after all. Yet, he feels as if he has just barely rested himself, both his body and mind. The idea of being on the move again already seems to tire him out. He may need another week or so to feel completely refreshed. Then, he will leave.

But what about the baby? his brain reminds him.

He glances at the child sleeping soundly in the crib. He knows he cannot uproot him from one planet to another whilst juggling bounty hunting. Being a nomad at such a young age is unfair; it is no life for a child, no matter how gifted. But the Mandalorian cannot see an option that allows him to continue bounty hunting with the child in tow. His line of work requires zero distractions, and the alien will only get in his way. He cannot watch him all the time.

No, his best option for the little one is to let him go. And the longer he waits in leaving, the harder it will be for him to detach himself from his ward.

As he sits down at the table, his dinner steaming in front of him, he decides that he should leave the kid here on Sorgan and in Omera’s care. The widow has already expressed to him how much she and Winta enjoy having the baby in their lives, so he believes they will not object to having his charge be a part of little their family.

The Mandalorian needs to move on, to be free again. Above all, it is time for him to travel to Onderon. He needs to return Talia’s ring and deal with their Fighting Circle. In their challenge, the child’s custody was at stake, but since he plans to pass it over to Omera, there is no point of the Circle itself. Because he is altering the terms of the challenge, he will have to withdraw from it, an idea that makes his stomach twist. He can already feel his Mandalorian pride taking a hit, but he knows it cannot be helped.

He then thinks of the life debt that he owes to Talia. If he had won the challenge, he would have been cleared of the debt. No, he determines as he removes his helmet so he can eat. I’ll just have to find another way to pay it off. He only hopes that Talia will not be furious at him for leaving the kid here.

Depending on how much influence and authority she still has on her planet, she may throw him in prison or demand to know where he left the little one. But either way, he has to remove the debt hanging over his head. Maybe he can make a deal with her. He can swear service to her for a few months or so; he is even willing to extend it to no more than a year. And once he is done, he can come back to Sorgan and check up on the kid.

“But promise me you’ll look out for Vandar,” he remembers her asking him before they parted ways. At the time he had said something like he did not have to promise her because he had already done so to himself.

Well, he has so far, and he intends to keep on doing it. Leaving the kid in caring hands and in a safe environment away from bounty hunters is his way of protecting him. No one will find the child on Sorgan, and he tells himself that his promise does not mean he has to be with the kid as if they are bound to the hip.

This has to be the way, he firmly resolves, feeling his blood harden like Beskar.

Chapter Text

Chapter VI: A Time for Everything 

Well, he has not left Sorgan yet. Instead, he is wrapping up his fourth week here, but he cannot seem to extract himself from the child, from the village, from Omera, and even from Cara Dune. For the time being he has quieted his restless spirit and exchanged fighting urges for long treks through the surrounding forest.

So far, the krill farmers have improved in their training and patrolling, a fact that makes the Mandalorian proud. Also, Cara has tampered down on her teasing so much that he hopes she has forgotten it entirely—which is why he allowed himself to open up to her about why he sought sanctuary on Sorgan.

Over a week ago, she had asked him what had drawn him and the child to the planet in the first place, and he did not see any reason why he should not confide in her. So, he told Cara his story; however, he purposefully omitted mentioning the Imperial warlord who had hired him to find the child. Being an ex-Rebel, he is certain she would not have appreciated the idea that he had willingly took a bounty with ties to the fallen Empire. Much to his relief, she did not press him for details nor asked many questions.

Glad that her teasing has practically disappeared, he feels their comrade-in-arms bond has solidified. He is relaxed around her now, and there is a sense of reassurance —and even peace—in knowing that she has his back. Cara is one of the few people he has met that he respects and trusts enough to call a friend.

However, the subject of her teasing still lingers in his thoughts. Omera is as kind and as generous as ever, and his attraction to her neither grows nor diminishes. He has tried to compartmentalize himself where she is concerned, which he thinks he is being successful at. He catches himself from staring at her too long, and he tries not to seek out her smiles. Nor does he encourage shared looks between them. He is polite and tries not to go out of his way to talk to her. There is a feeling of accomplishment in knowing that he has managed to reign in his attraction fairly well, if he does say so himself. But he knows that staying in the village longer than he should is only asking for him to start caring about the widow and her well-being even more—which is why he has secretly packed up some of his belongings for a quick exit.

After much deliberation he has decided that it is time for him to take his leave of Sorgan in the next couple of days or so. No one has noticed that his meager, personal effects have been stashed away in his cargo boxes, but someone may catch on. And he wants to tell two particular people of his plans before he is discovered. What he has been doing these past few days is trying to figure out the best moment to inform an ex-Shock trooper and a certain widow.

And that opportunity presents itself one early evening.

The Mandalorian is leaning up against a hut, his gloved hands clasped in front of his belt. A few yards away from him is the child interacting with Winta and the other village children. He can hear the kids’ laughter break through the quiet atmosphere of the community, and he feels his lips curve into a half-smile at how fascinated the child seems at whatever his playmates are giggling about.

On the other side of the hut, off to his right, is Cara. She is reclining in her seat as if she does not have a care in the world. Omera emerges from the humble building and hands the ex-soldier a cup of freshly brewed spotchka. He watches the women exchange smiles, but when Omera turns to him, he straightens his posture just slightly.

“Can I set you something in the house?” she asks him like the thoughtful hostess that she is.

“Um, thank you. Maybe later,” he answers as cordially as he could.

The children’s laughter rises a notch, catching the widow’s attention. As she glances over her shoulder at them, he can hear her say, “He’s very happy here.”

Knowing she is referring to his charge, he replies, “He is.”

Omera faces him again, a warm smile on her lips. “Fits right in.”

When she walks away to finish her farming duties, he gets the feeling that she had been referring to someone else other than the child.

Before he can think further, Cara’s voice breaks the silence.

“So, what happens if you take that thing off?”

He glances at her, finding curiosity etched in her expression. Her question reminds him of yesterday after he finished patrolling with some of the villagers. Caben had walked beside him on the trip back to the settlement and asked him about a few Mandalorian customs. The farmer hinted that he had not come across in his reading the reason why people from his Creed keep their helmets on. Cara had been a part of their patrol group, and she must have overheard their conversation. The Mandalorian had given Caben a concise answer, saying that wearing the helmets upholds their culture and shows everyone outside of their Creed that they are united.

“They come after you and kill you?” Cara asks him, interrupting his thoughts.

His memory reminds him of the debate he had with Talia back on Cholganna. Being a half-Mandalorian herself, she had insisted that removing his helmet was not a crime, nor was it something to be ashamed of. But he had disagreed and told her why his Tribe enforced this doctrine. It had felt strange to him seeing first-hand Talia’s argument demonstrated when her old friend, Ryk’ken, took his helmet off so easily as if it was a habit.

“No,” he finally replies to Cara as he looks back to where the green baby is huddled with the village children. At first, he thinks of leaving it at that, but he decides to give her an answer similar to the one he had shared with Talia. “You just can’t ever put it back on again,” he adds, keeping his voice devoid of any emotion.

The seconds tick by in silence until Cara exclaims, “That’s it?”

When he cranes his neck to briefly study her, he catches disbelief in her eyes at just how simple the concept sounds to her. He is not surprised that she does not understand.

“So, you can slip off the helmet,” she begins with astonishment, “and settle down with that beautiful young widow?” She raises her cup, pointing it in Omera’s direction. “And raise your kids, sitting here sipping spotchka?”

He shifts his head a little, not knowing what to do at the uncomfortable and awkward feelings this topic is punching him with. Warmth heats up his neck and spreads to his ears. His body wants to squirm underneath her gaze, and he is tempted to walk away from Cara and find a private spot in the forest so he can take off his helmet and allow the trees’ shade to cool him down.

When she finishes her speech, he turns to her, giving the ex-solider a pointed look. She meets his gaze, but even she cannot compete for very long against a cold, Beskar helmet staring at her point-blank. Victory drives away his agitations as Cara breaks eye-contact and focuses her attention on her drink instead. She has said her piece, which is—he believes—the reason why she faces forward again and takes a sip of her spotchka.

As he takes in the village scenery before him, he tries to figure out how to broach the topic that has been weighing on his mind these past few days. He needs to justify his decision in wanting to leave Sorgan, and it has to sound logical and not emotional in Cara’s ears.

“You know, we raised some hell here a few weeks back,” he begins, sending her a glance. “It’s too much action for a backwater town like this. Word travels fast.” He nods at the quiet village, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees her nodding in agreement. “We might wanna cycle the charts and move on.”

A heartbeat passes before Cara says, “Wouldn’t want to be the one who’s gotta tell him.” Still holding a cup of spotchka in her hand, she uses it to point to the child.

It’s now or never, he thinks, trying to harden his resolve.

“I’m leaving him here.” He pauses, and his mind scrambles for a sensible explanation. “Traveling with me . . . that’s no life for a kid. I did my job,” he states, his tone clipped and to the point. “He’s safe. Better chance at a life.”

Staying here and not being with me, he inwardly finishes.

Sharing with Cara about the bounty on the kid’s head is paying off, he tells himself. She has not asked him why he is allowing the little one to stay in this peaceful village, nor is she arguing against his decision. But neither of those facts are convincing an unsettling feeling that has suddenly taken up residence in his gut. Why is he doubting his choice right now? He had been fine with it earlier.

“It’s gonna break his little heart,” Cara quietly remarks.

“He’ll get over it. They all do,” he replies, wincing at how obvious it sounds that he is trying to convince himself of this. But he straightens his posture, determined to stand by his decision.

“So, where’ya gonna go?” his friend asks him as she sets her cup down.

“I have some business in the Inner Rim that I have to take care of.”

“That’s pretty far away,” she comments, and he can imagine her cocking an eyebrow at him. She stands up from her seat then briefly stretches her arms above her head. “Which planet?” she asks while moving to stand next to him.

Trusting her with his plans, he admits, “Onderon. I have to return this.” His gloved fingers fish out his necklace, and he pulls out Talia’s ring for her to see.

Cara seems taken aback at this piece of news. Her forehead wrinkles as she says, “Seems like a lot of trouble for a small piece of metal.”

“Well, I don’t trust anyone else to deliver it,” he states, tucking the ring away underneath his armor and tunic. “But there’s something else I have to deal with.”

“Your Mandalorian friend, Kex? He must be one rich guy,” she remarks as she crosses her muscled arms in front of her. “Does he know how inconvenient this is for you? I mean, if it was my friend, I’d have him meet me at least halfway.”

The ex-Rebel referring to his friend as a man does not go unnoticed by the Mandalorian. Though, he is not sure if she seriously believes it to be true or if this is an attempt on her part to find out more information. Either way, he wants to set the record straight—even if that means he has to reveal more of his personal business with her.

“She,” he corrects. He keeps his face straight, but he can still see her in his peripheral vision.

Cara’s eyes widen at the revelation, and her brows rise. Soon, she schools her expression and says, “No wonder you were touchy about this.”

The remark sends red flags in his mind, and he is about to correct her again. But she drops her arms and raises a hand at him.

“Wait. Is that why you won’t stay here?” she asks. “Why you won’t settle with Omera?”

“No,” he quickly answers, his voice sharp. “It’s not like that. None of it.”

“You do know Omera only has eyes for you, right?” she throws at him, obviously ignoring his response. “And it’s looked like you’ve enjoyed being around her, too. I mean, a lot.”

Hoping to get ahead of her, he admits, “Omera’s been generous. And she’s been a good hostess. But I don’t see her in the way you think that I do.”

Cara smirks at him, and her brown eyes gaze at him suspiciously. “Come on, Mando. You can’t tell me you haven’t been tempted to, you know,” she prods, wiggling her dark eyebrows, “plant some roots with her. Brew some serious spotchka . . .”

He shakes his head at the woman, not sure whether to laugh at the idea or release a frustrated huff. Who knew that Cara Dune, a former Rebel Shock-trooper, enjoyed playing match-maker?

“You’re imagining things,” he retorts, walking away from her.

“Whatever you say, Mando,” he hears her call out to him.

After a few paces he glances over his shoulder and sees Cara striding towards the edge of the village. Since it is early evening, he knows that it is her turn to go on patrol, which is very convenient for him. He has every intention of taking advantage of her absence. While she is wandering through the forest, he is going to find Omera and tell her of his plan. He is confident that the widow will make an amiable guardian to the child. He should have no worries when he travels to Onderon over the next few days. He just hopes that a certain half-Mandalorian will understand and respect his decision to leave the child here on Sorgan.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He is leading Omera away from the nearby villagers. And he is nervous. He had asked her if he can speak with her, and now that the time is approaching, he is unsure of how to broach the topic.

The kid, he settles. I’ll focus on the kid first. She’ll understand.

Ready to delve into the conversation, he turns around and faces the beautiful widow. She is looking at him expectantly, and his mouth suddenly feels dry.

“It’s very nice here,” he blurts out, lamely gesturing to the village and the people behind her.

A second later, he kicks himself for repeating a similar observation that he had said to her about a week ago. He barely registers Omera’s quiet ‘yes’ and the nod she gives him. His thoughts are fixated on the child so much that he plunges into talking about him.

“I think it’s clear he’s . . . he’s happy here,” he begins.

Before he can elaborate, Omera asks him, “What about you?”

The question throws him off-guard. His busy mind comes to an abrupt stop, and he echoes, “Me?”

No one really asks him how he feels about things or even if he feels at all. He assumes it is because he is never in one spot for too long for people to ask him. It will not surprise him if most believe him to be this cold, calculating Mandalorian who only cares about himself and how many credits he can acquire. They will never think that he holds a great affection and respect for his Tribe and its members, for the foundlings they raise, and for the child he saved. Talia had been the first one to figure out that he has grown protective and fond of the gifted baby, and as of right now, this entire Sorganese village knows it, too. Including Omera.

As he stares at the woman, perplexed, he slowly realizes that she has seen past his armor, a perspective that only a handful have been able to accomplish. She stares at him with keen eyes, trying to reach the man underneath. A large part of him wants to keep on hiding behind the smooth Beskar while a small part is curious to know what it feels like to expose himself to someone, to trust the person so completely that he can bring down the walls he protects himself with.

“Are you happy here?” Omera presses him, her gaze gentle.

Silence engulfs the space between them as he stares at her. Happy? When was the last time he was happy? Well, that is an easy answer. It was when he was a kid, when his parents were alive, when they lived in peace before the Separatist Army invaded his homeworld. But after all of that had been stripped away from him, after he was adopted by the Mandalorians, he still had not been able to feel that same sense of happiness. Sure, he has felt content as he adjusted to his new lifestyle. But happy, here? He admits that he is pleased Omera’s village is quiet and seems safe. He is glad that he found a planet where he had the chance not to only rest but to also find a friend like Cara Dune. And he is pleased that he met Omera. She has stirred within him sentimental feelings that he thought long dead, and he is grateful to her.

“We want you to stay,” the widow reveals, and he tilts his head to the side, surprised at her words. “The community’s grateful. You can pack all this away,” she refers to his armor and blaster. “In case there’s ever trouble.”

His automatic response to her innocent suggestion is to shake his head in disagreement. Omera does not understand what “all this” means to him. But then, how can she? She is not familiar with his culture and their traditions. No, he cannot do it. Weapons are a part of his life. If he bleeds, his blood will be silver like pure Beskar. Fighting has been a major part of him since he was ten years old. He cannot hide who he is by stashing away his armor, his Mandalorian heritage.

But then . . . He surveys her soft expression and her smooth skin, and he feels his neck warm up. Maybe he can do it. After all, he is not a Mandalorian by blood; fighting has been pressed upon him and not bred into him genetically. He was someone else before Death Watch saved him. Maybe he can have what his parents had, can actually achieve what they had been denied: a long, happy life free of danger, with a family growing around him.

“You and your boy can have a good life. He could be a child for a while,” Omera continues. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

He knows what she is implying. Rather than jumping from planet to planet, being denied the joys of youth, his ward can be around fellow younglings and play from dawn to dusk. His eyes veer over Omera’s shoulder and sees the child with Winta and her friends. They are all so happy right now, so innocent. The little one can have what he did not: a carefree childhood. The Mandalorian had to grow up so fast because of the Clone War, a fact that forms a lump in his throat. It is unfair to deny the child that.

“It would,” he replies, distracted by his thoughts, his voice sounding strained even in his own ears.

Slowly, he focuses his attention back on Omera. She is such a gentle and kind person. If he had not been raised by Death Watch, he easily can imagine settling down with someone like her. Her life on Sorgan is simple yet filled with joy as she raises her daughter. The love she gives Winta is endless, just like the kind that she would give to a husband. Her hard-working attitude, laced with affection, is desirable in any partner in life, and he admires her for it.

With his thoughts swirling in his mind like a swarm of fireflies, he barely notices Omera placing her hands on his helmet.

In a split second, he sees a glimpse of what a life with her beside him may look like. He will have a beautiful wife shouldering everyday burdens with him, a sweet adoptive daughter to protect, a gifted son to raise, a comfortable home to emerge from each morning. Life will be . . . peaceful. Contented.

But he then feels his blood surge with a restlessness that he is all too familiar with. His shoulders begin to suddenly feel heavy with the responsibility of settling down, and it is almost too overwhelming for him to handle.

No, this life is not meant for him. He cannot imagine not being able to don his Mandalorian armor like a second skin, nor can he fathom a time when his pistol is not strapped in his belt and within reach. If he did as Omera asked, if he hid his armor away, he could never wear it again without feeling guilty for taking it off in the first place.

Sensing his helmet lift up a centimeter or two jerks him back to the present. Soon, he lays his hands on each of Omera’s wrists, stopping her. She freezes, and he pulls his helmet back down. His hold on her wrists is gentle yet firm as he lowers her hands. Even with his gloves on, he can feel her pulse beating in her wrists; it is quick and steady beneath his fingers.

“I don’t belong here,” he tells her, his gravelly voice quiet. “But he does.”

“I understand,” the widow says.

As they look at each other, he watches her eyes search across his helmet. But from the way they seem to dim with disappointment, he knows her gaze cannot even come close to penetrating the Beskar. Perhaps she does not truly see the man underneath the armor like he had thought.

“I will look after him as one of my own,” she promises him, putting a brave face on.

“Thank you. For doing this. For him,” he adds.

“Will you visit?” she asks him. “To see if he’s doing all right?”

“Every now and then.”

He is about to say more when the sound of a blaster shot rings through the evening air. Instinctively, the Mandalorian spins around and pushes Omera behind him. Like lightning he yanks out his pistol and points it in front of him.

“Go get the kids!” he orders the widow.

After he feels her move away from him, he races in the direction of the shot. He crosses the open field in record time and plunges into the forest. In seconds, he spies Cara’s broad figure a few meters near the edge of the tree-line. As he approaches her, he sees that she is standing over a smoking corpse, her blaster still pointed at it. When she glances at him, he notices that her face is hard like a soldier having just completed an assignment that sickened their stomach. He quickly surveys Cara and is relieved that she looks unharmed.

He fixes his eyes down at the lifeless body and then holsters his pistol. The person’s clothes and weapon remind him of a bounty hunter, but it is hard to tell when all he can see is the back. So, he uses his foot to turn it face-forward. Quickly, he identifies the body of a Kubaz bounty hunter. This sentient species has a long snout, dark skin, and very sensitive eyesight, which requires them to don protective eyewear.

Hiding underneath the body was a tracking fob. The small device is softly beeping and blinking red, and he snatches it from the ground. He had hoped never to find one on Sorgan.

“Who’s he tracking?” Cara asks him while she holsters her weapon. Even though she is aware of the bounty on the child’s head, he has a strong feeling she is wondering if maybe he has one on him, too. But he doubts it.

“The kid,” he answers, gazing in the direction of the village. He can see it in the distance, and based on the sniper rifle that the Kubaz had with him, he knows how easily it would have been for the bounty hunter to find his target with the scope and pull the trigger.

“They know he’s here.”

“Yes,” he says as he cranes his neck so he can look at her. His chest is pricked with sadness and disappointment. So much for his plans.

“Then they’ll keep coming.”

He breaks eye-contact with his friend, drops the tracking fob, and breathes out, “Yes.” Then, he crushes the fob between his boot and a flat rock, destroying it into worthless scrap metal.

“I guess you’re not leaving the kid here then, huh?”

“I can’t. Not after this.” He turns to her. “Thank you. For this.”

“Hey, don’t mention it,” she says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ve been trained to take out scum like him.” She steps aside and eyes the dead bounty hunter. “I’ll take care of the body. You go tell everyone they’re safe, okay?”

Nodding, he walks around the Kubaz and is about to head back to the village when Cara’s voice stops him.

“Sorry your plan didn’t work out like you wanted. But . . . I’m glad you’re going to keep him with you.”

His back had been to her, but he glances over his shoulder. From her neutral expression he knows that she is not teasing him or telling him that his plan had been a bad idea. She is just being honest, which he is grateful for.

“You were meant to find him,” she adds. “And you’re meant to protect him.”

“I don’t believe in Fate,” he flatly replies.

Cara shrugs her shoulders. “Well, maybe you should.”

As she carries out her task of ridding the forest of the bounty hunter’s body, the Mandalorian stalks back to the village. A quiet, Onderonian accent whispers on the wind and murmurs to him, “You will.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Telling the village that they did not need to worry is easy. Revealing to Omera that the child is in danger and that both he and the little one need to leave the next day is harder than he had expected. But saying good-bye to the community is surprisingly not that difficult.

As Stoke’s repulsorlift speeder carts him and his charge away from the village, he does not regret leaving the krill farmers behind. He spies Cara’s figure in the distance. She disappears into the forest, wandering to who knows where. He truly did appreciate her offer of escorting them back to his ship; he would have enjoyed her company for as long as he can. But there is no need to drag her along with them. A part of him thought of asking her to join him, like he did with Kuiil; however, since Cara wants to lay low and remain on Sorgan, he pushed aside his proposition. Besides, he doubts she will want to go to Onderon.

“Until our paths cross,” she had told him before they parted ways. Although he still is not a believer in Destiny, he would not mind running into Cara again.

The speeder carries him and the kid farther and farther away from the villagers. Most had come to see them off and wish them well, but now they are returning to their everyday lives. All except for two lone figures.

He recognizes them as Winta and Omera. The little girl had been so sad when she said ‘good-bye’ to the green baby. She gave him a tight hug before standing beside her mother.

Omera was more reserved in her farewell, especially to the Mandalorian. When he had walked over to her, to take his leave, he really did not know what to say or how to say ‘good-bye.’ They just stared at one another. He noticed that she looked at him with a brave face, silently telling him that she did not want him to leave. He felt guilty for packing up so quickly, but he knew it could not be helped. It was best for the child and for her village if he left as soon as possible.

When the figures of both mother and daughter blur out of sight, the Mandalorian shifts in his seat and faces in the direction in which the speeder and its droid driver are taking him and the kid. It had been a time for farewells, but now is the time to move forward.

With the krill farming community behind him, he begins to formulate a plan. He figures they will reach the Crest about an hour after dusk. Instead of spending the night onboard his ship, he decides to leave the planet the moment he is able. Two territories and a lot of Inner Rim worlds separate him from Onderon, and he hopes he has enough fuel to reach it. If he does not run into any problems, he should arrive there in no more than five days.

A sad cooing reaches his ears, and he glances at the child. The little one’s pointy ears flap down. He raises his big brown eyes, and the Mandalorian can see sadness in them.

“It’ll be okay,” he assures him. “We’re not going to be alone for long. It’s time for us to see an old friend.”

The kid frowns at him and waddles further into the speed, obviously not believing nor understanding him. So, his guardian calls out to him but is ignored.

“Hey, you little womp rat,” he tries again, hoping the nickname will work. When it has no effect, his brain scrambles for a new tactic. An idea pops into his head, yet a part of him grimaces at it. Before he scraps the idea altogether, he blurts out, “Vandar.”

At this, the child’s ears perk up. He turns his small body around, his eyes wide with recognition. Maybe he will use the name more often just as long as he gets the little one’s attention that quickly.

“We’re going to see Talia,” he reveals. “Remember Talia?”

It takes a few seconds for his words to sink into the child’s brain, but when it does, a slow grin spreads across his green lips. And any sadness the Mandalorian had seen in his ward’s gaze has disappeared in the blink of an eye.

Chapter Text

Chapter VII: The Twist of Fate

Paths crossing.

Meant to be.

Destiny.

Fate.

The concept has kept on popping up ever since he rescued the child. First Talia mentioned it, then Omera, and finally Cara Dune.

He has refused to believe in its existence because, if it is real, Fate must have some kind of personal grudge against him. For ten years he had lived peacefully with his parents, but Fate schemed against him, turning his entire world upside-down.

Life was dismal for him despite being adopted into a new family. If Fate truly is this amazing thing that people keep insisting it is, then of all cultures to take him in, why the Mandalorians? His no-nonsense buir¹ with her discipline and training exercises were not the best coping mechanisms after losing his blood-parents. He should have been enjoying the pleasures of childhood with kids his age rather than being taught a warrior’s lifestyle with them. They were drilled into knowing the art of war, instructed in the ways of the Resol’nare², told not to show any signs of fear no matter the situation.

(¹pronounced: boo-EER; translation: “mother”)

(²pronoucned: RAY-sol NAH-ray; significance: Six Actions, the tenets of Mandalorian life)

If Fate is there, then it has sentenced him to a hard life. It does not matter if he is grateful to the Mandalorians for saving him. They rescued him from the B2 battle droids. They took him in, not Fate.

Nothing can tell him what to do or how to live his life. Sure, luck may come in and help him in dire situations, but that does not mean it is Fate’s doing. No, he walks his own path. It just so happened that his collided with the child’s. Yet even that encounter should not have been possible if certain events did not happen.

First, he got help from Kuiil, a queer fellow who was surprisingly very cooperative and hospitable. The Ugnaught showed him the way to his quarry’s location, free of charge. Although the Mandalorian is certain he could have found the place without any outside help, he admits that he was grateful of the service that Kuiil willingly provided. After all, it had made the journey to his bounty not only faster but also easier.

Then, he zeroed in on the youngling, who had been kept safe at a compound crawling with a small army of mercenaries. It would have taken the Mandalorian precious time and creative planning to storm the place all on his own. But he was not shy of a challenge; he could have done it alone, a fact that he still stands by even now.

Yet he ended up not having to seize the compound by himself with just his blasters and gadgets. Moments after scoping it out, an IG assassin droid entered the picture and helped him eliminate the mercs. Though he did not trust the droid as far as he could throw it, he selfishly took advantage of the assistance and ended his truce with the IG unit when it benefited him to. Besides, he really did not want to share custody of his bounty despite the fact that it was a green-skinned, pointy-eared baby alien.

So, with the child in tow he felt confident that he had earned this unusual prize. But when they were attacked by a handful of Trandoshan bounty hunters, he felt his luck had run out—not that he needed it. He proved himself worthy of his bounty by eliminating the Trandoshans with his Mandalorian skill and cunning.

However, bad luck bombarded him again—this time in the form of those thieving Jawas. They had stripped his ship bare when he returned to the Crest, ready to leave Arvala-7. He had sought out Kuiil even though, as he thinks of it now, he did not believe the Ugnaught could help him. At the time, he just wanted someone to complain to about his misfortunes. But once again, Kuiil volunteered his services, negotiated with those thieves for the Crest’s parts, and helped him put his ship back together again—all on his behalf. He is still amazed at the Ugnaught’s generosity.

And then there was that instance with the Mudhorn. The thieving Jawas wanted him to retrieve an egg in exchange for the Crest’s parts. After he accepted the deal, they kept chanting about this egg over and over again as they traveled to the Mudhorn’s cave. But from the bruises and over-strained muscles that he received while fending off the furry beast, he did not believe his deal with the Jawas was worth it. He was about to be killed by the Mudhorn when the child interfered, saving his life. The little one used his gift to lift up the beast, which allowed the Mandalorian to slay it. This mind-blowing event was the first time that he had become aware of the little one’s telekinetic ability, and he had wondered if maybe he stumbled across the biggest jackpot of luck of all time.

Yet, it was bad luck and not good. At least, that is what he thinks.

From Arvala-7 to Nevarro, things went downhill for him. The kid was placed in danger—no thanks to him—and probably doomed to be experimented on until his little body expired. So, he rescued the alien but was then attacked by the Bounty Hunter Guild. He was outnumbered and surrounded with no way of escape.

Then, he was saved by his Tribe. He considered himself honored and privileged to be the reason why his Armorer unleashed his fellow Mandalorians just for him. He knew they were all itching for a fight, but something must have stirred within their Tribe’s leader in order for her to expose themselves.

In the end, as he escaped the planet, he realized that bad and good luck had clashed on Nevarro, canceling each other out. Yes, his Tribe rescued him from certain death from the Guild, but misfortune had the last laugh. The Mandalorians would have lessened in numbers because of the skirmish, they would have to re-locate once more, and he would have no idea when he could see them again nor know how to contact them.

If Fate or Destiny is something that actually exists, then he has wanted no part of its grand plan. All it has done for him is dangle good things within his reach before snatching them away. Well, he is not a person to toy with, and he does not believe there is some bigger picture that involves him. He makes his own luck; he forges his own path.

And then, he met Talia.

She was a woman who had an uncle with gifts just like the kid, a fact that gave him a foundation where his ward was concerned. He was lost when it came to the kid’s special abilities. What was he to do? Tell the little one to stop lifting things in the air or encourage him? He knew—and knows—nothing about this strange gift. And who should he meet but someone who did? Or at least, she was familiar with it. She understood the kid’s skills better than he did or does. It was a shame she was not able to delve deeper into what she saw her uncle do with his gifts. Yet something told the Mandalorian that she was far more acquainted with it than she was letting on.

And what was even more . . . convenient was her Mandalorian upbringing. The relationship she had with her gifted uncle helped bond her with the child, and her background linked his guardian with her. Though their Mandalorian doctrines and traditions differed from one another, they both came from the same culture. Having that in common after he lost his Tribe was, he will admit now, a balm to his soul. Except for the helmet debate that kept on popping up between them, it was a relief to stumble across someone whom he could relate to, whom he did not have to explain the reason why Mandalorians did this or believed in that. What were the odds of meeting Talia? Of their paths, which were so similar yet not, colliding at such well-time circumstances?

Talia believes in Fate.

He refuses to.

She insisted, ever so quietly, that he would.

But how could Fate place her in his path then drag her out? If that was its intention all along, then why bother forcing them to meet in the first place? What was the point?

With his Mandalorian companion removed from his path, he traveled to Sorgan where he met Cara Dune, an ex-soldier from the Rebel Alliance. Strangely enough, her skill, her experience was just what he needed in order to help him defend a village terrorized by raiders. He could not have done the job alone, and he is uncertain if he would have concocted a plan creative enough to destroy the raiders’ AT-ST all on his own.

Cara was a fierce fighter, an honorable solider. And that very same soldier saved the kid’s life from a bounty hunter. If she had not been on patrol, the Mandalorian would have buried the child on Sorgan. He could dismiss her intervention as another stroke of good luck, but what she said, about him being meant to find and protect the kid, somehow painted things in a different light.

If he was meant to do all this, then she was meant to save the child from an early death. So, perhaps . . . maybe, just maybe he has been too quick, too stubborn, to want to think outside of the box and change his perspective. Up until now he has escaped nearly impossible situations with the kid’s help and with other people’s, too. He is almost sure luck would have run out on him a long time ago. Maybe there really is something directing his path, keeping him alive so he can protect the kid.

But for how long? How long will he be the child’s guardian? The possibility that Fate may remove him from the little one flashes through his mind. Why not? After all, if Fate is real, it has stolen the good and innocent things from him before. Yet it seems that, if there is one thing that keeps sticking to him, it is the child who follows him around and brightens up whenever he is near. Maybe that is why he was prevented from leaving the little one on Sorgan. Maybe Fate is not done with him and has a path for him that includes the child.

The idea sends a quiver down to his bones. Perhaps he should examine his entire life and pinpoint moments that have led him here, traveling with the baby to Onderon. Every lesson he has learned, every decision he has made, every fight, every broken relationship, every road not paved—maybe it was all preparing him for the biggest and the strangest task in his life: to care for and protect a green baby blessed—or cursed—with an unimaginable yet wonderful gift.

Thinking of Fate, of Destiny, is too much for him to dwell on. He can feel a headache lingering at the back of his exhausted mind. If he wants it to go away, he should shelve this idea for another time. He can figure it out later when his brain is less . . . overwhelmed. Or perhaps he will talk to Talia about it; she seems more comfortable and convicted about Fate and a bigger plan than he does, or probably ever will.

If he has any doubts that going to Onderon was a bad idea, they are gone. His gut tells him that traveling there to seek out his Mandalorian friend is his best option. Maybe he and the kid will find true refuge there, unlike on Sorgan. And it will be nice not having to look behind his back constantly.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Well, Onderon is gonna have to wait, the Mandalorian thinks as he guides his battered ship towards Tatooine. Maybe Fate, if it exists, really does have it out for me after all.

A bounty hunter had tracked him down and tried very hard to blow him and the child into space debris. The guy was asking to get killed, but hearing him use his own line against him? Nope, the hunter had to go.

“I can bring in warm. Or I can bring you in cold.”

The phrase lingers in his mind as he flies closer to the desert planet. No one can steal his professional—and even personal—saying and expect to get away with it. Especially if that person quoted it back to him.

Behind him, he can hear the child coo. When he glances over his shoulder, the little one meets his gaze. His brown eyes are half-closed with a question, as if he is asking his guardian why they are landing so soon.

“We need to take a detour,” he says, facing forward again. He hears the little one sniffle a pout. “Yeah, I don’t like it any more than you do, kid.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

If Fate is truly a thing that breathes life into the galaxy, it sure has a twisted sense of humor. Or a complicated way of directing people on the right path.

Tatooine was a mess. He has been there before for bounty missions, but he hopes he never has to set foot on that wasteland of a planet again. Beside the fact that Tatooine is scorching with waves of sun-kissed wind and is covered in sand and sharp rocks, nothing good came out of it. True, he got the Crest repaired, and both he and the kid are safe and sound. But those pluses do not seem to outweigh the minuses. And there were many.

First, he needed to pay for the repairs with money he did not have. So, he had to go find a job that could settle the bill—a task he was not looking forward to because that would mean he would have to roam around on the baking sand with Tatooine’s suns relentlessly shining down on him.

Good news: he got a job with more than enough credits to pay his bill.

Bad news: he had to be teamed up with a wannabe bounty hunter named Toro Calican.

Calican was a kid, full of ambition and a misconception of what a career in bounty hunting really is. In some ways, he reminded the Mandalorian of himself back in his younger years; except, he was far more reserved and better equipped for this bounty hunting life than Calican was. The kid was eager and brimming with energy—he will give him that. But Calican was also haughty, inexperienced, and dishonorable in the end. The deal they made was broken the moment the kid killed their quarry, abandoned him in the middle of the Dune Sea, and threatened the safety of the child. The Mandalorian had no choice but to terminate Calican.

Good news: the younger man had enough credits on him to cover the Mandalorian’s repair and hangar bills.

Bad news: he was unable to walk away with any extra money in his hand.

As he guided the Crest out of the ground hangar in Mos Eisley, he hears his communications beep. Noticing that whoever is hailing him must be from the hangar, he presses a button to open the comm channels, and it crackles with life.

“Hey, Mandalorian!” a female voice snaps at him. It is the woman who had repaired his ship. He never did ask for her name.

“Did I forget something?” he answers, ordering his ship to hover above the underground hangar. He glances behind him, checking to make sure the child is sitting in his designated chair, and his look is greeted with a green-lipped smile.

“What? No!” the mechanic answers. “Just wanted to say ‘thank you.’ For saving my life from that whipper-snapper bounty hunter. I, uh, didn’t get a chance to say it earlier.”

“No problem. Wasn’t a big deal,” he curtly replies.

“Well, it was to me. Which is why,” she adds, “I filled up your fuel tanks for you. As a ‘thank you.’”

He blinks then checks his console. There, his screen informs him that what the woman said is true. And that’s why she took so long doing ‘last-minute’ adjustments, he muses to himself.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he softly comments, a little bit touched by her generosity. “But . . . thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, her voice nicer than he has ever heard before. “I figured you’ve got places to be. And you might need the extra fuel. Don’t be a stranger, okay? Peli Motto out!”

The comms crackle with static before going completely silent.

So, that’s her name, he thinks, smirking beneath his helmet. He shakes his head at the mechanic’s terse attitude and thoughtful heart—two traits that seem to contradict themselves, yet they fit her completely.

With one final glance at Mos Eisley, he guides the Crest up towards the atmosphere. The cyan skies of Tatooine soon transition into the midnight shades of space with diamond stars peppering the cosmos as far as the eye can see. In less than a minute he leaves the planet behind him with its unforgiving heat and coarse grains of sand. His nav-computer is still set for Onderon, and he launches his ship into hyperspace.

Hopefully, Fate will not force him into another detour.

Chapter Text

Chapter VIII: Intelligence 01

As the Mandalorian travels to Onderon with the baby, he figures he should do some research on the Japrael System. He does not want to be caught off-guard like he was on Cholganna. (And come to think of it, he never did get around to doing his homework on that planet.) Besides, there is nothing interesting to occupy him. The baby is easy to handle since the Crest is so small; he just has to keep the little one away from the control panels.

The names he heard mentioned back on Cholganna, the very ones he has been repeating to himself so he will not forget, drift to the forefront of his mind.

Ridha, Kavan, Qasim, and Thea—names without faces, without any kind of facts to help him form an assessment. Then, there are Dacob Ryk’ken, Bezden Cass, and Talia. Though he is familiar with them, he knows it will be better for him to learn as much as possible with the time he has.

He thinks of Onderon, and Dxun—the places he has never before been to. He does not have an in-depth knowledge of their cities, cultures, history, climates, politics . . . The list can go on and on.

Where to begin? he asks himself as he scoots forward in the pilot’s chair, his fingers accessing his databank of the Inner Rim Territory. There are more than a handful of names and locations that he needs to research, but which one should he start with? Qasim, Talia’s rival? Or perhaps Iziz, the capitol of Onderon?

In a few seconds, his memory quickly focuses on that moment when Ryk’ken mentioned to Talia about being assigned to find her because Ridha insisted that he accompany Cass. Talia’s reaction to the news was . . . surprising.

“So, it’s true then?” she softly asked, and the sadness in her voice had almost sent a jolt down the Mandalorian’s spine. “That means Thea isn’t . . .?”

“I’m sorry,” Ryk’ken said. “But . . . you knew it was coming.”

“I did,” she heavily sighed. “I just didn’t want to be there when it happened.”

He has often wondered why the name ‘Thea’ and the small piece of information about her had affected Talia so much. He assumed the women were close, but something had told him that whatever happened—or was happening—to Thea was so distressful that Talia did not want to see the other woman go through it.

I guess looking up Thea is as good a place to start as ever, he decides. And then, I’ll see where that leads me.

Automatically, his gloved fingers type the woman’s name in his databanks.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Day 1 — Morning

Name: Thea Dendup Tor

Titles: Queen of Onderon (formerly)

          Stewardess of Dxun (formerly)

Homeworld: Onderon

• Physical Description

         - Current age: 50

         - Gender: Female

         - Species: Humanoid

         - Height: 5' 7"

         - Skin Color: Lightly tanned

         - Hair Color: Long black hair with gray streaks 

         - Eye Color: Hazel

         - Notable physical traits: hourglass figure, oval-shaped face, slanted eyes

• Political Information

         - Became the Queen of Onderon and Stewardess of Dxun after the death of her father, King Veejay Dendup (at age 32)

         - Ruled under the Galactic Empire for thirteen years

            ~ General public opinion: considered a puppet monarch for the Empire

         -  Had allowed the Empire to confiscate 60% of Onderon’s resources, trade commissions, and profits

         - Confiscated major weapons / firearms from the inhabitants of both Onderon and Dxun, as per the Empire’s demands

            ~ Compromised with the Empire, on behalf of the inhabitants, so they can have no more than three weapons per household

         - Permitted the Empire to control ⅓ of the mining operations in the Emerald Range (Onderon’s largest mountain ridge)

            ~ Precious stones: quartz, amethyst, diamonds

            ~ Precious metals: black gold, yellow gold, silver, copper

         - Prohibited Mandalorian Fighting Circles / Challenges amongst Onderonians

            ~ Duels were punishable by heavy finds and or imprisonment

            ~ Loosely restricted Circles / Challenges on Dxun

            ~ Not issued by the Empire

         - Neither encouraged apprehension of Rebel sympathizers nor attempted to find the underground Rebel Alliance branch on Onderon and Dxun

         - Ordered military strike against all Imperial bases / compounds on Onderon and Dxun shortly after receiving word of the Rebel Alliance’s victory in the Battle of Endor and the destruction of the second Death Star

            ~ Seized control of mines, trade routes through Onderon, and Imperial assets

            ~ Arrested Imperial troopers, officers, ministers / officials, sympathizers

         - Restored all trading rights and weapons to the people

         - Enhanced Onderonian and Mandalorian military presence during the Empire’s collapse

• Personal Information

         - Daughter of King Veejay and Mhea Dendup

         - Younger sister to Prince Ramsis Dendup (deceased, age 37)

         - Married to Kavan Tor (since age 23)

         - Mother of three children: Ridha (15), Ramsis (11), and Talia (8)

         - Close relation with Talia Dewan Kex

         - Known for ill-health such as headaches, low spirits, and memory regression

         - Resigned as the Queen of Onderon

            ~ Reason: health issues (memory loss)

            ~ Succeeded by her oldest child, Ridha

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Day 1 —Afternoon

Name: Ridha Dendup Tor

Titles: King of Onderon

          Steward of Dxun

Homeworld: Onderon

• Physical Description

         - Current age: 15

         - Gender: Male

         - Species: Humanoid

         - Height: 5' 2" (currently)

         - Skin Color: Tanned (almost olive)

         - Hair Color: Dark brown (curly)

         - Eye Color: Hazel-green

         - Notable physical traits: a splash of freckles on upper cheeks

• Political Information

         -  Became King of Onderon and Steward of Dxun after his mother, Thea Dendup Tor, stepped down (at age 15)

            ~ His rule is overseen by a Regent, his father (Lord Kavan)

            ~ Ridha has the final say in every matter

         - Has not accomplished anything paramount, politically speaking

             ~ Has been complimented by Onderon’s senator, Ahmed Sol, for being wise though he is young and untested

• Personal Information

         - Oldest son of Kavan and Thea Dendup Tor

         - Older brother to siblings, Ramsis and Talia

         - Not sworn into the Mandalorian Creed

         - Trained and drilled in swordplay and firearms

         - Considered clever during training exercises and war games

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Day 1 — Evening

Name: Kavan Ordo Tor

Titles: Regent of Onderon

          Heir to the Chieftain of Clan Ordo

          Member of the Onderonian Royal Council

          Minister of War (formerly)

          Aide to the Clan Leader of Onderon (formerly)

Homeworld: Dxun

• Physical Description

         - Current age: 47

         - Gender: Male

         - Species: Humanoid

         - Height: 5' 10"

         - Skin Color: Olive-toned

         - Hair Color: Dark brown, peppered with gray (tightly curled)

         - Eye Color: Green

         - Notable physical traits: sharp jawline, large nose, a Mandalorian tattoo on the right side of his neck, and a thin scar from a vibroblade stretching diagonally across from his forehead down to his temple

• Political Information

         - Elected by the Onderonian Council as Regent to his son, King Ridha

            ~ Has a major authoritative presence and influence throughout Onderon

            ~ His son has the final say in all matters

         - Advocate for the Mandalorian Fighting Circles / Challenges

            ~ Fought to legalize it during Empire’s rule

            ~ Re-instated it, allowing the Circles / Challenges to commence throughout the designated areas in cities across both Onderon and Dxun

         - Was the Minister of War for 7 years before becoming Regent

         - Was assigned as an aide to the Clan Leader of Onderon (from ages 17 to 22)

         - Led Onderon and Dxun’s military forces in a large-scale revolt against the Galactic Empire after the Battle of Endor

• Personal Information

         - Oldest son of Jade Ordo (current Chief of Clan Ordo) and Daveron Tor

            ~ Will assume the title and duties of Chieftain for Clan Ordo after his mother

         - From Dxun Mandalorian Clan, Ordo

            ~ Sworn into the Mandalorian Creed (since age 13)

         - Married to the former Queen of Onderon, Thea Dendup (since age 23)

         - Father of three children: Ridha, Ramsis, Talia

            ~ Allowed Ramsis to enter into the traditional Mandalorian training process

            ~ Intentions for Ramsis: future leader of Clan Ordo

            ~ Intentions for Talia: currently unknown

         - Learnéd in battle tactics and strategy

         - Proficient swordsman and sharpshooter

Chapter Text

Chapter IX: Intelligence 02

Three down. More to go, he muses to himself as he returns to his research.

Yesterday, he had been stunned when he learned just how close Talia was to the royal family. Or at least, how firm her ties to them still were despite the fact that she had disappeared. Queen Thea’s file said his friend was a close relation, yet he is unsure of what that really means. Talia could be a best friend, a blood-relation, a strong ally. He is willing to bet the women were related; something about Talia always seemed to whisper ‘royalty.’

But King Ridha, the teenager sitting on Onderon’s throne, must either be used to having Talia around court—which is why he ordered for her to be returned to the planet—or viewed her as some kind of favorite relative. And it just may be both options. Yet what grabbed his attention now is the fact that Ridha had sent Dxun clan members to retrieve Talia. And from what Colonel Ryk’ken had said, the young king had insisted on it. The order intrigued the Mandalorian. Instead of throwing his authority around by only having Onderonians apprehend Talia, Ridha also sent Mandalorians, knowing that she would listen to them and cooperate. The teenager may just be as wise as the file predicted.

And then, there was Lord Kavan of Clan Ordo. His research on the man was not enough for him to form an opinion of him. Kavan seemed like any other Mandalorian: a warrior, a leader, firm, loyal to the Clans. But that weasel, Bezden Cass, had mentioned he was acting more Onderonian lately. He assumes it is because Kavan is practically ruling the planet instead of his wife, Thea. However, would not such responsibility and authority encourage most Mandalorians to spread their doctrine, to incorporate their ways to the people around them? Kavan, from Cass’ remark, was apparently conforming to the Onderonian culture instead.

I guess I won’t figure it out until I get first-hand intel, he thinks.

He was planning on exploring the common places of Iziz, like the capital’s markets and cantinas, when he arrived on Onderon. Research is good since it gives him a foundation. Yet there is just something more enlightening about gathering normal people’s opinion on political dignitaries and other prominent individuals.

Okay, who’s next? he asks himself, his hands hovering over his control panel. Let’s take a look at some friends and foes. Starting with foes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Day 2 — Morning

Name: Qasim Nader

Titles: Minister of Trade

          Royal Treasurer

          Member of the Onderonian Royal Court

          Lord of House Nader in Solaris

          Baron Nader of Rawda Hall in Kira City

Homeworld: Onderon

• Physical Description

         - Current age: 53

         - Gender: Male

         - Species: Humanoid

         - Height: 5' 11"

         - Skin Color: Tanned

         - Hair Color: Black with gray streaks (shaggy / wavy)

         - Eye Color: Brown

         - Notable physical traits: round-shaped eyes, goatee, and dark beard thinly covering his jawline, chin, and upper lip

• Political Information

         - Became Minister of Trade after negotiating a mining deal in the Emerald Range with the Galactic Empire on Onderon’s behalf (at age 30)

         - Collaborated with the Empire to increase the Onderonian government’s trading business in precious gems and metals, weapons, fabrics, food, etc.

         - Issued a heavy tax on weapons purchased by inhabitants of Onderon and Dxun

         - Was accused of being an Imperial sympathizer after the Battle of Endor

            ~ Arrested and was put under house arrest at the Unifar Temple

            ~ Charges based on: expanding his mining trade using Imperial connections and transportation; allegedly selling information concerning the Rebel Alliance branch on Onderon and Dxun to the Empire

            ~ Result: charges dropped, released from house arrest, given formal apology and pardon by Queen Thea

• Personal Information

         - Married twice

            ~ Yael Hajjar (deceased, casualty during Solaris Riot)

            ~ Naila Antar (deceased, heart failure)

               - Baroness Antar of Rawda Hall in Kira City

         - Father of four children

            ~ Kostas (30): son of Yael; handles the family trading business; married with family; currently resides in Solaris

            ~ Sabira (28): daughter of Yael; married with family; husband is from a military family; currently resides in Iziz

            ~ Ziad (20): son of Naila; apprentice in family’s orchard and farming business; currently resides in Kira City

            ~ Rami (18): son of Naila; sworn into Mandalorian Creed and Clan Kex; currently resides on Dxun; strained relationship with his father

         - Owns a wealthy estate in Onderon’s second largest city, Solaris

         - Owns a small but growing farmland and a house (Rawda Hall) in Onderon’s breadbasket city, Kira City (which he inherited after his wife’s death)

         - Considered one of the richest and most influential men on Onderon

            ~ Comes from an old aristocratic and respected family

            ~ Flourishes from his business-like mind and experience

            ~ Known wide-spread trading partners for personal business include: Galactic Empire (formerly), New Republic (currently)

            ~ Known trading: precious gems and metals from the Emerald Range Mining; an agriculture business (orchards and farmland) in Kira City

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Day 2 — Afternoon

Name: Dacob Ryk'ken

Titles: Clan Leader of Onderon (in-transition)

          Viceroy of Dxun (in-transition)

          Member of the Onderonian Royal Court

          Defender of Dxun

          Commander of the Royal Guard (formerly)

          Colonel from Dxun Militia (formerly)

Homeworld: Dxun

• Physical Description

         - Current age: 38

         - Gender: Male

         - Species: Humanoid

         - Height: 6' 0"

         - Skin Color: Dark

         - Hair Color: Black (cropped short)

         - Eye Color: Pale green

         - Notable physical traits: serious expressions and circle beard (thin, black)

• Political Information

         - Was the Commander of the Royal Guard for the past 7 years

            ~ Joined at the age of 18

            ~ Last rank in the Guard: Colonel

         -  Personally led a ground assault on Dxun during the Galactic Empire’s collapse

            ~ Drove out Imperial forces, influence, and military presence from Dxun

            ~ Named as the Lead Officer in the campaign by Lord Kavan Tor, Onderon’s Minister of War

            ~ Granted the title ‘Defender of Dxun’ for his victory over the Imperials

         - Has been chosen as the Clan Leader of Onderon

            ~ Replaced Lady Talia Dewan Kex after her resignation

            ~ Duties include: representing the Clans and their members living on Onderon

         - Recently granted the title ‘Viceroy of Dxun’

            ~ Duties include: representing all of the Clans living on Dxun

• Personal Information

         - His family Clan, Ulik, is sworn to Clan Kex of Dxun

         - Younger brother to sister, Zaerdra Ryk’ken (deceased, age 39)

         - Was married to Layla Bitar (deceased, speeder accident)

         -  Father of three children (all boys)

            ~ Lance (18): sworn into the Mandalorian Creed (at age 13); serves in the Mandalorian Militia in Iziz as a Lieutenant; currently resides in Iziz

            ~ Kote (16): older twin brother to Dral; sworn into the Mandalorian Creed (at age 13); currently resides on Dxun; trade / occupation: currently unknown; name means “glory” in Mando’a

            ~ Dral (16): younger twin brother to Kote; sworn into the Mandalorian Creed (at age 13); currently resides on Dxun; trade / occupation: currently unknown; name means “strong / powerful” in Mando’a

         - Known as a skilled fighter and warrior in his duels / challenges amongst the Dxun Mandalorians

         - Known as a great hunter in the jungles of Dxun and Onderon

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Day 2 — Evening

> > Search: “Bezden Cass”

> > > Searching < < <

> > Results: Unknown

> > Search: “Qasim and Cass”

> > > Searching < < <

> > Results: Unknown

Chapter Text

Chapter X: Intelligence 03

Sitting on the console, chewing on a thick piece of Nexu jerky, is the child. His tiny white teeth nibble at the dried meat, and the Mandalorian smirks. Their constant traveling has gotten the little one restless, which resulted in a handful of mischievous incidents. He has found that snacks placate the child, if only for a short amount of time.

The night before, after they stopped at a fueling station in the lower regions of the Inner Rim, he had somehow lost track of the kid. They had visited a café so his ward could get something fresh to eat, and while he was glancing over his shoulder, checking their surroundings, the kid managed to slip from his chair and disappear for the next five minutes.

Alarms as loud as a star-destroyer’s echoed in his brain as the Mandalorian scoured the café. The patrons were eyeing him strangely, but they did not interfere with his search. At one point, he was close to blasting the doors shut so the place could be put on lockdown. His gloved hand gripped his holstered pistol, his muscles aching to yank it out, when he heard a giggle.

Like lightning, he spun around and searched in the direction of the innocent noise. In seconds he found the kid fleeing the café’s kitchen with some kind of vegetable in his little hands. A scowl formed on his mouth, and a reprimand was on the Mandalorian’s tongue. To think that he was raising a thief.

Yeah, I’m a terrible guardian, he remembers saying to himself.

Of course, he paid for the stolen vegetable—it was some kind of celery. But when the two of them walked back to the Crest, he had given the child a stern talking to. He doubted his charge was actually paying attention since he was munching on his stolen goods with a sparkle in his brown eyes.

He shakes his head at the memory. When he glances at the kid, he finds his gaze fixed on him, a small pout spreading across his green lips.

“Yeah, I’m still thinking about yesterday,” he says to the green alien, his voice clipped. “And I still don’t like it.”

The baby tilts his head to the side, his pointy ears stretching to the ceiling. Then, he simply goes back to eating his jerky.

With a sigh, the Mandalorian looks ahead. The sapphire and cyan swirls of hyperspace dance before him in a never-ending whirlpool. He has been taking his time traveling to Onderon. A part of him is starting to doubt if this trip is even worth the effort. Maybe he should have done what Cara Dune recommended and have Talia meet him halfway.

The closer he gets to the Japrael System, the more uncertain he is. His muscles tense, his brain will not shut off for sleep, and his appetite is nearly non-existent. He has combed through information from his databanks, stuffing in facts and pushing away any rising questions as if he is preparing for some kind of examination. He would be glued to his computer console for hours without a break, and there have been a few times when the child whined—really loud—in order to get his attention. Why is he feeling so . . . nervous? So . . . absorbed with his findings?

I don’t want to be caught off-guard, he reasons to himself. I need to know as much as I can before getting there.

In his bounty hunting career, he has generally stayed in the Outer Rim. Every now and then he would venture to the other territories. But trips to the planets and systems closest to the Core Worlds have been few and far between. Too many people, too much surveillance. Plus, he did not want to get tangled up in the laws and regulations of the Empire or the New Republic.

His mind shifts to Qasim Nader, the politician and treasurer on Onderon. It was obvious to him why Talia greatly disliked the man. Nader seemed more concerned about making money and filling up his own personal banking account rather than helping his planet thrive. People usually left in charge of money tend to get, what he likes to call, the Greed Virus; and Nader appears to be infected with it. However, he may not be as slippery and cunning as most businessmen. The Mandalorian figures that Nader must be somewhat patriotic—or at least, willing to put Onderon first—in order for Queen Thea to pardon him from his treason charges.

What also interested him was something in Nader’s file that said he has a strained relationship with his youngest son. The kid had become a Mandalorian, a fact that probably displeased Nader because his son rejected the Onderonian way of life and did not pursue a career in the family business.

But the file said ‘strained,’ he reminds himself. The tiny description of the father-son relationship is enough to tell him that perhaps whatever ill-will between them can be solved. Well, the kid isn’t exiled from his family. And he isn’t disgraced.

Like Talia, a soft voice whispers to him. He remembers when she told him that, because her father dishonored her, she is unable to visit Onderon’s moon.

Since Ryk’ken is going to be the Clan Leader and Viceroy of Dxun, perhaps he can pardon her or something. All she would need to do is ask. Yet he doubts she will. If she is as proud as most people from their Creed, then she would rather earn that privilege than beg for it. Maybe he should suggest a pardon to Ryk’ken, if he sees the other man. Although he would greatly prefer to avoid the former colonel and his affectionate glances at Talia, the Mandalorian may be able to endure a brief conversation just so his friend can return to the place of her childhood.

“I’ll think about it,” he mutters under his breath.

He tears his eyes away from the hypnotic blue swirls in front of him. There is no time to daze off into space, literally. He needs to gather more intelligence before his computer alerts him that he will be approaching the Japrael System.

For a moment, he considers typing in Talia’s name in his databanks. After all, she is the last person on his list. But he decides not to, arguing with himself that he already knows enough about her—for now. Within the next day or so, he will be arriving at a new planet and staying in a new city. He can better navigate himself through Iziz, for example, if he is familiar with his surroundings ahead of time. And it will not do him any harm if he reads up on Onderon’s most recent history either, which should take up most of the day.

Yeah, probably won’t get the chance to skim through Talia’s file, he figures. Something nips at the back of his mind at the thought of learning more about her. He cannot decide if it is curiosity or dread, but he pushes the feeling aside.

First Onderon, he mentally lists off. Then Dxun. And maybe Talia. But only if I have time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Day 3 — Morning

Japrael System

Region: Inner Rim

Sector: Japrael Sector

Grid coordinates: O-9

Sun: 1 (Prael)

Orbits / Planets: 8

Trade routes: Lesser Lantillian Route

Orbits / Planets:

1. Bara – the first planet orbiting the star, Prael; has 1 moon; considered a scorched ball planet
2. Onderon – the second planet; has a temperate climate and jungle terrain; home to a primitive race of humanoids and other species; has 4 moons
3. Fillata – the third planet; a toxic world; not able to sustain any life; has 3 moons
4. Morvolo – the fourth planet; made almost entirely of ice; has 4 moons
5. Mulchoop – the fifth planet; is a gas giant; has 31 moons
6. Caloma – the sixth planet; also, a gas giant; has 27 moons
7. Twing – the seventh planet; also, a gas giant; has 22 moons
8. Overt –the eighth planet; also, a gas giant; has 9 moons

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Day 3 — Afternoon                     

Onderon:

• Astrological Information

         - Moons: Dxun, Dagri, Evas, Suthre

         - Rotation period: 28 standard hours

         - Orbital period: 405 local days

• Physical Information

         - Class: Terrestrial

         - Diameter: 15,190 kilometers

         - Atmosphere: Oxygen mix

         - Climate: Temperate

         - Gravity: Standard

         - Native fauna: Dalgo, Fambaa, Pikobi, Ruping, Tee-muss

• Societal Information

         - Immigrated species: Human, Ithorian, Devaronian, Twi’lek, Togruta, Sullustan, Bith, Bivall, Quarren, Nikto, Aqualish

         - Primary language: Galactic Basic – Standard

         - Government: Monarchy

         - Major cities: Iziz (capital); Solaris (mining city); Kira City (agricultural capital)

         - Major imports: High technology, weapons, mining of precious metals and stones, fabrics, agriculture

         - Minor exports: precious metals and stones, fabrics, agriculture

General Information:

          For over three millenniums, Onderonians have struggled against the great beasts native to the planet. They eventually gathered new technologies and built a huge walled city (Iziz) to protect themselves.

          Eventually, overhunting and an outbreak of a flora-related disease led to an alarming decline in the wildlife, reducing the dangers of Onderon. Plains and small hills were structured and designed around Iziz and other cities, and they are considered quite safe, though off-worlders are warned not to venture beyond the tree-line. However, the past five hundred years or so, Onderon has maintained a balance in the ecosystem, which has allowed rare flora and fauna to prosper once again.

Recent History:

          Clone War. Onderon joined the Confederacy of Independent Systems and was represented in the Separatist Parliament by Senator Mina Bonteri. Count Dooku, through the Treaty of Iziz, seized control of Onderon by setting up a puppet monarchy with Sanjay Rash, thus overthrowing King Ramsis Dendup. Fearing for his family’s safety, Dendup sent his son and heir, Prince Veejay, and his immediate family, off the planet so they could seek sanctuary on Coruscant.

          In response, a rebellion was formed by the people of Onderon and some Mandalorian fighters to restore Dendup’s rule and to rid the planet of the Separatist Droid Army. The Galactic Republic sent help to the Onderonian rebels and their leaders, Steela and Saw Gerrera and Lux Bonteri, the former Separatist Senator’s son.

          Meanwhile, the majority of the Dxun Mandalorians retreated to their moon and were called to arms. Any attempt that the Separatist Army made to invade Dxun was foiled by the Mandalorians. It was later reported by Chief Tezok Kex of Clan Kex that Dooku tried to recruit the Mandalorians, but his proposals were rejected. The Separatists soon focused on controlling Onderon and stabilizing their hold on it rather than waste resources claiming Dxun. However, Chief Kex led a rebellion in Solaris and Kira City against the Separatist Army, thwarting any kind of stability sought out by Dooku. But during the fighting, Kex lost his wife, Galia Dewan, in the final battle to eradicate the droid army.

          Elsewhere on Onderon, King Ramsis Dendup was rescued by the rebels, who then fled to the highlands. Upon the arrival of new droid gunships, the rebels were forced to retreat but eventually defeated the entire droid army. With their losses, the droids withdrew off-world by order of Count Dooku. Though victorious, the rebels lost their most influential and inspiring leader, Steela Gerrera, amidst the conflict. Dendup’s reign as king was restored, and he chose Lux Bonteri to represent Onderon in the Galactic Senate.

> > Computer: Shutting Down < <

> > Databanks: Closing < <

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“What the—?” the Mandalorian exclaims, his hand inches away from slamming down on this computer console.

A loud whine reaches his ears, and he glances up. He finds the child glaring at him, his big eyes half-closed with annoyance. It takes a second or two for him to realize that the little one’s foot is smashing the button that disables his databanks. He is about to deem this an accident due to a temper tantrum, but when the child reaches for the switches on a side-panel, ones that will cause the Crest to shake and spin out of control, he knows without a doubt the child had turned off his databank on purpose.

“Fine,” he snaps at the green baby. Snatching him up, he relocates him to the passenger seat. “Now, don’t do that again, all right?” he orders more than asks.

The response he gets is a pout and another glare. If he was not so annoyed at his ward, he would have laughed. Anger and irritation are emotions that he rarely sees on the kid. It almost suits the little womp rat. But he swallows his amusement. The last thing he needs is for the kid to use his gift and plunge the entire ship out of hyperspace just because he is frustrated at him.

“Well, what is it?” he asks.

A soft grumble from the child’s stomach answers his question.

I did it again, he inwardly sighs. He had delved so deep into his intelligence gathering that he had completely forgotten about the baby.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “I’ll try to stop doing this to you. So, we good?”

When the child blinks at him and his scowl begins to melt, the Mandalorian takes that as an acceptance to his apology.

“Okay, let’s get you something to eat.”

He picks up his charge and carries the hungry bundle of joy to the ship’s main compartment down below.

It is not until an hour later, while the baby is happily slurping up a lukewarm bowl of broth, when the Mandalorian is able to return to his research. As he swallows his own meal in less than five gulps, he accesses his databanks.

He peruses over Onderon’s politics under the Galactic Empire’s thumb. It seems that after the Clone War, the planet’s capital eventually became a major Imperial military weapons center. While the Empire secured factories and organized bases, King Ramsis Dendup’s health declined. He ruled for only a year until he stepped down, naming his son, Veejay, as king.

Under the new monarch, the Empire added more of a military presence, using Onderon as a springboard to the Expansion Region. At least two star-destroyers hovered in the planet’s atmosphere, and on the planet’s surface, a man named Ephron Gael was appointed as Moff of the Japrael Sector, thus joining the Royal Onderonian Court.

Why are they even called ‘moffs’? the Mandalorian absent-mindedly wonders. It’s just a fancy word for a ‘tyrannical governor acting as a puppet.’

Gael, he reads, seized control of 80% of Onderon’s income and trading contracts. He swelled the Empire’s military ranks with Mandalorian recruits, promising a generous salary to whoever was interested in enlisting as either bounty hunters or stormtroopers.

Which explains why Talia and Ryk’ken hate bounty hunters, he realizes.

The Moff ruled most of Onderon while King Veejay governed over Iziz and two other major cities, Solaris and Kira City. However, two years into the Empire’s rule, Gael seized control of Solaris after a massive riot occurred in the mining community. He rooted out the ring-leaders and discovered a group of insurgents calling themselves the Onderon Underground. During his investigations, he traced the riot’s lead troublemaker to Prince Ramsis Dendup, the king’s oldest child and heir to the throne. The prince had been funding the Underground whilst leaking the weapon factory’s blueprints to the group. In response, Gael arrested Ramsis for treason and sedition before ordering his execution.

After the death of his son, King Veejay hardly challenged Gael’s authority in Solaris and eventually lost influence in Kira City to the Moff as well. Grief weakened his physical state, and in his old age, the king succumbed to the loss of his son and the loss of his people’s love. When he died, he left the throne of Onderon to be inherited by his remaining child, Thea Dendup Tor.

Not much of an inheritance, he thinks to himself. No wonder her people saw her as a puppet.

Only a year following her father’s death, Thea requested for the Empire to replace Moff Gael. She claimed that he was unfit for duty, reporting that Gael was hallucinating, forgetful, and unpredictable.

That’s . . . convenient.

When an Imperial investigator arrived, he agreed with her assessment. Gael was removed and officially declared mad. He was replaced by his second-in-command, Absalom Bho, who was promoted to Moff. During the transition, Thea shared Bho’s overwhelming duties which allowed her to renegotiate Onderon’s business understanding with the Empire.

Two years later, she managed to increase the planet’s trade commissions and profits to 40% and–under the counsel of Lord Qasim Nader—gained back ⅔ control of the mining operations in Onderon’s largest mountain ridge, the Emerald Range. The economy benefited, the Empire had healthier and harder workers, and Qasim became Onderon’s Minister of Trade, operating closely with the Empire to increase his government’s trading businesses.

Yet in exchange for the new liberty, Bho confiscated major weapons and personal firearms from the inhabitants of both Onderon and Dxun. Though Thea bargained for the people, permitting them to have three weapons per household, Qasim proposed and then issued a heavy tax on any weapons purchased following the compromise.

Reports of grumbling from the people about losing their weapons grew and then doubled when Thea prohibited Mandalorian Fighting Circles and Challenges on Onderon, a decision opposed by the Minster of War and her husband, Lord Kavan Tor. While she and her Royal Advisor, Lady Talia Dewan Kex, claimed that the challenges had been provoking unnecessary feuds and causing disturbances between the Mandalorians and the Imperials, Minister Tor argued that the Circles were a part of the Clans’ culture. In the end, Thea’s decision stood.

Learning that Talia had advised the queen in suspending the Circles surprises the Mandalorian. After all, she was the one who had issued a challenge between them over a month ago. But he figures she must have had a strong understanding of the atmosphere and tension in the government for her to realize that the Circles would have caused more harm than good for the Mandalorians.

As he continues reading, he discovers that the earlier complaints dwindled and were no longer a problem once news of the Great Purge on Mandalore and other Mandalorian worlds reached Onderon.

She really does have sharp instincts, he muses to himself with a smirk.

Following the Battle of Yavin, the Rebel Alliance’s branch and the Underground rallied their members together, destroying the military center in Iziz. Moff Bho was held responsible for allowing such an action to occur, for it had crippled Imperial operations in the sector by interfering with their ability to properly re-supply weapons. Bho relentlessly searched for the Rebels and the Underground, demanding Thea’s cooperation. However, the Queen claimed to have received inadequate information that was gathered by her intelligence branch and was of little help in apprehending the Imperial’s enemies.

Sounds like she really got a better hold on Bho than he had with her, the Mandalorian thinks, eager to read more.

Shortly after the Battle of Endor, the Empire’s two star-destroyers constantly hovering in Onderon’s atmosphere were deployed to quiet civil unrest in another System. In response, Thea ordered a military strike against all Imperial bases and compounds on Onderon and Dxun. Minister Tor directed the onslaught, giving major leadership roles to Colonel Dacob Ryk’ken and Clan Leader Kex to reclaim Dxun and Iziz respectively while the rest of Onderon relied on the planet’s militias and intelligence gathered by the Rebellion and the Underground. When the dust cleared, practically all of the Imperial troopers, officers, ministers, and sympathizers were tracked down and arrested, including Moff Bho.

During the Empire’s collapse, Onderon seized control of its mines, trade routes, and the Imperial assets left behind by Bho, who had relinquished the information after being “persuaded.” Weapons were restored to the people, Minister Tor reinstated the Fighting Circles, and Thea insisted on a military presence that consisted of a strong union between Onderonians and Mandalorians.

Cut off her strings, and she’s a force to be reckoned with, he compliments the former queen. So, what happened to her? He then remembers her file said she was known for her ill-health, which gave her headaches, low spirits, and some kind of memory lapse. I guess wrestling with the Empire really messed her up.

He reads that, in the past five years since the beginning of the New Republic, Onderon was not devastated economically-speaking like most planets after the Empire collapsed. Thea, along with Minister Nader, had made sure of stabilizing the economy and turning the Imperial assets into Republic ones. However, he notices that the brief review of recent events seemed to exclude mentions of Thea. It is as if she had taken a step back—which was probably due to her declining health.

The most current news revolved around the Queen’s decision to relinquish the throne to her fifteen-year-old son, Ridha. Her resignation has now left Onderon in the kid’s hands and also in that of his Regent’s, his father. Each of the verdicts were supported by the Onderonian Royal Council.

Except for one, the Mandalorian thinks, his mind shifting to Talia.

What he learned from Cholganna, what he has read so far—things are adding up and making sense to him. Talia had not wanted any of this to happen to Thea, but it was bound to. It must have been completely out of her control, which was probably another reason why she left her homeworld in the first place. Not only did she want freedom and rest far away from Onderonian politics, but she also did not want to see her Queen removed from office, whether Thea stepped down or was declared unfit to rule by the Council.

“Politics pushed me into a corner,” her words surface his memory, acting as the glue to his scattered pieces of information. “I was being forced to make decisions I wasn’t ready to commit to. And instead of making them, I chose to not make them. I chose not to return.”

And he accused her of abandoning her people, of shirking her responsibilities just like her father had done with her. Thinking of his initial reaction makes his chest grow heavy with guilt and shame. There was a lot he did not know, about her and about her planet, and he should not have jumped to conclusions before understanding the circumstances.

“You don’t know how many underhanded decisions I’ve had to make to safeguard my people against the Empire,” she once told him. “I’ve been plunged into that political sludge for years. With the New Republic . . . I shouldn’t have had to wade through the greasy mire of politics . . . But I was. And I am beyond exhausted.”

I think I owe her an apology, the Mandalorian inwardly sighs.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Day 3 — Evening

Iziz: Capital of Onderon and the Japrael System

        A massive, walled city about 1,900 km (= 1,181 miles)

        Ruled by a monarchy (King Ridha Dendup Tor)

        Well-known for its defenses, which have been devoted to keeping out the flying beasts that attacked Onderon from the nearby moon of Dxun

        Surrounded by plains and small hills, followed by Onderon’s vast jungle

        Separated into 10 districts all overseen by District Mayors chosen by the people

Major Points of Interest in Iziz:

• Unifar Temple

         - Residence of the Onderonian monarchy

         - Set on a hill, towering over the capital city

         - Replaced the Iziz Royal Palace over two hundred years ago

         - Located in the center of Iziz and close to Yolahn Square

• Yolahn Square

         - In the middle of Iziz

         - Located at the foot of the Unifar Temple

         -Gathering place for festivals, royal proclamations, ceremonies, Mandalorian Fighting Circles / Challenges, etc.

• Malgan Market

         - A public place where many merchants and pedestrians gather together to sell stores, interact, walk, and purchase goods

         - Located on the south side of the Unifar Temple with the Yolahn Square in between

         - Surrounded by shops, residencies, and other public places such as cantinas and restaurants / cafés

         - Stretching about 6 km (= 3.7 miles) south

Chapter Text

Chapter XI: Intelligence 04

He should be arriving on Onderon today. His computer tells him that he will more than likely land in Iziz sometime in the evening—which is practically an entire day away right now.

After reading late into the night, the Mandalorian had slouched in his pilot’s chair and fell into a fitful sleep. Facts and holograms floated in his subconscious, twisting and bending beyond recognition. He was startled awake when he heard the child sneeze in his sleep, and he has not been able to resume his own slumber since then.

The hour is very early as the Crest zooms through hyperspace. The child will not be waking up anytime soon . . . which means the Mandalorian can sneak in some more research—this time focusing on Dxun. From Onderon’s file, he had read up on the various animals prowling all around the planet, but it was implied that the more vicious beasts lived on Dxun. Instead of ridding both spheres of such natural dangers, the people have accepted the animals as a part of their culture.

What was it that Talia said? he asks himself before remembering.

“I’m an Onderonian. Wild beasts are a part of my culture. And I’ve lived in Dxun’s jungle which, by the way, is crawling with even more animals.”

Dxun, one of Onderon’s many moons. It is a sphere in the Japrael System where Talia was forbidden to go, the reason why she had traveled to Cholganna because that jungle planet reminded her of the place of her childhood.

“After the Clans heard my father tell me that I dishonored him,” she confided, “they haven’t let me set foot on Dxun since. They thought me going there again would bring them dishonor.”

Let’s see what makes Dxun so special, the Mandalorian muses as he pulls up the moon’s record from his databanks.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Day 4 — Morning

Dxun:

• Astrological Information

         - Classification: Moon

         - Rotation period: 26 standard hours

         - Orbital period: 298 local days

• Physical Information

         - Atmosphere: Type I (breathable)

         - Climate: Temperate (with constant rainfall)

         - Gravity: Standard

         - Primary terrain: Jungles, few ridges

         - Points of Interest: Mandalorian communities (major Clans: Kex, Ordo, Anvar, Veld); the Tomb of Freedon Nadd

• Societal Information

         - Native species: Maalraa, Zakkeg, Cannok, Boma, Orbalisk, Drexl, Crasna

         - Immigrated species: Humanoids

            ~ Primary language(s): Galactic Basic – Standard; Mando’a

         - Government: Clan Chieftains, Viceroy of Dxun

“The only advice I’ll give you when you’re in the jungle: shoot anything that moves. Then shoot the things that don’t move, just to be sure.” ― Tagren Kex, Father of Clan Kex

General Information:

          Dxun is also known as the Demon Moon and had been claimed by Mandalorians over 3,000 years ago. It is the largest of four moons that orbit the Inner Rim world of Onderon. Like its parent planet, it is mostly covered by dense jungles that have been populated by many species of fierce, predatory animals. Because of Dxun’s constant rains and wet climate, mechanical devices are known not to last long without proper protection and are required continuous maintenance.

            Onderon and Dxun are almost sister-planets. They are so close to one another that it is only a short shuttle ride between them, and they even share a little of the same atmosphere. Every year, during Dxun’s summer season, the atmospheres of both Onderon and Dxun connect, which allows vicious Drexls to fly to the parent planet and settle there.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“I don’t think I’m gonna be heading there,” the Mandalorian mutters as he quickly wraps up his research on Dxun.

He was not a fan of Cholganna with its thick humidity and rain, and the Onderonian moon sounds more humid and more wet. If he thought the Nexu on Cholganna were bad, he sure would not want to run into Maalraas, Bomas, and Cannoks. Even the Drexls sounded brutal. Why would anyone want to live there in the first place? And why would Talia have missed living there? Maybe the reason why it seemed so special to her was because she had precious family memories, before her father abandoned her.

Thinking of his friend again, he realizes that nothing is stopping him from learning more about her. After all, he has finished sifting through the information on people and places in the Japrael System like he had wanted. It is in the middle of the afternoon, and he still has more than enough time to pull up Talia’s file.

But something stops him from entering her name in his computer. It occurs to him that, since his intelligence gathering has started, he has done his best to avoid looking up her file—if she even has one. But then, why would she not have one? She has been mentioned in other people’s, including Onderon’s recent history. Of course, she would have a file dedicated to her political career, and he should be itching to get more info on her. What is he afraid of?

No. He is not afraid. He just feels as if . . . he will be invading her privacy. But the idea is preposterous to him. These files are for the general public. Celebrities, politicians, heroes, leaders—they should know that whatever they do or say, wherever they come from, whoever they see and meet, are all catalogued, recorded, and set in stone. Or in digital code to be more precise.

Maybe he would prefer it if he found more about her if Talia herself was the one giving him information about her past—just like she had done back on Cholganna. First-hand intel, especially from her, had proven to be enlightening. And he was always struck at how open she had been with him. Instead of hearing her share her story in her warm Onderonian accent, he will be silently combing through a cold file dedicated to hard facts.

Get over yourself, Mando! his brain barks at him in a military-like tone. Just open up the darn file.

So, without further hesitation, he complies.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Day 4 — Afternoon

Name: Talia Dewan Kex

Titles: Lady of House Dewan in Iziz

          Member of the Onderonian Royal Council

          The People’s Advocate

          The Angel of Onderon

          Clan Leader of Onderon (formerly)

          Aide to the Governor of Iziz (formerly)

Homeworld: Dxun / Onderon

[ ‘A woman of two worlds. But she has as many titles as the jewelry she had worn when I met her,’ he thinks, trying not to roll his eyes. However, despite his initial annoyance towards the frivolous distinctions, both his curiosity and respect increase.]

• Physical Description

         - Current age: 42

         - Gender: Female

         - Species: Humanoid

         - Height: 5' 4"

         - Skin Color: Tanned

         - Hair Color: Dark brown (long, wavy)

         - Eye Color: Dark brown

         - Notable physical traits: diamond-shaped face, slim build, braids in her hair

• Political Information

         - Was a political aide / assistant to the Governor of Iziz (from ages 16-21)

            ~ Following her training, pursued politics concerning Dxun Clans

         - Has been a Royal Advisor to Queen Thea, the Onderonian Royal Court, and King Ridha (starting at age 26)

         - Was approached by Queen Thea and the Onderonian Royal Council to become the next Senator of Onderon on Coruscant (at age 27)

            ~ She refused, stating she desired to stay with her people and her family rather than be separated from them

         - Became the Clan Leader of Onderon (at age 28)

            ~ Duties included: representing the Clans and their members living on Onderon

            ~ Recently resigned her position and nominated Colonel Dacob Ryk’ken as a replacement

         - Known for giving a voice to the people of Onderon and Dxun during the Galactic Empire’s and the New Republic’s rules, respectively

            ~ Has been a promoter for preserving both cultures so the Empire would not dilute their respective traditions

            ~ Has been called the People’s Advocate due to her internship with the Governor of Iziz and her street-wise connections

         - Known to recruit Mandalorians, men and women, to serve as a part of the Royal Guard or other roles beneficial to Onderon and Duxn

         - Rallied the Mandalorian Militias to revolt against the Empire following the Battle of Endor

            ~ Was given permission by Lord Kavan Tor, Minister of War, to lead Iziz’s Military and to personally drive out Imperial Forces

            ~ Apprehended an Imperial Shuttle then used its weapons system to destroy enemy spacecraft and ground troops massing in the city

            ~ Known as the ‘Angel of Onderon’ for securing Iziz’s airspace

[ ‘Didn’t take her as the sitting-back type,’ he observes with a smirk. He admires her role in the fight to eradicate the Empire, yet something tells him that she had done more than the file was saying.]

• Personal Information

         - Daughter of Lady Galia Dewan and Chief Tezok Kex of Clan Kex (only child)

         - Second cousin to former queen, Thea, of Onderon

[‘She’s what?!’ His brain short-circuits at the fact he had just read. He stares at the word cousin, trying to get his brain thinking again. It all begins to make sense now—her political influence, her position in the government, her air of authority, the way Captain Krayt and his Onderonian soldiers were hesitant to arrest her on Cholganna.

‘So, I was right,’ he realizes. ‘She was a royal runaway after all.’

There were times when Talia had acted somewhat like a princess, and then she did not. She was humble rather than proud. And instead of flaunting her title and position, she kept it hidden, which he finds puzzling yet also commendable. He doubts she was ashamed of being related to the Queen of Onderon; if anything, he figures she might not have wished for her royal blood to define her.

‘No wonder she didn’t want to be around when Thea stepped down,’ he realizes. ‘Talia didn’t want to see her cousin—and queen—go through that. But why leave Thea alone to face that?’

Well, Thea had her immediate family, so she was not really alone. He remembers that the former queen’s file had said something about Talia being a “close relation” to her. Maybe his friend had actually told her cousin about leaving the planet.

The Mandalorian shakes his head at how this one fact made him think of Talia in a new light. Deciding to return to this later, he continues reading.]

         - Not officially sworn into the Mandalorian Creed

[‘What in the name of Mandalore does that mean?’ his mind exasperates. ‘You’re either sworn in or not. Period. Stop.’ But then he thinks of how different the Dxun Mandalorians are compared to the ones he had grown up with. It seems their assimilation with Onderon had even watered down the meaning behind swearing the Oath to the Creed.]

         - Was sent to Coruscant for a better education and training (at age 3)

            ~ Did not return to Onderon until after the Clone Wars (at age 12)

[ ‘Age three?’ he wonders in disbelief. ‘Why so young? What kind of parents can send a three-year-old far away from home? I bet it was her father’s idea,’ he begrudgingly thinks. After all, Talia herself admitted that she believed her father loved her mother more than her.]

         - Has been denied physical access to Dxun (since age 15)

            ~ According to Mandalorian customs pertaining to Honor and Integrity, she was pronounced disgraced and dishonored by Chief Tezok Kex of Clan Kex, her father, before he left the Japrael System

            ~ Thereby, she is forbidden to set foot on Dxun until the besmirched honor related to her Clan Family has been made clean and pardoned

         - Known as a skilled fighter and warrior in her duels / challenges amongst the Dxun Mandalorians living in Iziz

            ~ Weapon of choice: vibroblades

            ~ Excellent sharpshooting skills

         - Known as a beast master and tamer in the jungles of Onderon

[ ‘If she really is known for being that,’ he simmers, ‘then why didn’t she try to tame those Nexu? They almost killed us, and the kid.’

But he knows he was being unfair. The Nexu mates were too aggressive, too hungry to want to be tamed. Only the child and his gift were able to distract one of the beasts just long enough for the Mandalorian to eliminate it. There was nothing Talia could have done.]

         - Has the reputation of fraternizing with all the classes of Onderonian Society

            ~ Frequents cantinas of various kinds throughout Iziz and socializes with strangers and people (sometimes of questionable reputation)

[ “Really, Tallie?” Colonel Ryk’ken had chastised her. “I’ve seen you with all sorts of people. . .”

The Mandalorian had not thought much of the other man’s comment; he had been too busy at the time feeling offended by Ryk’ken for seeing him as bounty hunter scum. Now, he wonders why Talia would risk her royal reputation and influence by mixing with riff-raff and who knows what else.

With this thought in mind, his eyes drift to the next fact.]

            ~ Prefers the company of fellow Mandalorians, mostly men

[Well, it does not surprise him that Talia might choose to hang around people from their Creed over Onderonians. Above, her file did mention that she was known for recruiting Mandalorians to be a part of the Royal Guard or other things. But why men in particular?

Suddenly, he feels a zap prick down to his bones, reminding him of what Bezden Cass had once said to her: “Another one of your Mandalorian lovers? You are so predictable, Kex.”

Of course, hearing it had rattled his brain—plus, he had hated being identified as such a thing. Later on, he even wondered if Ryk’ken had been one of those lovers. But from the way Cass had said this, it was as if Talia had a reputation of stringing along Mandalorian men for pure, selfish reasons—which could be excused, or even overlooked, considering her royal blood. Most people would not turn down a royal’s invitation for a tryst.

Yet Talia does not strike him as that type of person. She has to have had a reason why she allowed this to become a part of her reputation. He just cannot seem to figure it out.

Wanting to move on from this . . . interesting fact, he returns to his reading.]

         - No record of personal attachments such as marriages, engagements, children, or contact with her father, Chief Tezok Kex

[Now, this piece of information intrigues him. Since Talia is royalty, he was expecting to read that she had been married, or even betrothed, to a lord or a general at some point in her life. People in power usually like to keep the power running in the family.

‘Perhaps she was too busy to settle down,’ he reasons, turning off the databanks for the day.]