Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Coreship Hotel is located in the Blue Sector of Coronet City, the capital of the planet Corellia.

A huge, long building that stands out in the intimidating area as the only place worth anything if you want to actually sleep without having your room broken into and robbed in the middle of the night.

More than just locals, the hotel sees almost every outsider who comes to the planet, attracted by the seductive promises of the Blue Sector, soon lost in the tangle of streets. Whether you ask at stalls or casinos, it doesn't matter; everyone points to the gleaming hotel, with its white and blue lights. It was inviting at first glance, but soon intimidated by the line of people wanting a room, those who were rejected and thrown out of the building, and the exorbitant prices displayed up front.

At the counter, there was now a blue-skinned Twi'lek —and if anyone asked, she was doing very well on her first day as a receptionist, thank you— conversing —because you shouldn't argue with a customer— with the rodian on the other side of the counter, who was miserably trying to get a discount so he could pay for a room.

The line could be seen outside the building by now, and it was only a matter of time before finding out if it would be the guards or another customer who threw him out.

That was what the other receptionists were betting on at the moment, watching with their smaller, faster-moving lines as the new one's line grew and shrank as customers arrived, joined the line, and quickly abandoned it to move on to the others.

"3 credits on the second guy over there, the zabrak. He's been here since the beginning and in total silence. One more from whine and he'll grab him." The low voice of the receptionist on the left, a tan-skinned human with blond hair, murmured to his colleague on the left as he handed a key to a departing customer. The silver badge bore the name Ray.

"Whine?"

"They do one between each cry!" The receptionist on the right rolled his eyes, a brown-skinned Arcona with a shiny 'Le-Dan' badge. He observed the zabrak in line. He had beige skin with dark tattoos that stood out easily. His yellowish, almost green eyes followed every flamboyant movement of the Rodian's hands, standing behind the man like a wall. "I'll bet 5 that he won't go."

The Twi'lek in the middle resisted rolling her eyes, both because it was immature and because the rodian —who was telling an unnecessarily long story about another time he'd supposedly stayed at the hotel— would notice and victimize himself somehow. She couldn't say she expected a perfect day, not when she knew she was going to work in customer service, but she hadn't polished her badge for that!

She lowered her gaze to the object, exposing her name, Anlise, in fancy script barely legible enough to read, black against a shiny silver background, perfect for the day! She'd even gotten the middle line to pick up more customers, and what for, that Rodian had been stalling for over half an hour now and looked ready to go on for another.

She glanced briefly at the zabrak. Maybe there was something she could do to get him to act? She didn't want to call security; their boss, Miyrea, was irritated with her for a minor slip-up regarding a falsely accused guest she'd wrongly defended and who had ultimately been the culprit. If anything, the woman was petty; those guards wouldn't help her unless it got dangerous, and not even she could pretend to be afraid of the frail, dramatic Rodian in front of her.

She heard the clink that signaled someone entering, a surprise; it was clear the lines were full. With a concealed sigh, she resigned herself to the fact that another like the rodian had entered, willing to negotiate a room until she could get one, even if it was through exhaustion.

What she saw instead was sophisticated and intimidating armor, with stains that might or might not be blood.

It wasn't the first time Anlise had seen a mandalorian. They were an uncommon sight, but not rare in an area like the Blue Sector. Sometimes they were shopping or doing repairs in the city, but usually they were hunting.

Corellia was a quick route out of the core and had the finest ships in the galaxy. Fugitives and pirates strolled through the Blue Sector —the most obscure and hidden area of ​​the capital— as if they were born there. Where there were those with bounties on their heads, there were mandalorians.

Moving silently, following a few steps behind, leading their targets into corners they couldn't escape, dragging them, dead or alive, back to their ships. If you don't get in a mandalorian's way, you won't get in trouble. That's how she acted when she found herself facing one.

It didn't look like that strategy would work this time.

The mandalorian pushed through the lines and went straight —because of course he did— to her counter. The black cloak he wore —his most distinguishing feature, aside from the red details on his armor— was so long it almost dragged on his feet, his military boots tapping steadily on the floor as everyone fell silent as he advanced.

All except the rodian, who continued his explanation even though she hadn't been paying attention for a while; the man truly didn't know how to read a room.

He was silenced by the weight of the credits the mandalorian tossed onto her counter, his eyes blinking with fright and wonder at the money in front of him.

The Twi'lek counted them superficially with her eyes; it was enough for one of her best suites and some left over. She glanced quickly forward to check the line and the stunned silence. She vaguely noticed the zabrak looking down.

"I want a room, two beds, at least for one night." The voice boomed from inside the helmet, the transmitters doing little to hide the loudness of his tone.

The rodian blinked, recovering from his shock to look offended. Before he could open his mouth, Anlise stepped forward.

"I can check if we have accommodations for what you requested, but I can't guarantee—"

Another thud, the number of credits on the counter at least tripled, and she blinked silently.

She watched silently, still wondering how much of it she could get in change before having to return it, but the rodian still hadn't given up.

"There's a line, you know? You can't just skip ahead because you have money—AH!"

At first, she thought it might have been the zabrak doing something to silence the rodian, but his green eyes were focused on the mandalorian, on his feet…

She had to blink several times to make sure she was seeing correctly, until she rubbed her eyes; completely hidden by the mandalorian's cloak was a child, or what she assumed it was, based on its size, since all she could see were yellowish eyes and sharp teeth, which were turned toward the rodian.

The zabrak made a low sound, too quiet to be a growl, toward the small shadow.

The response he received was definitely an aggressive growl from the small zabrak, which revealed itself, teeth bared at the adult.

Unlike the adult, this small zabrak was vibrantly colored, as red as blood, with black tattoos that intensified its aggression and made it resemble a small bomb. Its black clothing further helped to hide it in the shadows as it glared at everyone.

His small claws were bared as he remained curled around the mandalorian's leg, his eyes focused on the zabrak and the rodian, who was slowly backing away from the violent child. He was disturbingly adorable; he barely reached the mandalorian's waist, so small he was, yet there was no doubt he was just as dangerous.

The zabrak made something between a snort and a laugh as he calmly walked away, the child still eyeing him suspiciously. The mandalorian didn't react to the boy's outburst and continued to stare at her, waiting for a response. Then, within seconds, two yellow eyes were staring at her from below.

She took a deep breath as discreetly as she could, before gesturing vaguely toward the rodian.

"If you wouldn't mind taking out the trash, sir."

The mandalorian's helmet barely moved, but it was enough for the rodian to understand who he was looking at through the visor.

For some reason, he didn't seem too happy with all the new attention.

"Get the keys." Watching the mandalorian drag the man out the door, Anlise only noticed the small zabrak approaching the counter when he reached out. He was shorter than the counter, his outstretched arm barely reaching the golden key.

"Room 396 on the seventh floor." She replied with a smile to the boy, who ignored her to look at the door and wait for the mandalorian to return. "What's your name, dear?"

The boy's look was more confused than threatening, and she had to restrain herself from reacting. Whether disturbing or not, he was still very cute.

"Jagannath." His voice was quieter than a child's should be, but softer and more expressionless than she expected. What a strange little boy. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the mandalorian return.

"The fourth elevator will take you directly to your floor," she informed him with the ease of someone who had practiced the perfect tone and expression. The man didn't answer her and continued to the elevator.

The little zabrak was no longer visible; she could only assume he had hidden himself in the mandalorian's cloak again.

As she listened to her colleagues cursing and passing credits behind her, she was finally able to continue her work. The zabrak quickly paid and got a room, and soon the mandalorian and little Jagannath were pushed to the back of her mind as their line began to move.

Dimly, she remembered that there was only one other guest on the seventh floor currently.

-

At the Coreship Hotel, there are seven floors in total.

The first floor is the cheapest and has the fewest rooms, as it is almost entirely occupied by the lobby and the staircase to the hotel's main restaurant. Connected to all four elevators, it houses the rooms that tend to fill and empty most quickly due to the flow of guests.

The second floor also doesn't have many rooms, as it is mainly occupied by attractions such as the restaurant, bar, and the hotel's own casino. In addition to the elevator connecting it to the lobby, it has luxurious staircases connecting it to all the other floors. Along with the noise and high prices compared to other suites on other floors, it is one of the least busy floors.

The third floor is the first floor entirely dedicated to rooms and one of the busiest, with higher prices than the first but still lower than the second. It is usually the ideal option for those who frequent the casino and other hotel attractions.

The fourth floor is simple with its core geared towards those staying for just one night, it is the busiest and the floor that newcomers choose, it shares a direct elevator with the third floor that connects them directly to the lobby.

The fifth floor is expensive, considerably more so than the fourth. It's geared toward the full hotel experience, with packages already included in each suite rental. It's also geared toward overnight stays, making it the perfect floor for an expensive adventure.

The sixth floor is designed for long-term guests, staying for a week or more, separated from other guests unless they're in the restaurant or other attractions. Like the third and fourth floors, it shares a direct elevator with the fifth floor.

The seventh floor is the least occupied; the maximum number of guests it has had at one time since Anlise started working at the hotel was five. It's the most expensive of all, with huge suites and a single direct elevator that can take you to any of the other floors.

Besides the mandalorian who just arrived, there is currently only one other guest on this floor.

Lee-Roye is likely the only Corellian who frequents the Coreship as a guest, as he is expelled from all other hotels in the region and is not well regarded by Coronet outside of the Blue Sector.

He is wealthy, so much so that he can always choose the seventh floor to stay. How he manages to acquire such wealth from the ships he creates —a common profession for Corellians— is a mystery. The most popular theory is that he works for a crime syndicate, or perhaps even all of them. There are unique details recognizable in each ship he designs and creates; some are seen on Corellia itself, bearing the marks of their original creator, similar in many details to the type of ships used by the Hutts and Crymorahs. The fact that he openly uses slaves reinforces this theory.

These rumors, along with his unpleasant personality, were what led to the Coreship being the place he came to when he was on the planet, rather than his ship or factories. So much so that there were specific staff to attend to him when he appeared; the butler who went to his room now was one of them.

Leky had worked at the hotel for many years. He was a Twi'lek known for his stoic and straightforward demeanor. He was often assigned to difficult guests who were expensive enough to stay at the hotel. Lee-Roye was one of them.

"Did he make any specific requests this time?" he asked the chambermaid who came from the guest's suite. The human woman, Lestra, denied it.

"Nothing beyond the usual comments, but he's with a new slave, as if he's showing him off." The disgust in her voice leaked like venom. She was good at her job and could ignore Lee-Roye's behavior when he showed up. That didn't stop her from cursing him as much as she wanted outside his presence. "It doesn't seem sexual, but the way he's acting, the boy could have been someone important when he was free. Be careful."

He waved as he continued on his way to his personal hell. When Leky reached the door of suite 425, he could already hear the music outside.

Opening the door brought the smell of alcohol and drugs straight into his face. He put his fist to his mouth to ignore the smell, and marched inside with narrowed eyes.

Over the years, Coreship management recognized that the best way to deal with Lee-Roye was to keep him quiet in his suite, and that's what led them to make a deal with the brothel a few streets away, so that instead of him soliciting their services and having prostitutes pass through the main lobby, they would let him know when he was checking in so they could send him products and spices.

So Leky wasn't surprised by the scantily clad women waving at him as he passed through the suite, nor by the noxious air of the room. The only new thing was the boy standing near Lee-Roye.

He was a young human, maybe 15 or 16, with tanned skin and dark hair. He had more muscles than he should have for his age, as well as scars. The clothes he wore were full of rips despite being clearly of high quality. Most revolting were the cigarette burns that had been burned on his forearm, burning through the shirt and the slave himself.

That is, if you didn't look at the metal collar tightening around his neck.

"Ah, Lavy! There you are!" Lee-Roye was sprawled on the suite's leather sofa, a cigarette dangling between his lips and a woman on each arm, waving at him as if he hadn't just completely mispronounced his name.

"It's Leky, Mr. Roye." The women laughed as the slave continued to stand nearby, his dark eyes cast to the floor with barely concealed anger.

"Of course, of course. I hear there's another guest on the floor now?"

He bit back a curse; this was another recipe for disaster.

"Yes. He arrived last night and paid for another week this morning." What had really happened was that the mandalorian had passed out on the bed with the little Zabrak hidden in his arms and had simply thrown more money to the maid that morning, which, added to what he had already paid extra, gave him a full week in the suite.

"I see, he's a mandalorian, isn't he?" the man murmured nonchalantly, but both he and Leky could see the shock the slave was trying to hide. "Since it's his first time here, it's only fair that I invite him to dinner, isn't it? Talk to him for me, Lemi."

He resisted the urge to correct the man again and tell him what a bad idea it was, but he had no valid reason to deny the request, so he simply nodded as he left the room as quickly as he could.

-

He couldn't say what he expected when he arrived at Room 396, but it wasn't to find the mandalorian still asleep in bed.

The little Zabrak eyed him suspiciously even when he explained his reason for being there. He wanted to tell him they could refuse the request, but before he could, the boy pushed the adult to wake him.

"Dinner?" Was the irritated mandalorian's only murmur as he stared at him with dark eyes. He had removed all his armor and was still as intimidating as if he were wearing it.

"If you wish, of course. There's no obligation on your part to attend or even respond."

"Except for the part where I'm going to be stepping on some rich bastard's ego?" He had no answer for that, so he didn't say anything.

The boy decided this was the moment to voice his opinion and kicked the mandalorian in the waist.

"I want to be alone." The mandalorian barely reacted, merely raising an eyebrow at the boy.

"And I have to leave the room I'm paying for because of this?"

"Yes."

The boy was blunt, he couldn't deny that. The mandalorian stared at him for a few seconds before snorting.

"Where would this dinner be?"

"In the VIP area of ​​the hotel restaurant, sir."

"Who's paying?" He blinked. Usually, everyone's bill would be added as an extra if they hadn't picked up a package, but considering the situation, he supposed they couldn't go the usual route.

"Him, since he invited you." The mandalorian sighed, scrunching his eyes as he looked infinitely older than he should bee. Leky felt sorry for them. The same kind of sorry he felt when he had to order an employee to do something when they were tired, but he was going to order them anyway because that was the job.

"Okay, whatever. I don't turn down free food." Quite ironic for someone staying in the most expensive suite, but oh well. He said nothing as the mandalorian lay back down and pulled up a blanket. "Call me when it's time."

He nodded and headed for the door, the voices still behind him.

"Come here."

"Wha— No! I want to read!"

"Read here." From the sounds of it, he assumed the mandolorian had pulled the boy under the covers as well.

"I'm not a teddy bear."

"But you're warm and huggable like one, you can handle it."

As he turned toward the door, he watched the boy curse softly and settle into the covers with a datapad in hand, the mandolorian holding it to his chest, his eyes already closed.

-

On the second floor, further away from the casino and other attractions, is the library.

Even with the distance, they didn't skimp on the soundproofing; the place is so quiet that on entire occasions, you only hear the occupants' breathing.

That wasn't the case with the current visitor.

The little zabrak —Jagannath, according to Anlise— wandered through the bookshelves without making a sound. Not from his footsteps, his claws grazing the books, or his breathing. If she didn't see him —and sometimes she couldn't, as if he were a ghost— she wouldn't know he was there.

He didn't seem to be looking for anything in particular, circling and reading the spines of the books in silence, though she could see his lips moving.

From her desk in the reception area, she had a good view of the rest of the library. In the table area, there were some guests taking advantage of them to read, others hovering among the shelves like the boy, and some coming toward her to rent.

Jagannath continued to stroll, the pile in his arms growing as he explored more and more of the library, despite the boy's clear happiness at being in the room, she had the impression that he was melancholic somehow.

As far as she knew, he'd be staying at the hotel for another week, so it wasn't hard to understand why he was gathering so many books at once. But it was still strange. There were some he'd pull from the shelf with delight before returning them regretfully. The ones he was hoarding didn't evoke nearly the same reaction, but rather a subtle version of disappointment and contentment.

When he came to the counter —in seconds, he was in front of her— he had over ten with him. How could he carry so many?

"The rent will be added as an extra to your overall bill, but considering the advance payment, you won't have to worry." She smiled as she organized and sorted what he'd picked up. The titles varied: some about Naboo, several about the Outer Rim, some that compiled the latest political news, more about the Outer Rim, and then, perhaps the least strange for a boy his age, about rancors. "They're from Dathomir, aren't they?"

The boy blinked at her, seeing the book she was referring to. He didn't seem to expect her to question him.

"Yes. Naturally, most of them are. But you can find them throughout the galaxy."

"Ah, but those are mostly by trafficking aren't they?" She drummed her fingers thoughtfully, the boy watching her closely. "A scary job, hunting those creatures, I couldn't do it."

"You get used to it."

She fell silent, watching the boy. He continued, oblivious to her astonishment.

"Hunting rancors, especially Dathomirians, is difficult. Not only because of the basic logistics of capture, but also because of the planet." He had a patient expression on his face, but there was a certain air of satisfaction in the air. "The witches don't accept unwanted outsiders, much less those who steal what they believe belongs to them. Depending on how many you hunt, you have to have room to carry them all, because they don't fall for the same trick twice."

He paused, looking at the books in silence.

"That's what I read earlier," he said, pointing to the last book to be scanned.

"Can you read it?" She held up the book in question, snapping out of her stupor.

Jagannath glanced at the file; it was the largest of them all.

"Yes." Despite his clear uncertainty, she opened the book and began leafing through it in front of the boy.

"We have some of it translated, but most of it is in—"

"Dathomiri," the boy whispered, studying the writing on the book.

"It's an almost exclusive language. Some of it was already translated, and we can surmise more based on it, but it's barely more than half." As she spoke, she didn't notice how the boy's gaze changed as he stared at the symbols, his expression hungry for knowledge. "It's the most complete book on rancors we have, not to mention all the parts about Dathomir itself."

"It's unique," he whispered in response, and the woman sighed.

"Yes, it is. But that's the problem." The boy's mood began to sour as she spoke. "It was sold in a set, but it was the only one of its kind. We haven't been able to find any further information about how it arrived or its author."

Jagannath was far from happy with this revelation.

"My knowledge of Dathomiri is incomplete. I can understand it, but I don't think I could help translate it, not properly." She visibly wilted; he watched her blankly.

"It's a shame. This book is a relic, the most important in this library, in my humble opinion, if I may say so." The boy shifted uneasily. "But based on the translation we made, if there are other copies, this should be the most complete for you to read."

Jagannath nodded slightly before pushing the book back.

"Take it off my order. I'll read it here."

She smiled in confusion as she did as he asked. She wanted to ask questions and expand on the conversation about the books, but a small line had formed behind the boy, and she had work to do.

She caught a glimpse of him hiding at one of the corner tables, near the window in the moonlight.

What she didn't see was him scanning the book.

-

The hallway leading to the library was the only thing visible, but that didn't stop the mandalorian from staring at the direction the boy had disappeared.

Leky had essentially invited himself to the dinner, to ensure Lee-Roye wouldn't do anything that could ruin the hotel's reputation or his own, no matter how deep that ship had sunk.

The man himself hadn't appeared yet, only the mandalorian, who had already ordered a drink and was starting to look at the menu, his helmet hanging on the back of his chair.

Judging by the pages he was flipping through, he was enjoying not paying for the meal.

"Late!" It wasn't his name, but he looked anyway. Lee-Roye was approaching with a smile on his face, dressed surprisingly presentably and with a rather friendly smile; he might have kissed the man for that if it weren't for the extra company.

The slave followed him, his eyes fixed on the back of the man's head, his appearance the same as it had that morning as he dragged himself along on a limp.

Ah, Lee-Roye, you damned man.

The Corellian walked quickly to the table, his hand outstretched, his expression unchanged. The mandalorian took Lee-Roye's hand without rising.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, friend. Lovy must have already told you, but I'm Lee-Roye." The mandalorian's handshake was firm, a faint smile playing on his lips.

"Hal."

Leky wasn't an expert, but if he had to guess, he'd say it was a fake name. Not that he would have known if it were; the mandalorian hadn't given them any name to refer to him by.

"Ah, you've already placed an order, great, great." Lee-Roye sat down with a smile, the slave moving to stand behind him with a continuous glare. "Oh, and it's good! Wonderful!"

The man began a casual conversation, which the mandalorian barely responded to. Lee-Roye didn't seem fazed by the one-sided conversation and continued with the same shit-eating grin.

The slave eyed the food with barely concealed hunger. Leky considered handing him something to nibble on, but he was sure Lee-Roye would have something to say about that, nor would he have brought the slave for no reason.

The mandalorian's dark eyes flicked to the slave a few times, but nothing else indicated any discomfort with the extra participant.

"Well, no one likes to confirm the obvious, so just tell me, Hal." Lee-Roye had clung to the name like a parasite, somehow oblivious to how the man barely responded to it. "As a mandalorian, which side are you on?"

This drew a reaction from the mandalorian —he wouldn't refer to him by a clearly false name— a slight arch of his eyebrow, a different glint in his eyes.

"Death watch." The slave jumped at this, his gaze fixed on the mandalorian.

"Wonderful!" Lee-Roye reached back in a sudden movement, pulling the slave by the chain to their level. "Can you guess who he is?"

The mandalorian stared lazily, and the slave glared back, even angrier than he'd glared at Lee-Roye.

What the hell was Death watch?

After a few more seconds of torturous silence, the mandalorian shrugged and turned to Lee-Roye again. The slave continued to stare.

Lee-Roye gave a nasty smile. Leky took a step back instinctively. The slave looked about to vomit, and the mandalorian didn't react.

"Come on, state your name, boy." For the first time, he looked directly at the slave, who didn't take his attention from the mandalorian.

The silence stretched for a few moments before Lee-Roye gave another tug on the leash that nearly knocked him off his feet.

"Jango," the boy growled, and recognition began to shine in the mandalorian's eyes. "My name is Jango Fett."

Lee-Roye's laughter was one of the most unpleasant sounds he'd ever heard. Seeing it erupt so freely made him sick, even more so when the Mandalorian's own dark chuckle joined in.

The slave's only reason for not moving against the men was because of the chains. The Mandalorian laughed loudly before giving a feral smile. Another step back, a feeling of being trapped.

"Lee-Roye, you truly are a man of opportunity's." The Corellian smiled, but Leky didn't think it was a compliment.

-

An hour of sleep was all he could manage.

He tried to sleep right away, tossing and turning for half an hour before pulling out a datapad.

His shallow knowledge of Mandalorians led him to research. The dinner took over his mind without permission, the hole from his lack of knowledge eating away at him. If he had managed to sleep, he would have had nightmares of repulsive laughter and chained collars.

Researching current Mandalorian society didn't help him at all, which he had expected. It was common knowledge that any Mandalorian who didn't act in accordance with the Republic was rejected by the planet's current politics, and such rejects proudly displayed this fact.

So he delved deeper, into civil wars and ideological debates, into discourses on what it means to be a true Mandalorian and what is considered terrorism in the Sector.

He understood the Mandalorian's reaction - a Death watch, now he understood the answer - to the identity of the slave, Jango Fett should be dead, buried along with the rest of the True Mandalorians and here he was, chained to a Corellian businessman.

Lee-Roye's increased arrogance made sense now. It hadn't just been a gift from the Pykes—according to the man himself, he couldn't help but hate how freely he declared it—it was a declaration. Lee-Roye was connected to the entire underworld; the Pykes wanted him to flaunt the fallen heir of the Mandalore.

The more he read, the worse it became. He actually vomited at one point, and after cleaning the floor of his own dinner, he forced himself to lie down and get some sleep. His shift began an hour later, the first task being to wake Lee-Roye. If he still had anything in his stomach, he would vomit again.

He allowed himself to stand in front of the door for a few minutes. It wasn't as if Lee-Roye would notice the delay anyway, passed out as he must have been. With additional mental preparation, he went inside to face the man.

The room was clean, the air of drugs and alcohol wafting through the wide-open window. He sighed disapprovingly before closing it and heading toward the bed. He counted the prostitutes, some sprawled on the bed and several passed out on the floor in uncomfortable positions.

Lee-Roye was in the center of the bed, completely covered by a single sheet—which was unusual to him.

"Mr. Roye?" No answer, he was the only lucid person in the room. "It's already morning, sir. You asked to be woken at this time."

Nothing. He shifted uncomfortably. Now with the window closed, a strange smell permeated the air.

"Mr. Roye." He lightly touched the man's arm through the sheet and immediately pulled away. Cold. How could his skin be so cold if he was covered? He pulled away momentarily and looked around the room.

The smell was pungent now; he felt his nausea return and realized he couldn't see the slave anywhere.

"Mr. Roye?" He stepped closer, his fingers curling around the sheet to pull it away.

CRASH.

-

Lestra sped up; the journey from 396 to 425 was long, but she knew she had to find Leky. It was urgent.

She froze when she heard a loud sound from the suite. She took a deep breath and continued on, hoping only that Leky wouldn't be the victim of the tantrum.

She hadn't expected to see Leky staggering out of the room, hunched against the opposite wall, the door wide open behind him.

"Leky?" She hadn't taken two steps before he turned to her, pale and almost green. "Get Miyrea, now!"

"Wha—"

"Go!"

She bolted outside, her desperation mounting as she heard the man double over to vomit behind her.

Through the open door, she could see blood leaking from the bed.

-

"Ms. Talya?"

She turned; the new receptionist, Anlise, was calling her. The girl fidgeted with her fingers restlessly, and she raised an eyebrow.

"Yes?"

"We've been ordered to go up to suite 425."

"I was about to open the library."

The girl shrugged, confused and uncomfortable. The Zygerrian sighed before removing the key from the lock and following her.

-

The smell in the room was still strong even after they opened the window. Now that they'd moved it, blood was seeping through the sheets and staining the floor. Everyone except Miyrea had moved away.

"He died hours ago," she declared, pulling at Lee-Roye's limp, disfigured arm. "But it took a while. They were gone before and instantaneously."

The prostitutes' bodies remained as untouched as when Leky entered, instantaneous gunshots to the head, hidden by hair or the way they fell. Six women besides Lee-Roye were dead.

"By a while, you mean…"

"Tortured until he couldn't take it anymore." She released the body. Had she not seen the man in person several times, she wouldn't have recognized the corpse as Lee-Roye. "You said he was with a slave?"

"Yes, but we didn't find him in the room or in the rest of the hotel." Leky replied softly, staring at the body with a mixture of revulsion and pity. Lestra was clinging to his arm. "Do you think he did it?"

"It makes sense. If he could neutralize the chip, there would be nothing to stop him, and a slave has plenty of motivation to go against his master." She turned to the librarian, Talya, who was sniffing the air around them. "Did you smell anything?"

"Just some drug residue and blood," she murmured, avoiding the body and turning to Leky instead. "You didn't bring me here just to sniff, did you?"

The man took a deep breath, his gaze shifting from the body to the woman, the heavy gaze of someone who had seen a lot in just a few hours.

"The guests in suite 396 are missing too." The Zygerrian grimaced. Anlise, in the far corner, raised her head. "We've gathered everyone who interacted with them in here."

It had been unsettling to leave 425 and enter 396. The suite was cleaner than it had been before the guests arrived, with no sign of the Mandalorian or the Zabrak having been there.

"Do you think they might have freed the slave?" Mali, the waitress who had served the guests during dinner, asked him. Leky frowned.

Based on his research, he believed something much more complex than the liberation of a slave had occurred.

"I think a lot of things happened during the early hours of the morning."

There was no point explaining his research to the women, both because it wouldn't change what had happened and because they would worry about his sanity.

"If we've already discovered everything we could, we should report the case." He pulled away from Lestra.

"Make the call to report an overdose." The woman blinked, but it was Miyrea who spoke.

"Does this look like an overdose to you?" She gestured to Lee-Roye's remains; he stared at them in silence.

"It looks like a lesson to be learned." He stepped away from the body and went to the window. "We should start cleaning up quickly."

Reactions varied, but everyone left the room with the declaration that Lee-Roye had died of an overdose. The two youngest, Anlise and Mali, were given the week off while the older ones split up, Miyrea and Lestra going to report the incident and Leky and Talya staying to clean up the room before the authorities arrived.

As they cleaned the room, Talya went to the balcony and suddenly froze.

"Talya?" Leky called, seeing the Zygerrian frozen. The woman took a few more seconds before answering.

"Nothing, just a little blood here." And a smell she recognized from the library, but it had been an overdose, so it didn't matter.

-

During two normal days on the planet Corellia, the seventh floor of the Coreship Hotel had two suites occupied.

One was occupied by the regular guest, Lee-Roye, a Corellian of ill repute and more money than anyone would trust a man like him.

The other was occupied by a Mandalorian no one had ever seen in the area, accompanied by a small red Zabrak whose eyes sometimes looked yellow and others golden.

The guests met once at the end of the second day. The next morning, Lee-Roye was reported dead of a drug overdose along with six other prostitutes, and the Mandalorian was never seen again at the hotel.

If you asked an outsider, they wouldn't be able to correlate the facts; if you asked any employee, they would say Lee-Roye's death frightened the man and he left early because of it. If you asked a select group of employees, they would say Lee-Roye played with fire and died as a result. If you asked a particular employee, he'd mutter about the outer rim and mull over the fact that no matter how much research he did, he'd never know what really happened during the early hours.

And if you mentioned it around the librarian, she'd curse loudly about books that would never be returned.

Chapter Text

Scimitar was the name of the ship he was in now.

A modified Star Courier, infiltration, pursuit, elimination, it was good for everything. It suited its owners.

He repeatedly tossed the vibro-blade —it was Maul's, he'd stared at it longingly first, found it on the right side of his belt a moment later— up, twirling it between his fingers. The room he was in also belonged to the little Zabrak. Krakko had questioned if he was okay with sharing the space; the boy had shrugged and said he'd "grown accustomed to dormitories in Orsis," wherever that was.

He'd mentioned something about extra repairs to the ship; that must be what he was doing now.

…

Maybe he needed help?

The knife slammed into the ceiling, fixed. He grunted.

Irritated with himself, he left the room. He'd been awake for hours by this point —unsurprisingly, he found out he couldn't sleep for long on the same ship as a Kyr'tsad— having only passed out for two hours shortly after leaving Corellia and forced himself to stay awake until now.

Now was a small planet, located between the core and the inner rim, the ship parked in a remote area, with the three current inhabitants scattered in every corner.

Figuring he had a good enough chance, he headed to the kitchen. He hadn't eaten anything other than a spicy snack from Maul's room —which he stared at for half an hour before Maul got irritated and threw it at him, muttering about "useless pride"— and that had been at least ten hours ago.

The kitchen wasn't well stocked due to their hasty retreat, but he'd heard Krakko mention something about ready-to-eat eel dishes. It couldn't hurt to grab one for himself; they'd have to restock soon anyway.

He wasn't the only one with this idea. At the table, sitting in front of a bowl so spicy it nearly made Jango tear up from the doorway, was Krakko. Scrolling through a datapad as he chewed, he barely reacted to Jango, merely raising one eye at him and quickly returning his attention to the eels.

Jango stood there frozen, staring at the man with an anger he couldn't contain. Krakko opened his mouth to say something, but he turned and left as quickly as he came. He was heading straight for his room before he heard him mutter "teenagers."

With his blood racing too fast, he walked straight through the bedroom door, crossing the ship with a flash of memories of war scenarios and armor with five-pointed symbols. Krakko's symbol was on his back, hidden by the jet pack, but he saw it.

He found himself descending the boarding ramp, the unmistakable sounds of gears and tools a few inches away in the ship's machinery.

He sighed and approached the sound. He could only see a sliver of red between the cables before it disappeared again, but he could hear the overly loud sound of the headphones Maul was wearing.

He sat on a rock, his back to the noise. The tropical planet could almost be considered a paradise with its cool, silent afternoons; he scanned the quiet horizon. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tool float behind him.

He also heard it when, a few minutes later, the music faded. He took this as his cue to speak.

"Didn't you leave it for repair on Corellia?" A tsk was the first response.

"For two days, they did a good job, I'll give them that." Something like welding sounded, but he couldn't quite place it. "But not everything. I don't like leaving things half-finished. I'd rather finish now than face the consequences later."

It was practical enough.

"Need help?" He didn't turn completely, but it was enough to see a flash of gold, and then a snort.

"I did most of the ship modifications myself, I can manage with a few final repairs." Again, practical. He couldn't imagine Krakko modifying the ship; it made sense that it would have been Maul.

Silence fell between them again, but the music didn't return, so he assumed it was comfortable enough. This was it, this was what he needed.

Because Maul might not be perfect company —company, not friend. He wouldn't call someone who would stab him in seconds with the blade that he gave him a friend for whatever reason— but he was real. He was alive, and while he was technically Kyr'tsad like Krakko, Jango could ignore it in his case.

He was always around others, glued to his parents like a tick as a child, and when he was adopted by Jaster, if he wasn't following the man, he was surrounded by children his own age being educated in the same code as him. Even during the war, he found himself much more involved in group campaigns. Jango thrived with others; Mandalorian loyalty came easily to him, along with friendship, companionship, and family.

Family he had lost not just once, but now again. Everything and everyone.

Or not everyone, according to Krakko.

He took a deep breath. It was like being back in Jaster's death, dealing with decisions that were bigger than him. That was why he needed this company now. As dire as his responsibilities had been, they had been bearable with his comrades by his side.

At least until he led them straight to their deaths.

He stood, ducking precariously below the ramp. He could see more of Maul now. Turned upside down, eyes focused on circuits, he barely acknowledged Jango's presence.

He sat and watched in silence, focusing more on Maul than himself. The Zabrak's breathing was inaudible, so he had to focus on other details to steady himself: the light touch of his claws against the metal, the almost invisible movement of his eyes following each component as he worked, the rise and fall of his chest— proof that he was there. With him.

It wasn't a ghost, it wasn't a memory tugging at his already weak dreams —it was hard to sleep like a slave, it was hard to calm every instinct to fight when you were never truly safe— it was a living being, a living being that hadn't treated him like a slave since they met and how painfully rare that was.

"Fett?" He nearly jumped. Lee-Roye was the only one who called him that, and he only did so to mock him, the name he'd lost.

But the voice that called out to him was too young to be Lee-Roye's. Looking out the window, he found the one calling him.

A Zabrak, night-brother, with skin as red as blood and tattoos that made him resemble some sort of humanoid skull. Golden eyes that assessed his reaction curiously. His black clothes made him stand out against the multicolored lights streaming through the window.

Was he hallucinating now?

"Jango Fett?" The Zabrak called again but still didn't move. It could still be an hallucination."I'll just drag you out the window if you don't cooperate."

It wasn't a hallucination.

"In the flesh." He glanced around. Lee-Roye was still passed out, as were the prostitutes around him. "Who cares?"

"Maul." The boy shrugged, following his gaze to the Corellian. "You'll be able to kill him, we just have to remove the chip first. Here."

The vibroblade the Zabrak picked up gleamed in the nightlight, and he felt pain at the sight of it. It had been so long since he'd touched a real weapon, he might pass out if he held a blaster.

'Maul' stood on the porch, twirling the blade near a chair, his eyes on him, waiting.

Jaster would have been exasperated by his lack of hesitation, but one look at the man sprawled shamelessly on the bed erased any doubt Jango might have had. He walked toward Maul.

"Do you know where it is?"

"It was placed just above my collarbone. It should be deeper now." The boy shrugged, unconcerned with the literal surgery he was about to perform.

"Chair." He obeyed, not needing to undress to reveal the ugly scar he retained on his body. Of all of them, it was the one he hated most. It was unnecessarily long, almost as long as his hand, and crooked —they had blamed him for that, because he hadn't stopped still and continued trying to escape— along its length, a whitish mark on his tanned skin, visible from every possible angle. He dug his hands into the back of the chair as anger flickered like a flame. Maul glared at him.

"If you touch me, I'll kill you." He nodded, a little confused because the thought hadn't even crossed his mind.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes as the Zabrak turned his attention away from his face. He felt a touch on his collarbone, the claws cold and chilling his bones as if he no longer had skin. He resisted the blustery cold when he heard Maul's voice again.

"There it is."

Silence returned before he felt a sharp pain in the middle of his scar, the pain intensifying as he felt the blade sink in and open a new cut.

Then something else, small, inside him, near his rib. A small electric shock.

It took him a second to realize it was the chip; the surprise was enough to force him to open his eyes.

The cut Maul made was much smaller than the original —and straighter, he mentally noted— his hand was poised a few inches above, a buzzing sound Jango couldn't quite place in the air.

He gripped the chair tighter as he realized it was the 'force.'

Maul ignored him as he moved his hand, the chip following his movements within his body. The small shocks weren't painful but constant, and he felt an urge to move each time; instead, he could only dig his fingers into the wood. The small hum that was the force continued to wax and wane, Maul's eyes following a line he couldn't see.

He remembered a much louder version of that hum, circling the air alongside blaster bolts and laser blades, the rotten air smelling of burnt bodies and blood staining the earth.

He swallows hard and ignores how his hands begin to tremble.

"Hal sent me here." He looks, Maul doesn't and continues to work, he looks away. "Needless to say, he already knows who you are."

He grits his teeth; the smile the bastard gave when he spoke his name haunted him even now. He couldn't say he'd met him before; Kyr'tsad didn't usually show their faces to other Mandalorians easily. But never having heard of a Hal was strange nonetheless.

"He's Death Watch, as he said." A particularly strong shock caused a violent shiver. It took a second for the movement to continue; he almost thought it was care. "But he's been away for a long time. He didn't participate in the fight against the Haat Mando'ade."

That was really strange. How old was this man? He recognized his name but supposedly walked away before the conflict began? And was still proud to admit he was Kyr'tsad? All this without giving a clan or house name, just a first name.

"Who is he?" Maul didn't look at him but clicked his tongue. "What's his real name?"

Golden eyes watched him for a second before returning, a look disturbingly similar to when 'Hal' tried to guess his name.

"Meltch." Another shock, he grabbed the chair again. "Meltch Krakko."

Osik.

"Fett?"

"Yes?" Maul narrowed his eyes, staring back. "I'm listening."

"Here." Maul pointed to a small compartment to his left. "Put your hand there."

He looked suspicious but did as he was told, pulling his hand back within seconds.

"I told you I was listening." He growled. Maul barely reacted, moving his hand between his claws, searching for burns.

"Too hot?"

"Burning. Couldn't you look for yourself?" he hissed. Fortunately, they both concluded his hand hadn't been there long enough to be seriously burned, just a lingering heat.

"No." Maul released his hand to rummage in another, smaller compartment next to the previous one. Turning his head, he saw it was a measuring device. "Zabraks are much more adapted to heat than humans. If I put this in my room, it would only be a particularly hot day."

So it was Krakko's room, he concluded. Looking now, he could see that there were other similar compartments nearby.

He wondered if he could increase Krakko's even further without Maul noticing.

"Is it the temperature regulation?" Maul nodded vaguely. "Shouldn't it be in the ship's interior? Or in the systems?" The grumble was so loud he almost felt sorry for him.

"It would be if that damn AI worked properly…" Suddenly, Maul plummeted, landing on the ground on the cables he was tangled in. "But it doesn't! It keeps trying to change the temperature based on our 'mood'!" Those were the most confusing and irritated quotes he'd ever seen. "But he forgets we're different species! So either he gets cooked alive or I turn into a popsicle!"

"It's not very pleasant." Jango shivered and turned too quickly at the same time; Krakko was standing near the ramp; from this height, only his legs were visible, but it was alarming that he'd gotten so close so quickly without him noticing. "Come out."

Maul went easily, still muttering under his breath, with Jango behind him, hoping the man couldn't see him swallowing hard.

"Did you take Darth's temperature control?" Maul rolled his eyes hard at the AI's name. From somewhere inside the ship, a beep sounded.

"I just put limits on how low or high the temperature can be adjusted, you're welcome."

Another series of beeps sounded from inside the ship. Maul looked very irritated, and Krakko sighed.

"Thank you. I have bad news, and then worse news. What will it be?" In full armor, Krakko was practically twice his size. Jango had to restrain himself from wincing at the dark eyes, visible without the buy'ce. Maul just shrugged.

"Well, the bad news —not that bad, to be honest— is that I'm going to have to kill Tor Vizsla." Jango blinked, suddenly looking directly at Krakko. "Or not me, specifically. But he has to die."

Maul didn't seem impressed or surprised by the situation, as unfazed as if he'd been told he'd have to wait a while.

"I assume the plan is to take over the Kyr'tsad?"

"Yes, by killing Vizsla in a duel, according to the code—"

"Do you have no loyalty?"

Jango didn't regret the words when he spoke them, but he certainly hated the way Krakko focused on him and how Maul looked at him with different, assessing eyes.

"You're not ashamed to call yourself Kyr'tsad, even after being away for so long. And now you talk about killing your own leader so easily, taking his position like an object." Jango was a little angry, not for Tor Vizsla or the Kyr'tsad, but for the principle. Barbarians or not, even they bore bonds of brotherhood among themselves, were loyal to their own organization, that was another thing that disturbed him even now. Even carrying the name, Krakko distanced himself from the identity of a Kyr'tsad.

"And what could a monster like him want with me?" Jango forced his voice out, Maul hummed back.

Of course he recognized that name. Meltch Krakko had been a Kyr'tsad since the beginning, practically a right-hand man to Tor Vizsla when he founded them.

No one knew what had happened to him, only that at some point in the conflict he had disappeared. No Haat Mando'ade had reported killing him, but even among the Kyr'tsad, no one knew what had happened. Vizsla never answered any questions, ignoring the fact that his right hand was missing.

Some said he killed Krakko himself.

"A deal. An alliance, if you will," Maul replied, another shock, another few seconds of waiting. "For the future of the Mandalorians, even."

That's when he made a painful mistake: moving too much, trying to turn toward Maul, still working above him.

He didn't bent over from the electricity only because Maul grabbed him, pushing him back into the chair with more force than he expected. He closed his mouth, gritting his teeth, his legs thrashing as the electricity coursed through him, the chip stopping somewhere in his body as he struggled to breathe.

Maul held him silently, glancing quickly at the room's occupants to make sure no one had woken up. The electricity continued.

When he could breathe again, blood was dripping onto the floor from the scar, now more open and painful, and the chip was emitting small electrical pulses that made him wince every time.

"In case you've forgotten, I'm removing a chip from your body that was literally designed to electrocute you to death if you try to escape." Maul's claws etched themselves into his skin, a low growl as he focused directly on his eyes. He hadn't reacted to the electricity and didn't react to the pulses now, even though Jango could see them passing through his body. "Then don't move."

"I wouldn't…" He growled back harshly, gathering what little air he could muster. "I wouldn't ally myself with Hut'uun like Kyr'tsad."

Ironically, it was the curse, not the electricity, that drew a reaction from Maul, a raised eyebrow and a quick eye roll.

"Not for the remaining Haat Mando'ade?"

He stopped moving.

"I have loyalty," Krakko replied simply, grimacing. Jango got the impression he'd rather be with his buy'ce right now. "Just not to Tor Vizsla, not for a long time."

Out of the corner of his eye, Jango noticed the golden eyes also studying Krakko.

"I'm Kyr'tsad, I have been since the beginning, and I always will be. That will never change, no matter how far I go. Or who I'm with." An golden eye roll. Krakko continued, "That doesn't mean I support or agree with every decision. The cause is for the Mandalorian essence, not for one person."

This was… different. Different from the Kyr'tsad Jango knew, different from the Haat Mando'ade. Krakko had a certain harshness in his voice, an anger Jango didn't fully understand.

Maul was very quiet now, he noticed.

"Any other complaints?" He blinked, once again uncomfortable under Krakko's gaze, ignoring how Maul didn't turn his attention back to him. "Good. Now for the worse news."

He picked up a datapad, a row of numbers flashing against the bluish screen.

"We need money, badly." Maul blinked from his stupor, turning away from Krakko faster than should have been possible. "Yes, you warned, ad'ika. I remember."

"Did I? I don't think I remember!" Maul kicked Krakko's shin, which was almost hilarious considering he barely reached the man's waist. "What did I tell you?!"

"That we shouldn't have spent so much on repairs to the ship." Another kick. "Or on the hotel." Another. "Or that we should have stolen the money back when we escaped."

Maul cursed in a language Jango didn't know; it was like hearing a snake hiss in a high-pitched, rapid whisper. From his expression, Krakko didn't understand either.

"Ad'ika, we're not poor, far from it." The man shrugged, grabbing Maul by the ankle and lifting him to his height. Jango snorted softly to keep from laughing at the sight of Maul upside down with a scowl on his face. "But we'll need more money than we have right now for our plan. Just one more hunt."

Maul glared at him and continued unhappily, muttering in the same language as Krakko released him with a sigh. Jango stepped back, unsure if the boy was complaining or actually cursing the adult.

"Hunting for what?" Jango asked uncertainly. He assumed Krakko was referring to usual bounty work, but Maul's reaction said otherwise. The huge smile Krakko gave didn't help reassure him.

"For me personally, it's a mine of credits." Maul grunted loudly. Jango instinctively took a step back. "Get ready, verd'ika, we're going to hunt rancors."

-

Dathomir was a sweltering planet, that was the first thing Jango noticed.

The atmosphere was as red as Maul, and the air, though breathable, felt heavy in his lungs. The forest had trees so tall that Jango forced himself to acknowledge Krakko as a good pilot for managing to land. He shifted uncomfortably in his armor.

It was old and oversized, probably Krakko's, if the krys'tad symbol was any signal, but he was still grateful to finally have something to wear. Even though the buy'ce didn't fit properly or the durasteel weighed a bit too much on his body, he could handle it. It was better than any of the rags he'd been wearing lately.

Maul walked off the ramp. Jango moved to follow him but was stopped by Krakko's blaster.

"Udesii, verd'ika." He obeyed with a look, focusing on the still Zabrak instead of answering.

Silence fell over the forest as they waited. Maul barely moved, but he was alert, alert as a hunter, searching, scanning.

Then, in less than a second, Maul drew a blaster and aimed it between the trees. Krakko and Jango stood ready to attack.

Then a voice, low, hissing. The same strange language Maul had spoken before, and he growled. Krakko took aim.

"Udesii. Please." Maul blinked, only for a moment, but his confusion was clear. Krakko shifted from his position with something akin to amusement. "Did I pronounce that correctly?"

"For the first time, yes, but a little stronger and less snake-like." Krakko walked forward, and without further warning, Jango followed.

Maul was still suspicious, his blaster trained on one of the figures waiting among the trees.

One was another Zabrak Nightbrother, with orange skin that was closer to copper. He had no idea how to guess the age of Zabraks, but considering the Nightbrothers' way of life, he would judge it not to be very old. So it was striking how mature the man looked, in the same age range as Krakko, if he had to guess.

Beside him, being targeted by Maul's blaster, was a Nightsister.

White skin and even lighter hair, her eyes were a greenish hue that reminded Jango of the swamps they'd flown over. She was young, a teenager if he had to guess.

She was hissing softly at Maul; the adult Zabrak looked between them with a sigh of resignation.

Krakko noticed and turned to Maul. A silent conversation ensued, with Krakko trying to convince the Zabrak to lower his weapon, the boy practically growling at him not to.

In the end, Maul lowered his weapon with a low growl at the Nightsister, who responded with a hiss of her own. Seizing the moment, Jango walked over to the small Zabrak and stood behind him.

"Victus," Krakko greeted. The adult Zabrak waved back. Krakko gestured vaguely to the Nightsister. "What a company."

"This is Adaino." Despite her obvious unhappiness, the sister bowed in introduction. 'Victus' looked proud. "She's under my protection right now."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maul narrow his eyes for a second before snorting.

"Then she's a failed one." Victus grimaced at the word, 'Adaino' glared with such anger it could burn suns, and Krakko turned his head slightly, a barely perceptible signal for Maul to continue, "She can't perform magic, so the sisters threw her to the brothers to raise."

"The situation is more complicated than that," Victus replied with a shrug. Adaino looked as if she wanted to attack Maul as much as she wanted to hide from his gaze behind Victus's shoulder. "But yes, Adaino was given to us by her sisters to be raised among the brothers. That's why she was with me when I saw you arriving and decided to come and greet you." Victus then paused for a moment, giving the girl a quick glance before returning his attention to Krakko. "I can't guarantee her silence like I can."

Krakko shrugged. Maul ignored Adaino's gaze to turn to Jango.

"Even when they're not performing magic, witches still have a trace of it that lingers within them. At her age, having no trace means she's never used any." Jango nodded his understanding. Maul watched the buy'ce movement. "Is it serving you well?"

"More than I expected." His voice came out distorted through the speaker. He took a deep breath. It had been so long since he'd worn armor he'd almost forgotten. "A little big, but nothing too distracting."

Maul hummed back. From a distance, he could hear Krakko.

"It's our last visit anyway, don't worry." Victus merely arched an eyebrow. Krakko, Jango noticed, had a habit of getting too close to those he was talking to. He gave a friendly pat —probably meant to be on the shoulder, but the height difference and proximity made it actually on Victus's collarbone.

Judging by their lack of reaction, it must have been a common occurrence. Victus nodded calmly.

"Great! Utrel'a?" With a turn, Krakko turned to Maul; after a few seconds, the boy nodded. "Then it's time to go. We have a long hunt to do."

-

Jango, unfortunately found himself —technically— only with Krakko.

Technically, because he knew Maul was there too, just not visible. As he and Krakko followed the ground, he disappeared into the tree, not a sound or a hint of red through the branches.

And then, without even disturbing the silence of the forest, sounding by the speaker.

"Abesh." He and Krakko changed direction as the silence returned. Now that he paid attention, he noticed something about Maul's Mando'a.

"You're from Mandalore." He spoke through the speaker. Krakko didn't stop moving, but Jango could hear a slight change in his gait.

"What gave it away?"

"Maul's Mando'a." A beep sounded in his helmet as Krakko connected them to a private channel. Jango shifted uncomfortably but continued, "From what you said, you've only been to Concord Dawn so far, but his Mando'a has a slight Mandalore accent. I assumed you taught him and accidentally passed it on."

Krakko hummed —just like Maul did— and looked up for a few seconds.

"You nailed it." While not as inaudible as Maul, Krakko was still quite silent. Jango had to listen to hear him despite the heavy armor he wore. "He learns best by listening, so I simply spoke and explained as he asked."

Jango could imagine much better methods for teaching a child an entire language, but he supposed that if any child could learn this way, it would be Maul.

"He didn't talk much," Krakko continued, even though Jango hadn't asked, "Not when we first met, and not for long after the oath."

He flashes back to being much younger, with Jaster. When the man appeared like a light in the darkness.

He can't imagine Krakko the same way, not to him, not to Maul. He can't say he knows for sure five things about the Zabrak so far, but from what he can tell, nothing has come easily to him.

Maybe it's the instinct to hide and be silent that he falls into almost instinctively, maybe it's the maturity far beyond what a 10-year-old should have, maybe it's the lack of reaction to violence and pain. It's probably the jumble of all these things and the disturbing conclusions they lead to.

He keeps these conclusions to himself. As Krakko continues, he stops himself from looking at the trees.

"Because of that, I thought I wouldn't have to teach him, but one day he simply asked me what ad'ika was." Krakko gave a dry laugh, a hint of affection seeping into his voice. "I explained, and after that, he was always asking what every word I said meant."

"Tal'be, shote!" Jango nearly jumped at the sudden voice. Krakko gave a quick nod.

"He's already impatient. We'd better speed up." Jango gave a small signal before following the man; the route must have been partially known because Krakko made a slight turn south instead of going all the way. There was another beep as Krakko switched from the shared channel to the same private one they'd been on before. "We're cornering a pack area; he's guiding us to an observation point."

"And the rancors can't sense him?" Jango guessed, scanning the treetops, wondering how far ahead and how tall Maul was. "Is he always like this?"

"Basically, he was born to roam these forests after all. And no, he just doesn't like it here very much, ironically."

In the distance, a roar sounded. Jango hadn't heard many rancors roar in his life, but he'd bet this was a big one. He could practically feel Krakko's smile.

"Oya!"

-

"Daab ogir, de te yustapir."

Jango looked. They were on a hill that rose a few meters above a small plain. A river cut through it, its two ends disappearing into the trees. Lying along the bank, he saw the rancors.

A whole herd, some drinking water, others stretched out on the grass, enjoying the day in the calm of the plain.

"Ogir." On the far right bank, near the trees and a little away from the others, there was an adult rancor lying down, a calf on its lap, while a larger calf played in the water nearby. "The big little one."

Jango blinked, watching silently, then slowly turned to Krakko.

"The cub?"

"Yes."

…

"The cub?"

"Yes, verd'ika, the cub." The silence stretched. "Just say it."

"His mother will kill us." He felt like he was stating the obvious, but Krakko still didn't react.

"Oh, she will. And I'll let her." Maul boomed over the speakers, and Jango flinched. "And I'll go back to the ship and leave this haran me'suum while you're torn apart alive."

"If anyone's going to survive, I'd really rather it be you." Krakko muttered absently, fiddling with the systems on his right arm. "But that's enough for me to risk my life and the boy's."

Jango was about to respond, but the pay for the job flashed on his visors, the same amount Maul should be seeing.

"But why the cub?" he whispered as he stared at the dozens of zeros appearing on his screen.

"To train since he was little." Maul growled, but resignedly. Krakko hummed back.

"Like I said, more than enough to risk my life for." He pulled a long blaster, almost a rifle, from where it was slung across his back. "Because when we do, we'll have the rest of our lives sorted."

Maul growled through the speakers, and Jango mumbled back. Not really meaning to, already mentally planning his course of action.

"So, what do we say now, verd'ike?"

Jango never said a more tired Oya or heard one more irritated than Maul.

-

For a moment, Jango saw a flash of red.

He kept running as the little rancor —almost two meters tall— chased him, making a sound he might have found frightening if it weren't for the loud roars of its mother following behind.

But she was slow, too slow with all the tranquilizers Krakko had shot her; he himself was further behind, making sure she didn't reach him or the cub as they made their way to the ship. It was working; they were getting further away from her with each passing moment.

Maul made some kind of whistle, the rancor responded with the same sound, and Jango kept running. He could almost feel hopeful about seeing the ship —since it was almost over— if it weren't for the shrill screams he heard.

Chirodactyls. On the ship. Waiting for them.

Ibic haran be me'suum.

"FETT!"

"I SAW IT!" He couldn't hear Maul's response as the Zabrak dodged the angry rancor, he just ran forward while grabbing his blaster at the same time, as soon as he saw a winged form inside the ship, he fired.

He managed to shoot two more as they stood confused by their fallen companions. They were small —at least compared to adults— five meters each, but that only made them easier targets. Fighting in a war zone had made him excellent at hitting moving targets.

The last three noticed his presence, and fortunately, being in a war zone also made him excellent at dodging and appreciating good armor.

The first swooped down toward him; he dodged and managed to land a shot straight at the animal's forehead —for a moment, he didn't see wings and scaly skin; he saw silver armor and lightning bolts and laser swords flashing by— he found himself dancing between the other two, ducking and weaving through the trees to avoid their deadly claws.

When he reached the edge of the ramp, —he threw himself behind a boulder, on the right, Silas was shot in the rib, on the left someone fell so fast by a lightsaber that he couldn't even recognize who it was— one of them tried to grab him by the shoulder but got too close, he managed to kick him and then fire a shot, he fell from the air in front of him.

He heard another roar and looked away. He could see Krakko's armor as he dodged the mother rancor, but his heart stopped when he saw no red.

"Jareor!"

He didn't even have time to react, the remaining chirodactyl launched itself at his back —he was pushed to his knees, Tor Vizsla's sickly smile above him— and sent him staggering into the ship.

The creature clung to his ribs as if he were a tree and used its wings and claws to tear him apart, a shrill scream escaping as it attacked —he tried to get up, tried to reach the damned man, that bastard who killed everyone he cared about— he felt a claw grab the base of his buy'ce. It wasn't strong enough to hold on and fell to the ground, he keeps trying to reach for the creature on his back.

He can't, he can't reach Vizsla or the chirodactyl, but he manages to reach out and pull the vibrating blade from his belt.

He can't tell who he's hitting, whether it's Vizsla's ugly, unbearable face or the chirodactyl's wrinkled, pale skin. He knows he's hitting something repeatedly, rage and despair mingling into a shrill sound that makes his ears ring.

He sees red, it's not the memories he's seeing anymore. He couldn't reach Vizsla in that moment, couldn't make him pay, but he can still imagine every drop of blood as his, that all this pain is his, that he's killing him.

He rips the creature from his back and throws it to the ground. The blood dripping on him is more viscous than human blood. He knows he's soaked in it as he continues to repeatedly slam the blade into the creature, which screams so loudly he can't hear anything else. He thinks he screams back, but he's not so sure anymore.

He tears Vizsla's distorted face apart, he dismembers wings, and feels blood spurt into him. He keeps going even as it swallows him, he keeps going even as the screams have long since stopped. He keeps going because he doesn't know what will happen if he stops.

His buir did not condemn revenge, he said that it was something that every Mandalorian would want at some point in life, for someone, for themselves, against a single person, against a group, or even an idea, Mandalorians had their own justice and went after punishing those who desecrated it.

But he always spoke of how dangerous it was to live in revenge, to live in rage. How it consumed until there was nothing left, an uncontrollable fire that no matter how brightly it burned, would always go out. You needed something more, something you could believe in until the end.

He no longer knew what he believed in. He knew he wanted to avenge all who had fallen by Tor Vizsla's hand.

He staggered to his feet, the buzzing slowly fading as he stared at the remains of the chirodactyl before him, his breathing too fast.

But his inevitable fall, due to his own feeble gait, was slow, not quick; he felt warm and supported.

It took him a few moments of silence to realize he had been lowered and was being held.

He took a deep breath as best he could as he recognized the natural warmth Maul always emanated. He was crouched beside him, holding his wrist —his knuckles were white from the tight grip he was holding the blade— and supporting his back with his other hand.

He could hear his voice and Krakko's, but he couldn't understand them; it was as if he weren't there, watching them speak in another language he could barely comprehend.

But he could tell they seemed to be arguing. Without much choice, he turned his gaze to his soaked hand— he couldn't bear to look at the corpse in front of him.

The vibro-blade —the one Maul had given him, tucked into the right side of his belt— is soaked beyond the hilt in viscous, red blood. It's not a relatively new sight for him, but it still provokes a pang of nausea that he suppresses. He slowly lets go as he tries to take another deep breath; he discovers that the chirodactyl's claws can scratch deeply even in a matter of seconds.

It's hard to tell how much of Maul's hand is also bloodied; he holds it tightly, and as the argument continues, he feels Maul's hand touch his ribs.

The pain relief is sudden and partial, but he nearly passes out from the comfort. He leans against Maul as he finally manages to breathe properly, the clarity making him able to understand what Krakko is saying.

"You're the one who needs to heal—"

"I'm fine, he needs it more than I do." Maul hissed back. His voice was low, Jango noticed, but his face betrayed his irritation. "I can get bacta later."

"You don't use bacta. Because you choose to heal yourself," Krakko replies, his voice at its normal volume. He had removed his own buy'ce and was holding Jango's in one hand. "He'll be more accustomed to it, and you don't have enough energy to heal him completely."

Maul gives him a look, or he assumes that's what happens, his mind still a little slow to follow all the rapid gestures between father and son.

"Just take him to the infirmary, we have plenty of time before we land again—" Krakko's sudden stop only causes Maul to shrug. Jango sees the man's face change.

"I'll just heal the internal damage—" Jango is licked.

He blinks, Maul falls silent, and with great difficulty, Jango turns and looks to the side.

Beside him, his tongue wet with chirodactyl blood, is a rancor. The smaller one, he recognizes, the one that was at his mother's feet on the plain, quite different from his older brother, who is now anesthetized in a cell. The creature looks at him with wide eyes before attaching the delicious blood it licked to the carcass on the ground, attacking it with a noise of joy.

Krakko is the first to recover from his shock, shrugging with a comment that makes Jango want to vomit.

"I was going to say we could eat chirodactyl meat, but I don't think she'll leave anything like that. Well." He pulls his rifle from its holster and points it straight at the rancor's head.

"Udesii!" Maul almost growls. Krakko looks suspiciously at him, and Jango flinches at the sudden noise. The Zabrak continues in a lower tone, "You can't kill her."

"I don't think the client will want to keep two—"

"We can keep her." Krakko actually stops and grimaces. "If we're going to settle down, we'll have more than enough space to train her."

Meltch takes a deep breath as if he's about to fight a losing battle.

"Ad'ika…"

"I can train her myself!"

"You won't train her, you'll be afraid to discipline her properly." The Zabrak seemed deeply offended by this, Krakko continuing in the same manner, "And you have no idea how to train a rancor."

"I can learn!" The rancor chirped back, as if understanding the conversation, Krakko still holding the gun to its head, "And I won't be afraid—"

"Ad'ika, you're not like these rancors."

Silence falls again, except for the sound of the rancor chewing. Jango turns around in pain.

"I'll help." Krakko looks at him as if he has a thousand answers—plenty of profanity—to give him. Bloodied, bruised, and irrationally angry at the situation, he must look too serious to be dealing with a crasher cub rancor, but fuck it, he's too dependent on Maul's soothing healing to disagree with him on any point. "I swear."

Maul tears his eyes from the healing to stare at Krakko with clear expectation, as close to puppy eyes he can get.

"Oh, fuck it, whatever then, just take this kid to the infirmary and heal up later." Krakko steps away to look at a datapad. Maul turns to him with a triumphant gleam.

"Are you sure you can hear me?" Jango doesn't trust his mouth to speak, so he nods slightly. Maul grimaces. "Think you can get up and walk?"

He can, if he leans heavily on Maul and goes slowly; they're leaving the cargo hold when the rancor rocks the chirodactyl's body like a toy. It's a sight too foreign to his groggy brain, and he just stands there watching; it's peaceful after everything that's happened in the last few hours.

But then the rancor shakes the body so much that the rest of the skull —with patches of skin ripped off, hair gone, and even nerves exposed— flies in front of Jango and Maul, at their feet.

As Jango empties the contents of his stomach onto the ground —which isn't much— Krakko sighs loudly.

"I think that's a definite no for chirodactyl dinner."

-

"I'll take this little guy to the buyer. You guys stock up on supplies and get something to eat, I'll be a while." With those parting words, Krakko disappeared through the city with the box containing the rancor. Jango was almost certain they were on the moon of some planet between the Outer and Middle Rim, but he had no idea which.

They arrived hours after Jango entered the infirmary with Maul's help, pumped himself full of bacta, and passed out on one of the beds. According to Darth's diagnosis, he had two superficially broken ribs on each side from when the chirodactyl grabbed him and deeper scratches on his neck and shoulders from when he removed his buy'ce. Otherwise, the armor had done its part and protected him from further damage.

Maul, from what he could gather, had been grabbed at some point and had a deep cut on his hip where the rancor's claws had dug in, he wouldn't have guessed on his own, not when he'd carried him and hadn't even shown any pain at any point.

The healing Maul applied dealt with the worst of the rib damage, so he simply bandaged them. For the upper damage, he needed help applying the bacta and then bandaging them as well. As he fell asleep on the soft bed in the hospital area, he heard Maul arguing with Darth that he was about to begin healing.

He awoke after landing, with Krakko entering the infirmary to summon him. He discovered, to his delight, that the bacta had done a wonderful job of changing the bandages. The bleeding had naturally stopped, and the wounds were now in the process of healing. He bandaged himself again, took a painkiller, and joined his father and son in the cargo hold.

The rancor —Tal, Maul named her— was much friendlier than her family. She showed no sign of missing them either, happily playing with the now-cleaned bones of the chirodactyl —it helped him hold back his nausea— and eating the eels Maul gave her.

"Just to know, why isn't taking her back to Dathomir an option?" Jango asked Krakko quietly. Maul still heard and glanced at him for a split second.

"The witches have been on our trail for a while now. If Victus managed to find us so quickly after we landed, they'd be next," Krakko complained. According to Darth, he hadn't been hurt, but the way he kept rotating his right arm and Maul's quick glances belied that. "I also don't think her mother would accept us returning her without her older brother."

When they left, Tal had fallen asleep on the deck and didn't intend to wake up for a while, according to Maul. Jango wanted to say he was already healed, but he couldn't be sure when he hadn't even noticed he was injured beforehand.

The city they landed in was a port city and designed to accommodate passersby, so it wasn't difficult to find the right places to stock up. First they got gasoline, apart from the incident when the liquid was spilled on Maul, —if anyone asks, he didn't laugh, much less chuckle— they managed to finish quickly, then it was weapons, they replaced the ones they lost during the hunt and Jango was free to buy for himself.

He grabbed a basic blaster, a long-range blaster, and a smaller one to keep hidden, with an extra of each. He moved on to the vibro blades. He hid them in his armor and tucked the others into his belt near Maul's. —by this point, it was his own, the Zabrak showed no desire to take it back— Krakko had said he could keep the armor until he could find something better, so he took the opportunity to make some repairs and adjust it to his size.

He also scraped off the Kyr'tsad symbol. But he didn't comment on it, and neither did Maul.

After the weapons, they replenished everything that had been used in the infirmary, mainly bacta and painkillers, and some bandages to replace what Jango had taken. Then it was time for food.

The taste for spicy food was normal among Mandalorians and Jango was no exception as Maul seemed to have taken after Krakko, a variety of seasonings and sauces were just the first bags, Maul was a carnivore and so they took various types of red meat, some more durable fruits for quick snacks, ration bars for emergencies and some controlled carbohydrates for Krakko and Jango's more human diet.

After sending everything to the ship, hunger decided to attack both of them at the same time, without the will or energy to prepare something truly nutritious on the ship, they chose to eat out.

"I think nothing marine, having only eaten eels for a while." Maul hummed back. Nearby, a vendor advertised bat skewers. Jango grimaced. "No."

"I can't say I'm very picky, but I can appreciate a stronger flavor." Jango made a mental note of this. They continued walking down the shopping street. There was a wide variety among all the food stalls, so he didn't bother looking for specific ones; he could swallow anything if he spiced it up enough.

Jango didn't want to break the comfortable silence, but he feared that if he waited too long to have this conversation, he'd miss the opportunity.

"Can I make a guess?" Maul's glance was quick, and he waited patiently for him to nod. "Krakko said you don't like being on Dathomir. You haven't been together long enough for him to teach you everything you know, and he said you're not like the rancor."

Maul didn't stiffen —it would have been too obvious a reaction— but he clenched his fists slightly before nodding.

"As I said, it's a guess, but I believe that before Krakko adopted you, you were given as a gift by the witches of Dathomir to someone who wanted to train you. As an assassin, I'd guess."

Silence returned, they stopped walking, he hadn't expected the soft chuckle that followed.

"You nailed it." Jango wondered if he realized his mando'a wasn't the only talk similar to Krakko's. "Being an assassin was one of the roles, but it was a more abroad training than that."

Maul resumed walking, Jango following him in silence.

"When he met me, I…" Maul paused, staring at something only he could see. "Well, I should have guessed there was something wrong with him and all the others when they looked at something like me and decided it was worth it."

He didn't question who the other people Maul was referring to were. He felt this should be the moment to offer encouragement and reassurance that he would see something in him too, but he felt it would be hollow. He hadn't met Maul back then, he didn't know what they had seen.

"Well, at least Krakko was right in the end, wasn't he?" Maul looked at him questioningly. Jango offered a small smile. "You're still here with him."

The corner of Maul's mouth quirked slightly. It wasn't a full-blown smile, but it was the closest thing to a genuine smile he'd seen from him so far.

It was at that moment that Jango spotted a stand with a sign he recognized, and his smile widened when he caught the scent of it in the air.

"I found the perfect dinner." He smiled at the zabrak before pulling him along, gripping his arm. He felt as if Maul had never felt so alive as when he could feel his pulse against his fingers. "You'll love it!"

Instead of a normal door, they had a curtain cut into strips as an entrance. The aroma of soup permeated the interior as they entered. Jango led them to the stools in front of the counter.

"Ramen…" Maul read from the menu before giving Jango a questioning look. "I admit I've never tried it."

"In its most basic form, it's a certain type of pasta, soup, and fish or chicken, seasonings, and other toppings. It's already good that way, but in good places like this…" Jango gestured around. From inside the kitchen, a hybrid human man —Jango was almost certain he saw webbing between his fingers— saw them and came toward them. "They can play with the flavors to adapt to the customer's taste. Create your own and then just order."

Maul nodded, returning his attention to the menu. Jango began a cordial conversation with the cook.

Soon they were waiting for their bowls with easy conversation. Maul was curious about some aspects of Mandalorian culture, whether they were Kyr'tsad or for everyone.

Jango found himself being much more neutral than he'd expected; he blamed his closeness with Krakko in the last few rotations.

The food arrived with a smile and a wish for bon appetit, and after explaining to Maul how to use chopsticks —he learned quickly and easily, of course— Jango watched expectantly as the Zabrak took his first bite of ramen.

He swallowed the noodles and meat in one bite. Jango waited until he turned around with another almost-smile.

"It's much better than I expected." Jango smiled and ate triumphantly from his own bowl, silence falling between them again.

He didn't know what to expect for the next few days, they had a plan, the initial foundations of one at least, but he had barely had time to think about everything so far or prepare for the consequences of returning to Mandalorian space.

But he knew he hadn't eaten with such gratitude since Galidraan, just as he hadn't worn armor or picked up a weapon since he was enslaved, nor shared a meal with a companion who could let silence fall without worry.

That was enough to believe in for now.