Chapter Text
The Mandalorian, once called Din Djarin, preferred desert worlds. He preferred the dry heat and easy movement that the desert provided. However, he was starting to figure out that the forest worlds were a little easier on the baby. The cool, moist air was gentler on his skin, and there was more to look at. He would sit quietly, for once, in his cot and simply watch the scenery pass him by. There was a heavy smell of fresh greenery and of old rot in the air.
They entered the small port town.The buildings were made of wood and composite materials, and smelled strongly of smoke and the roasting bodies of the giant bird species that made up a large portion of the livelihood of this planet’s inhabitants. The Child began to fuss, and he glanced at it.
“You hungry?” he asked.
The Child’s ears rose at the sound of his vocoded voice. He looked upset. The growl of their stomach was probably being picked up in orbit. That was just fine with Mando. He needed work, the Kid needed food. Credits were running low, and so were fuel supplies on the Crest.
The pair entered a small tavern that advertised the best bone broth in town, but wasn’t too busy. He preferred to feed the kid broth, since he wasn’t actually certain what the kid could and couldn’t eat. He’d seen the thing swallow small critters whole, but he also wasn’t sure how to save it if it did start to choke.
The being running the place was wiping out glasses when he walked in. He took a seat at a small table, and lifted the kid to a seat as well. There were low-reward bounties all over the place, and they kept shooting shifty glances at him, trying to appear casual. Mando flashed some credits, the server brought broth and flatbread for the Foundling.
Keeping his eye on his Foundling, he walked up to the bar. The Bartender looked thrilled.
“I’ve heard rumors of a Mandalorian in this part of the system. Glad to see you. There’s someone looking for you.Maybe now that skinny bastard will screw off.”
Mando paused. Though for all appearances, he was a composed but prepared warrior, his alarm bells were ringing. Under his helmet, his brows furrowed.
“Who?”
“Some Core Worlder looking for some muscle. Says he’s got a job for your kind specifically. He usually comes in about this time--ope, there he is.”
The man that came in was freakishly tall, but human nonetheless. He looked like he’d been grabbed from both ends and stretched out. He was sallow-faced and thin, but had a rich man’s bearing. He was wearing a rich man’s clothes, that much was for sure.
When he spotted the Mandalorian, he was visibly relieved. Mando kept his hands open, but his arms ready. He unclipped the strap of his holster, the cold metal of his blaster pistol smooth under the leather of his glove. The man walked up to him. Mando was not a short man, but he still had to crane his neck to get a good look.
“Hello, Mandalorian,” he said genially. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to find you.”
“You’ve been looking for me?” he asked, making it clear with his tone that he was not happy to have been sought out so openly.
“I have. Well, a Mandalorian. Clearly, you are a professional of some skill, given your beskar armor.”
“You could say that.”
Mando could tell he wouldn’t have to prompt much with this guy. He was a sniveling idiot and would tell Mando all he needed to know, and take his time with it. The kid was sipping broth and jabbing the flatbread with his claws. He’d be fine for a few minutes, but it wouldn’t take long for him to get bored.
“What’s the job?”
“If you would accompany me to my lady’s place of--”
“No.”
The man balked. “Sir, my lady is one of privacy. She would forbid me to discuss her business publicly. If you would allow us our privacy--”
“I said --”
“--then my lady would be happy to make you an offer you would be a fool to refuse.”
The man--A functionary of some kind, spoke with a kind of tone that the Mandalorian knew meant confidence. He gave a good long pause, long enough that the man began to lose his cool. Mando needed the credits. Scouring the galaxy took gas.
“Where will I find her?”
“You'll find her in the warehouse across from the cantina near the Landing fields. Shall we expect you this evening?”
“I’ll be there at sundown.”
“Very well, Mandalorian.”
The man left the bar, and Mando turned to look at the Kid. He was tearing the flatbread into pieces and dropping them on the floor, cooing happily. He sighed. He paid for the broth and tipped the server. Flashing credits was always a gamble, but combined with the armor, it usually ensured cooperation rather than confrontation. The Kid yawned widely, all their little teeth showing. He wasn’t going to be able to walk back to the ship.
The Mandalorian picked up the Kid, and carried him back to the poorest example of a home that could be found in the galaxy.
***
The sunset on this planet was probably one of the nicer ones Mando had ever seen. He was lucky when the kid passed out, and Mando left him in the bunk with the slider shut, sure the kid would be fine. Not certain, but pretty sure, and that was going to have to be good enough.
He walked back to the port. The warehouse was a more typical style of building, stuccoed and square. It was designed to be easily recognizable to the few travelers who would pass through town and need it.
Pounding his gloved fist against the door, he waited to be allowed in. When the door slid open, he found the tall man again. The place inside was quiet, and nearly abandoned. A few old crates of wares lined the walls, but not much more. The lights were weak and flickered hard, and a layer of dust an inch thick had settled all over the place. The Functionary lead him to an office labeled in Aurebesh. It said “Foreman.”
“My Lady,” he said.
“Come in.”
The voice inside was feminine, but firm. When the door was opened, the woman inside was revealed. She stood in front of a large desk, glaring at a datapad and piles upon piles of paperwork. She wore a severe black dress that clung to her curves like it was wet, with a flat neckline and a hood that she had pinned over a large bun of dark hair, though he could see that it had been gathered and braided away from her face. Her earrings were… something, alright, and they matched her ethereal green monolid eyes. Her skin was pink from the sun, with a dusting of freckles over her nose and cheeks that interrupted the regal look she was going for.
“I told you, Haloran, I didn’t want to be disturbed ag--” she said as she lifted her head. She paused when she saw the Mandalorian. Her eyes went wide when she saw his beskar armor.
The Functionary, apparently called Haloran, looked smug. “I found that Mandalorian you requested.”
The lady walked around the desk, her trailing skirt rustling quietly. She wore bracelets that had a particular timbre as they jangled. It was familiar.
“I’ll say you did,” she said. The Mandalorian walked into the office. He kept his shoulders square. Absently, she said, “You’re still fired though,” to the Functionary.
“Heard you had a job for me.”
She was young, maybe in her mid-20s. She wouldn’t stop staring at the beskar. He was getting used to stares of a certain kind--stares of envy, of jealousy, of hatred or fear. This was something else. Something he hadn’t seen in a while.
Admiration. Bald admiration.
“That’s… that’s a lot of beskar,” she said. Unconsciously, she began to reach up. The impulse to touch it was so strong it was overriding her reason. “You really must be one of the best.”
“Yeah,” he said, trying to sound neutral. “You’ve read about my people, I’m sure. I get that a lot. ”
“Something like that…”
She looked away from the armor, composed herself, and looked back at him, clasping her hands. Pasting a smile on her face, she said, “I do. Have a job for you that is. Um… in fact, pretty sure you’re the best guy for it, if that armor is any indication,” she said, walking around the desk again. She pressed a few buttons, and a bright blue map projected itself from the desk. “I need passage through Hutt space. A guide.”
The Mandalorian was silent for a good long minute.
“ You mean a bodyguard.”
“Your word,” she said with a shrug. “I need to get to Nakadia quickly.”
“Go around.”
“Not an option. It would take too long. Look, I can pay you, that’s not an issue.”
“I was a bounty hunter, lady, not a bodyguard. You need a real bodyguard. Or a mercenary. Or two. Not me.”
“I know for a fact that I need a Mando, and you seem to be the only one available. Unless you know where I can find some more, you’re all I’ve got.”
“If you know so much about beskar, then you must know that Mandalorians hate Hutts. Hutts don’t much care for Mandalorians, either, especially not me, since I’ve brought in more than my fair share of their cronies. I’m not doing it.”
“Now see here,” said Haloran, stepping forward. “Surely, there must be some kind of arrangement we can make…”
“Be quiet, Haloran,” said the lady sharply. “You’re not gathering your things, so I’m assuming you didn’t get the memo about being fired .”
The Mandalorian turned to leave. This had been a waste of time. The Kid was probably awake, probably tearing up the ship, and probably in need of a change.
“I can pay you in beskar, if you prefer.”
That caught his attention.
He turned. The lady was leaning heavily against the desk, her head held low. She sighed, and walked to a safe in the wall. She pressed in a keycode, and laid her hand flat against the print scanner. When the door opened, she produced a round white camtono. It was heavy. She walked it over to the desk. He was reminded of the Imperial Client, the one from whom he had stolen the Child.
“Beskar and credits, if that’s what you want,” she said as she punched in the security key on the camtono. It opened, revealing a stack of eight ingots of beskar. It was a long moment before she said anything. She was staring at the beskar like it was all she had in the world, like it was breaking her heart to even offer it. “I need a Mandalorian. I know your services are rare, and the best. I’m willing to pay for it.”
The Mandalorian considered. How many foundlings could be sponsored with her beskar? He could replace his greaves. He could put fuel in the ship and food in the Kid with her credits.
“What do you want on Nakadia?”
“Senate business.”
“You’re a senator?”
“A legate. Assistant legislator. I write policy for the Republic.”
“How many credits?”
“10,000.”
“Make it 20. And the beskar.”
“Done,” she said. “How soon can we leave?”
“Not so fast. Nakadia is in the Mid Rim. I’m carrying cargo I don’t want found. If you travel with me, you travel Iight, and I mean light. No stops.”
She smirked. “What do I look like, a Nabooian? I’m a light packer. Can we leave in the morning?”
“Yes. I’ll send you the coordinates. We meet at sunrise.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.