Chapter Text
Part One
Blazin' On Ahead
A gentle face, a smile framed with tears, a small hand on your damp cheek. There are screams at your back and thunderous footsteps echoing around each corner. The shove you get is brutal. The wind whipping at your flailing limbs roars like watching you fall is funny, the fragility of your survival a pleasing joke.
You should be dead.
By order and by the laws of physics, you should be dead.
But survivors aren’t known to die, not before the hardest part. Not before the After. The ground should have splintered you to pieces, strewn you across in a mosaic like an ill omen that came too late.
But you are not an omen. You are a survivor.
And the galaxy will never apologize for it.
~
Hiding among crowds has served well thus far. Your usual hunters cannot chance being known, which has been advantageous. It is easier to be nondescript when you’re alone. But that is who you are, who you have always been; alone among many.
Naboo was not your first choice of hiding places. It was smarter to hide somewhere smaller, foreign to trade routes, less populated. But when your hiding had caused a small community to be hurt in the crossfire before your very, very, narrow escape, you went back to your old habits. Truth be told, there was an allure to large cities, ones that never stopped to take a breath. And Keren was certainly breath-taking. It was the Kwilaan spaceport that had gotten your attention first. With your stolen ship barely making it out of orbit and trailing an obvious cloud of smoke behind it, getting lost in such a busy stream of traffic was too tempting to pass up.
Inside one of the bars, cleaner and calmer than many you have been to, the mix of travellers, traders and Alderaanians serves as fine cover. No one seems to care about your plain clothes, a simple white shirt and dark blue overalls with a toolbelt hanging around your hips, nor the way you keep the one eye on the door and a hand beneath the table.
The din in the room is helpful. You find it easier to focus, to feel the forces around you to find the ones that don’t fit. You’re about halfway through your second drink when the man you had been watching finally stands up. He’s a smuggler, if you hadn’t already known that, you would have known by his clothes. A protective vest, a gun belt he didn’t bother to hide, and a jacket that just screamed ‘look at me, I’m dangerous and cool’.
Your target swaggers out of the bar and you give him a few seconds before you follow. Keeping an eye on him in the shifting crowd is tricky, his dark hair blending in with others and dark headpieces and hats. Someone bumps into you without an apology or any form of acknowledgement. You turn to snap at them and that’s when you finally notice.
Hiding has been your objective for two decades. In that time, you’ve learned about your pursuers, how they act, how they hide, their preferences for hideouts, their style of stealth. Hiding from them has become second nature and hiding from regular people has become almost child’s play. What you’re not ready for is to be hiding from a Mandalorian.
The helmet is trained squarely on you, never shifting to follow the crowd. At first, you had foolishly hoped that he had just noticed your encounter. But when the Mandalorian sees that you’ve noticed him, any intent of subtlety is abandoned. He strides through the crowd that parts for him with each step, making a beeline straight for you. It’s one thing to be chased by a bounty hunter or an imperial, but it is something else entirely to be chased by this. The crowd doesn’t part out of your way, but you’re much smaller and far quicker than the one chasing you. With some struggle, the crowd is left behind for back alleys and side streets. Residents huff and holler as you dash past them, trying to appear calm while rushing by. You were right about the Mandalorian, unfortunately, as you can still sense him following you. Gaining on you. But you are determined not to be captured. Not by him and not by the bastards who hired him.
You lose him down a small alley that’s more of a storage space. By the time the Mandalorian has barrelled into the alley, you’ve climbed to the balcony above him, watching as he slows to a predator’s crawl. He’s looking at the ground, at your footsteps that suddenly stop in the sand. You land behind him, a few steps away. The helmet must pick up the noise because the Mandalorian turns around with a gun aimed right at your chest.
“Easy there, big man.” You say, oddly calm. Despite the threat, you try for reason first, then violence if that doesn’t work.
“You the Havoc?” His voice is low, grating, and even calmer than you.
“Didn’t think they’d call me something so stupid.” It’s the first time you’ve ever met a Mandalorian, and all you can think of is the stories you’ve heard and the history you were taught so many years ago. If this was to end in a fight, you wouldn’t be walking away unscathed. “A Mandalorian working for the Empire seems strange. How much are they paying you?”
The Mandalorian straightens up, lowering his gun a little. “The Empire? Are you serious?”
You shrug. “Yeah, who else?”
“I’m with the Bounty Hunters’ Guild.”
It takes you a moment to register what he means. You heave out a sigh when you finally make the connection. “The Guild? Seriously? What do they want me for?”
“Theft, arson, destruction of property… What does the Empire want with you?”
It’s foolish to talk to this Mandalorian, especially since he is aiming a gun at you. But it’s been so long since you talked to anyone that wasn’t a trader, a smuggler or someone trying to rob you. And the Mandalorian seems to not mind the chance to talk either.
“Same stuff, honestly. And because I’m… me.”
“I’m sure that’s a fun story, but I’ve got a bounty to collect.”
Your eyes are on the pistol, but your focus is on his other hand which reaches slowly behind him. As soon as you take a step back, the Mandalorian throws something towards you and that’s when you push back. The Force ripples through you, energy palpable between you and your target. The cable hangs mid-air as the Mandalorian shakes at the pressure of the Force pushing him back.
With one quick surge, you shove him back to stumbling before you’re off running. But then he shouts at you to stop and it’s the shaking in his voice that has you hesitating. Then there is a cable wrapped tightly around your arms and you brace yourself to pull against him. But the Mandalorian doesn’t pull you back. He’s breathing hard and holds up one hand in surrender.
“Wait-wait. Just… You’re a Jedi?”
“And you’re a Mandalorian.”
“They didn’t tell me…”
“It’s not something I advertise.” It would be easy to get out of the cable, to shove him back and disappear. You’re not sure what it is that tells you to stay, but you’ve felt this kind of need to do something. This other influence or intuition that tells you whether or not you’re on the right path. Maybe it’s a Jedi thing, you don’t know, no one was there to tell you. But you’ve listened to it before and it hasn’t steered you wrong yet. “Look, I know I’ve messed up and upset some folks. But I’m being hunted, and I had to get away, for the sake of a lot of people, including myself. And right now, I need to go track down a smuggler in order to help more people.”
“The one at the bar?”
“Yeah, him.”
A pause, then: “I can help you find him.”
It’s difficult to discern anything with that mask obscuring the Mandalorian’s face. But he looks at you, steadfast and unwavering. The cord slips free from around you and you watch as he quickly wraps it back up.
“I’m sure that would be a fun story for later, but you’re after me for a bounty.”
“I already have a tracker on his bike, got a fob for him too. I can help you.”
Again, that feeling comes back and it keeps you were you stand. “Why? Why would you help me?”
“It’s personal, but…” His voice cracks on that last word, a depth there that he struggles to keep controlled. “I have no quarrel with the Jedi. And if you’re after this guy, he must be worse than I was told.”
“… he’s my lead to something worse. Reckon you could help me with that?”
The Mandalorian nods, easing up his stance and you ease yours.
“What’s the ‘much worse’?”
“You ever dealt with a gang of mercenaries?”
He nods.
“They’re something like that.”
The Mandalorian looks at you for a time. Part of you thinks that he has malfunctioned, or something, suddenly standing very still. Then, with a quick nod, he’s animated again and moving towards you.
“We’ll grab a ride from the port, and you can tell me about them on the way.”
~
The ride out of town happens so quickly. One moment, you’re surrounded by people and buildings, encompassed in the accompanying waves of noise, and then it’s gone. Riding alongside the Mandalorian on a speeder, you stare at the fields that seem stretch on forever. The rivers and lakes that pop up are straight out of the picture books you had as a child, picturesque and shimmering. It’s regrettable that you don’t get to spend time in such places, to relax where the sun is warm, not scorching, and the air is cool and inviting.
One day, you will. Hopefully.
“Up ahead,” the Mandalorian shouts, pointing to a dense forest in the distance. You nod and let him drift forward. Despite your agreement, you still don’t trust this bounty hunter, not when you know he’s still got the puck on you.
You leave the speeders near the edge of the forest, dragging a few fallen branches over them. The fob at the Mandalorian’s hip beeps faster now.
“This way.” He says before stalking off. There’s a sizable distance between you two, still not taking any chances with surprise attacks. You take the opportunity of the lack of conversation to breathe. To focus. To feel the Force around you like a security blanket, finding comfort in the living things around you. There is no pushing or pull right now, no guidance even when you seek it out. You are not sure if this is where you need to be, but you are here and there are people who need to be stopped so you rationalize that you cannot be far from where you need to be.
The Mandalorian is a strange, but not unwelcome, addition.
~
The first time you had ever killed someone, it was a mess of adrenaline and panic. Before you had known what you were doing, the man was several metres away from you, his head twisted too far and his limbs akimbo.
You had cried, then puked, then cried some more. For years after, you had avoided killing anyone, still haunted by that one time. Most situations could be talked out of, others you just ran away from. But then there was that child on Naboo.
It’s hard to recall why you had gone there, how you even got to such a planet. But you remember the kid. Small, scruffy, barely big enough to hold themselves let alone a weapon. And then there were the Stormtroopers. Their guns aimed unwavering, point-blank range, and the kid just standing there against the wall.
You had fired first, right into one of the trooper’s necks. They all turned at once and you had fired another two shots. The last trooper got uncharacteristically lucky and shot your arm before you hit him. Then it was just you and the kid, staring at each other like lost souls. You had wanted to ask the kid’s name, if they had family, where home was. But the thunderous footsteps came, like a nightmare escaping your dreams, and the kid was gone.
Those Stormtroopers lived, despite the rage boiling beneath your skin, despite the ache in your chest as grief found its way back into your mind. But you knew they would kill you, taking on a whole squadron marching down the road was suicide. You were a survivor and you were not letting them take more than they already had from you.
From then on, you had taken your training more seriously. Whoever would teach you, wherever you could find them, you took on tutors, trainers and crewmates until you learned all you could. None of them were Jedi, all you had of that was your memories of early lessons and scraps of archives. A puzzle with most of the pieces missing that you filled with whatever you could find.
The next time you had killed someone, your hands did not shake, you did not cry, you did not die. And you wouldn’t for years after.
~
The edge of the camp is littered with trip-mines. The camp itself is not terribly big, just a few campfires set around a sizable tent. There’s a truck, a few barrels of cargo and the smuggler’s speeder. It takes a long while for you and the Mandalorian to sneak close enough to get any information.
Crouched behind a log, the Mandalorian presses a few buttons on his wrist panel. “I count eight of them. Two on the other side of that tent, the rest are inside.”
“Troopers?”
“…Yeah.”
“Wonderful.”
“How do you want to do this?”
You pause for a moment, surprised that he is letting you take charge. But he’s just watching you and you realize that he’s waiting for an answer.
“You think you can get the two troopers at the back?” The Mandalorian nods. “I’ll head inside and deal with the others.”
A hand on your arm is as surprising as it is halting. “You can’t be serious.”
“What?”
“You’re gonna go in there and take on six troopers?”
“Five troopers, and our smuggler. And I won’t be taking them on.”
“You got some sort of Jedi… trick?”
“Something like that. I’ll shout if I need backup. Just be ready.”
You can tell he doesn’t like this idea, but he hasn’t got much of a choice when you start sneaking towards the door. There’s voices, speaking Basic, and none of them sound happy. Why do they never sound happy?
They’re certainly not happy when you step inside.
At once, they all turn, guns drawn, to you. Instinctively, your hands go up. But no shots are fired, and you mentally check off another ‘too-lucky-for-your-own-damn-good’ mark and one day you’ll remember whose voice it is that says it every time you think it.
“Afternoon, fellas. All’s well in here?”
Two troopers twist to look at each other and another cocks their head to the side. The smuggler looks about ready to run or throw up, or both. Only the trooper closest to him seems to realize what’s going on and points his gun at your face.
“Who are you and what’re you doing here?”
“Well…”
In all honesty, you don’t really enjoy doing this. Not only is it difficult, but it goes against your own desperate need for freedom. But sometimes you need to do bad things before they become worse.
“You are all going to drop your weapons and handcuff yourselves and get into that truck parked outside. You’re going to keep quiet and not move unless instructed.” Your voice is steady and clear as you will enough conviction into your words. Like magic, the six of them do as you’ve instructed quickly and efficiently.
The Mandalorian bursts just as the troopers and smuggler leave out the front exit.
Blaster in hand, he looks from the troopers’ backs to you. “What’s going on?”
“Co-operation,” you say, trying to hide the bitterness in your tone. A bad thing for a better outcome, you remind yourself. “They’re going to ride in the truck, should fetch you some extra credits.”
“And the smuggler?”
“Him too.”
The only indication that the Mandalorian is staring at you is the fact that his visor never changes its direction at you. Not even when he tilts his head.
“Where are the other two?”
“Outside.” That’s all you get before he stalks outside after the group. You take a moment to look over some of the files with the cargo manifest, and a few names stick out. They stick in your brain once you read them over a few times and then you follow after the Mandalorian.
Already, the troopers and smuggler are in the truck, with the Mandalorian in the front seat. The whole thing creaks as you climb in, sceptical about the ride out of the forest. The engine groans to life. The Mandalorian says nothing as the truck pushes forward, bouncing around the uneven terrain.
“Who’s riding the speeders back?” You ask, buckling yourself in.
“Some droids will pick them up if we don’t return them.”
“I didn’t know they did that. I guess if Bounty Hunter droids go after living beings, then a speeder should be no problem.”
The Mandalorian is silent for a long while, nothing but the engine and tires ruining the peaceful scenery, before he speaks. “I’m turning the smuggler in, and the troopers before they’re shot like pests.”
There’s a bantha in the room. It’s easy to remain calm, heart barely picking up pace, but you are curious. He hadn’t taken you before, had stopped himself. But now what?
“How many credits would you be missing out on?” He doesn’t answer. “I’ll only be offended if it’s less than one hundred.”
“Two.” He says, quietly.
“Only two hundred? Those cheap sons of-”
“Thousand.”
“…Come again?”
“They want two thousand for you. Eight hundred for the smuggler.”
“That’s- um… that’s a sizable amount of pay.”
“Mhm. I’m not taking it.”
“And why not?”
“I promised to help you. And I’ve got no quarrel with the Jedi.”
You look at him for a long moment, trying to discern anything from the unmoving beskar. “Are you sure you’re a bounty hunter?”
“What?”
“Well, firstly, you’re giving up two thousand credits for… impartiality? Disinterest? I’m still not even sure why you offered to help. And second, our peoples aren’t exactly friends.”
“What?”
“Jedi and Mandalorians? There were wars and battles centuries ago and the animosity has never really healed.”
“Why?”
“Why what? Why hasn’t the animosity healed?”
“No. Why was there fighting in the first place?”
You sigh. The stories are faint and faded in your memory. It’s easier to remember holding the old tome, with foxed edges and little rips on some of the pages, as you poured your attention onto every word. “I might be generalizing it but… I think it was because we didn’t understand each other. Two very different kinds of people: the peacekeeping, Force wielding Jedi, and the warrior centric Mandalorians who didn’t know what the Force was. And I guess no one thought to talk it out. There was something about the Jedi not wanting the Mandalorian ideals of fighting to reach the rest of the universe and the Mandalorians didn’t trust the Jedi’s powers. The Jedi Order held ideals that conflicted with the Mandalorians’, and there’s never really been a peaceful connection made. So… animosity and distrust were left to fester.”
All you get as a response is a gentle ‘huh’, and then the conversation stops. It doesn’t feel uncomfortable, not once on the long ride back do you feel the need to fill the silence. You guess that the Mandalorian feels the same.
It takes a lot long to arrive at the port in the truck, but you were grateful for the time to think; to plan. The names burned like headlights in your mind as you tried to fit them in with the rest of the information you keep stored in there. You had tried to write it down, but with all your running and hiding, it became too much to carry. As the gears of your brain begin to tick over, you cast a sidelong glance at your unlikely companion. Although he’s taciturn, you can tell he’s pragmatic. It is unlikely that you’ll have to trick him in any form, not when a plan forms so neatly before you.
The Mandalorian begins hauling the captives out of the truck. All of them remain passive, almost dazed, and they earn your small group several wary glances. The Empire is gone, but the scars are still fresh; too new to really begin closing.
You keep close to the group, in case the trick wears off, and the Mandalorian leads you to a old relic of a ship.
“I didn’t know they still made these,” you murmur, taking in the side engines and the front windshield. It looks out of place with all the newer, sleeker ships. The ramp drops at the back and you catch a glimpse of the interior. It’s dark, narrow, and perfect for one person. “How’re they all going to fit?”
Instead of speaking, the Mandalorian lines one trooper up in a sort of alcove before hitting a button. The gas comes out quickly and you watch as the trooper is frozen in carbonite. None of the others flinch as, one by one, they’re treated to the same fate as the first trooper. It’s over in a matter of moments and the Mandalorian strides down the ramp towards you.
There’s nothing threatening in his gait nor in what you sense from him. But you still take a step back. He’s a large being, who seems incapable of strolling, and being approached by a Mandalorian like this would make anyone uncomfortable.
“Thank you.” He says with a nod.
“No, thank you. I don’t think I would’ve gotten what I needed so efficiently without you.”
“Did you get all you needed?”
“Mhm, thanks.” The Mandalorian nods again, pauses, and then turns to leave. “You sure you don’t want those credits?”
He looks back at you, standing very still as he does so.
“I mean,” you carry on, trying to sound convincing. “That’s a lot of credits and it seems foolish to pass them up.”
“…You want me to capture you?”
“Well, no. And I don’t think it will be a quick and easy fight if you were to try.” He keeps staring at you. “But…what if I went willingly?”
Another pause. “What?”
“It just so happens that one of the people I need to talk to has been captured by the Guild. The papers confirmed that a friend of those Stormtroopers is detained after getting caught.”
“You want to get arrested with him?”
“Or close enough to the guild to find out where he’s been sent to.”
“I don’t think you get how handing over bounties works.”
“I do so. Look, all you have to do is bring me in, get your credits and go do whatever you need to do. I’ll stay there, have a talk with whoever’s in charge, and then I’ll be on my way too. Easy as that.”
“You’re going to use that Jedi trick again?”
You wince. “Maybe? Hopefully not. But I have gotten myself out of worse situations before, so I’m not worried.”
He hasn’t moved his visor from your face even once during the whole conversation. “Why?”
You shrug. “I don’t know. It just feels like I should.”
“Is… is that a Jedi thing?”
“Maybe? So, what do you think? You get all your credits and I get my man?”
The crowd around you never ceases moving, the sound never lulls as it swarms through every crack and crevice, the heat is a constant weight against you. But all you can focus on is the being before you, and the strange push and pull that exists between. That feeling comes back and you’re smiling before he even answers with a quiet sigh.
The Mandalorian feels wary but his voice is sure when he says, “Alright.”