Chapter Text
Ever since you were a little girl, you had gotten in trouble for doling out punches to all the little boys who tried to pinch you. Now, you get paid every time you win by knockout in the ring. You had found an MMA gym in Mos Eisley, and ended up falling in love with the area, the trainers, and the fighting. Eddie, your coach, was a rough around the edges kinda man, but took you in and gave you a task and a purpose in the fighting.
Life had somehow settled scraping by in Mos Eisley for 2 years.
Your hard work pays off for your first fight, Eddie screaming at you while you punch and dodge and weave and finally, after two rounds, catch a break and pummel your competitor to the ground. A split lip and a bloody eyebrow later, you help her to her feet, hug each other, and you both murmur a quick “good fight, hell of a fight” to each other before the referee holds your hand up.
You won.
You were 18.
Eddie said drinks were in order. You get your competitor’s name (Hannah, and you still keep tabs on her fights), and invite her out, too. The two entourages get whisked to the only bar that anyone can think of that doesn’t have thumping music or blinding lights: Tusker’s, in Nevarro, 20 miles north up the 190.
Tusker’s is quiet, thank god, with some Tom Petty playing softly in the background. A college-age kid or two were around, but they knew better than to make a scene at this bar. The bartender, whom you had a sneaking suspicion was also the owner and only employee, never carded you, shoved a cold Coors in your hand and sack of ice to both you and Hannah, without ever saying a word. Jaylon Tusker, as you soon learned, had the bar for damn near 40 years, and could usually tell what a person needed when they walked through the door. By the time your group was drunk and ready to leave (Hannahs’s coach, disgustingly responsible, was the designated driver), you had an application in your hands and an interview set up for the week after.
Mos Eisley, not surprisingly, smelled like piss and the inside of Danny Devito’s shoe, and you were more than happy to leap a cheaper rent in Nevarro while still driving to and from training with Eddie. Bartending at Tusker’s made enough with tips for a studio apartment rented out by a little old lady whose family had moved her to an assisted care facility.
Life was easy. Minus getting repeated punches to the head. But you wouldn’t have changed it for the world. Life went on.
Two years later, Nevarro finally got its first permanent biker gang. Word spread about the group called The Mandalorians, and rumors flew as fast as the women at the 7-11 could talk about it. They were bounty hunters, they were killers, they were worse than Hell’s Angels or The Black Sun. At first, you had been skeptical about any and all news you heard of The Mandalorians; then, on a quiet Monday night, three Mandalorians walked into Tusker’s.
They were pleasant enough, ordered the easiest beers for you to get, and never talked down to you. You had a quiet appreciation for their attitude, as the middle of nowhere California tended to allow stupid men to be stupid out loud. And at the end of the night, they tipped well, left their trash in a neat pile, and gave you a quick fist bump to thank you for the hospitality.
You never quite got their names.
The next two weeks were filled with more and more Mandalorians coming in and checking the place their buddies had apparently described as “fucking chill”. There were a few grumpy old men, naturally, as any bike club ought to have, but a number of them were younger, scruffy, and looked like recruitment for ex-Army models. Not that you were complaining. You finally got the courage to ask names, and since it was a slow night, they sat you down and explained the Mandalorian tradition.
=“So… you just, never go by your name at all, anymore, forever, never ever…..” You questioned.
“Yes, since we do -” a quick elbow to the ribs cut Blondie off (you had nicknamed them to keep them all straight in your head). “Well, we don’t use our real names, but we take easy to forget names, just .. ya know... In case...” Blondie trailed off, eyeing his buddies' elbows warily.
“So what can I call you?” You push.
Blondie introduces himself as Jack, his darker hair compatriots who elbowed him went by Charlie, and a silent one at the end of the table was Jones.
“And together, you’re Mandalorians?” you questioned again.
A silence and fidgeting was the only response.
Jones finally spoke up, “It might be easier for you if you just call us Mando’s”.
"Oh I don’t mind using the full name, it seems like tradition is important to you guys-” you were cut off by Jack shaking his head.
“No, let me rephrase. It might be safer for you to say Mando. There are some… less accepting.. people out there,” He moved to get up and threw a bill on the table for the beers and food they had ordered; you had just sat there in stunned silence.
Jones, Pedro, Rich, and Alex ended up being the four Mandos you saw the most. At least, these were the names they gave you; from your previous conversation with “Charlie” and “Jack”, these were the closest to their names you could get within Mandalorian tradition.
When the four first walked in together, you had been taken aback. You had known Jones for a month or so, and he always intimidated you with his size, his shaved head, and a jagged, faded scar running down the left side of his face. Rich and Alex must have been brothers, light brown hair and sun-reddened faces held their dark blues eyes in contrast, and their joking nature had made them your easiest table by a long shot. Pedro was different from Rich and Alex in his quietness. He took after Jones, stoic ease about him, but damn when he smiled it made your heart flutter. And if you caught his face after you had cracked a joke, his smile even reached his eyes, lighting up deep chocolate and showcasing faint crow lines around his eyes.
Eventually, you saw the four Mandos twice a week, three times, four, five times a week, and you had a sneaking suspicion the group only came in when you were working. Jaylon had asked how the group was treating you since he never saw them anymore.
“What do you mean you never see them?” you asked incredulously.
“They never come in on Monday or Tuesday.” He explains, and you chuckle at the thought that these four bikers had taken to like a 20-year-old more than Jaylon who could joke on their level with them.
Jaylon has an inkling you are still training with Eddie, but he doesn’t bring it up since you don’t bring it up. Tusker’s was a no ask, no tell, and forget what you heard kind of place you were thankful for.
Your life settles again into a comfortable routine. Train, fight, pour drinks.
You lose your next fight; Eddie slinging your arm around his shoulder as you're pulled from the cage and checked by the match doctor. A solid concussion and bloody eye take you from training for a month and you’re stir crazy, but you make it back to the gym eventually. No one from Tusker’s is particularly happy about the injuries you sustain mysteriously, but you refuse to clue them in. Maybe you were just too stubborn to share your MMA with others, the vestige of not having anything of your own from childhood. Call it an anxiety, call it a desire to be as mysterious as they are.
The Mando’s reveal their life in bits and pieces over the year, tongues loosened by an on-the-house shot if you really wanted to get them talking. Jones keeps his lips tight, never spilling the group’s secrets, but the drunker he got, the more Jack, Rich, and Alex shared that didn’t get cut-off. You officially learn they’re bounty hunters one night. The next Friday, you learn contracts are only ever taken if the group decides the bounty is morally bad (you appreciate this sentiment, and thank God… Gods... someone that they won’t come after you for stealing ramen from a 7-11 once in Barstow).
The morning after Rich lets that slip about their work, the regular group comes to the bar earlier than usual, during the dead hour before most get off work. You think the worst when they converge on the bar, cornering you with their faces set in a mask.
“I.. I promise, I promise I heard nothing, I can keep a secret I promise..” You manage to squeak out, trying your hardest to keep your voice strong in the face of 4 men who could make you disappear.
Jones opened and quickly shut his mouth; Pedro stitched his eyebrows together like you begging to be safe was the hardest thing he could comprehend.
“No, what? No!” Pedro spluttered. Jones spoke after, “ No, no, we wanted to make sure you were okay.”
You stared incredulously. “Me? Okay?” you questioned.
“Yeah, since, you know, you found out what the Mando’s do…” Jones trailed off again.
You laughed abruptly, your heart and stomach in their rightful place again. “Oh my fucking gods, start with that next time, I thought you guys were going to kill me now that I know.”
Pedro cuts you off - “No! I - We could never…” He gets talked over by Alex.
“Listen if you were gonna get got we woulda got get you by now,” Alex laughs, and your eyes went wide, but you managed a small chuckle. They don’t bring it up again, and you don’t push the subject.
When they come in with small injuries they missed, you made sure to slide some bandaids and alcohol wipes under the plates. You kept the bathrooms stocked with a medium-sized med kit, hidden behind the cleaning supplies, but the number of times you refilled it had you more worried than you thought you should be over a couple of bikers who knew what they were doing.
The Mandos kept coming in, and when summer hit and all the University of Las Vegas students came home, the Mandos stepped up whenever they could. Jones ran point on keeping the most belligerent out. Rich and Alex constantly outdrank, and subsequently dragged out, the frat bros who bothered you. Pedro, ever watchful from his favorite barstool at the end of the bar, made sure you got to your car at the end of the night.
You keep the Mando’s in line, and they keep you safe.