Things were going poorly. Of course, that was a given if they'd called in Cerar. Galaar's father had earned them a reputation as cleaners. They fixed the messes the Imp soldiers made of good, decent fights. While they licked their wounds, Cerar would wipe up the remains.

We get paid to do the fighting when the Imps can't handle it. Taldin's voice echoes in Galaar's head.

He shakes the thought out of his head and walks out of his ramshackle tent. After glancing around the camp, he sits on a rough metal bench and pulls out a vibroknife. As he saws away at his too-long hair, he watches his brothers and sisters mill around the camp, preparing.

Jannok is meticulously polishing and painting his armor, as usual. Ty'lk stands at his shoulder, making mocking commentary. Rull aims his blasters and tests his accuracy at a light jog around the practice target. Off to the side, Favar sat with his head bent towards his wife, Galaar's newest sister, Nauur.

He sighs and chops off another hank of hair. Aside from a few tech explosions, she's the best addition to the clan in a long time. She sees him watching and gives a little wave before returning to her conversation. Galaar grins to himself. This is one of the only times I get to see her without her T-visor.

"Good."

The word startles Galaar and he saws off a piece he doesn't mean to. "Buir! Don't startle me like that."

His father just chuckles. "I was going to suggest you chop that mane off. How are you supposed to see out of your visor?" Taldin rubs his own shaved head for emphasis.

"Did you think I was going to keep it? I don't see how people can fight with hair spilling into their eyes," Galaar said.

"Yeah, if you were one of those types, I might start questioning your blood." Taldin claps him on the shoulder and saunters off to speak with other clan members. As the alor of Cerar, he keeps his finger on the general mood, especially right before a fight.

On the other side of the camp, Favar stands and moves to speak with Taldin. Nauur mimics the motion, but instead walks up to Galaar.

She holds her hand out for the knife. "You're just making a mess of it, kid."

He shrugs and tries not to stare at her long, red hair and perfect jawline. "I don't care what it looks like, as long as it's out of the way." Despite his words, he hands her the knife.

Nauur laughs and takes the knife to his hair. The movements are innocent and friendly, but her hands are like fire. At length, she leans back and admires her work. "There. Now when you take your helmet off for a nice girl, she won't laugh at you."

"Pfft, they don't laugh. They're mostly just impressed." He thrusts out his chest, polished armor glinting in the sun.

"So they're impressed by that? The beskar'gam your daddy gave you?" She laughs and cuffs his head, as if he really were her little brother.

"Hey, I earned this. You know the alor; he wouldn't take it easy on someone just 'cause they're his blood." Galaar winces remembering the extra training his father made him complete.

"So what are they impressed by?" Nauur's tone turns sour. "Your incredibly poor taste in women? Come on, Gal, stick to the clans."

Galaar frowns. "I'm not looking for a wife, Nauur. Sith and cantina trash suit my purposes just fine."

She cuffs him again, expression serious. "What are you, nineteen? You should be looking. Get the kids popped out now so you're still alive to train 'em yourself. And you know what we think about your… purposes."

Galaar waves her off to try and save face. "I have plenty of time for that. I haven't found anyone who impressed me. I'm not going to rush it and bring in someone unsuitable to Cerar."

Nauur responds by banging on his chestplate with her gauntlet. "I don't know what the alor's been teaching you about acceptable choices, but it's not what my buir taught me."

"He says the same as you. And also keeps pointing out girls in Cerar that would do." He rolls his eyes. "They're my sisters! I can't imagine… with one of them."

"Come on, that's just an excuse. And there are other clans. You're not looking. Maybe our vod don't say anything because you're Taldin's son, but everyone can see it."

"Let it go, Nauur. I get enough from the alor without you parroting him." He looks away before she can see the real reason in his eyes.

"Don't wait too long, Gal. You're strong and well-liked, but if you keep this up, things are going to go sour." She shakes her head one last time and walks away. About one hundred meters away, she pauses, looking down at the vibroknife still in her hand. Without turning, she tosses it over her shoulder.

Laughing, Galaar dives out of the way of a perfect chest-hit. He watches her walk, armor shifting with each step. He doesn't even notice his father's approach until the older man hits him across the back of the head.

"Don't stare at your brother's wife like that."

"There's no like that," he says in a rush.

"Like hell. She's his and that's the end of it. If you weren't mucking around in cantinas so much, you could have someone like her."

"I don't want to talk about it." Galaar's voice is sullen even to his own ears, but he can't explain that the other Mandalorian women are either too much like Nauur, or painfully… not.

"Be sure you're ready for tomorrow. I don't want to scrape you up off the floor because you got distracted."

Galaar's face is stiff, set in a tight frown underneath his visor. At the edge of the camp, he stands at his father's shoulder, watching everyone head to their beds. "They set us up for a slaughter."

"I know better than to trust Imps. They knew about those munitions."

"You kept most of us standing."

Taldin grunts. "Most." He taps the breastplate in Galaar's hands with the back of his gauntlet. "Not all. My children aren't cannon fodder."

Galaar claps his father on the shoulder and then clomps through the camp to the repair shop. He's tired and aching, but Jannok wouldn't rest easy with his armor scarred and broken.

He sets it on the first durasteel table and carefully removes the straps and fixtures. Then he starts cleaning. Once he's picked out the shrapnel and sealed the break, he'll paint it and… Galaar squeezes his eyes tight against the emotion. He clenched his hand into a fist and slammed his gauntlet into the table, adding to the wear and tear.

The tink-clink of metal on metal breaks the silence that followed his outburst. Galaar turns his head and sees Nauur at the far table. Her t-visor is off, but it's her husband's she's working on. Her face is blank and the overhead lights make her skin look even more yellow than her normal hue.

Galaar picks up Jannok's armor and takes a step towards her - working with her might take the bite out, but then his eyes focus on Favar's helmet. The bottom section and all of the connectors are missing, the edge is charred and straight: cut by a lightsaber.

He lets out a breath that shudders and shakes his entire chest. Jetii… He looks away from her, sets the breastplate down and notices his hands are shaking. Galaar focuses on his repair work. He doesn't know what to think. Can't know what to do next, especially not with… her.

After an hour, Galaar gets up to retrieve the paint, however, he's just in time to catch Nauur finally breaking. She starts sobbing, quiet at first, but raising in volume. Her face is pressed into the front of Favar's t-visor, but even what little Galaar can seen is etched with pain.

He leaves silently. Jannok's honor could wait for Nauur's grief.