A/N: I first fell in love with Mandalorians a long time ago, when I first saw the Original Trilogy. Then, a few years ago, I became addicted with LucasArts' Knights of the Old Republic, and the second game (II: The Sith Lords), sparked that love a second time. I picked up Republic Commando upon release, have picked up and am up to date with the Republic Commando Novel series, and am currently attempting to catch up on the Legacy of the Force series. I am working on armor, but it is a very very slow process as money constraints are an issue, and I am a small human female who is relatively unfamiliar with power tools.

Now that you know my brief background, I can tell you why I'm writing this. Hurt Vector is the result of my need to write a strong female main character in a story devoid of romance, because romance is not always necessary to write a good story. It was my need to write a story around a Mandalorian who, for all intents and purposes, is really still searching for herself. She's not a Mandalorian, but she is. She's not who she says she is, but she is exactly that.

I like characters with flaws. Many, many flaws. Yain has a lot of them, but she still manages to live through the day, get the bills paid, put food on the table, and obtain fuel for her ship. If people die around her because of it, then, well, it's just another ghost to carry. And trust me—she has many.

For any non-Basic related translations, a glossary is included at the end of every entry. Thank you for reading.

Warnings: Hurt Vector contains many controversial topics and suggestive themes, including but not limited to: excessive cursing in multiple languages, drug/stimulant use, addiction/dependency, psychosis, neurotic behavior, hints of PTSD, slight homosexual implications, wanton self-destruction, murder, and other such fun topics. If this bothers you in any way, shape, or form, or if you are a minor (aka, under-aged), there is a button at the top of your screen that says BACK. I suggest you use it. Thank you.

Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, amateur effort not intended to infringe on the rights of any copyright holder. Characters belong to their respective owners.

[16:09:29]
108 Days Post Order 66

My visor whirls before my eyes as streams of information adjust to the sudden change of light. I step out from the dark hut onto open ground, damp earth squelching beneath my boots. Dark splotches obscure my T-slit's vision, but I ignore the impulse to wipe them away. They'd only streak and stain and be that much harder to clean.

I have enough to worry about.

Far above me stretches the moon's lavender atmosphere, the east horizon tainted with the curve of a rust red planet. Not that I'm looking at it—I've just seen it all before. The nameless satellite I'm walking on is populated with more Duros than I could've lived with seeing—and smelling. It orbits a planet with a name I can't pronounce, uninhabitable unless you have the money and the means. I have neither. And even if I did, I wouldn't have used my creds to venture out so far in the Outer Rim.

No, I'd have settled on a populated planet well within our—recently deceased, since it's now called the Empire or some shavit—Republic Space. I'd have been dead.

Like I said. I have enough to worry about.

I flex my recalibrated custom gauntlets, reveling in the comfort of smooth, cold metal pressing against the inside of my arms. Just a flick of the wrist can easily send a few darts some unlucky sap's way. Handy, accurate, and exceedingly helpful. The most I could have asked for, really. I'll thank my vod'ika for that, someday. Maybe. If I live long enough.

A clunky, still steaming FC-1 launcher bounces in the holster against my back plate. I can feel the heat of the barrel through my beskar'gam—signature Mandalorian armor—and two layers of fabric. Beside the launcher is my personal MMU, a Mobile Medkit Unit, locked in a melt-proof package. They both bounce against my plates, not as secure as the blaster against my thigh, but I never leave home without them. The MMU and FC-1, that is. Not the blaster.

As I march down the dirt path to return to Jate'kara, my ship, I focus solely on breathing the air my suit's support systems offer. The atmosphere's too thick with liquid for me to survive without adequate filtration. But, filtration I have.

My eyes flicker to the mini 360° window situated at the lower right corner of my view-screen. I can see the displaced footprints left in the path, stained red and black from the blood still slicked against my soles. The wind begins to pick up, blowing dirt and earth and wet sand everywhere. The footprints remain the same.

It's funny how I left the hut in one piece, despite unloading my flechette in there. Or, you know, it should be—except that it isn't.

Screaming in my speakers. Begging. Floating, glowing eyes. Flashes of blaster fire. Laser sights trained on my visor. Bolts ricocheting off my chest plates. Glints of a vibroblade in the dark.

The walls are painted red when I'm done.

My stomach rolls. I pause to breathe and suck in warm, recycled air. Reused air that smells and tastes of me. I try not to think about it.

Some healer I turned out to be. Instead of saving, I'm killing. My superiors would've been so proud… if they weren't frozen and scattered in pieces somewhere out there.

Shab. Don't think about it.

At least the credits are wired to my account. The credits are wired to my account. The credits are wired to my account.

I repeat this mantra as I resume walking. The tall, chipped duracrete walls of the port entrance loom overhead. Red targets bounce across my screen as a dock worker bolts out of my way, emits a high-pitched squeal and dives behind a stack of metal crates.

I ignore him.

Jate'kara's metal ramp clicks under my boots as I lurch into my ship and slam my fist against a side panel. The durasteel cracks under my crush-gaunt, but the ramp still slides into place as the airlock seals tight.

Now that I'm safe, separated from the rest of the galaxy, I drop to my knees with a heavy sigh. The seal of my bucket pops open after a few clumsy attempts and I lay the buy'ce reverently on the grated floor in front of my bent knees. My eyes slide closed and the back of my head hits the hull with a not-so-silent thunk!

The sound of an aged repulsorlift engine is my only warning.

"Lorda Yonjori?! Chi sa yo nara? Chay ashka na awar pe uba."

I glance up at the hovering blue-gray droid. There's hair hanging in my face. I'll have to chop everything off past chin length, later. After I clean everything. Everything.

"I'm fine. It's not mine," I reply tiredly and wave an open palm vaguely towards my blood-spattered armor. The droid bristles, letting out a few short beeps of irritation.

"Lontko un uba cho?" he asks.

Does it matter what I'm trying to do? It shouldn't to him, and I refuse to acknowledge the change in his behavior—it's become less and less droid-like. Besides, it's not like he's mine, legally speaking. It shouldn't matter. It shouldn't.

"No, Nate," I sigh. "I'm not trying to get myself killed. I just. This situation. I can't. I can't. I…"

I can't get the words out, so I stop talking. Nate hovers silently, glowing eyes focused on my face. He's just a droid, face frozen and expressionless, yet…

Yet for a minute I thought I saw…

Never mind.

With a grunt, I haul my shebs back on my feet and trudge down the hall. I stop at the makeshift kitchen, the open door of my quarters opposite. I take a sharp right, intending to grab a muja fruit or a fresh cup of caffa, and slam my hip into the corner of a bolted-down table. A half-filled can of lukewarm juice clatters to the floor, splashing pink liquid everywhere.

"Frack," I curse.

I stumble back, breathe, take two steps forward, and put a dent in the table with my fist. My vision swims. I tear the kriffing crush-gaunt off and hurl it down the hall.

"Frack."

My bucket flies through the open door to my quarters, slams into the wall and falls on my unkempt cot, followed by blood-smeared red, black, and gold armor plates. The rest of my kit clatters to the grated floor, my MMU popping open and spraying first aid supplies in every direction.

A rip echoes in the empty ship as I struggle out of my flightsuit.

"Gfersh." I hiss, my voice increasing in volume with every word. "Jactna. Hufgeb hsicl merht verre d'n nocka!"

I tear off the top half of my suit and drop it behind me. Clad in just the bottom half, I viciously grab my gear off the floor and stomp the fallen can flat. I leave the medkit supplies and forget about the damn fruit or the caffa or my rolling stomach.

"Lorda…?" Nate blips.

I sigh. "No, Nate. No. I'll clean it. Just…"

Leaving a trail of blood droplets and pink juice to my room, I recklessly toss my gear across the few meters between me and the cot. Then I near-break my fist on the door panel to the 'fresher.

This close to tearing my hair out, I look back at the floating droid in the doorway. "Just get us in the air. Please."

"…Yes, master," he responds and disappears from sight.

The door hisses shut and it takes two seconds too long for it to sink it that Nate just spoke Basic. For the first time since I… liberated him.

I delicately curl my swollen hands around the edges of the sink and stare hard at my reflection. To put it lightly, I look like hell. My stomach flips and a strangled giggle escapes my mouth. The giggles mushroom into full-on hysterical laughter. Pain spikes up my arms from my palms as I clench tight around the sharp edges and laugh my face into the drain.

The ship jerks on take-off, my stomach rolls again, and suddenly what little breakfast I consumed earlier today takes a one-way trip to sink heaven.

* * *

Thin drops of condensed water trickle through the steam-fogged mirror, cutting solid boundaries over my obscured reflection. The mirror hangs ajar, the door's hinge holding it open as I fish out thin bandages pre-soaked in kolto. It's archaic in comparison to the ever-popular bacta, but with the price bacta seems to be catching these days… well. Wasn't a tough choice.

I shut the mirror and stare at the bandages in my hands. The knuckles of my left hand are swollen and purpling. The fingers of my right are bruised, covered in slow healing blisters. I set down the loose bandages at the side of my sink, squirt some self-made herbal solution onto my palms, and rub the foul smelling amber liquid into my skin. It burns and cools at the same time, and I can feel the medicinal properties begin to work already.

With a heavily practiced ease, I wrap my hands with the bandages—tight enough to stay on and offer support to my wrists, but not to the point of blocking circulation.

I wipe down the mirror with a spare hand towel and take a quick glance at my reflection, just long enough to ascertain that my broken nose is healing straight before the ship suddenly jerks and I smash my face into the mirror.

"Frink," I gasp.

Stars explode behind my eyes. My aching left hand grips the sharp edge of the sink while my right cups my nose.

"Son of a sith harlot."

I can feel a migraine coming on.

The ship jerks again. I narrowly avoid breaking my nose a third time and slam my palm against the door panel. I stagger into my personal living quarters, closing up the rest of my flight suit and snap shut the neck guard around my throat. Scattered across the room are my assorted beskar armor plates, still spattered with dried blood.

I lean over and hit the button to activate the ship-wide comm. "Nate!"

The ship trembles violently, as if it's being dragged kicking and screaming out of the original flight trajectory. Or as if a lazy droid felt the need to disregard common flight protocol for the human aboard.

As if in agreement, the ship jerks again. I stumble over my cot and gather up my armor, attaching the pieces to my suit as I lurch down the narrow corridors of Jate'kara.

"Nate!" I shout down the hall. "Droyk it, you shiny floating piece of skrag."

I turn sharply onto the bridge. The narrow space quickly widens out as I enter the cockpit, with half the ceiling replaced with smooth, reinforced transparisteel. The curved window only slightly warps the view, and does nothing to diminish the intimidating space station looming in the distance.

Nasaur Station, home to the richer populace of the planet it orbits. A floating, 2 kilometer wide disk with a tall central spire, it serves as a small refueling and armory exchange hub for the system. The weapons are below average, which is far better quality than I expected for some backwater station. But while I might refuel and restock supplies here, I would not spend the night.

I grab hold of the doorframe as Jate'kara goes through another series of rumbles. Nate hovers calmly over the co-pilot's chair, occasionally pressing one flashing button or another. A chord trailing away from his mid-back connects him to my ship's mainframe, which is currently in use, judging from the speed the tool plugged in is rotating.

I clear my throat to get his attention. His head swivels on his square shoulders to face me. "Hello master," he tones pleasantly. "It seems we are soon to be guests of two powerful crime lords."

"We?" I snap. "There won't be a 'we' if you keep up this osik."

I stare at the space station, dimly aware that I'm still missing my armored back-plate, my supplies, and my helmet.

The ship rumbles. On the nav-system embedded in the wall to my left, I can see Jate'kara slowly even out of the original odd, zigzagging path, and onto a straight beeline headed for one of the many docking bays of the orbital space station.

Nate emits an odd, slightly off-tune melody. "We are in for a smooth landing now, Master."

As if we weren't before?

I resist the urge to blast my droid into scrap-heap. Instead, I readjust my utility belt. "Well. Wonderful news. Be sure to transmit our docking codes to the hangar officer. And don't forget to ping his personal system, repeatedly, if he doesn't respond right away this time. I don't want to be happily greeted by a team of Nau-Sec Officers, again."

"But the hangar officer has a dislike for droids, master."

I step forward to tap Nate on his metal head. "Then be sure to ping him after he responds as well. I'd like if you reminded him why not to offend irritated droids with malfunction personality matrixes."

Nate's eyes glow intensely, and then quickly fade back to their normal, half powered sheen. "I would enjoy that as well, master," he beeps as his head swivels back to face the flight control panel.

I exit the cockpit to retrieve the rest of my gear from my living quarters. I didn't get a chance to clean off the blood splatter, but to hell with appearances—I don't know if I have enough energy to spare on caring about whether or not I look presentable to a pair of overpaid corporate leaders.

The ship wide comm system crackles to life.

"Jate'kara docking in two minutes, master."

After exiting my quarters, I veer into the makeshift medbay—which was, at one point, an oversized food storage closet—and grab some extra kolto gel. I smear some over my aching nose before donning my helmet.

I stare into total darkness for a few seconds as my buy'ce synchronizes its frequency with Jate'kara. Its system whines as it takes into account security parameters, previously stored notes on Nasaur Station's cam system, sealed off construction areas, and differentially acquired security codes that would, hopefully, open a few doors in the event of an emergency. My suit notes several weaknesses in my armor—damages I hadn't had time to patch up since last engagement—and pleasantly informs me via data-stream that survival to deep-space exposure has dropped to a maximum of five minutes.

If I take a trip with jettisoned cargo, five minutes or five hours wouldn't make much difference. Still good to know, I guess.

I relax in the medbay and check over my supplies, from the assorted chems I normally keep stored in my belt pouches to the ammo supply of my gauntlet-mounted dart launcher. I'm leaving the big guns with Nate, but I don't exactly need them to make a mess. Hell, I could go in there naked and be reasonably confident of leaving again with all of my parts intact.

Or, well, mostly intact.

And it's not like I can't put myself back together, anyway.

* * *

Medkit? Check. Holdout Blaster? Check.

Two heavily armed Gamorrean escorts? Check check.

I follow the two abnormally round aliens down extravagantly decorated halls and into an oversized repulsorlift. I recognize the song playing softly in the background as we zip down twenty levels. It's an old gliz song, focused around unhappy political discourse, from maybe ten standard years ago.

Funny how time flies.

We come to a stop on an unlabeled sublevel. The doors cycle open to perfumed air and gaudy light strips following the curved ceiling of the hall. The colors are bright and ugly, neon yellow clashing with deep purple and pastel blue. The light fixtures look like they're accented with gold, though I can't really be bothered to stare long enough into the blaring neon lights to be sure.

I'm herded into the nearest room, the door hissing shut once I pass the threshold. I don't need to test the doors to know they're locked, so I take a look around.

The wall furthest from the door isn't so much a wall as a solid transparisteel curved window, with the perfect view of the planet below. From here, it almost looks beautiful.

It almost looks as if it weren't a floating cesspool of fire and acid soaked mining colonies. As if it wasn't a death trap for all the slaves and indentured servants shipped there with a one way ticket.

A long couch clearly meant for lounging—and other activities requiring an individual to lie on their back—sits positioned at an angle for a good view of both the door and the sight presented by the window. A curved desk sits facing the door, the embedded datascreen in the surface flashing information upwards towards the ceiling. Behind the desk is a large cushioned chair, its back facing me.

The sheer size of the chair nearly blocks me from seeing the sparsely dressed Cathar female dancing to the sensual music playing in the background. Her pale gold fur is enhanced by the silky white fabric of her dress. Unfortunately the loose fabric covers all the essential bits—but only just. Long platinum blond hair falls from a tight, high ponytail, and swishes about her body in time with her dancing.

A being with a lesser mind might have been entranced, maybe even hypnotized.

I can't quite say I'm not, at the moment.

The Cathar female's eyes open to reveal frighteningly pale blue pupils. She focuses on me and instantly stops her dance.

"Oh! Our guest has returned," she proclaims joyfully.

The chair swivels around to reveal a burly Cathar male. The white scruff around his chin and neck clashes with the dark tan fur of the rest of him. His formal vest hangs open, revealing a bare chest pockmarked with the white, fur-less lines of old scars. His red pupils stare at me, his pointed ears twitching forward in interest. He smiles, baring a few canines.

The Cathar people—a race of humanoid, cat-like bipeds. Their civilization's history is tainted heavily with the enslavement of many of their people. Certain gestures normal to humans can be offensive, or even downright dangerous, when interacting with these natural predators. Showing fear or weakness of any kind could be taken as an invitation for attack.

I've seen it happen before, and I can't say I'd want to invite a showdown with the smaller females, let alone go toe-to-toe with a male.

I keep my hands steady and loose at my sides, focusing my visor on the male, known to me as Master Lirra. Behind him, the female—Mistress Patra—purrs loudly and glides forward to drape herself over his shoulders.

"There she is. There she is, love," she murmurs.

The male nods his head once and then rises from his chair. He steps around the desk and moves in my direction.

I can't sense any hostile intent so I leave my hands where they are. The male steps past without so much as a glance over his shoulder, taps his claws against the door panel, and steps out into the hall.

The doors glide shut and I'm left alone with the female.

"Seems Master Lirra's happy to see me," I note the obvious.

The female rolls her head back and lets out a scratchy breath, her mouth hanging open and baring sharp canines in the Cathar version of a laugh. It's a simple gesture, but the baring of her neck shows that she either doesn't consider me to be a threat, or holds me in high enough regard to assume I wouldn't try anything.

I hope it's the latter.

"My mate did not agree with my demanding to hire you, man-do. He did not think I was in the right. A poor choice, said he. Untrustworthy. Kung de nishkung." She smiles, the glint of fangs peeking just beneath curved lips, as she glides across the floor and around the desk. "But ah. But ah. Here you are. Here you are. Delicious, little, angry fe-male man-dee."

Uncomfortable is an understatement. I fight the urge to fidget as she pauses by the right-most edge of the desk and leans down to key in a code on a side panel, baring a good amount of leg for my viewing pleasure. A portion of the desk opens up, and what looks to be highly expensive drinks rise up to just above waist level. She plucks a half-filled liquor glass and daintily tastes the violet liquid held within.

"Mmm. Yes. Little, angry, fe-male who eradicated the Duros Mideer family not a many standard hours ago."

My stomach flops. That body… I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood.

Focus. Idiot.

A small door within my mind slams shut on everything not pertaining to business and professionalism. "There was a bounty. I was paid in full," I reply, tartly failing to mention and a little extra.

She laughs in the strange, breathy way of the Cathar. "Yes. Yes. You were. I filed one bounty, as you well know. Though the bonus assignment." She pauses to arch a slender eyebrow, her right ear twitching slightly forward. "That was not from me. I did not expect for it to be fulfilled, either. And I did not expect it, not from you, fe-male."

And there it is. A little extra.

I think about it. The bonus assignment. Record images of the… job. Relay them real-time to the Quarren whom lorded over the list of privately posted system-wide bounties. I don't know what he'd want with the recording. What he plans to do. Or why.

Stop. Don't think about it.

I shrug. "Credits don't grow in space-able greenhouses."

The Cathar female smiles and lowers her chin slightly as she angles her head to the side. I don't recognize the gesture.

"Is that not the universe-knowing truth," she states absently as she downs the rest of her drink. The glass clinks softly as she rests it on the surface of the desk.

I flex and un-flex my still-aching fists. "With all due respect, Mistress Patra, despite the lock on the bay holding my ship, I remain here of my own will. I returned on time, like you have asked. I have removed the Duros, again as you asked. Your border dispute is no more. If you intend to remind me of my moral ineptitude…" I bow my head slightly. "If you intend to continue to dance around the next job, I would like to return to the hangar so I can restock my armory while you blow more smoke."

Again, she laughs. "Feisty, feisty. I like it. You could have made a beautiful Cathar."

I roll my shoulders slowly back in an exaggerated shrug, a gesture I picked up off a friend nearly a standard year ago. And suddenly I find myself thinking about him. About how simple life was. About how much I like blue-milk.

I need to get out of here.

"Yes," the mistress continues. "Blow smoke. I will stop, my dear. What I want is simple."

And then she's directly in front of me, a clawed hand pressing gently against the center of my chest. "I want my son. I want him home, man-do. It should not be hard. It should not. I have heard many things, many things, about your kind. Apprehending a young man should not be hard. Even if he has had… an unorthodox raising in the hands of heretics."

My inability to track her speed is startling. However, I'm not dead. Focusing on that pleasant thought, I take a breath and lay a gloved hand over the clawed hand on my chest.

"I'll need his name, and a picture."

Her frighteningly pale eyes flicker over several spots on my visor, as if looking for my own eyes, and focuses her stare slightly too high. Her painted lips curve downward as she extracts her hand from mine and turns away. The open dress she wears billows softly with the sudden movement, dancing across the floor and against my legs. She steps over to the desk, pulls on a storage panel out of my line of sight, and extracts a top-of-the-line datapad. Her perfectly manicured claws hold out the active pad.

I take it.

Moving a wire from my left gauntlet, I upload the information to my suit's system and transfer the readout to my helmet's HUD. A young face flashes in front of my eyes, smiling, with a set of stats listed to the right. Height, current age, full name, the works. Beneath it all, the words Jedi Knight: Proceed With Caution catches my attention. And beneath that is a credit sum equal to what the new Empire is currently offering for Jedi, ex-Jedi, and Jedi-affiliates delivered into their… open arms, dead or alive.

I look at his name, at his face, and realize suddenly that I recognize him. Worse: I know him. Suddenly this is personal.

Suddenly I'm angry. My paranoia is flaring, screaming in my head. Does she know? How can she know? How did she find out?

With complete disregard to the fact that I'm in a room with a client, and a particularly powerful, impressionable one, I tap into my gauntlet. My personalized system opens a selection of chems in my visor's window. I select a custom mixture on the strong side.

A pinch in the back of my neck. A shock of cold down my spine. The chem cocktail flutters through my bloodstream and takes near-instant affect, slowing my heart rate and forcing a sense of placidity over me. My rage is effectively neutralized before it opens a floodgate of relatively bad ideas.

Like killing the Cathar. But that's more than just a relatively bad idea.

Mistress Patra doesn't seem to notice my moral dilemma. "…and so, you must do this."

Apparently she's been talking. I don't need to know what she's said. It's not hard to understand. A Power Couple lording over a system you've chosen to reside in for some time asks you to do a job. You do it. Say no, and you force some potentially dangerous outcomes to hunt down and cash in on your shebs.

I don't need more demons on my tail than I have already.

"Why hire me? Why not place an open bounty?"

She looks up from her open palm and focuses her eyes slightly too high on my visor. "Oh. Oh my dear. And advertise that we are somehow affiliated with a Jedi?" She pauses, eyes drooping closed as she allows a portion of her exhaustion to slip through. The feeling of pure tired hits me like a det blast. "It's dangerous enough to be Cathar."

And then her eyes open and her weariness is all but a memory. She turns and retreats to the lounge chair, wilting over the cushions in a lazy, relaxed, yet completely controlled gesture. She raises the back of her hand to her forehead and mewls blissfully as she reclines her head onto the cushion specially designed to support her neck. Purring softly, she rolls onto her side, exposing her back to me.

I'm more and more convinced she sees me as little threat.

"Besides…" she murmurs, "You and him have history."

Well. That answers my unsaid questions. Maybe I should kill her.

She waves a hand dismissively.

The doors behind me hiss open. In steps Master Lirra, followed closely by the two Gamorrean… escorts from earlier, their blasters in hand and grunting distinctly in my direction. I turn on my heel and step out of the room, resisting every urge to run full tilt to my ship and blast out of here like a mynock out of hell.

Why can't life just be simple?

End Notes
Yonjori is a play on her name, Yain Juuri. Yonjori, in huttese, roughly translates to "Black Son" which has little to do with her. For now.
"Black Son" can also refer to "Black Nerf," or "Black Sheep."

Huttese Translations
Lorda Yonjori?! Chi sa yo nara? Chay ashka na awar pe uba. - Master Yonjori? Do you have pain? There much is blood on you.
Lontko un uba cho? - Trying are you to die?
Kung de nishkung. - Scum of the (many)scum.

Expletives And Slang As Follows
Hurt Vector - a person who seems to attract misfortune to themselves and others around them
Shavit - an expletive used by the farmers on Pakrik Minor
Kriffing - modifier
Vapin' - modifier
Frack - expletive
Gfersh - a Rodian expletive
Verre D'n Nocka - a Kerestian curse
Jactna - A Rodian expletive
Hufgeb Hsicl Merht - Dug expletive phrase
Frink - a Corellian curse
Son of a sith harlot - the equivalent of son of a bitch
Droyk it - a Corellian curse
Skrag - a Corellian curse
Osik - Mandalorian expletive