Two

Grey clouds and drizzle met them on Mandalore.

An already overcast sky seemed to grow dark clouds through the fog of fine, drizzling rain. A cold breeze blew it onto Arkaan's face and he smiled. He could smell that familiar smell of cut, wet grass and the musky yet somehow clear smell of rain. The damp soil at his feet threatened to devolve into thick mud, but he didn't care. He'd been too long away from his home, and it was good to be back.

Behind him, the Ringer had landed on a flat piece of earth, beaten into shape and hardened by years of use as a local landing pad. Two teams of droids unloaded the cargo, supervised by a portly man with a drooping moustache. Bell stood to one side rolling his eyes as the man fussed over the boxes, but mainly left him to it, considering they were his droids and it was his cargo he was unloading. Jay and the other crew members lounged around, two of them huddling beneath the bulk of the ship, sheltering from the rain, and the other two watched from inside the ramp itself, Jay sitting at the foot of the ramp, one hand supporting his chin, the other hand playing with the expensive datapad on his lap. It was obvious he was uncomfortable, and he kept alternating his stare between the datapad and the steppes beyond the small spaceport.

Arkaan turned and walked over to Bell, giving a wry grin as the older man walked away from the supervising of the cargo.

"I want the boy."

"Didn't know you swung that way."

"Funny. I want to take him with me."

"So first you make me take on some random boy we rescued from the street, then you make me take you from one end of the galaxy to the other, then you want to take that boy away from me after he starts getting useful? You're a real piece of work, you know that?"

"Yep."

"Take him," growled Bell. "He's useless to me anyway. Mind if I ask why?"

"You can ask."

"Di'kut."

"Osi'yaim."

Bell smiled and offered his arm to Arkaan, who took it, gripping his forearm tightly. He turned and made his way over to the ramp, gesturing to Jay. Confused, the boy got up, uncertainly following Arkaan around the back of the ship where a speeder bike and sidecar waited.

"You're coming with me," said Arkaan quietly, without preamble.

"What? I thought-"

"You thought wrong." Arkaan indicated the datapad in his hands. "Researching your new home?"

"Oh, no, I was writing."

"Writing?"

"Yes, I keep a diary, and I was writing about today."

"Let me have a look."

Wordlessly, Jay handed the datapad over and Arkaan flicked through a few pages, raising an eyebrow at certain passages. He swiftly changed files and scrolled through more pages, his fingers tapping their way through different pages and passages as Jay watches somewhat nervously. After a few minutes, he handed it back, the side of his mouth tugging itself up slightly into a grin.

"So you write more than just a diary." Jay's cheeks coloured slightly, and he glanced down, embarrassed. "Do you want something to really write about?"

"Uh…" Jay looked up, not sure if it was a trick. "Yes, ok. What kind of things?"

Arkaan grinned. "Get in the sidecar."

***

The next few hours were spent travelling, as Arkaan flew over the steppes on the bike. Inside the enclosed side-car, Jay spent the time fiddling with his datapad, making notes and trying to find a wireless network to connect to and becoming frustrated when he couldn't. Despite his helmet, Arkaan was almost deafened by the roaring of the wind, and after the first fifteen minutes, he'd activated the internal audio system, playing music he stored in there for just these occasions. An hour into the ride, they hit a road, turning onto it and following it through several winding turns and residential areas. A few ships flew past overhead, but they were few and far between, and did nothing to alleviate the boredom.

Eventually, they arrived at a more heavily populated area, with dusty houses lining dusty streets, none more than three stories high. As the population picked up, so did the traffic, with small speeders sharing the road with heavy transporters, stacked full of hay, corn, building blocks, and one that was even packed with wooden kegs.

Dodging a bus half-full of passengers, some semi-armoured, Arkaan pulled into the driveway of a two-story building, pushing the bike forwards with his feet until it was nose-first against a wall and beside a small, two-person speeder. The pair dismounted, Arkaan pulling off his helmet and shaking his head as though to clear it.

Jay looked up at the building, taking in the dirty windows, dark walls and untended garden, feeling even more out of place here on Mandalore, a galaxy away from the shiny, vertigo-inducing boulevards of high-living Coruscant.

"You live here?" he asked, somewhat doubtfully.

"This is home," replied Arkaan, setting his helmet on the seat of the bike as he fiddled with one of his gauntlets. "Lived here for about seven years now. Home is where your ammo is."

He grinned.

Unsure whether Arkaan was joking or not, Jay gave a wan smile and moved towards the door, looking around the street, flinching as an enormous cargo transporter roared past. Arkaan finished what he was doing and moved to the door, his helmet tucked under his arm. He waved his arm at the door, and it clicked as several locks disengaged before sliding open. They moved into the house, the door closing behind them, and Jay looked around the open-plan lower floor.

He could see right the way through to the rear of the house, with sofas and tables sectioning off different areas. The one exception was the kitchen, which had a bar unit facing a group of sofas and chairs, which were arranged around a new-looking holo unit, almost completely at odds with the battered look of the rest of house. Stairs to his left led up to the second floor, with the kitchen beyond it, the cooker and preparation units arranged along the wall. A computer terminal was set into the rear wall, with more chairs around it, and the rest of the space was taken up with work-tables, on top of which were half-finished and disassembled weapons, surrounded by tools. Transparisteel cabinets lined one wall, all of which were full of weapons – pistols, slug-throwers, blasters, heavy repeaters, knives, swords, vibro-weapons, and in one corner was even a Merr-Sonn missile launcher.

His helmet on the bar by the kitchen, Arkaan gestured for Jay to follow him as he chewed on a bar of something. The pair went upstairs, and Arkaan pointed at the different doors, indicating the refresher, Arkaan's bedroom, the room where Jay would be sleeping and a few others, which were off-limits.

"Get cleaned up, we're going out. Should be some clothes in there. Twenty minutes."

With that, Arkaan disappeared into his room, and Jay opened the door to the room that had been pointed out, closing it behind him and putting his back to it. The only way to describe it would be Spartan, with a bed against one wall, a wardrobe against another wall, and a table and chair beside the door.

Jay sat down on the bed, his head in his hands.

What was he doing here? In the space of a week, he'd managed to cross the galaxy, going from the only home he'd ever known to the very home of one of the most dangerous races in the galaxy, one spoken about in hushed tones and legends. Why was he here? A misguided sense of adventure? He'd already been nearly killed once, outside that bar, and if this Arkaan lived up to the reputation of his people and his somewhat mysterious offer back at the Dead Ringer, then it was more than likely that he was going to run into more situations which would put his life at risk.

Swallowing his misgivings, Jay decided if this was a test, one that would help make him into a man, then it wasn't one he'd back down from. He couldn't back down from it. Plus, it would give him something to really write about, as Arkaan has said.

The wardrobe had two doors, and Jay quickly shut the left-hand door as soon as he opened it. The pistol stuffed into his waistband, still in its holster, was bad enough, and he doubted he could wear a rifle instead of a pair of trousers. The right-hand door yielded a more successful result, with a few racks of shirts and neatly folded combat trousers stacked beside some underwear. The rest was filled with a few other pieces of clothing and accessories, and Jay spent the next ten minutes trying on different pieces of clothing, eventually finding some that fit reasonably well.

Almost as an afterthought, he attached the holster to the belt in his trousers, cinching it tighter to compensate for the added weight pulling on his newly-acquired trousers. A mirror was mounted on the inside of one of the wardrobe doors, and he watched himself in it, practicing drawing the pistol, fumbling it the first few times as he tried to figure out how to get into the holster, but getting better as he went.

Satisfied, he opened the door to the hallway and glanced out.

He frowned. No sign of Arkaan. He sat back down on the bed, and after a few minutes with no sign of the Mandalorian, he rummaged through his old clothes, finding his datapad and began fiddling with it again.

A few minutes later and the door to Arkaan's room opened, and Jay stood up quickly, thrusting the 'pad into one of the pockets of the jacket he'd appropriated.

Arkaan had on a long leather jacket with armoured panels on it, over black combat trousers and a dark grey shirt. His hair was still damp from showering, and he was pushing a small pistol into a holster in the small of his back as he stepped out of the room.

Seeing Jay, he laughed, slapping one hand onto his shoulder.

"Your holster…" he snorted. "Load-bearing belts don't hold up your trousers. Put another belt on if you want to carry that around with you. And tidy up your clothes too, don't just leave them strewn all over the floor. No man-servants in this house, ad'ika."

Arkaan shook his head at the boy as he disappeared back into the room. The kid had a lot to learn before he could become really useful.

Downstairs, Arkaan waited for Jay on one of the chairs, relaxing for the few minutes in one of the chairs. Across from him, mounted on the wall, was a transparent case, inside of which were mounted six lightsabres, all of them of different designs. He stared at it, the memories they brought back threatening to take him back to how he acquired them.

Footsteps brought him back to reality, and he stood quickly, ushering Jay out the door

.

***

The cantina was brightly lit, with rows of bottles and containers lining the wall behind the bar. A holo played in one corner, muted news repeating major stories from across the planet and the galaxy, and the patrons sat talking quietly, nursing their drinks.

Arkaan frowned as he walked in. The atmosphere was more muted than usual, and he motioned for Jay to sit at a table whilst he ordered drinks.

The barman nodded a greeting, which Arkaan returned before asking for two drinks.

"So who died?" he asked.

"Other than your sense of humour?" shot back the barman. Arkaan grinned.

"What's going on? Seems a bit too quiet in here."

"Galaxy's at war again, vod, and this time, it's nothing to do with us."

"Since when?"

"Where the hell have you been the past few weeks? Palpatine ordered the creation of an army for the Republic, then a couple of days later, those Separatists kidnapped a couple of jetiise, tried to kill 'em, but ended up being rescued by this new army."

"They raised an army in a couple of days?"

"I know. Turns out they're clones, cloned from Jango Fett. He was killed during the rescue too."

"They killed the Fett?"

"Yep. No-one knows who did, or what happened; all we know is, he's dead, but apparently some kid's been sighted with the Fett name."

"Hmmm. So, war, eh? Should mean more business for us, hopefully."

"So they say. Apparently battle-lines are already being drawn, and there's no telling how many little warlords will use this as an excuse to settle grudges or go after that piece of land they always wanted."

"I don't question the motives, vod, just the job. Know of anything locally?"

"The war hasn't reached us yet, it's only a few days old, but your best bet for that kind of thing would be to hit the Core, maybe Coruscant itself if you can get there."

Arkaan snorted. He'd just done all he could to get off that planet, and now he was being told to go back. Irony just didn't quite cut it.

"Thanks, vod." He flipped a high denomination coin onto the counter. "Keep the change."

The barman deftly palmed the coin, catching Arkaan's eye as he turned.

"One more thing. These clones, they're being commanded by the Jedi. So I'd be careful about asking for a job from the Republic, especially with your record, Noa."

Arkaan nodded his thanks and moved to the table Jay had sat down at, setting the two glasses down and taking a long drink from one.

"What happened?" asked Jay quietly.

"Republic's at war with itself. Separatists attacked the Jedi and now the two groups are at war."

"It'll blow over soon, right? I mean, these things never last long."

"Hopefully not too soon, I need to start making a clean living again."

"What?"

"I hunt, and I do jobs, but I'm best at being a soldier, Jay. It's what I do. What we all do. Look, you wanted something to write about. This could be it. Stick around, and you might see some things. We'll call you…we'll call you my official journalist, my biographer if you like."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Honestly? You wouldn't believe me. Suffice to say, out of the goodness of my own heart. Don't mess me around though, because I do have limits."

"OK."

Jay took a sip from the glass in front of him and nearly spat it out, grimacing wildly as he swallowed it with visible effort. Arkaan snorted at him.

"Ne'tra gal," he said. "Takes getting used to, but it'll put hairs on your chest. Drink up, I've got some favours to call in."