Being a Mandalorian, chosen to live among a culture of family and honor and loyalty, it wasn't supposed to be about personal value. There was a sense of pride in their work, of course, and a Mandalorian on a job meant it was a job that was getting done. But one didn't fluff themselves too much over it, either. Modesty and respect to the clan were the way. It was, among other and more important things, rather tacky to stroke one's own ego.
That said, the expressions on the faces of the two Gamorreans that ran up to Din as he emerged from the jungle were a hell of a thing to cherish. Mutual slack-jawed awe and horror paling the green faces as this fully-armed and armored visitor casually rolled up to the front door of their hidden fortress. They grunted and wailed to each other, not bothering with Basic as they tried to figure out who was going to tell their superiors about this, and whether they should just start shooting at him.
Din Djarin merely stood there as they frantically whipped each other up, the Amban rifle resting in his hands, and let it wash over him. These two weren't going to shoot anything. Except maybe last night's leftovers, from behind. They were gate meat, and he kept watch on the barely hidden monitoring servos lining the walls instead. Every one was focused on him. Someone else would show up very soon, someone with a few active brain cells. Probably the Ithorian. Likely the Ithorian, with smarter guards.
He was right. The Ithorian took his time coming out the door, flanked by two silent and much larger Gamorreans. He could tell by their fitted, emblazoned armor that these ones had rank, usually staying close to the Hutt inside. A warning and a notice of some respect, there. Good signs. He didn't recognize the sigils on their strapped belts, but he hadn't expected to.
"Mandalorian," said the Ithorian, grunting amiably enough in his guttural language. A translator device pinned to his robe gave him an echo Din tried to ignore. He was fairly fluent in the language, but would never let on. Never knew when something like that would become useful. "Welcome to Jhas Krill. We have seen your ship at the village and been granted word of your presence, but did not expect your visit to this modest palace."
Din shrugged. "I saw an opportunity for work. Been a rough few years."
"Yes," said the Ithorian, matching his laconic explanation. "So it has been."
Silence fell, allowing them to study each other. The Ithorian would see shiny new beskar, the hard-earned weapons of a Mandalorian, a sigil of his own newly engraved onto his pauldron. Hopefully they knew nothing of the child back in the village. Din, for his part, wondered what brought an Ithorian into a Hutt's entourage. It wasn't unique for one of their kind to go bounty hunter, or spend time on the dirtier edge of the galaxy, but it was fairly rare. This one wore a clean brown robe marked with intricate sigils close around his neck. He saw the edge of a holo-brand under it and realized that, like the village, the Ithorian probably wasn't all that thrilled with his current job, either.
"I am honored to serve Voontu, son of Ebin, firstborn of the last great house of Bilbousa, they who will reclaim Nal Hutta's glory," recited the Ithorian, with just enough faintly gurgling undertone for a good ear to catch that he wasn't really feeling it. Din had a very good ear, and spent a long bounty hunt once with an Ithorian that could drink like a fish and told extremely literate, dirty jokes. He tried to not laugh for the servant's sake, who undoubtedly had no idea Din caught the alien's secret rebellion. "I am Fadilan, and my journey is paused here so that I may record great Voontu's legacy."
"Good to meet you, Fadilan." Din cocked his helmet. "So, is Voontu taking interviews or what does he need for a meeting?"
Fadilan paused, thrown by the Mandalorian's terse irreverence. His guards gripped their shock-sticks with a squeaking, menacing intent. "His men trace the history of your ship."
"They won't find much." He watched Fadilan take that in. One of the guards turned slightly, receiving a transmission from someone inside. "That's the point."
The Gamorrean grunted, then jostled the shoulder of the Ithorian, muttering something to him as the observation devices swung around. One broad eye twitched in dislike, but Fadilan's expression wasn't intended for Din. Or to be noticed. Fadilan lifted his head. "Voontu is impressed by your manner. He will see you."
"Great," said Din. He shouldered his rifle, nodding to the two guards that had initially met him. They still looked nervous, obviously wondering if they would be disciplined for how messily they'd handled their visitor.
One of the ranking guards stayed behind as Fadilan led the Mandalorian inside the fortress's walls, the two gate Gamorreans beginning to squeak faintly to each other. Yeah, they were about to have a rough afternoon.
. . .
The Mandalorian did his best to mentally piece together a fast map of everything he passed by on the way towards whatever was going to pass for an audience chamber. Lots of little guard nooks, most of them currently empty but mechanically auto-armed. Some droids, all of them utility, passing dutifully between operations rooms that shouldn't be between a high value target and a front door, but he wasn't going to point that out. A dancer's lounge, meant to impress visitors with its rich, draping silks. He glanced in, partially because he was supposed to, partially because of honest curiosity. One blue-skinned Togruta, taking a nap in a thick bathrobe that hid everything up to her nose. Din half-smiled inside his helmet. Full respect to her.
Everyone loves working for this Hutt, he thought to himself, filing away the general air of dislike that came off a number of other staffers he passed by down smooth, well-kept halls. That said, there were a couple dozen people wandering around, and there had to be other guards with sense enough to keep their numbers vague.
The audience chamber was fairly impressive, though. The open space was lit by sunlight allowed in by a clear roof that looked reinforced firmly enough to take on a missile launch. The luxe couch was flanked by glinting art pieces from various cultures. A few were Hutt, of course, and oddly pretty despite the way the culture tended to favor garish simplicity.
The Hutt himself lounged alone in the sunlight, a show of power in its own way. He chose to not fear his guest, though Din had no doubt there were guards just out of sight all along the chamber's porous walls.
Voontu, further, deliberately acted as if his guest hadn't arrived yet. He continued to drink from a wide goblet, spilling none of it down a thick, sluglike chest draped with jeweled chains. Armored plates ran down his side towards the stubby tail, also bedecked with pretty, glinting gems, all of it meant to tactically show off an unusual but unavoidable realization.
As Hutts go, this one was ripped.
Din blinked rapidly under his helmet, honestly surprised. The natural physique of Hutts led to a general, coarse assumption about their fitness, although he'd heard tales from his clanmates about at least one Hutt that liked to do her own dirty work, slithering rapidly enough across smooth dirt or sand to scare the dung and, sometimes, the life out of her target. What they looked like and what they could actually do weren't always the same thing, and the topic was an object lesson on how to not get one's self killed by assumptions.
This Hutt, under the glitz and glamour, had arms that could choke out a bantha. Probably had. Voontu, by this display, seemed fully aware of what other species thought of Hutts and had decided he was going to turn himself into a proper insult to that attitude. Hints of trained musculature shaped his natural fat, giving him rare width and defined structure. The tail, too, lunged with martial ease through the air as he drank.
Din watched as the Hutt put the goblet down with a clank, finally turning those deep red eyes his way. The chest inhaled and exhaled as Voontu patiently took the measure of his guest. When the voice came, it lumbered out of that broad chest, basso but musically trained, in clear Basic. "A Mandalorian comes to me from the village, of his own free will. Interesting."
A young voice, too. A youthful lord with plenty to prove. The Ithorian had given Din other hints that became useful now. The scion of a homeworld Hutt, out here in the limits of civilization, maybe trying to put together a real show to impress someone back where it mattered. Like a criminal version of Jerrit and his inn, doing his best with what he had.
Din thought over his play and decided to say nothing at first. He shifted his weight, equally patient.
Voontu smirked at him, eyes half-lidding in amusement. "The village is too peaceful for your tastes?"
Din shrugged. "I like to keep busy."
"And you come to offer me your talents. How can I keep you busy? More importantly, Mandalorian, your kind have history. Baggage. Difficulties. Mandalorians are often not meant for long-term employment, and I am a Hutt with goals. What can you offer me?"
Smart Hutts were the most dangerous, in Din's education. He hoped like hell youth meant this one was still honing his wisdom and had some blind spots coming up, because he was starting to get nervous about his plan. He wound up his shot and took it. "Reputation. Style. An… upgrade over history, something useful for creating a legacy."
Voontu studied him, the eyes still narrowed. "Explain that, if you would."
The Hutt weaponized politeness, too. Of course Din couldn't find a dumb, stumbling Hutt out here in the rump of nowhere, half-assing himself a shaky crime ring. Of course not. Din took a second to mentally bawl himself out. Could have just stayed on the Crest, waited for fuel, and got the hell out, but no. No, now he was really stuck.
"All members of the Guild are aware of your illustrious predecessor. But we know a truth. The Mandalorians keep a secret about Jabba Desilijic Tiure, his Eminence of Tatooine. I would never presume to cast a shadow on his legacy among your people, of course, so I say this only to you, so that we both understand."
Voontu's eyes glittered, a warning in them.
"His greatest prize among the bounty hunters that served him was no Mandalorian. Boba Fett was a pretender, a ghost of what my people are. A good hunter, of course. But just a shadow." He gave the words a trace of both real heat and dismissal. He didn't know the full story, but in another time, with a little twist of fate, Fett could have been a true foundling. He had a little sympathy there. The stories of the clones, however, and their use in the rise of the Empire still sat poorly with Din. "I am a Mandalorian, one who survives. What other Hutt has kept a true Mandalorian in their service since the purge, even for a while?"
Voontu lifted his chin, considering that with regal silence. "Compelling," he said at last. "But I have your word alone that you are, as you put it, a true Mandalorian. The Fett claimed his armor from the dead. Perhaps you have as well."
Din rolled the dice. He quickly unslung his rifle from his shoulder and pointed it at the floor just below the Hutt, ignoring the chaos that sprang to life behind the walls. "Then your men will have no trouble taking it from me."
Voontu held still as his guards flooded into the room, blasters hot and chains whipping through the air. Din didn't move, his hidden eyes nonetheless locked on those huge red ones.
He knew he'd won when the Hutt smiled, raising a hand before the guards finished taking position, waiting for the call to fire. "Enough. Most of you will die before he takes a scratch. This one is true." Voontu began to laugh. "I like him. Koffrith, take him on a ride!"
Koffrith was a Rodian with a warbling voice. "Sir?"
"Now!"
. . .
Din didn't let himself stagger until he got into his room, the sleepy child blinking at him from his nest of blankets. He was exhausted, but not physically. It took a lot of emotional and mental energy to keep from strangling people for several hours while they bumbled through various mild to moderate criminal behaviors. At least he thought he had finally found the weak point in the operation.
Yes, they were shaking down the village. He'd gotten out of being sent on a late-night payoff tour with the logic that for the time being he made a good mole, still seen as just a new visitor waiting for a trade that would, as he'd figured, likely depend on the Hutt's largesse. Not that he would actually rat on anyone, but he was hoping to not be in Voontu's 'service' long enough for that little secret to matter.
Yes, they were logging deep in the jungle, making legitimate but still iffy money on the lumber trade by way of a cover operation. This was how they funneled the town's funds to and from Jhas Krill, keeping them on a string. The wood was good but supposedly difficult to move and, according to the Hutt's lead guy on the team, required multiple parasite scans. It didn't, actually, it was another skim meant to keep the people in poverty. But the village had no way to know that. Yet.
Yes, the Hutt was also operating a hidden smuggling port out of low orbit. The amount of profit it had to be pulling in was just enough to keep him in standard Huttese luxury, and pay for the idiots that worked for him.
And yes, that could be a useful weak point, once Din had it figured right. The Hutt was dangerously intelligent, but he was also stuffed full of pride he hadn't yet earned, and was cheaping out on his staff. Classic early mistakes, part of why a lot of young Hutts stayed under the tails of the home cartels until they learned some sense. But post-Empire, things had apparently gotten looser for the once-powerful syndicate, and Voontu was on his own. Small favors, Din supposed.
Some of the crew were more dangerous, like the protection squad in the lounge, and including the two ranking Gamorreans. But many more of the staff were like Fadilan, indentured or one step up, and not paid enough for any true loyalty. That meant blank spaces in the security, room for someone like him to move. Still too many hostiles for him to gunfight alone, if it came to that. But enough to give him some wiggle.
He was going to need more time to figure out how to use all of that. Hopefully, for the sake of the village and himself, not much time.
He slept, meanwhile. Deeply and well, having a job ahead of him to focus on.