"So you see, we consider this mission as essential as keeping the water flowing and the ammo stocked," the Infiltrator told his superior. "If we leave Teller Vonn alive, what kind of message are we sending?"
The commanding officer of the Blood Battalion forces in Davn, a woman in her fifties with the facial lines of a hard-living mercenary, rolled her eyes. "For the last time, it is not going to happen."
She was wearing her proper whites, an official uniform that was pressed and presentable with the black markings designating her rank embroidered on the chest.
The Infiltrator wore his battle armor and carried his rifle, loaded and ready to roll. He seemed much more Boot's type, but that was the idea afterall.
The Infiltrator watched her walk away, with his finger on the trigger. "Yes, ma'am."
The opportunity had been handed to Boot on a silver platter. "Ain't it a shame, how they don't understand?"
The Infiltrator cocked his head, clearly not expecting to see a Mandalorian wandering the halls of their Davn headquarters.
"Those Jedi are a pain, aren't they?"
"You have no idea. They killed eight of my friends."
"I have an idea." Boot held up his bandaged stump. "This gift came courtesy of Teller Vonn."
The man's posture instantly relaxed. "Oh, I heard about you. You made a mess in Nordic, you and the diplomat."
"That's me."
"Why are you here? The Huntress is up in her space cradle, with the soft troopers and engineers."
"I didn't come to talk to her. I came to talk to your little outfit."
"Why?"
"Because it seems like you guys are having trouble acclimating to all these rules in the Blood Battalion. The whole operation is getting a little too wrapped up in politics."
"You're not wrong. They just shipped in a whole new load of those bronze-whatever diplomats."
Boot made a mental note of that. "Well, if it's glory and revenge you're seeking, I think you Infiltrators might have a better time of it playing for a different team."
"What team?" he asked, though he clearly saw where Boot was going.
"The best in the whole damn galaxy, if you think you're tough enough."
Markeet fell and struck the mat with a sound like thunder.
"Stand up."
Even after forty-eight hours without sleep, it only took seconds for her to get back on her feet.
However, her focus had taken a hit and she was wobbling back and forth like a drunkard.
"Ready position."
She spread her feet and raised the staff in the manner he had drilled into her.
"Strike."
She swung at the trainer. He deflected the blow off of his gauntlet.
"Strike."
He hopped back to avoid the next one.
She struck again without being told and in response he quickly yanked the staff out of her hands and deftly bashed her across the face.
The thirteen year old crumpled to the ground, her nose pouring out blood.
"Do you want to train or do you want to have a real sparring match? If it's the latter, I will gladly put you in your place."
After seeing his friend punished, Ael jumped into the ring and grabbed her staff. "Back away!"
The Mandalorian stepped forward, until he was looming over the boy who was even younger than Markeet. "Did you just give me an order?"
Ael didn't flinch. "Just back away from her. She didn't mean it."
With a scoff and a wave, and something else that almost resembled respect, the trainer allowed them to leave the arena. Markeet got to work stuffing tissues into her nose to stop the blood loss.
"Canteen, you're next."
The girl grew sullen at hearing the name, but willingly retrieved her own staff and stepped into the ring.
"Ready position."
She spread her feet.
"Strike."
He blocked it with his gauntlet, once again.
"Strike."
He ducked away, but the staff came within an inch of his helmet.
The trainer sucked in a breath and the girl's muscles tensed in anticipation, but the word never came.
She quickly recognized the feint, but for just half a moment her weight shifted into a swing that she could not make. That was all he needed.
He quickly grabbed the end of the staff and brought it back up to smack the young girl in the forehead. At least nothing had been broken, but a bruise quickly began to form at the center of her forehead.
"First rule of combat. Try not to hit yourself."
The girl grew even more sullen.
"Step out. It's time for the little one."
Jamie took her place, grabbing a staff from the rack that was just big enough for her tiny hands and light enough that she could actually lift it.
"Ready position."
Jamie took a deep breath and got ready.
"Strike."
He caught it with his palm, but quickly released it. "Good form. I'm not surprised. Strike."
His gauntlet caught it.
"Good."
She knew he had to have something up his sleeve, but she just didn't know what. Jamie let her anger boil to the surface, feeling more and more of her hatred flow through her, but at the eye of that swirling mass of emotions was a strange sense of calm.
Everything seemed to go black and there was nothing else except her and her opponent, and something else off in the distance.
Far away, above the clouds and halfway around the planet, Jamie could feel the faint presence of her father, and suddenly he could feel her too.
An understanding formed between them, as Jon Vyrone saw his daughter's emotions, her fears and her situation.
"Strike."
She didn't move when the words were uttered, which the trainer saw as hesitation.
"I am with you. I won't leave again, I promise."
An invisible guiding hand leaned her backwards, out of the reach of the Mandalorian's fist, and the same sensation brought her back forward.
Jamie swung the staff as hard as her little hands possibly could, colliding with his helmet right at his temple.
The Mandalorian stumbled back and suddenly Jamie was back in the arena, surrounded by the other younglings.
He stumbled a few more seconds, before finally managing to turn and bring his full attention to the little girl.
"Jon taught you well."
For the first time since they had begun their training, the Mandalorian removed his helmet. He was surprisingly frail-looking, with a pencil thin moustache and pasty skin. Jamie was surprised to see that he was only about her parent's age, or maybe a year or two younger.
He sat down on the ground, cross-legged, and motioned for the others to join.
"It's too bad Mandalore is taking you back to those Jedi. You would have made a good warrior."
The four kids sat around him, listening intently as he continued to massage his temple.
"If any of you liked me, I wouldn't be doing my job," he told them, plainly. "The Mandalorians as a whole aren't liked, but the galaxy needs doers who can get things done, who can make the tough decisions and do the hard jobs everybody else is too cowardly to do. The Jedi think they're the ones who keep the galaxy in line, with their pseudo-pacifism and political scheming, but they're no better than any other cult trying to weasel their way into power."
There was a sense of spite in his voice that was impossible to ignore.
"They say they'll keep the peace, but they carry those swords around for a reason. If you don't comply with them, they'll chop you in half or imprison you without a trial."
"I am a prisoner," Jamie suddenly stated, with perhaps a bit of her father's personality still imprinted on her.
He laughed. "For now, but at least the Mandalorians are upfront about it. At least you will go home. At least they don't lie to you and more importantly they don't lie to themselves."
The trainer looked down at the helmet in his hands. It hadn't been dented, but Jamie had left a brand new scratch in the grey paint.
"I guess the mysterious act is over. From here on out, you can call me Jor. Let's get to work."
