The Deserter
By Agent Malkere
A/N: Ever get completely blindsided by a story idea? Well, this was one of those stories.
Migs isn't certain what he's expecting when he follows Scary-Cop Lady, but the man in Mandalorian armor scares a good ten years off his life. Thankfully, it's painted green with red and yellow accents – not unpainted, shiny silver. Migs has zero percent interest in ever running into Mando again. He doesn't have a fucking death wish.
The green Mandalorian isn't alone. There's another woman who projects a frozen, deadly calm that Migs wants nothing to do with and… a guy. No, seriously, in this intimidating lineup there's this super unassuming looking human with brown hair and brown eyes and a sort of soft looking face. He's got the sort of face that muggers target for easy pickings. He's wearing baggy, ill-fitting, black clothes that look like they'd be a better fit for Green Mando's bulkier build. A blaster is slung around his waist and looks well cared for. Migs wonders absently if he even knows how to use it. The only thing about him that stands out is the ugly purple stain-scar on the left side of his neck.
Phicilitroxate. Nasty paralytic that the Empire had been fond of back in the day to subdue particularly difficult targets or when they were just feeling particularly petty and spiteful (so a lot). Normal Guy is lucky to still have use of his legs if somebody had used that stuff on him.
Okay, there is one other thing that stands out about Normal Guy. He reminds Migs of Burnin Konn. Not the day, not Operation Cinder itself, but looking into the mirror at his own face afterwards. Migs doesn't like it.
"So what is this?" Migs finally asks. "What am I doing here?" The Marshall has an Alderaanian Tear tattooed on her cheek and knows that Migs is ex-Imperial. He wonders if they're just going to dump his body somewhere and say there was an 'accident' during transportation. He's seen officials abuse their powers for much pettier reasons than roundabout revenge.
"We need to locate Moff Gideon," the Marshall informs him, "and you're the Imperial who's going to help us do that."
"Ex. Ex-Imperial," Migs snaps, because he deserted, damn it. It's one of those details that helps him sleep at night. Sure, he doesn't expect the New Republic to stick to its ideals for more than a hot second, but at least he isn't still sticking it out with the psychotics who thought killing thousands of civilians as well as hundreds of their own with friendly fire counted as 'acceptable losses.'
"But you still know all the codes," pipes up Normal Guy, and Migs' gut sinks like a rock. Shit. He'd have had a better chance of survival if the Marshall really was planning on hunting him for sport. Something about Normal Guy's voice nags at Migs in a way he can't quite place. It's almost familiar but not.
Migs doesn't bother denying his knowledge – it would be a pointless gesture at this point. He briefly considers trying to make a break for it back to the chop yard, but the Marshall would probably just stun him in the back.
"And why you so hot to track down a Moff, huh, Brown Eyes?" Normal Guy flinches at the nickname, and Migs resolves to call him that from now on, because petty spitefulness is his only weapon at the moment. It's not Brown Eyes who answers Migs' question, though – it's the Marshall.
"Gideon took his kid."
Well, fuck. The one teeny shred of decency Migs has left rears its ugly little head. Migs has always avoided jobs that could involve kids getting dead. He isn't a psychopath like that crazy Twi', Xi'an.
There are exactly zero pleasant things that Migs can think of a Moff wanting a kid for – especially one with Gideon's reputation.
"And what's in it for me?" Migs asks like he isn't fully aware that he will be cooperating in this harebrained operation whether he wants to or not.
"A better view," the Marshall drawls.
Well, a better view is better than a shallow grave. Migs thinks that the option of a shallow grave is still very much on the table, though.
The Marshall's name is Cara Dune, the icy cold woman is Fennec Shand (yikes), and Brown Eyes is apparently named Din Djarin. Once Dune had started to call him something else that started with a 'muh,' but Djarin had cut her off with a harsh don't.
Oh, and apparently Green Mando is fucking Boba Fett back from the dead. Yeah, Migs knows who kriffing Boba Fett is. He wasn't asleep during his time with the Empire. When a bounty hunter has a reputation with enough clout to get hired by Darth Vader more than once, word gets around.
Migs spends most of the trip to Morak watching Djarin, trying to figure out where this average looking guy fits into a ship full of ruthless killers and ferals. Is he their mascot? Do they owe him a favor for some reason? Did he paid them? Is the still nameless kid just that cute? What?!
Djarin looks perpetually tired, which isn't surprising considering his kid has been stolen. He doesn't talk much either. Again, not surprising, though Migs has always been a nervous talker, so he doesn't really get that aspect of things. Djarin does this weird thing where he moves his entire head to look at things. It reminds Migs of the way Stormtroopers, who'd spent too much time in their shitty helmets, moved – like he's somehow forgotten that peripherals are a thing. The man can't hide his emotions for shit or maintain eye contact either. It's the weirdest fucking thing. Djarin is also clearly functioning almost entirely on autopilot. Grief radiates from the man. It makes the ghosts of Migs' buddies murmur unpleasantly from the box Migs has packed them into in the back of his head.
By the time they're a day out from Morak, Migs has the low key desire to just… wrap Djarin in a blanket and feed him soup or something. It's fucking bizarre. Maybe Djarin's not actually baseline human after all and can influence minds or something. Maybe that's how he's managed to wrangle so much deadly assistance. Migs ruthlessly crushes all of his blanket and soup related urges. He doesn't do the soft and caring thing. He relentlessly needles Djarin instead, trying to figure out why in all the Corellian hells Moff Gideon has taken up baby snatching as his latest hobby. Not that deranged Moffs generally need a reason to be even bigger bastards but still. Migs doesn't get any answers, but watching the unsettlingly open play of emotions across Djarin's face gives him some clues.
There's something special about the kid. Something the remains of the Empire really, really want, which is just a little bit terrifying. Djarin has probably been raising the kid by himself. If there was ever a partner in the holo, they are long gone. The man hadn't even twitched when Migs had bugged him about that. Also, this kid is the center of Djarin's fucking universe. Like, Dune is emotionally manipulating the guy into sleeping and eating by invoking the kid. Djarin is planning on somehow taking on a Moff to get this kid back. It's nuts. Still, Djarin is safer to stick around than the ex-Rebel marshal or the notorious assassin or fucking Boba Fett, and if he was held at gun point, Migs might have admitted that he sort of enjoys the other man's company. Just a bit.
Migs is not expecting Djarin to volunteer to sneak into the base with him.
"Are you sure?" asks Dune. "M- Din, you have not been tracking well."
"Yeah, what're ya gonna do, Brown Eyes? Pout them into submission?" Migs has no interest in bringing a liability in with him. Especially a liability who may or may not have any combat skills. The twin withering glares Migs receives for his comment have him taking a step back and raising his hands in submission. It's the first time Djarin has looked anything approaching intimidating.
"I'll be fine," Djarin assures Dune.
Yeah, fucking right, Migs doesn't say, because he isn't actively suicidal.
Djarin moves differently in the transport trooper armor. More confident. Still not enough bulk there for him to truly cut an intimidating figure, and the transport trooper helmets are hilarious, but Djarin looks a bit more… comfortable in his own skin? Which is ridiculous because this armor is kriffing uncomfortable and awkward and smells. If Djarin wasn't friends with Dune, Migs might have been tempted to theorize that the guy was an ex-trooper. Whatever.
Like his voice, something about the way Djarin moves in the armor pokes at Migs' brain. It's very annoying.
"You know I was trained as a sharpshooter, not an explosives driver," Migs gripes absentmindedly as he familiarizes himself with the controls.
There's a longsuffering sigh to Migs' right.
"Just drive."
"Can you actually fight?" Migs asks as he engages the engine.
"Yes."
"Great answer. Very specific. Let me rephrase that – can you fight well?"
"Yes." Djarin sounds annoyed now. This is the most emotional range Migs has gotten out of him since they met. His voice sounds even more familiar filtered through his helmet's vocoder from some reason. Migs wishes he could put his finger on who it reminds him of.
They drive for a while with Migs filling the silence, because their explosive cargo is making him nervous, while Djarin presumably ignores him.
"The Empire, New Republic – they're all just names," Migs is rambling as they leave the local village behind them. "You think any of those people care? Think they can tell the difference?"
"I'm from the Outer Rim."
"What?" Migs is so startled that Djarin has suddenly decided to participate in the conversation that he nearly swerves.
"Core politics don't tend to reach the Rim. New Republic patrols are a bit less trigger happy than the Imperial ones were."
"Well, there is that," Migs concedes. "What did you do before you got caught in this mess anyway?" He is burning with unnatural curiosity, and Djarin is finally talking.
There's a long enough pause that Migs thinks that he isn't going to get an answer and then,
"I was a bounty hunter."
Migs bursts out laughing.
"No way. You're pulling my leg! You? A bounty hunter?"
"Yes."
"Maker, that is hard to believe. And, what, you gave it up once you became a father?"
"Something like that."
Okay, Migs will admit it – there's something weirdly endearing about Djarin's minimalist answers even if they're also annoying. He's about to try to pry more information out of Djarin – because at this point it's a game – when the pirates attack.
Djarin wasn't kidding. He can fight. Incredibly well. If this is how the guy fights when he's off his game and grieving, Migs would love to see him going at full chat. Guy's a kriffing berserker! It's upsettingly hot. Migs has always been attracted to dangerous things whether they're weapons or people, and it turns out that Djarin is very dangerous indeed despite his deceptively soft face. Migs is whooping when Djarin finally makes it back to the cockpit with a severely damaged helmet tucked under one arm.
"Never thought I'd be glad to see TIE fighters again," Migs comments, almost giddy with relief that they didn't blow up. "You weren't kidding when you said you could fight! Last time I saw moves like those, I was teaming up with this Mandalorian my latest boss wanted to screw over to do a prison break." If Migs hadn't been looking at Djarin when he says this, he would have missed it. Djarin's face freezes like a zill caught in headlights. "What-" Migs starts and then abruptly all the pieces in his head fit together to make a complete picture. The voice, the lack of eye contact, the weird head movements, Dune's slip ups with his name, the increased comfort in armor, the familiar walk, how such an unassuming guy could know someone like Boba fucking Fett. And Migs also remembers being on a piece of garbage pre-Empire ship trying to get a rise out of the guy he was planning to double cross… and the only thing that had ruffled the guy's feathers was when they'd accidentally stumbled across that tiny, green, big-eared child in the sleeping compartment. "Where the hell's your armor, Mando?" It should have been a shouted accusation, but it escapes Migs as a pained whisper instead.
Djarin's head jerks away from him to look out the side window.
"Where do you think?"
Migs can just see the edge of the purple phicilitroxate scar curling over the edge of Djarin's stolen under-blacks. Phicilitroxate – probably the only way the Empire could successfully rip that child from the Mandalorian's arms and pry his armor from his back. Migs feels unexpectedly sick.
"The kid that Gideon stole – it's the little green guy, isn't it?"
"Yes." Djarin's voice is stiff, and he's still staring resolutely out the window.
Migs crushes the sudden urge to snatch the trooper helmet out of Djarin's hands and ram it back onto his head, because he doesn't want this. He never wanted to be able to look at fucking Mando of all people and see a person. Mando had been easy to double cross. He hadn't had a face – he hadn't even had a real kriffing name. That stupid droid that Ran had presumably pulled out of some garbage compactor had had more personality than Mando. But now Migs' brain is filtering the whole incident through the lens of Din Djarin, a guy with a face and a name and a child he's willing to do fucking anything to protect. Anything. Like take shitty, suspicious jobs from a lying ex-associate because he was trying to feed two and had had a falling out with his guild. Mando had practically radiated 'don't want to be here' during the entire job. At the time Migs had found it sort of funny. Now it isn't.
Let's all see your eyes.
They're brown. They're fucking brown, and part of Migs hates that he knows this now.
"Fuck," Migs mutters. Ahead of them, troopers are lining the entryway to the base, cheering and saluting their success. His mouth tastes like ash. He shouldn't ask – he doesn't want to know – but, "They total your ship?"
"Blew it up," Djarin confirms. He's staring straight ahead now, his face, for once, completely blank.
Hell, no wonder Djarin is running around in Fett's spare clothes.
"Right." Migs offers the saluting troopers outside the fakest, most brittle smile of his entire life. In his head the glassy remains of Burnin Konn glitter in the sun as ash swirls through the air. Migs has never been so torn between wanting to bail on a mission and wanting to see it through to the absolute bitter end. The latter wins. Migs' buddies are dead – nothing he does can ever change that – but Djarin's kid is still alive, and fuck this whole situation. "Put your helmet back on," Migs tell Djarin as he finishes parking the juggernaut. "You make that face in an Imperial base and they're going to know something is wrong." Djarin frowns at him like a confused tooka, eyebrows knitting together. Maker, no wonder the guy refused to take his helmet off before. Migs knows for a fact Djarin is as deadly as they come, and he still can't take that expression seriously. He gives into his earlier urge and pulls the helmet from Djarin's hands and plonks it on his head. Then he raps his knuckles obnoxiously against the helmet's crown. "Get it together, Mando – we've got coordinates to retrieve and your kid to rescue."
"Don't call me that." The response sounds more automatic than anything, but it's still better than the almost brittle tone from before.
"Fine, Din. Just hurry it up." Migs can almost feel the scowl which is what he had been going for. Either way, the nickname 'Brown Eyes' is officially dead and buried. Migs is going to have to think of something else.
Things are going fine – just fine, even if Djarin ends up being the one working the terminal – until Vallin Hess decides to get chatty with Djarin. Djarin, who knows jackshit about how the Imperial military works and probably doesn't even know what a TK number is.
Kriff.
So Migs steps in. What else is he supposed to do?
Hess doesn't even remember Migs, and that's probably even worse than if he'd recognized him.
Migs is sitting at a table in an officer's mess living a nightmare. Across from him sits the man who unrepentantly razed his entire world to the ground talking about heroes of the Empire. And Migs is talking, talking, talking – all those questions and words in his chest spilling out, and in his head he can still hear the screaming. He needs to stop, needs to shut up, but he can't. The dam's been breached – there's no stopping the pain and grief that have been too close to the surface for days now from bubbling up.
He shoots Hess, because it's the only thing he can do. He's barely even aware of it as his hand pulls out the blaster. Hess wants to use the rhydonium that Migs delivered to repeat Burnin Konn a thousand times. No.
Migs and Djarin escape to the roof. Djarin keeps shooting him these uncomfortably worried little sideways glances that are just a touch too understanding.
Blowing up an Imperial base probably shouldn't feel like closure, but it does – just a little bit. Like he tells Djarin, "Everybody's gotta sleep at night."
Djarin is back in Fett's baggy spare clothes again, and now that Migs understands what's going on it's a fucking weird sight to behold. Djarin's not a small guy, per sae, but he has definitely not got Fett's tank build going on, so the oversized clothes swamp his frame and make him look vulnerable – which is not a word Migs thought he would ever find himself associating with Mando. It makes Migs have that annoying blanket-and-soup urge again.
He wants to wrap the guy who landed him a fifty year prison sentence in a fucking blanket. What is his life?
"That was a nice shot back there."
Dune is complimenting him, and Migs doesn't know what to do with that, because ex-Rebels don't compliment ex-Imperials – that's just not how the galaxy works.
"You saw that?" Dune smirks at him, and Migs hunches in on himself a little defensively. "Well, I had some things to get off my chest." He glances between Dune and Djarin. Maybe, if Djarin had still just been Mando, this would be the moment where Migs would stick out his wrists, ready to return to the chop yard with a slightly lighter chest, but Djarin isn't just Mando anymore, and everybody's gotta sleep at night. "So what's next? We gonna try to sneak onto this light-cruiser like a bunch of suicidal idiots or what?"
Dune's eyebrows shoot up.
"Are you volunteering?"
"Hell, no. I assumed me leaving wasn't an option, yet. What?" he asks at her incredulous expression. "You brought me along for my knowledge of the Imperial military. Last I checked that included light-cruisers. I didn't take you for the type to throw away resources." Migs is babbling. He knows he's babbling. He really needs to fucking shut up. He doesn't. "Besides, I wouldn't say no to a little more time pretending that I don't have another forty-nine years left to go in the chop yard."
Dune looks skeptical, but Djarin is watching Migs thoughtfully.
"Everybody's got to sleep at night, right?" Djarin comments. Migs grimaces, caught out, and shrugs.
"I deserted for a reason."
This response seems to mollify Dune, which is a relief.
Dune, Djarin, Fett, and Migs are examining the specs for Gideon's light-cruiser while Shand babysits the ship's controls. Apparently spontaneously blowing up an Imperial base is a good way to get into these people's good graces, because the number of suspicious glares Migs has been receiving has dropped significantly.
"We are going to need a lot more firepower to take this thing on," Dune sighs.
Djarin's mouth twists into a grimace.
"I might know someone, but I doubt she'll help now that I'm no longer Mandalorian."
Migs' head jerks away from the specs to gape at Djarin.
"What the kriff do you mean you're no longer Mandalorian?!" he demands. Next to Djarin, Dune is scowling at the specs like she wants to stab something repeatedly with a vibroblade.
Djarin doesn't meet Migs' eyes. He looks smaller – lost.
"My helmet was removed by an enemy. Other living beings have seen my face, and my armor has been stolen. My creed is broken. Even if I retrieve my armor, I'm no longer worthy of wearing it."
Migs' jaw is hanging open. Dune now looks like she's attempting to spontaneously combust the specs with her mind. Fett looks kriffing neutral because he's wearing his karking helmet.
"That is the biggest load of banthashit I have ever heard!" Migs wonders who just shouted that. Oh – it was him. Oops. Oh well. "Gideon had to use a fucking paralytic on you to take that armor off you like the kriffing coward that he is! You think he didn't specifically set you up to fail? That's what he does! You know what Ran said about you? 'He's a man of honor – it's his biggest weakness.' Well, guess what? Gideon doesn't have any honor – it's how he became a karking Moff to begin with. He will use anything he can against you. And if I know anything, it's that honor isn't something you can take on and off like a fucking coat. It can't be taken away from you, and neither can your fucking worth! You either have it, or you don't. End of story. You think it's just wearing the armor that makes you Mandalorian? Give me a fucking break!"
Djarin's eyes are wide and shocked, and too late Migs realizes that he's been jabbing his finger in the face of one of the deadliest people he knows. Migs hastily retracts his arm. Shouting his opinions at people is probably going to get him killed one of these days. It really is amazing that he managed to survive the Imperial army. Dune's expression has morphed into something that Migs might almost call approving.
"What he said," Dune nods. Oh, maker, the ex-Rebel is agreeing with him. It's fucking weird. Djarin still looks dubious but not like he's actively disagreeing either.
"Right. Anyway," Migs continues, shifting a bit uncomfortably after his outburst, "I don't know that I want someone who would refuse to help for such petty reasons watchin' my back anyway. Sounds too much like some of the commanding officers I served under."
"I've burned too many bridges," Dune shrugs. "I'm blackballed with most of my old contacts."
Fett hums.
"Most people still think I'm dead."
There's a moment of silence.
"Why do we have to stage a full frontal assault anyway?" Migs suddenly asks.
"What do you mean?" asks Djarin.
"I mean, we're just grabbing the kid and running, right? Bagging Gideon and your armor on the way, too, but it's not like we're trying to take the whole fucking ship. So all we really need is a good slicer and an Imperial shuttle."
Djarin tilts his head thoughtfully.
"You're proposing a sneak attack?"
"Got a lot better odds than going in guns blazing. Get the slicer to lock down all the ship's blast doors expect for the paths to where we need to be – minimize the reinforcements they can send." Dune is staring at him in something like surprise. "What?"
"You're better at this than I thought you'd be."
Migs just scowls at her.
"Fennec should be able to connect us with a slicer," Fett puts in, nodding to himself. "That's an easier hire than trustworthy extra guns."
"Then the only other things we need are an Imperial shuttle and some blaster-hole-free Imperial uniforms." Djarin sits back from the specs, still looking thoughtful, still looking exhausted, but also looking, for the first time since Migs arrived on the scene of this shitshow, just a bit hopeful.
Shand does, in fact, know a slicer who should fit the bill. Acquiring said slicer requires a detour to Tatooine – specifically Mos Espa. Migs isn't complaining. He'll take heat over cold any day. He's been deployed on one too many ice planets.
Djarin is sitting in the hold by himself. Fett and Shand are in the cockpit, and Dune is getting some sleep. Migs would like to be sleeping, but he just can't seem to manage the trick at the moment. Djarin has a spear in his hands that appears to be made from a single, beautifully crafted piece of metal. Migs has always been a ranged fighter, but it's a gorgeous weapon, and he wants to touch it so badly. Djarin is staring at the spear like it holds all the answers to the universe.
"Did mean what you said earlier?" Djarin asks without looking up.
Migs sniffs and sits down across the hold from him.
"Well, yeah. It's me. Whaddya think I was doing? Catering to your precious feelings?"
Djarin snorts derisively which is the appropriate response to such a ridiculous notion.
"I've recently found out that my Tribe was considered… incredibly conservative by Mandalorian standards. There are other Ways, but… it's hard. To wrap my head around."
Oh. Well, that does explain a lot.
"Raised by fundamentalists, huh?"
"According to some other Mandalorians I've met, yes."
"Never an easy realization, is it?" Migs nods. Djarin gives him a disbelieving look. "Hey, you think I didn't believe all that propaganda we were fed when I first joined the Imperials? Safer systems, better regulations, a peaceful galaxy, 'nothing like the Clone Wars will ever happen again' – I bought it. Not to the extent that some of my buddies did, but I still bought it. And my parents did, too. They were so karking proud of me when I enlisted." Migs scowls. "I served for ten fucking years before I finally caught a clue."
Djarin finally glances at Migs.
"To still be Mandalorian without my armor feels… wrong."
"Well," Migs scrunches up his face in thought, "the only two things I've ever really heard about Mandalorians is that they're the best warriors in the galaxy and they have a thing about kids. After the pirates back on Morak, I think it's safe to say you're still a warrior, and we're on a crazy mission to rescue your kid from a Moff. Sounds pretty fucking Mandalorian to me – even without the armor."
"That's a very simplistic way of looking at it."
"What can I say? I'm a simplistic guy," Migs shrugs.
Djarin sits quietly for a moment and then rises. Slowly he starts walking through what appears to be a series of drills, the spear spinning and thrusting in his hands. Like he's familiarizing himself with a new weapon. Migs doesn't remember seeing a spear on Mando's ship. He wonders where he got it, but for once doesn't ask, because something about this feels important in a way that Migs doesn't understand.
Djarin, Fett, Dune, and Migs stay on the ship when they reach Mos Espa while Shand heads out to meet up with the slicer.
Migs spends his time cleaning the cycler rifle that he has sort of claimed as his own since Morak. You can't use a rifle to blow up a refinery with a single shot and not bond with it, and nobody has tried to take it away from him, so until further notice this is Migs' rifle now. Besides, a sharpshooter without a blaster is practically just an over-trained meat shield. Migs is perfectly well aware that hand-to-hand has never been his strong suit. He's a bit better with a knife, but all his old weapons are now either in the hands of the New Republic or Ran. Migs wonders whatever happened to Ran. He owes that bastard a few hits in the face for that fool's errand of a prison break/revenge scheme.
Dune is giving her weapon a once over, too. It's a lovely piece of kit, though Migs thinks the kickback on a repeater like that would be hell on his shoulder. He generally prefers more streamlined weapons. Dune's got the build for it though. She looks like she could deadlift Migs without breaking a sweat.
Djarin is running through drills with his spear again, movements becoming faster and more fluid with every repetition. It's very distracting. Migs is trying not to openly stare – with limited success if the smirks Dune keeps shooting him are anything to go by. Djarin is wearing the more familiar gun belt and bandoleer combo now that Migs remembers from the prison break. There's a line of rough repair work on the bandoleer – presumably where it had been cut through by some Imp so the chest plate of Djarin's armor could be yanked off more easily. He's done something to the bandoleer so that he can attach the spear to the back of it.
Fett, who has been off to one side reading of all things, straightens up as something pings.
"Fennec's back."
Migs finishes reattaching the sight on his rifle and sets it to one side. He doesn't bother standing up when the ship's ramp lowers. Shand glides up the ramp, icy as ever despite Tantooine's relentless heat. Behind her tramps a backlit figure with an ancient red astromech rolling along in their wake.
"This is Squib Keno and R4. They specialize in Imperial sabotage."
"Kriffin' right, we do." The ramp closes, revealing a human male. Squib Keno's taller than Djarin and has a similar build and face shape to Fett, but he's at least a decade or two older than Fett. His short hair is a shocking white against his dark skin and the deep lines on his face surround sharply intelligent eyes. A stacked column of letters and numbers runs straight down from the edge of his left temple to the corner of his jaw. It looks like some sort of chemical formula to Migs. The man's arms are covered from the wrists up in tiny tattooed binary. He has a wide smile on his face that hovers somewhere between cheerful and feral. The smile slides decisively towards feral when he spots Fett. "Is that Little Boba under that bucket?" he coos like a suicidal maniac. "I'd heard you got eaten by a sarlacc, blood traitor."
Fett actually fucking growls, and it might just be the most kriffing terrifying thing Migs has ever heard.
"You didn't mention that your contact was one of them," Fett sneers. Shand just shrugs, completely un-phased by her boss's ire.
"Oh, I wouldn't go casting stones, brother." Keno's dangerous smile just gets wider. "We were both built in the same place, after all."
"I am not your-"
"Stop." There's a clang as Djarin slams the butt of his spear into the hold floor. Fett and Keno turn to look at him. One of Keno's eyebrows hikes up his forehead. "We have a job to do, and we need him," Djarin states, gesturing at Keno while glaring at Fett. "You two can brawl out your grievances after we get the kid back."
Keno cocks his head to one side and then shrugs.
"Fair enough." He holds out a hand to Djarin. "Squib Keno – call me Squib. Never really gotten used to the last name, but people ask more questions if you don't have one."
"Din Djarin." Djarin hesitates and then shakes the proffered hand. "That's Marshall Cara Dune and Migs Mayfeld."
"Marshall, huh?" Squib asks, giving Dune a speculative glance.
"That's right." Dune meets his gaze with a challenging stare.
"Well, as long as you're not planning on putting me in binders when all this is over, I've got no feud with the New Republic."
"The only one going in binders when all this is over is Gideon."
And me, Migs adds mentally but doesn't voice. He's grateful Dune didn't mention him. The last thing Migs wants is a survivor of the fucking GAR to know that he's ex-Imperial. It's been a long time since Migs last ran into a clone other than Fett. He's never had a problem with them. Hell, he vaguely remembers meeting a few members of… he thinks it was the 91st back when he was a kid. They'd had yellow paint on their armor, he remembers that for sure. Anyway, he's met other species that replicate through methods that basically boil down to cloning without the test tubes, so he's never really gotten why it's such a big karking deal to some people. The GAR clones, though, first got fucked over by the Old Republic and then even more thoroughly fucked over by the Empire, so Migs is just as happy to keep his service record to himself.
The red astromech rolls over to Shand and starts chirping cheerfully. Squib rolls his eyes.
"R4, you know better than to try to chat up circuitry that newly installed! Go flirt with the hyperdrive – it's closer to your age." R4 makes a put out noise but trundles away. "Sorry, Shand – she picked up some terrible habits from her last owner."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Guy was an incorrigible flirt. Anyway, where are your schematics? I've got mayhem to plan."
Their last stop before they put their insane rescue plan into action is Trask. Djarin is decidedly unhappy about this for some reason, but it has one of the few dealers left who still sells Imperial surplus, so he doesn't put up a fuss. Migs and Djarin end up being the ones to go buy what they need. Migs because his expertise is needed, and Djarin because Fett stands out like a sore thumb, Squib is busy, and people might start asking questions if a Rebel shock trooper is seen buying Imperial surplus. (Nobody asked Shand, and Migs is fine with that.) Migs is sporting goggles and a pseudo-breathing mask and has the hood of his coat pulled up for the outing. The last thing he wants is to be recognized or caught on a security holo. Djarin is carrying his spear on his back and is wearing a scarf around his neck, on Migs' insistence, to hide the phicilitroxate scar.
Getting the uniforms ends up being shockingly easy. Fett and Dune will be staying on the ship until Squib takes over the light-cruiser's systems, and Djarin will be playing the part of prisoner, so they just need officer uniforms for Migs and Shand and a set of Stormtrooper armor and a rubbish Imperial blaster for Squib. The Nautolan running the shop doesn't even bat an eye at their purchases just holds out her hand for Djarin's credits while Migs packs everything away into the canvas duffle bag they brought with them. Migs is desperately trying not to question their luck, because the last time he and Djarin teamed up had been a narrowly avoided karking disaster.
They're almost back to the ship when it happens. Three Mandalorians in blue painted armor come striding down the market lane like they own the fucking town. It sets Migs' teeth on edge. Djarin, when Migs had first met him, had walked with the quiet confidence of a predator. These three move with the arrogance of Imperial officers. It makes Migs want to shoot something. Badly. It takes him a full three steps to realize that Djarin is no longer walking next to him. Migs spins around to find Djarin frozen in place with a mixture of shock and trepidation on his face as he stares at the group of Mandalorians.
"What-" Migs starts and then someone shoulder checks him from behind. Hard. "Watch it!" Migs snarls as the shortest of the three barrels past him.
"Don't block the road." Migs can hear the sneer in her voice. He wants a blaster so badly he can practically taste it.
Something about this little exchange shakes Djarin out of his stupor.
"Mind your own Way, and we'll keep to ours."
Something about the way he says it makes Migs feel like he's missing some sort of subtext. The Mandalorains seem to catch it, though, because they stop dead in their tracks. The one at the center of the group with the bird-like painting on her helmet turns and tilts her head.
"Do we know you, brother?" she asks reaching out a hand.
Djarin yanks his arm out of her reach before she can make contact.
"No. You truly don't." Then Djarin spins on his heel and practically stomps away. Migs has to run to catch up with him, duffle bag banging against his back.
"The hell was that?" he gasps, slightly out of breath from the unexpected sprint. "You know them, or was that just some wacky, passive aggressive Mandalorian thing?"
"I've met them before."
"Ah. Lovely people," Migs drawls sarcastically. "Real cuddly group, I can just tell."
"She changed our deal midway through and called my Tribe a cult. I don't trust her to put the needs of a foundling first – especially when I don't have my armor." If Migs is reading Djarin's tone right, the man finds the idea that she might not put the needs of a foundling first to be a much greater offence than referring to his family as a cult.
"Nice lady. She the one you mentioned before when we were planning?"
"Yes. I thought that, if I offered to let her keep the cruiser to aid in her quest to retake Mandalore, she might overlook my lost armor."
Migs snorts.
"If you would have had to bribe her with an entire light-cruiser to get her to help rescue your kid, then I'm glad you didn't offer."
Djarin just looks tired now.
"I don't… understand her Creed. Or what she thinks makes someone a Mandalorian. The foundlings are the future."
"Eh, maybe she's stuck in the glory days," Migs shrugs. He doesn't have to work with her – he doesn't give a damn what her motivations are. He's just glad they aren't trying to take the whole light-cruiser to appease someone who lets her underlings play power games with random passersby.
They're silent the rest of the way to the ship.
A/N: This is a completed two-shot. The last chapter will be posted tomorrow afternoon or evening. Thanks for reading!