Hijacking an Imperial shuttle turns out to be the easiest part of the entire plan. There're two pilots and some scientist on board when Dune and Migs make it to the cockpit. The first pilot tries to surrender. The second pilot responds to this by shooting the first pilot and trying to take the scientist hostage. Migs could not give less of a shit about bringing the scientist in alive – they just need the shuttle for this plan – but he shoots the second pilot as soon as the name Alderaan passes his lips. He knows the type. Any Imperial, who starts spouting off about Alderaan blowing up like it was a good fucking thing, is a diehard zealot. There's no reasoning with that, and Migs isn't about to let someone like that live either.
Dune is staring at him like he's grown a second head. It's annoying. Migs had thought that at this point he's established that, if he doesn't have morals, he at least has standards. You don't brag about fucking genocide.
"What? You woulda ended up shooting him anyway. That kind of nut was never going to karking surrender."
The scientist is still standing in front of them in frozen terror, barely blinking, making small, pathetic noises.
"You done, yet?" shouts Squib from the back of the shuttle.
"Yeah, we are," Dune calls back, still looking unsettled. Migs wonders if that's the same face he'd been making after he'd shot Hess. No wonder he'd freaked Djarin out.
"Excellent. Time to get busy." Squib strides into the cockpit rubbing his hands together, R4 trilling happily along behind him. He pauses when he spots the scientist, and a feral grin splits his face like a razor. "Why, Dr. Pershing! How lovely to see you again! How are the longnecks doing these days?"
Pershing lets out a terrified whimper.
Migs tugs the cuffs of his surplus officer's uniform straight and glances in the mirror to make sure his hat isn't crooked. His military career had stalled out at sergeant because of his 'issues with authority' and 'lack of ambition.' In other words, Migs had had this habit of asking questions his superiors didn't like and hadn't been willing to step on his friends to get ahead. He grimaces at his reflection. This is not bringing back good memories. He's had to shave off his beard for this stunt, because he's impersonating a commander, and in most Imperial outfits officers are required to be clean shaven. He hates it already.
When he leaves the shuttle's 'fresher, Shand is already waiting in the hold checking her weapons. She's wearing lieutenant's insignia on her uniform, and with her tight, neat braid and carefully schooled expression, she certainly looks the part. Hell, if she'd had Migs' fundament knowledge of the Imperial military, he would have voted for her to play the role of ranking officer. She hands him one of her smaller side arms, and Migs dutifully checks the charge and sights for himself before tucking it into his holster. Until they can break cover, neither of them will be able to have their rifles on them.
Djarin arrives in the hold next. He's looking the most 'Mando-like' that Migs has seen him since they'd commandeered him from the chop yard. Djarin is wearing the black flight suit and padding that is clearly meant to go under his armor. Dull patches of exposed wiring create afterimages of where his beskar ought to be. Migs has never realized just how mechanized and high-tech Djarin's armor evidently is. Djarin looks taller when he's not swimming in Fett's clothes. His ragged black cape swishes around his calves. It's a slightly strange look – somewhere between the warrior Migs had once double crossed and the man he's gotten to know in the last few weeks.
"I hate this. A lot," announces Squib. He's put on all of his trooper armor except the helmet which is tucked under his arm.
R4 chirps at him.
"Of course, I know we need access to the terminal," Squib grumbles in response. "No need to be hurtful about it."
"Everybody ready?" asks Dune, looking unfairly comfortable in her normal shock trooper armor. She grimaces when she looks at Migs and Shand. "That's just creepy."
"No argument here," mutters Migs, ruthlessly crushing the urge to tug at his unpleasantly tight collar. He glances longingly at where his rifle is sitting propped next the Shand's rifle and Djarin's spear. He's got the blaster pistol at his side as well as a vibroblade tucked down one shiny boot, but he still feels naked. He desperately misses his old five-blaster rig.
"R4 and I have recoded the transponder beacon and the ping code. This will read as one of Moff Kreeson's shuttles now." Squib absently buffs some non-existent smudge off R4's dome with his thumb. Kreeson is one of Vallin Hess' superiors. Migs had been very disappointed to find out that he's still alive.
"Good." Dune tosses Djarin a pair of binders. "Locking mechanism is thoroughly wrecked. You couldn't clasp them even if you wanted to."
Djarin gives the busted lock a try for himself before nodding.
"Thanks."
"That everything?" asks Migs.
"Looks like," Dune nods.
"Dropping out of hyperspace in ten!" calls Fett from the cockpit. "Get up here, Mayfeld!"
Migs takes a deep breath and then lets it out slowly. If he survives this, he's going to be really fucking surprised.
The light-cruiser looms large in front of the shuttle.
"Unknown shuttle, identify yourself and state your purpose." The crackling voice is stiff with dispassionate formality.
Imperial officers enunciate and don't swear, Migs reminds himself as he reaches for the comm to respond to the cruiser's hail.
"This is Shuttle Ferrelli, requesting aid. We are in need of critical repairs and the temporary use of your brig."
"Shuttle Ferrelli, please send your authorization codes and stand by."
Migs' heart is slamming in his ears. If something goes wrong at this point in the plan, there's no work around – they're just straight up fucked. He nods to Squib, who presses the appropriate buttons on the consul.
"Shuttle Ferrelli, standing by."
The data stick of information Djarin pulled back on Morak hadn't just included the location and specs of Gideon's light-cruiser – R4 had found authorization codes in the data dump as well. The problem is that they have no way of knowing how old any of the codes are. If they don't check out, the light-cruiser might just choose to blow them into space dust, and this shuttle has shit shields. Fett's ship with its lovely guns is stashed back on Tatooine with some mechanic that Djarin had vouched for. They're sitting mynocks out here.
Time seems to stretch on endlessly as Migs stares at the light-cruiser's turret guns, waiting for them to power up. This is taking too long. They aren't buying-
"Shuttle Ferrelli, you are clear to land. What is the damage to your craft?"
"Our power core is fluctuating and creating system feedback. We've had to hyperhop for the last three systems," Migs lies dutifully. Imperial shuttles are notorious for core flux. Migs' buddy, Georgie, used to bitch about it all the time. Fuck. Don't think about Georgie.
"Acknowledged. A repair team will meet you in the hanger bay when you land."
"Thank you, Control." Migs disconnects the comm and wheezes out a breath. Well, they're not dead, yet.
Squib is giving him a sideways look that Migs can't read, so he chooses to ignore it. As the tractor beam catches their shuttle, Squib engages the last of the autolanding protocols and sits back in his seat.
"You know, you sound surprisingly Imperial when you aren't swearing and slurring your words like a Florran hick."
Migs scowls at him.
"I don't slur." Squib just shrugs in response. He's still giving Migs that indecipherable look. "Put your karking helmet on before we get close enough for someone to see you."
Migs is standing ramrod straight at the top of the ramp as it lowers, trying to channel every arrogant asshole he's ever served under. To his right, Djarin sports his broken binders and a suitably stressed expression, though that probably has more to do with anxiety about rescuing his kid than any successful attempt at acting. There is a reason that Djarin is playing the role of himself in this charade. Shand has Djarin's own blaster shoved into the small of their supposed prisoner's back. Squib is walking escort about a pace back and to the left of Migs with R4 at his side and his shitty Imperial blaster at the ready in his hands. Migs takes a silent breath.
Captain Lars. Lieutenant Fik. Colonel Branton. Colonel Holt. General fucking Veers.
Migs strides down the ramp, chin up, slight scowl firmly in place, trying to project an air of 'I have no problem with shooting unruly subordinates.' He doesn't glance back to make sure that the others are following him, because all of those officers he's channeling just would have assumed that they were. The deck officer is waiting for him a few steps back from the bottom of the ramp. Thank fuck, the man's only a captain – Migs is completely free to pull his non-existent rank on him.
The deck officer salutes him, and isn't that just kriffing weird? Migs squashes the reflex to salute back. The teeny part of his brain that never quite shook his military conditioning is insisting that this man outranks him and he's insulting a superior officer.
"The repair crew will be here momentarily, sir."
Migs gives a single sharp nod, like he isn't stalling while he gets his bearings and his brain isn't screaming an endless loop of ENUNCIATE AND DON'T SWEAR. He gestures at Squib without looking.
"TK-594, contract the prison block and notify them that we will be requiring the use of their point binders for the prisoner."
"Yes, sir!" Out of the corner of his eye, Migs can see Squib walking with easy purpose towards the nearest terminal.
"Point binders?" the deck officer asks and then immediately looks like he regrets saying anything that could be construed as questioning a superior officer.
"He's one of the culprits responsible for the refinery explosion on Morak." The best lies aren't lies, even if Migs is the main reason that that base is now a smoking hole in the ground. Djarin handed him the rifle after all. "Moff Kreeson wants to have a personal word with him." Also true. Kreeson is apparently hopping mad that he's down a secret rhydonium refinery, and while Migs is pissed that the man is even still alive, knowing that he's made him so furious warms Migs' blackened little heart.
Also, Migs should really stop giving details, because this guy is a deck officer, and deck officers aren't supposed to get details from commanders. He really wants to glance over at Squib and R4. Instead he makes note of the location of every officer and trooper he can see in front of him.
"Terrorist," the deck officer mutters, glaring at Djarin.
Hypocrite, Migs thinks while trying to maintain his imperious scowl.
There's a clatter of boots. The promised repair crew has arrived. Damn it. If they board the shuttle to fix the supposedly malfunctioning power core, they're going to find Dune and Fett. Shit. He's going to have to stall. He eyes up the repair crew in desperate search of some 'problem' he can find with them. What? What can he use? There! A few members of the crew are – by the standards of a very picky bastard of an officer – looking rather shabby. Time to be a superior asshole. Migs raises an eyebrow and does his best to put as much sneer into his tone as possible.
"I certainly hope their repair work is better than their ability to follow dress regulations, Captain."
The deck officer grimaces ever so slightly. Oh, this repair crew has definitely gotten into trouble for this before.
"I assure you, sir, they are incredibly competent."
Migs opens his mouth-
The dry wail of a klaxon cuts him off, and blast doors abruptly start slamming shut. That's their cue. Migs pulls his blaster and shoots the deck officer before the man has time to do more than blink in shock. Djarin's useless binders clatter to the ground as Shand hands his blaster off to him. By the time Fett and Dune arrive with the rest of their arsenal, the three of them have made short work of the hanger crew.
Dune tosses Migs his rifle and an extra blaster. Migs slings the rifle strap over his shoulder with a sigh of relief and clicks the safety off on the second blaster. Fett hands off Djarin's spear and Shand's rifle. Dune has the canvas duffle thrown over her shoulder.
"I've got good news and bad news," Squib calls from his terminal. "Good news is I now basically own this ship, and the minions are in chaos. Bad news is Gideon might be on to us. R4 can't find him on any of the security holos. And they've got dark trooper droids."
"They've got what?" Dune demands.
"Big scary murder-droids that make B2s look like a kriffing joke. They just got initialized. I can stall them, but I can't shut them down completely from here, so you're going to have to be quick." Squib pulls up a floor plan on the screen. "The armor's in Gideon's personal quarters, so, Shand, Dune, you're going to have to run. It's at the opposite end of the ship."
"Got it," Dune nods sharply. She offers Shand a gleaming knife of a smile. "I wouldn't be surprised if we find Gideon there, too."
Shand looks the closest to pleased that Migs has ever seen her. It's very terrifying.
"Mayfeld, Djarin, we were right – the kid's in the brig, Cell 4A. Everybody got that?" Squib waits for their acknowledgement and then keys a sequence into the terminal. "Then hop to it, shinies!" Two different blast doors slide open, and Fett takes up his guard position.
Migs and Djarin dash for the brig, blasters at the ready.
They're almost to the prison block when one of Migs' blaster pistols starts trilling a low charge tone. He swears, tucks it into his holster, and pauses to grab a blaster off of a downed Stormtrooper. He and Djarin have only taken out about a dozen Imperials so far. The blaster must have a faulty power pack.
The prison block appears to be abandoned when they arrive which suits Migs just fine. The cells are a dead end, so Migs covers Djarin's back while the other man runs ahead. Migs hears a beep, the swish of a cell door, a sharp hiss of breath-
-and a deep, throbbing hum that definitely does not belong.
"Put down the blaster," says an unfamiliar voice.
Fuck.
So much for Dune's guess that Gideon would be with the armor.
Migs is just turning to insert himself into what sounds unpleasantly like a hostage situation when movement catches the corner of his eye. He spins back around. Apparently an officer had hidden himself behind the cell block consul in a fit of self-preservation. He has a blaster in his shaking hand. The officer and Migs fire at each other at the exact same time. The officer crumples to the floor, dead, but his shot passes so close to Migs' right side that it scorches his clothes, and Migs can feel the heat. That was too kriffing close.
Migs edges his way back to the open cell.
"-and right now they're reaching the bridge. Only I'm not there." The smug, superior tone just has be Gideon. He's monologuing from the sounds of it, though why he thinks they're trying to take the bridge, Migs has no idea. Now Gideon's going off about how he knows about them working with someone called Bo-Katan, who wants something called 'the darksaber,' and how he knows about their meeting on Trask, and Migs is so lost. What in the hells is this guy talking about? "Though I must give you credit for convincing Bo-Katan and her little Nite Owls to hire a slicer. That's uncharacteristically intelligent for one of their plans. It was almost good enough."
"I don't care about the darksaber or taking the ship – I'm just here for the kid." Djarin sounds like he's trying to placate a wild animal. "That's it."
Migs peers carefully around the edge of the cell door. Djarin has his hands in the air. His blaster is lying on the floor by Gideon's feet. A familiar green child is sitting on the ledge against the far back wall wearing the tiniest pair of glowing binders Migs has ever seen. Who the fuck makes baby-sized binders? Why?! Gideon stands over the kid, holding some sort of sword above the kid's head. The sword is a soulless black void edged with crackling white, and it thrums ominously. This is not really the appropriate moment, but Migs wants one. He doesn't know shit about using a sword, but he wants one so badly. It is so karking gorgeous. No wonder this Bo-Katan person is after it.
Gideon glances ever so briefly at Migs and then shrugs with a bored expression.
"Then take him. He's of no further use to me. I already have what I wanted from him – his blood." Gideon and Djarin are edging around each other, slowly trading positions. Djarin is clearly starting to get tunnel vision, losing track of his surroundings the closer to his kid he gets. "He is a very special child." Gideon is close to the door now. Djarin's attention is solely on his kid. Gideon glances at Migs. "Shoot them both."
Migs blinks. Wha-? Oh. He's wearing an Imperial uniform with a Stormtrooper blaster in his visible hand. Gideon has no karking clue who Migs is. He thinks Migs is just another one of his faceless underlings. Migs lifts his blaster and fires almost without aiming, because that's all he has time for – he hesitated too long and Gideon is already starting to raise that wickedly beautiful saber. The blaster bolt goes wide of his mark and only slags a spot on the armor of Gideon's shoulder. Moffs get all the good stuff – trooper armor would never have held up like that. Damn Dune for needing Gideon alive and thus nixing a head shots. It buys Migs just enough time to dive out of reach of the darksaber, though.
And it's a good thing that he does, because the saber slashes into the wall where Migs had been standing like it's made of kriffing bantha butter. Has Migs mentioned that he wants one?
Gideon looks pissed as hell, and Migs is so busy dodging the death blade that his shots are going wild. Migs does not like his odds of survival. Thankfully, Djarin chooses that moment to lunge out of the cell spear in hand.
Well, ten out of ten for the dramatic entrance but given that Gideon's darksaber can cut through kriffing walls, Migs doesn't think-
Huh. Okay, apparently Djarin's spear is darksaber-proof.
Migs really wants one of those, too.
"Get the kid!" Djarin shouts. Oh, right – priorities. They're on a time limit.
Migs darts back into the cell.
The kid is sitting up and watching him warily, tiny binders still in place. How can something so green and wrinkly with such massive ears be so karking cute? It's unnatural. Migs takes a step closer. The kid shrinks back slightly. Shit. Migs remembers little claws and tiny pointy teeth from the last time he ran into the kid. He does not want to get mauled by a frightened, predatory toddler. He tucks his baster pistol into the back of his belt. Then he crouches down and sets the trooper blaster down on the floor.
"Hey, kid," Migs starts babbling. "I know last time we met I accidentally dropped you and implied that you might be related to Xi'an, which was really fuckin' rude of me, and I shouldn't have done. I'm not even sure that Xi'an's brother was all that interested in being related to Xi'an, so I understand why you might be holding a grudge." The kid tilts his head, his big ears exaggerating the movement. "But I swear, I'm here with your dad, and if I drop you again, he will kriffing shoot me and leave me for dead, so there will be no dropping today – accidental or otherwise." Migs shuffles closer. "I'm going to get these binders off of you – please don't bite me." The kid's ears perk up, and he holds out his little hands with a quiet chirp. "Yeah, that's right – let's get these off. Who the fuck needs to put babies in binders anyway?" Migs mutters to himself. The binders unlock easily, and Migs picks the kid up. "Maker, you're small." He tucks the kid into the crook of his left arm and picks up the trooper blaster and then Djarin's abandoned blaster for good measure. "Let's go give that karking Moff what for, huh?"
"Patoo!"
"I'm gonna take that as a yes."
The hilt of the darksaber goes skidding by the cell door as Migs and the kid leave, and Migs stops it with his foot. Gideon is lying on his back on the floor, the point of Djarin's spear at his throat. Djarin is slightly scorched around the edges, and there's a gash on his upper left arm, but it doesn't look too serious. Between the shining spear and the cape and the slightly murderous expression, Djarin looks like some sort of avenger from Corellian mythology. While Migs personally would have no issue with Djarin gutting Gideon like a fish, Dune had been very specific about needing Gideon alive, and Dune is not someone Migs wants to piss off. They're also in a hurry, and Migs just knows that they won't be able to convince the Moff to run even at blaster point. So Migs does the practical thing – he adjusts the settings on the trooper blaster with his thumb and stuns the man. Possibly at a higher setting than recommended.
Gideon collapses the rest of the way to the floor, and Djarin's head jerks up in surprise.
"Here's your kid." Migs hands over the now cooing child as Djarin sheathes his spear. Migs pretends that he doesn't notice the way Djarin's hands are shaking ever so slightly. "Here's your blaster." Djarin accepts the blaster without looking. He's got the kid pressed against his forehead, and little green hands are patting his face. Migs bends over and picks up the hilt of the darksaber, holding it out to Djarin. "And here's your souvenir." This time Djarin ignores him. Migs rolls his eyes and wiggles the hilt at him. "Take the damn thing, or I'm keeping it." Djarin finally accepts the darksaber and clips it onto his belt. "Now let's get the hells out of here. I'll take Gideon. You two can finish your touching family reunion on the ship."
This finally shakes Djarin out of his I've-got-my-kid-back stupor and back into action. He settles the kid into the crook of one arm and pulls out his commlink.
"Squib, we've got Gideon and the kid. Heading back to you now."
"Took you kriffing long enough! Hurry up! I've resorted to letting R4 flirt with the dark troopers, and her complimenting the coding of their optical sensors isn't going to confuse them for very long!"
Migs hauls Gideon's deadweight over his shoulder and hisses when his side protests.
"You good?" asks Djarin.
"Yup."
They run for it.
Migs' knees are feeling distinctly wobbly and his side is very unhappy with him by the time they make it back to the hanger. He's getting too old for this shit.
"Come on, come on – let's go!" shouts Squib from the shuttle ramp. "Everybody else is already onboard! T minus five and counting!"
Migs is wheezing and feeling rather dizzy by the top of the ramp. He gratefully allows Dune to take Gideon. The ramp closes with a shunk.
"Get us out of here, Fett!" Dune shouts.
"We've got five until the dark troopers deploy?" asks Djarin.
"Huh?" Squib looks confused. "Oh. Well, yeah, that, too, but I also set the engines to overload while R4 was busy flirting, so we really want to be out of range before that happens."
"What?!"
"Like I was going to let any Imperials keep a whole light-cruiser when I could turn it into lovely little light-cruiser chunks instead," Squib says with almost deranged cheer.
The shuttle jolts slightly as it takes off, and everyone hurries to strap in. Migs snaps his harness together and shuts his eyes. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off he's so tired. Maker, why are these fucking shuttles all so cold?
The shuttle weaves and bucks as Fett and Shand push its sublight engines to their limits. Around them metal rattles and mechanics shudder and whine. There's one final lurch before everything quiets to the familiar hum of a ship in hyperspace.
Migs reluctantly opens his eyes.
"You're a crazy son of a mudscuffer, you know that?" Dune tells Squib, though she sounds far too amused about it.
Squib just beams.
"You know, my commander used to say something similar. But like they say – once a demolitions expert, always a demolitions expert."
"I thought you were a slicer."
"Eh. I decided to diversify into slicing once I went freelance," Squib shrugs.
"Riveting as this conversation is," Migs unbuckles his harness, "I dunno about the rest of you, but I'm ready to get out of this kriffing unifo-" Migs' knees buckle when he tries to stand. He hits the floor hard.
"Mayfeld? Dank farrik! Why didn't you say you were shot?!" demands… someone. Voices are sounding blurry. Migs thinks it might have been Dune. Or maybe it was Djarin.
"Was just a graze," Migs mumbles, trying to focus and figure out what's going on. That officer must have gotten him better than he thought and picking up Gideon would have cracked open the cauterization. Huh. Migs should probably be more upset about this, but he's too tired. Probably the blood loss. Someone rolls him onto his back with surprising gentleness.
"Grab the medkit. I'll apply pressure. Hey. Eyes on me, Mayfeld."
Migs isn't sure when he closed his eyes again, but opening them is difficult. Djarin is leaning over him, looking upset. It's been a long time since somebody last gave a damn whether Migs lived or died. Probably not since Burnin Konn. It's sort of nice.
"Ya know, I had a feeling this plan was gonna get me killed." Migs gasps in pain as Djarin starts applying pressure.
"You're not going to die," Djarin snaps.
"Nice of ya to say so." A small green face appears in Migs' line of vision. The kid's massive ears are drooping. Well, if he's gotta die, at least he's going out for a better reason than just a pay check. "Think of it this way, 'least you won't have to… detour back to the chop yard now."
"Crazy son of a- We were letting you off when we got back to Tatooine!"
"Huh?" Migs frowns blearily.
"Cara already filed the datawork for your supposed death in the refinery explosion on Morak."
Migs considers this as his vision begins to gray around the edges.
"Tha's a hell of an upgrade… from a better view," he decides. His eyes are sliding shut again, and he can't stop them.
"Mayfeld. Mayfeld! Stay with me!"
Migs feels a tiny, three fingered hand press against his cheek.
Then the darkness pulls him down, and everything is black.
Migs wakes up to massive, dark eyes staring at him from only a hand width away from his nose.
"Batu-da!" babbles the kid happily. Djarin's kid is apparently sitting on his chest.
Migs blinks.
"The fuck?" he mumbles, because last he checked Imperial shuttles did not carry enough bacta to deal with major blood loss. He should really be dead or, at the very least, in a lot more pain. This isn't a complaint – just an observation. Migs aches, and he feels exhausted right down to his bones, but he isn't feeling that hot throbbing that usually comes with a fresh blaster wound. There's a bit of throbbing in his side but not enough. Migs shifts to try and sit up, but a hand on his shoulder stops him.
"Stay still – you'll mess up all the kid's hard work."
Migs turns his head.
Djarin is leaning over him dressed in full beskar once more except for his helmet. Migs frowns blearily at him.
"Please tell me that we did not just go through that whole crazy fucking ordeal just for you to stop wearing the helmet. How are you plannin' on getting any bounty hunting done, huh? You have no sabacc face."
Djarin looks like he's trying not to laugh, and Migs realizes that it's the first time he's seen Djarin smile. It's a good look on him.
"I'm still figuring out what it means to find a new Way. The helmet isn't staying off permanently."
"Good. Wait." What Djarin had said earlier finally registers. "Whaddya mean 'all the kid's hard work?'"
"Grogu partially healed you, but he didn't have enough energy to completely seal the wound."
The kid still sitting on Migs' chest coos.
"He what?!" Migs yelps. He gapes at the tiny green critter. "Kriff, no wonder a Moff was desperate to get his hands on you."
"He can also move things and strangle people without touching them," adds Dune, whom Migs hadn't noticed until now. It looks like they're still on the shuttle. Squib sits next to her.
"What the kriff were they trying to do? Create a more adorable version of Vader?" Migs demands. He had had the dubious pleasure of watching Vader throttle one of his commanding officers once. It wasn't like the incompetent mudscuffer hadn't deserved it, but it had left an impression. Migs had been profoundly grateful to never be stationed in the same quadrant as Vader ever again.
"Vader?" Djarin looks confused.
"Dear kriffing maker, please tell me you know who Darth Vader is. Was," Migs corrects himself.
"He doesn't," Dune interjects before Djarin can respond. "He literally grew up under a rock."
Djarin huffs an annoyed sigh.
"Nobody pays attention to politics on the Outer Rim."
"I'm surprised you even noticed the Empire fell," Dune teases.
Djarin scowls at her.
Migs refocuses on the kid on his chest as the two continue to bicker good-naturedly. The kid has nested himself in the apparent laundry pile that has been dumped on Migs to keep him warm in lieu of a proper blanket. It appears to contain Shand's Imperial uniform, Squib's Stormtrooper blacks, and Djarin's much-abused cape. Oh, hey, evidently somebody had stolen Gideon's cape and added it to the pile, too. Nice.
The kid wiggles his ears up and down and grins at Migs. He doesn't look like he ought to be able to strangle people with his karking mind, but Migs has to admit, that is one kriffing useful life skill to have. Migs is also choosing to believe that the healing is a sign that the kid isn't holding a grudge about their inauspicious first meeting. He lifts a too heavy arm and wriggles a finger at the kid. The kid latches onto the finger and inspects it like it's a new blaster that he's considering purchasing.
The conversation has shifted from needling Djarin about his phenomenally single-minded focus on bounty hunting to discussing what happens now.
"You're always welcome on Nevarro," Dune tells Djarin.
"I think I'm going to stick around Tatooine for a while. With Gideon gone, the kid could really use some down time, and Fett's offered me some work. It's going to take a while to scrape together enough credits for a new ship."
"Think you're going to be hiring any crew when you get that new ship?" Migs asks without thinking, still focused on the kid, who has moved on from Migs' index finger to a full hand inspection. He seems to find Migs' blaster callouses particularly interesting. He glances up when he realizes that the compartment has gone silent. Djarin looks thoughtful. Dune and Squib are wearing matching obnoxious smirks. Migs valiantly ignores them both.
"You offering?" Djarin asks.
Migs gives a small shrug.
"I'd make a shit moisture farmer. 'Sides, there's never a dull moment when you're around, Buckethead."
Djarin grimaces, and the kid giggles.
"I think I preferred Brown Eyes," he mutters. Migs offers him a toothy grin which is probably not the best way to get himself hired but oh well. Djarin hesitates for a long moment and then holds out a hand. "You might as well call me Din if we're going to keep working together, Mayfeld."
Migs' grin widens into something much more genuine than usual, and he carefully pries his hand away from the kid to shake Din's hand.
"Call me Migs, Brown Eyes."
Epilogue: Jabba's Fett's Palace, One Week Later
Migs is sprawled across a glorious pile of cushions. Apparently around midafternoon, at the twin suns' peak heat, almost everything on Tatooine grinds to a halt while everyone lays down for a couple hours. It is the best fucking thing ever. Din is propped up on a low backed couch-thing with his legs stretched out in full armor – helmet included. Migs hasn't figured out the pattern of when the helmet is and isn't worn. Possibly there isn't one, yet. Unless there are strangers around – then the helmet goes on and stays on. Grogu is perched on Din's thigh, entertaining himself by smudging tiny, three-fingered handprints all over Din's shiny beskar.
Migs has been trying to teach Din the fine art of lying back and doing fuckall, because he's starting to suspect that the man swore off relaxation at the same time he took the Mandalorian Creed. Din has not been a very good student in this respect, but at least he's finally sitting down. Sitting down and performing kriffing unnecessary blaster maintenance but close enough.
It's been a long week of recovering from injuries, shooting people, and looking intimidating while Fett cements his foothold on Tatooine. Fett's got big plans.
"I think there might have been some sort of misunderstanding." Migs practically levitates at the unexpected and unfamiliar voice and yanks his blaster out from where he'd stashed it under a cushion to level it at the intruder. Din's on his feet as well with Grogu tucked protectively behind him, darksaber in hand and flamethrower primed since his blaster is currently in pieces. There's an apologetic looking blond standing in the doorway dressed all in black. Who the fuck wears all black on Tatooine? Blondie's face looks familiar, but Migs can't quite place it. Blondie raises his hands placatingly. "I was under the impression that I was here to rescue someone named Grogu, but I'm starting to get the impression that that's not the case? Or, at least, not anymore?"
Migs has no idea what the fuck to do with this, and Din doesn't seem to be doing any better.
"Yeah. You missed that party," Migs tells Blondie.
"Ah. Well, in any case, Grogu told me that he was in need of a teacher?"
What the kark? Din tilts his head to one side.
"Are… you a Jedi?"
What?
Blondie looks a little more relaxed now.
"Yes. My name's Luke Skywalker."
Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, there's a hero of the New Republic standing in one of Fett's parlors.
"Patoo?" Grogu sticks his head out from behind Din.
Skywalker crouches down and smiles softly at him.
"Hello, Grogu. It looks like things have changed a bit since we last talked. Are you still ready to train with me?" Grogu tilts his head to one side and then the other as he and Skywalker stare at each other. After a long, long moment, Skywalker nods. "I think that might be for the best." He stands. "When the time is right, I'll train him, but until then I think it's best that he stays with his father."
"Who-?" Din starts, and Migs rolls his eyes with a groan.
"He means you, ya kriffing moron." Honestly.
Skywalker looks far too amused by this exchange. He holds out a piece of flimsi.
"I can give you some exercises to practice with Grogu to work on his control until he's ready for something more formal, and please feel free to contact me if you run into any more problems or have any que-" Skywalker pauses and blinks at the hilt of the darksaber in Din's hands. "Is that a lightsaber?"
Before Din can respond, Shand's voice calls over the comm system,
"Djarin, Mayfeld, get up here. One of the scouts found an X-Wing parked two clicks from the palace walls, and Boba thinks we might be getting company."
Skywalker frowns.
"Did she mean Boba Fett?"
Migs and Din glance at each other.
"Yes?"
"But he got eaten by a sarlacc."
"Yeah, and then he got un-eaten by a sarlacc," Migs shrugs. "He's still pretty touchy about it."
"Ah." Skywalker considers this. "Then me potentially offering you lightsaber lessons might cause some problems."
"Lightsaber lessons?" For a man in full armor, Din manages to look remarkably confused.
"Only if you're interested."
Din's a Mandalorian. It's a weapon. Of course he's going to be interested. Migs wonders if Skywalker and Fett in the same room will be anything like the kriffing grease fire that is Squib and Fett in the same room. It's probably going to be a fucking disaster.
Well, Migs signed on to this crazy crew, because he didn't want to be bored. It doesn't look like his life is about to get boring any time soon.
Migs grins.
Fine by him.