Author's Note
That was some crazy year, wasn't it? Personally, things have been difficult. As a writer, even more so. I have half a dozen stories started in just as many fandoms but I haven't found the motivation to finish any of them enough to start posting. My muse feels just as somber as the rest of the world right now. So I decided to change tactics. Or reuse a tactic, I guess I should say.
This fic will be a collection of one-shots set in the same universe and centered around the same character, like how I wrote Hold My Heart. I'll try to keep the chapters in chronological order. Some of the chapters will also be direct continuations of each other and will be labeled as such, like how this chapter has a "Pt. 1" in the title.
The main character of this tale is an OC of mine. She's joining Mando and the child on the Razor Crest between seasons 1 and 2 of the show. I started writing this fic when season 2 had just started airing, before Mando got the lead on Ashoka. And then with the ending that happened, well, let's just say that I don't like that Grogu had to leave. So, in part, this will be a fix-it of sorts. Though that's definitely not all that will happen in this tale. We'll explore my OC's background, watch as her relationships grow with Mando and the child (who will start using their real names at some point), we'll get to Mando/OC eventually, and we'll have a lot of fluff and misadventures.
By making this a one-shot collection instead of a fluid story with an overreaching plot, I'm hoping to make this easier for me to write and get me out of my writing slump. Where the ending will be, I'm not sure. But I hope it's not for a while because I'm looking forward to having a lot of fun here. I'm not giving myself a set posting schedule, though, so I'm afraid you'll just have to wait to be surprised with chapters at random times.
A little background on my knowledge of the Star Wars universe. I have only seen the movies (Episodes 1-9) and The Mandalorian show. I have not watched any of the cartoons and I haven't read any of the books. When I'm unsure of something, I research it. Like the Mandalorian culture, which has been really interesting and fun to learn more of, by the way. But when research doesn't cut it, I will then make stuff up. I'll try to do my best to keep things true to the universe, but keep this in mind.
Speaking of Mandalorian culture, I've had fun with the language, Mando'a, and will use it throughout this fic. I try to explain the meanings of the words within the context of what's going on but there will also be translations of the words used at the bottoms of the chapters they appear in.
Now, if you're new to my writing, I have a tradition of sorts. I always post two chapters on the first day. However, the beginning of this story is mostly connected instead of separate one-shots because of working to get my OC on the ship and settled down. It...took me a while and my muse refused to let me fall into the true one-shot pattern until my OC got on board. It doesn't happen by the end of the first section, Setting the Course, and the first section is four parts long. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I'm going to post the entirety of the first section today. It might take me a bit to do but you are going to get four chapters by the end of today. So make sure you keep a lookout.
Alright, my friends, new and old, you better strap in as we start on our new adventure. Go onward and enjoy!
Setting the Course Pt. 1
The edge of the metal hatch digs into her stomach as she leans forward to reach the fritzing compression coil. One small part stops working and an entire ship ten times bigger than her meager apartment becomes completely inoperable. Not even life support will boot up. She twists her body to the right for a better angle to slip her wrench through the engine parts. The tool flops in her hand a few times. She lifts up on her tiptoes, reaching further before managing to catch the coupling. After a few strained twists, tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth in concentration, she gets the coil unscrewed and tosses the whole thing out over her shoulder.
She slips the new one out of the pocket of her coveralls, small hands working meticulously to reattach the machinery. She designed and fabricated this compression coil herself. The Rodian who owns this ship doesn't know that. Best not to let him know, either. People get twitchy when they find out she likes to make parts herself instead of ordering them in. Doesn't matter that hers always work better and more efficiently than anything the ship companies put out on the market.
Some people only like to hear "made from scratch" when it comes to baked goods.
With one last twist of the wrench, she falls flat on her feet again and straightens. Closing the access panel with a sharp bang, she calls out, "Alright, Jabi'ri, start her up!"
Her boss—a Sullustan with large black eyes, light green skin, and standing just a touch taller than her despite being only four foot eight himself—flicks the switches in the cockpit to bring the engine to life. It starts right up with a healthy hum, making her smile in satisfaction as the ship owner standing behind her lets out a bark of pleasant surprise.
"Mahin, you sly dog!" Jabi'ri calls out in Basic with a deep laugh, climbing down the ship's ramp with arms spread out. "You did it again."
"I'm honestly surprised she did," the Rodian says shrewdly. Mahin didn't catch his name, just listened long enough to hear the details on what was wrong with his ship and then marched through the shipyard to get to work. "And in such short time."
Mahin rolls her eyes, wiping her greasy hands on the outside of her already greasy coveralls. Black splotches cover the faded green fabric so it spreads the mess around more than actually make her clean. But whatever, Jabi'ri hired her as a mechanic, not to stand around and look pretty.
He especially doesn't pay her to stand around, actually, so Mahin turns on her heel and starts to walk away, "Just pay the shipmaster and you can be on your way. I'll collect my cut later, Jabi'ri. And if you try to skimp me credits again, I'll sabotage your speeder so it melts into a pile of slag the next time you decide to go racing."
"Aww, come now, Mahin," Jabi'ri jokes with a hint of wariness tightening his voice. "I wouldn't do that to my best mechanic."
Yeah, try saying that to her light pockets. She barely bites back from actually saying the retort. She needs this job, not just for herself. She wouldn't put it past Jabi'ri to throw even her to the curb for the wrong smart-mouthed remark, his best mechanic or not. She probably won't even follow through on her threat. Still, he knows very well she can and so she lets her silence make him fidget on his feet as she pushes through the crowded port to her next job.
Three more ships sit in the section of spaceport under her responsibility. Two just need tune-ups, both easily completed in an hour. The third lists to one side with faulty landing gear. She squints at the top of the hull near the glass of the cockpit. It also looks like a missing primary buffer panel. How did this thing even make it through the atmosphere without burning up?
She sighs deeply, rolling up the sleeves of her coveralls and calling for a droid to prep the hoist.
Dozens of people of different species and shapes and colors putter around the spaceport of Ulta-7 while she works, all of their varying languages drifting over her as soft as the gentle sea breeze coming in from the ocean just a few miles away. Her mind automatically filters it out, focus singling in on her task. She sees ten steps ahead, puzzling out the problem with the landing gear and compiling a list of steps needed to correct them as easily as if she were simply planning out the steps needed to get dressed for the day.
Machinery comes easy to her. Always has. As if it's alive and tells her exactly what's wrong. Well, without the being crazy and actually hearing voices part. But she has an innate knack for figuring out the problem and finding a solution, never coming across a problem she can't fix.
Even if fixing it means taking it apart and making something better, she thinks wryly as she fabricates a new buffer panel in the shipyard's workshop, the sound of grinding metal like music that she hums along to.
Sweat trickles down her face, wayward strands of fiery red hair drifting around her head that fell out of her messy bun. She finishes the panel just as the sun begins to set and returns to the ship to attach it. It's a relief when she finally secures it in place. No more ships have entered her side of the port in the past several hours. Meaning she can go collect her share of the day's pay and leave for the day.
The booming hum of an approaching spacecraft makes her look up into the burnt orange sky. A ship comes in for a landing in her sector, metal groaning as the ship settles on the landing pad. She sits cross-legged on the ship she just finished, examining the new arrival from afar. Pre-Empire gunship, Razor Crest class. Mahin didn't even know any were still around. She's even more surprised that it's still functional.
The ship is beautiful, in an unconventional sense. She likes the design, similar to a Firefly with the engines extended from either side of the ship, but it's smaller and more rounded. It also looks old and ragged and singed. Definitely more than a little beat up around the edges. But she gets the sense that the signs of damage aren't from neglect, but because the ship is well lived-in. Loved, even.
That's the only way a ship that old could still work after all this time—a pilot who loves it.
The rear ramp of the Razor Crest lowers and a figure exits with an odd shine to him that causes her to squint against the brightness. The person practically glows in the light of the setting sun. He—or perhaps she, the glare makes it impossible to tell from here—must be wearing some kind of body armor. That, along with the gunship, makes her think mercenary or bounty hunter. They certainly get a lot of those out here in the Outer Rim. A lot of unscrupulous characters use Ulta-7 as a pitstop or hideaway since so many different people and species live here. Easy to blend in or hide or find some obscure supplies that can't be found in most systems.
"Hopefully whatever trouble you're looking for stays far away from me," she grumbles to herself, watching as Jabi'ri approaches the newcomer to arrange the ship's stay. They talk for a few minutes before Jabi'ri turns around, eyes scanning the shipyard before spotting her on top of her ship two spots down. He waves at her and she holds back a groan.
Looks like it's not quitting time yet.
Knowing better than to keep Jabi'ri waiting, Mahin slides down from the ship and briskly weaves through the crowd that finally starts to thin with the setting sun. Despite her haste to make Jabi'ri happy, her feet slow of their own accord when the new arrival comes into view.
A Mandalorian, wearing beskar so shiny and new he must have had the armor forged all at once. Recently, too. It holds hardly a scratch yet. With the blaster at his hip and the amban rifle slung over one shoulder, he presents a formidable and intimidating force. Like a personification of death and grace that not even an entire Imperial regiment can touch.
Her eyes widen, scanning him from head to toe in appreciation. Deadly and beauty often go hand in hand in her mind and this Mandalorian is no exception.
"Ah, Mahin!" Jabi'ri greets jovially when she finally shuffles up to them, his shifting black eyes and quiver to his voice betraying how nervous the Mandalorian truly makes him. "Just the girl for the job."
"What's up?" she asks her boss, shaking off her nervousness a lot more easily. Despite the emotionless helmet and the way he stands as stiffly as a droid, she knows a real person—most likely human—exists under that armor. A man not so different than herself. He simply lives by a different set of rules and customs and believes—a different Creed—than her. But that doesn't automatically make him someone to be feared.
People often forget that. But she's learned in the past year that Mandalorians aren't all about violence and battle.
"There's something wrong with the Mandalorian's ship," Jabi'ri replies, waving at the armored man. "Go on, tell her."
His eyes remain hidden behind his helmet, not even the shine of an iris peeking through the shaded T-visor, but she can tell the Mandalorian studies her by the tilt of his head. She lifts her chin defiantly, expecting some condescending remark about her height, her gender, her qualifications, or all three. "The engine has been making an odd noise the last few times I started her up," he says instead, smooth voice coming out slightly staticky through the modulator of his helmet, "followed by jerky sputtering. Then everything goes fine, but I'm worried it's the precursor to something worse."
"And you don't want to end up stranded out in the Black when that something worse happens." She turns her thoughtful gaze up at the Razor Crest, ideas already percolating in her head. "What kind of odd noise? Describe it to me."
"Squealing."
"High-pitched or low-pitched?"
"High."
"Any smoke when the ship sputters?"
"No, but I can feel it vibrating throughout the whole ship, almost like I got hit with something."
"Can you tell where it originates from? Back of the ship, center, an engine?"
He pauses, fully thinking it over for a moment. "An engine, the right one."
She hums in thought, an idea clicking into place. She calls out to a nearby droid, "Go get me a scaffold!"
"No droids," the Mandalorian cuts in darkly, as unmoving as his beskar. His leather gloves creak as his fingers curl into fists.
She lifts a brow at him. What could a droid have done to a Mandalorian to cause that much disdain?
Not her business, she reminds herself hastily, and shrugs it off. "I don't typically use droids, but in case you haven't noticed, I'm fun-sized. I ain't getting where I need to go without a little help."
He huffs. Was that a laugh? She didn't think she'd manage that this soon. A lot of the rumors about Mandalorians are untrue, but their natural stoicism definitely is. They don't like to show their emotions to strangers. He covers it with a cough. "Fine."
The droid scurries off, coming back a few minutes later with a scaffold and her toolbox. She sorts through her kit as the droid sets the scaffold up beneath the right engine, watching the Mandalorian out of the corner of her eye. She notices a rounded container floating in the air beside him. If she didn't know any better, she'd think it was a floating baby pram. Especially with the way the Mandalorian makes sure to stay between the droid and the pram at all times, like he's protecting it.
Nah, has to be some sort of extended weapon storage. If the Mandalorian is a bounty hunter like she suspects, then there's no way he'd cart a child along with him. There'd be no way to juggle all the responsibility, let alone guarantee the child's safety.
Once she tucks the tools she wants into the pockets of her coveralls, she nimbly climbs the rickety scaffold. It shakes a bit, more than what most people would deem safe, but she ignores it. Thing hasn't collapsed on her yet.
The Mandalorian shows a bit of concern, though, staring after her and grasping one of the poles of the scaffold in an attempt to keep it steady.
Reaching the top, she kneels on the platform, pulling out a tool to open the engine's access panel. She then dives in headfirst, literally, methodically searching through the wires and connections for the cause of the problem.
"Ah ha!" she exclaims to herself happily just a few minutes later, switching out for a small wrench. "Just as I thought, the regulator."
A couple of twists and the regulator comes free. She examines it for a few seconds and then tosses it over the side of the scaffold. Jabi'ri lets out a startled squawk while the Mandalorian calls up in confusion, "Uh, doesn't the engine kind of need that?"
"Not really," she informs him, diving back into the machinery to reroute tubing and wires. "It's really a rather useless piece of tech. Don't know why they decided the engine needed it. It just gums everything up until the engine completely shuts down. You're really lucky, actually. Most people don't notice the warning signs because they tend to be so intermittent and then before you know it, the engine completely dies. Then they waste the money on replacing the stupid thing. I can fix it easy without that, though. Just needs a few little tweaks and…done!"
She leans back to secure the access panel in place before climbing down to the ground. The Mandalorian stares down at her, at least a head taller, and she can practically feel his dubious gaze. "You're done?"
"Yep," she chirps with a confident grin, stuffing her hands in her pockets and rocking back on her heels as she meets his gaze through the visor of his helmet. At least, she assumes she meets his gaze. "Go ahead and start her up to be sure, then I can do the same on the other engine. So it won't break on you, too, later on down the road."
He stays silent for a few seconds before nodding decisively. "I believe you. Go ahead and do the other engine. I have some business to take care of in town so can you look over the rest of the ship as well?"
She glances over his shoulder at the rapidly darkening sky, barely holding in a sigh. That's going to take forever. But she can't exactly afford to say no. "Alright."
His head tilts knowingly, like an all-seeing owl seeking mice in the fields. "Unless you have somewhere you need to be."
"She can do it tonight," Jabi'ri chuckles, shooting her a pointed look she knows not to argue with. Doing so means pay cuts and going hungry for a few days.
"No, no," the Mandalorian insists softly, strangely considerate. Not for a Mandalorian, but for a stranger. "I'll be in town for a few days. You took care of the main problem. The rest can wait until morning." He reaches into a pouch attached to his belt, credits clinking together like windchimes. He pulls out a good handful to hold out to Mahin. "Here, for your good work."
She blanches a bit, glancing at Jabi'ri's frown before stuttering, "Y-You pay the shipmaster, not me."
He holds his hand out further. "You're the one who did the work."
Jabi'ri's large black eyes narrow, fists going to his hips. "That's not really how we do things around here, Mandalorian. She'll get her cut later."
"Too bad," the Mandalorian replies bluntly, reaching for her hand and stuffing the credits into it. He shoots Jabi'ri a look tinged with a threat as cold as beskar despite not seeing his eyes. "She keeps the money."
And then he turns, gray cloak flapping behind him as he walks out of the shipyard, floating pram following along soundlessly. Mahin clutches the credits in her hand as she watches him go. It's easily three times as much as what she makes in a week.
She plucks her toolkit off the ground and practically jogs towards the workshop to pack up her things before her gobsmacked boss picks his jaw off the ground. Best not wait around to see if he's stupid enough to try something behind a Mandalorian's back.
Author's Note
Alright, Mahin and Mando have met. If you haven't guessed, Mahin will join the crew as mechanic and caregiver, something I've seen in a couple other fics before and I really wanted the chance to play with myself. However, she does have a bit of a mysterious past. You'll be learning more about that over time.
Also, Firefly will always be my favorite space western and I couldn't help myself by making references.
Alright, next chapter will be up within the next hour probably.
Hope you enjoyed, PLEASE REVIEW, and see you all next time!
