The next morning, I awoke early to the metallic sounds of the Mandalorian moving around the Razor Crest. He was trying his best to be quiet—however, hauling weapons out of the ship was not a gentle process. I turned over on my side, the child wobbling towards me and making space for himself within the warmth of my blanket. I knew I had the option of staying somewhere warm and likely more comfortable within Nevarro, but something inside of me still couldn't settle when I had two feet on the ground here, so I opted for the hard floor of the Mandalorian's ship instead.
I decided I would take the child on a few mindless gigs with me while the Mandalorian was helping Cara with a job—or that's what he told me the previous day, anyway. The corner of my mouth curled subtly when he said this to me. You mean enforcing political, classist bullshit that Cara can't seem to let go of, I thought to myself. Though Nevarro was probably safer than it had been in years, I still paid enough attention to hear folks complaining about the Marshals destroying their camps, marking cobblestone barriers with strings of barbed wire so they couldn't sit or sleep there, and restricting loitering privileges. This left a bad taste in my mouth about Cara and her objective with this new city, her nose high in the sky as she ignored the impoverished issues and catered to the capitalists.
After the Mandalorian left I begrudgingly realized my pockets were emptier than I thought, a few measly credits falling to the floor after I turned them inside out. With the child positioned in the nook of my arm, we ate our breakfast with the last of the money I had left—homemade egg biscuits from a vendor nearby, bits of cheese oozing out—and scanned the advertisements beside the trolley. Months of stacked flyers made flipping through them heinous, but I was able to narrow my search down to either helping folks with moving boxes, assisting elderly with shopping trips, or offering pet walking services. Licking my fingers clean I gathered all three of the flyers and headed off. The morning passed by quickly as I made quick work of these jobs, and people paid handsomely when they noticed the child cooing in the satchel on my back. Their admiration for my motherly instincts, or so they put it, made them tip extra. It felt wrong and it even made me cringe at times, but these credits would help pay for food and water while we were traveling, so I came to terms with it quickly. To add a bit of negligible balance to the situation I bought a few meals for a family I saw huddled nearby, trying my best to restrain the irritation I felt for Cara in that moment.
As we were making our way to help a newlywed couple move boxes into their hut, the hairs on the back of my neck rose, warning me. It was the same sensation I had the previous day. Without panicking, I moved my feet soundlessly and managed to hide behind a fishing crate within an alley. I tucked my hood back to keep the child's face covered and to prevent him from being immediately identified. The follower, a Kubaz, pointed towards where her fob was signaling. Keeping as still as possible, my eyes pierced through the fabric that was lacing the crates, my breathing rapid. Two storm troopers appeared and exchanged words before they leaned in to examine the fob more closely. To my dismay they signaled towards the alley where I crouched and began heading my way.
I swore harshly under my breath. Slithering between various heaps of boxes, I kept my body close to the walls and somehow managed to evade their eyes. I would jiggle the handles as I passed by random doors, wiping accumulating sweat from my forehead and glancing backwards before trying another, and finally was successful with one. The child whimpered when we slide inside, his big ears pulled backwards from the hood I wore. The room was dark and filthy, clouds of dust floating around us from our disturbance. Perhaps this was someone's long forgotten storage filmed with grime due to years of neglect—regardless, the light from the sunshine underneath the stucco walls gave it a slight glow that helped me navigate and allowed me to get my bearings. The town bustled on the other side of an opposing door. I crouched low, slowing my adrenaline, and waited for the storm troopers to follow.
"Stay quiet," I whispered to the kid. He hunkered into the satchel and cooed nervously, his tiny claws gripping the fabric as he braced himself.
Seconds passed. Footsteps stopped outside the door of the storage closet, their shadows momentarily adding a tinge of darkness to the room I was in. The troopers muttered something to one another and after a brief pause, they clumsily kicked the door open. The one who I assumed did the damage looked quite smug, impressed with his own deed. I stayed as motionless as I could. With their guns at the ready, they entered the room, sending plumes of dust suspended in the air between us. They spread out, the two of them scanning between thin spaces where the child could be hiding, and I gleefully realized they weren't expecting me to be here as well. I shifted my weight like a cat ready to pounce. Between the crates I could see one of their silhouette's glide by—the storm trooper oblivious to where I sat, hunting him like a predator.
With the element of surprise on my side, I emerged, kicking my leg swiftly underneath the trooper's knees to knock him off balance. He landed with a grunt and began shooting his blaster aimlessly in an attempt to defend himself. I stood, stomping my foot down and bending a column of earth up and striking him in his back, causing him to cry out in pain. He fell to the dirty floor with a thick thud and scrambled to face his perpetrator, but I was too fast—before he could react, I turned the floor into a hot quicksand, bending the magma from the core of Nevarro up to the surface of the planet's crust. The storm trooper gurgled, his skin melting underneath the flimsy armor, his body charring before his cries were stifled.
I solidified the magma, mummifying the trooper's body. Before his companion saw me, I scurried behind a few more crates in the corner of the hut and watched the other trooper approach, his quick breathing revealing how panicked he was. This gave me a sense of confidence. I followed him and slipped into line behind him, taking each step as he did, waiting patiently. He paused next to his colleague and used his foot to inspect the damage, groaning grotesquely when the dead trooper's limbs crumbled like charred ash. His shoulders were tense, and when he whipped around to face me, his gun was pointed directly in my face. I smiled mockingly into the black lens of his helmet.
I called out and high kicked him in the abdomen, his body flying backwards into a tower of crates. His blaster was shooting beams into the shaded darkness, his aim absolute garbage, causing a maddening amount of noise within the storage hut. Each time he pulled the trigger and a flash of red shot past me, he watched as though in frames as I continued advancing on him, my figure disappearing and the trooper losing visual within the depth of the obscured hut. His blaster clicked, indicating he was out of ammunition, and at his anxious realization that he could no longer see me, he whimpered where he sat. I gripped the earth and pulled his ankles into the ground. He yelped out, clawing at any sort of stability to help him escape—but I pulled him in further, forcing the earth to clench his chest and crack each of his ribs individually before I suffocated him within the sand, joining the demise of his friend.
When I was certain they were through, I caught my breath and made my way around the rest of the boxes. I could still hear the town on the other side of the door, and whatever commotion we had caused in this storage closet hadn't seemed to bother anyone. In fact, it seemed like it was busier than usual. When I peered through a crack and focused on the landmarks outside, I saw the meter signaling it was high noon—the lunch rush. I took a deep breath, grabbed the door handle, and slide out of the storage closet.
I blended into the town center unnoticed. Scanning around me, as far as I could tell, I was momentarily in the clear. I zigzagged through the crowd so as not to have a direct path, staying in the middle of the pack to keep myself as inconspicuous as possible. Luckily, I was not very tall, so I had a small advantage.
"Be vigilant," I warned the kid, my eyes darting between potential threats. He babbled a response in the satchel behind me. I unbuttoned the hood from around my neck, the heat from my anxiety in addition to the hot sun above us making me nauseous. I knew if I could just make it to the city entrance, I had a good chance of running into the Mandalorian, where I could urge him to leave Nevarro immediately. The Kubaz's fob meant that the storm troopers were only the beginning of what was trailing us. We needed to get off this planet.
The crowd moseyed their way down the center of town. I tried to stay calm, but every loud noise had me on the edge of an attack. I felt like the clock was ticking. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a merchant speaking with a storm trooper, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head. I picked up my pace and began shoving people aside when finally, the Razor Crest came into view. I felt a beat of relief at the sight of it and silently prayed that the Mandalorian was nearby, back from whatever mission he was on that morning.
As I was ready to make my way to the ship—I had already scouted out my path, ready to make my move—when three dark troopers mechanically blocked my exit. I hide behind a stucco wall and cursed out loud. I'd only heard rumors—I didn't know these things were actually being manufactured. My chest felt heavy all of a sudden and I attempted to slow my rattled breathing as I peeked around the corner. There were two that I could see, their stature towering over the crowd and sending a surge of fear through any onlookers. I watched them skim the alley, their finger hovering above the trigger of their blaster's. I tried to focus on the metal that was used to create these troopers, but my head started ringing even just inspecting it from this distance. It was unlike anything I'd ever practiced my bending on, similar to the Beskar the Mandalorian wore. As far as I knew, I would be absolutely useless against them. When their upper bodies began turning towards me, I gasped and pressed my back against the alley, feeling as though I was testing my fate. Running out of options, I pushed myself up and began to run down the side alley that led me away from the main street and slipped between other buildings. The child was crying silently in the satchel on my back while I bended walls from the ground beneath me so I couldn't be immediately followed and hoped it would hold them off for a bit.
I turned a corner and saw a cart with a droid delivering weekly inventory for a business nearby. The vendors were chatting amongst themselves, the cart ready to be dismissed from its duty, and I overheard them say they were heading out towards another town. I checked behind me for any lurking eyes and counted down to three, sprinting across the patio and slipping under a wool blanket on the cart. I held my breath for any exclamations from people who may have witnessed my presence and sighed when a few unbothered seconds went by.
With my forearms supporting me, I laid on my stomach and stared out from the blanket. The vendor patted the droid twice on the head and it beeped a few times, twisting its upper body in response. The cart began moving smoothly away, leaving the business and heading out into the desert. I released a monumental sigh while we glided away from the stucco buildings and the droid turned towards the entrance of town. Once the roofs of the town disappeared from my immediate sight, I sat further up on my elbows to assess the situation in Nevarro.
As the cart drifted past the entrance and began its journey towards its destination, I had a good visual of the Razor Crest. It didn't look like the Mandalorian had been by recently. Its ramp was still tightly sealed and there was no sign he was preparing it for takeoff. I clenched my teeth. When my eyes landed back on the bustle of Nevarro, I saw the Kubaz, her fob's blinking now navigating her towards the desert. She turned to retrieve a better signal. It responded rapidly at the cart I was hiding on, just a blip in the distance now. She hollered loudly at the dark troopers. Their joints hissed as they approached her, their red eyes glued to the cart drifting away. The engines within their chests whirred in response.
Meanwhile, the Mandalorian was saying his final goodbye to Cara and Greef in her office nearby. While she spoke, Cara was already sorting through new tickets she needed to address of small-scale issues within Nevarro. Suddenly, the Mandalorian heard an alarmed screech erupt from the main street and instinctively whipped his head around, rushing outside to see a Kubaz waving her hands at something. The Mandalorian watched as several mechanical troopers—could it be?—approached her before processing their new order, their joints hissing with pressurized air before they were lifted off the ground and headed in the direction of the desert. The Mandalorian pressed a button on his helmet to further zoom in on the cart the troopers were headed towards—and there was Quinn, her pale face revealing the horror she felt of her situation with the child on her back, attempting to escape from the troopers.