Notes:
My characterisation of Cara Dune is a deliberate choice. I wanted to create a character who is compassionate, open-minded and accepting of other people—a direct contrast to the actor who shares her face. I condemn every hateful thing the actor has said, and the character of Dune is my rebuttal. I write about what I want to see in the world and I hope a little bit of it can manifest.
Whenever Axe calls her from the cockpit, it's never good news. There is always another leak, break or short to be addressed. Bo-Katan has started to subconsciously dread the sound of her lieutenant's voice—however unfair it may be. How many twigs does it take to break the bantha's back? How many malfunctions does it take to bring down a firespray? She is not eager to find out.
"What is it?" It's getting harder to disguise the weariness in her voice. They are nearing the most vital stage of the operation and all eyes are on her. To be the leader is to be both the weakest and strongest link.
"The dropper wants to see the cockpit, alor."
Dune is up to something; that is the only explanation. "Very well, indulge her curiosity."
"Copy that," Axe replies. "I'll keep the commlink open."
Static and then the dull thud of heavy-duty combat boots. Dune utters a muffled greeting, to which Axe responds crisply: "Do not touch anything."
"Take it easy, bucket-head," the dropper laughs. Her voice grows clearer as she gets closer to the helmet-mic. "It's not like this tin-can could get any more wrecked."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Axe demands hotly. Bo-Katan feels herself bristling on her lieutenant's behalf. If the dropper has criticism for her warriors, she should at least have the guts to say it to her face.
"Look, that came out wrong," Dune amends hurriedly. "You did good, ace. That's what I came here to say. That was some tight flying and shooting. You saved all our Goddamn asses."
There are a good three seconds of complete silence. Bo-Katan has to check the connection hasn't been cut off.
"Thank you," Axe replies stiffly, at length. "You too have honoured yourself in battle, Marshal Dune."
"Just Cara's fine."
"Very well, Marshal Cara."
Axe spoke Basic in an impeccable yet stilted fashion, like someone who had learnt it from a protocol-droid—which he had. Krownest had been an insular planet throughout much of its history. Axe always switches back to Mando'a when speaking to his own people.
The dropper stomps around the cockpit for a bit. "I've never seen a kriffin' ship like this before in my life!" She whistles softly. "See here! The viewport's completely off-center. Do you land this thing on your back or something?"
"Yes," Axe replies with just a hint of smugness.
The stomping stops abruptly. "You're pulling my kriffin' leg!"
"It's the truth."
"Well, damn—and where did you learn to fly Solo , anyway?"
"This is standard training." Axe could not help but preen a little at the comparison to the famous smuggler. "I served in the Krownest Airforce before—" He falters. "—before... the Fall of Mandalore."
"I'm sorry," Dune whispers.
"Spare me your pity, " Axe mutters bitterly. " I was one of the fortunate ones, My family escaped the carnage. Many did not."
"It's not pity," Dune answers, leaning closer into the helmet mic. "Your pain is real. I've fought the Empire. I've seen what they do . We've all suffered under them."
"Nothing compares to what we have been through," Axe snaps, echoing Bo-Katan's own unhappy thoughts. " The Hundred Day Siege, The Night of Tears. You cannot imagine terror, the loss, the bloodshed."
They are both surprised when Dune answers with uncharacteristic melancholy, "I don't need to."
And then the pieces fall together. The tattoo. The old uniform. Why a soldier would chose to wallow in the Outer Rim, so far from home.
There is a leaden pause as Axe arrives at the same grim conclusion. "You are from Alderaan." He said slowly, in a deceptively level voice.
Dune's answer is little more than a whisper "I was."
"Forgive me, Marshal Dune. I did not know—"
"Like I said; it's just Cara," she interrupts him. "You're not alone in this. None of us are. The Empire likes to divide and conquer. They wanna chop us into smaller and smaller pieces and pit us against each other. That's why we gotta stick together, now more than ever."
"You really believe that." Axe murmurs. His tone is difficult to describe.
"I do." Dune replies, steadfast.
"I...cannot help but feel this is a mortal blow," Axe confesses quietly, not only to Dune but to his captain as well. "One we may never recover from."
Weakness breeds contempt. Contempt breeds mutiny. That had been her captain's old mantra. Bo-Katan has always taken those words to heart, burying her fears so they could never hope to see the light of day. So why does Axe Woves—always so steady and reliable—have so little faith in himself?
"I wanted to die...For the longest time." Dune's answer is strained, almost lost in the feedback. "It hurt so much. I see it happening in my dreams, over and over again. Sometimes I hear people call my name, but when I turn around—there's nobody there. It never stops hurting, if that's what you mean. But you take each day as it comes, and you find new people to fight for, and you find a way to go on."
"Mandalore lives through her children," Axe recites, translating the ancient oath every Mando'ade knew by heart. "So too will Alderaan, as long as there is still one Alder'ade left standing." He does not seem to notice his slip into Mando'a.
The silence unspools gently.
"Oh, yeah," Dune pipes up brightly with the customary cheer that Bo-Katan now recognises, not as simple-mindedness, but a kind of teeth-baring defiance. "I've been meaning to ask: What does ' deeka' mean?"
"Deeka?" Axe taps his cuisse absent-mindedly. Tic. Tic. "Deeka…Deeka… I am not familiar with this word. It must be a different dialect."
"Well, I definitely heard something about a deeka... "
"Oh! Ad'ika!" Axe burst out laughing. The sudden blare of sound makes Bo-Katan jump. It has been a long time since she has heard real laughter—untinged by weariness or irony—from either of her lieutenants. She could almost picture it; Axe with his head thrown back, red in the face and eyes crinkling. Securing that enormous shipment of Imperial weapons had only earned her a wry grin. To think it was Dune's terrible Mando'a —of all things — that achieved this.
"OK, I get it," Dune huffs. "I speak Mando-ah like a Wookie. Now will you tell me what it means?"
"It means 'child,' " Axe gasps, wrestling with his self-control, "a little child."
Bo-Katan ponders how Dune could have possibly come across that word. None of the Nite Owls had any reason to be talking about children… Oh. Of course. The stubborn, sentimental fool . So much potential—but in the end he was only a waste of good beskar'gam . He had gone into battle naked, with nothing but his bleeding heart on his sleeve.
Dying is easy. Living is so much harder.
The comm is still blinking. Bo-Katan has no reason to be listening anymore. Dune is simply not savvy—or malicious enough—for subterfuge, and Axe can always be trusted with her confidence. But the little red light keeps blinking, and Bo-Katan is simply too tired to switch it off. So she sits—and she listens.
"OK, lemme try again… Ah-deeka. "
"No, Ad'ika —roof of the mouth."
"Ad… Ad'ika."
"Jate, jate. You're improving."
"OK, now how do you say 'thank you?'"
"Vor'e."
"Vor'e, Buckethead."
You dreamt of your daughter again. And the lake. The water was so still it was like an enormous silver mirror, lapping gently at the pebbled shore. The sky was an upturned basin, keeping the rest of the world at bay. Tress was laughing, tossing the sound from shore to shore like a handful of bells—but you couldn't see her, no matter where you looked.
The happiest dreams are always the cruellest. They creep into your mind when you can offer no bulwark, promising things you cannot have. She is always gone when you wake up.
For security reasons, the dorms are never completely dark. You stare at the vent holes in the ceiling until they blur and warp. Your throat is burning.
"What's wrong with you?" Lucky whispers hoarsely from across the room. There's no one left to wake now, but something about the darkness always compels people to hush. He can see the tears running down your face as clear as day. You hadn't made a sound—you're sure of it—so he must have already been awake, if he even slept at all.
You shake your head.
"The hell is that supposed to mean?"
It can mean anything. Nothing. Or I don't know.
Lucky sits up with a grunt. "Gross," he mutters. Your nose is starting to run, but you really couldn't give less of a damn. There is a faint sound of rummaging, and then something soft and heavy hits your face. The smell clocks you like a slap. It reeks of sweat and cheap deodorant. The damn brat just threw one of his dirty shirts at you.
You sit up, half outraged, half impressed by his aim—dimly recalling some old boast about college handball. The sight of him almost makes you recoil. He looks ghoulish in the dark. His hair is matted, and there are dark hollows under his eyes. The ghost of a grin passes over his face, taut and sharp.
You blow your nose noisily into the toughened armour-weave. Lucky screws up his face in disgust. It's such a childish gesture, something both clenches and unclenches inside your chest. All of a sudden, you cannot stand this silence.
"When's the last time you washed this damn thing?" you mutter stuffily.
Just like that, what's left of his smile vanishes. Another misstep. It feels like you are waist-deep in dark water, chasing a rapidly sinking stone.
You try again in more placating tones. "The things I said earlier…That was way outta line—"
"Don't give me that shit," Lucky snarls. "You can't stand me! You never did!"
"Listen, kid—!" Your own voice is rising against your will.
"I'm just a goddamn prop 'cause you feel bad for not being there for your real son!" He laughs long and loud, eyes blazing. "All Gee-whizz, dumb and happy. Sorry, old man. Shoulda' told you. The stupid kid you liked doesn't exist, never did!"
It's a low blow, and it draws blood because it's the truth, distorted. But this time, you don't strike back. You lay down your arms. You are so sick of fighting.
"I'm sorry," you whisper. Neither of you are what people want you to be.
"Fuck off," He snaps, clinging to his anger like it'll keep him warm.
"Luke." You need to make him understand. "I'm sorry."
You hold his glare as best you can. You don't know what he sees in your face, but he is the first to look away.
"What for?" he mutters tiredly, slumping into the shadows. His head knocks against the durasteel panels with a dull thunk. "You don't even know me."
"No," you agree. "And you don't know me, either."
You had wondered from time to time, what kind of parents would allow such a promising young man to be fed into the war machine so early. You had all the pieces right in front of you—but always stopped short of putting them together. It occurs to you that sometimes none is better than any.
"I do miss my kids," you begin clumsily, fumbling for the words, "more than anything in the world. But you're not a replacement—you hear? You're you."
Now Luke looks like he is about to start crying. Damn it —did you say the wrong thing again?
"Kid—"
"I'm sorry, too," Luke whispers into his collar. His voice is shaky and stifled.
You've never seen your own father cry and it never struck you as odd, until now. Would you have done a better job, if you had? Or are you digging up relics to justify your own broken crockery?
In the end, you just lob the disgusting, balled-up shirt back at him. Luke catches it one-handed ("3 rd place in Nationals, y'know! No one thought we'd make it—" ) and starts to sob.
It is dark when Bo-Katan wakes up. How long has she been asleep? She is supposed to be alert and on guard. Foreboding hangs above her like an invisible dagger. She can not afford to make any mistakes now. Not when there is so much on the line.
She reaches for her helmet. The painted blue-and-white face is as familiar as her own: the wise owls-eyes and bold, swooping lines. The symbol of House Kryze, passed down for countless generations.
She realizes something is wrong the second her hands grasp it. It is too heavy— too full . But it is already too late. The helmet rises in her hands—and her gore with it—as the severed head of Satine comes tumbling out. Her sister's head hits the deck with a dull thump, and rolls to a stop at her feet, staring up at her with blank, lifeless eyes. Her bloodless lips open and close silently, mouthing the fateful words: Only the strongest shall rule.
When Bo-Katan opens her eyes, it is the eerie, perpetual twilight of hyperspace that greets 's never completely dark here. She ought to know that. Her helmet is exactly as she left it, staring up at her with its blank, painted eyes. She cannot bear to touch it.
Bo-Katan rises slowly, as if climbing out of her own grave. Her fingers are numb with cold—of course, she ordered Axe to disengage life-support—and there is frost unfurling around the porthole like delicate white flowers. Her breath fogs up the glass. The view outside is unchanged, the void continuing to rush past, endless and timeless, so bright yet so utterly devoid of warmth. There is a deep ache in her chest—like a hook buried in her heart, tugging and tugging. This is a hateful place. She would much rather die under the open sky, with the sun on her face and the wind in her hair.
Perhaps she died that day and this is her Purgatory. Perhaps Hell awaits her at the end of the tunnel. Not that it matters anymore. She has long since run out of tears.
The day before…
The communications officer on Level 3 was having a terrible day. To be precise, his 'day' ended three hours ago and he was still slaving away at his station. The technical departments faced the same understaffing issues as the infantry—albeit with a much lower turn-over rate. On top of his regular workload, his team had been assigned three new data-PACs. The rhydonium refinery on Morak had recently exploded under suspicious circumstances, leaving them with several months' worth of raw data to comb through to try and determine the cause.
The sound of "Lieutenant Mace, Sir!" being saluted in the hallway made him jump. What in heaven's name was Mace doing here? The officer straightened up quickly and checked his uniform in the reflection of a blank screen, scrambling to brush off a piece of stray lint. The Lieutenant was infamous for his mercurial nature—and his obsessive attention to detail.
"Report," Mace barked impatiently, strolling into the antechamber.
"Sir, we've cross-referenced all the biometric data. There are no matches to any of the known rebels on file, and no signs of sabotage in the refinery and power-cores."
"The surveillance footage?"
"Analysed, Sir...however the last seven minutes leading up to the explosion were irretrievably corrupted." Seeing Mace's thunderous expression, the officer quickly brought up the most recent transcripts. "We do have a lead, though. 92 minutes before the incident, the Juggernauts had to fend off an attempted pirate raid. The resulting chase may have destabilised the rhydonium—"
Mace ignored him. He had zeroed in on the monitor like tooka prowling around a burrow.
"Interesting..." he murmured, leaning so close his nose almost touched the screen.
"Sir?"
"There were a total of 842 personnel present on Morak, including maintenance crew and civilian engineers." Mace tapped the string of miniscule numbers in the upper left corner.
"Yes, Sir," the officer replied hesitantly.
"Yet the biometric database has records of 843 individuals."
"Yes, I see it, Sir. It appears to be a computational error—"
"Do not bore me with your theories, officer," Mace snapped. "Cross reference this data again and have it matched to all existing personnel. I want no stone left unturned!"
"Yes, Sir!" the officer amended hurriedly, his fingers flying across the keypad before Mace had even finished his sentence.
"And straighten your cuffs!" Mace hissed on his way out. "They're an absolute disgrace."
"We have one final trump card, and we must keep it concealed," Bo-Katan says, surveying the faces of her warriors. They were all seasoned fighters, their fear tempered by determination. Her own exhaustion and doubt has fallen away, as it always does before battle. There is a strange peace to walking a straight road, even one that leads to your doom.
"The enemy will be able to detect and jam any foreign transmission…unless we give them a good reason to keep the channels open." She raises her transmitter. "I will personally contact Moff Gideon and feign an attempt to bargain. At the same time, we will send a second message to our Unknown Warrior. With any luck, the two simultaneous transmissions may deceive the sensors."
"Destination approaching," Axe's voice rings out over the broadcast. "We'll exit hyperspace soon."
"Battle positions." Bo-Katan readied her transmitter. "Dune, observe my signal."
Dune gave a grim nod, her thumb hovering over the second comm. Bo-Katan found herself returning the gesture.
"Cloak and shields are up, jumping in three…two…"
In a flash, they are back within the inky expanse of true-space. Axe directed them with startling precision. She can see the Lightcruiser through the porthole, rendered almost toy-like by the vastness of space. Her heart begins to race. They are right under the enemy's nose.
"Now!" Bo-Katan commands.
Gideon does not take long to answer. He has them on the ropes after all. Why resist the opportunity to gloat? He had grown accustomed to savouring his victories like a fine vintage, even when he no longer had the might of the Empire behind him. He would learn—too late—that Bo-Katan Kryze was ready to claw and bleed for every scrap.
"What an honor, Lady Kryze." The sight of that prim, smiling face was enough to make her see red. "We meet at last."
It did not escape her that he had addressed her by a Duchess' title. A title that might have been hers, in a different lifetime. Now Lady Kryze will always be someone else, a hand on her shoulder. A flash of bright hair. Gone.
"The pleasure will be all mine, Gideon." Bo-Katan's smile is genuine. All she has to do is picture his head on a pike.
"You know you cannot run forever." Moff Gideon spreads his palms benevolently. "Surrender now, and the Empire will be merciful."
"Surrender?" Bo-Katan laughs derisively. " Mandalore is ash and rubble, our children massacred and our treasures plundered. Now one of the vultures stands before me talking about surrender. The only mercy you offer will be a quick death."
"What a pity." Gideon is all faux dismay. "I had expected better from Bo-Katan Kryze, the renowned strategist…but it seems that your ambition has blinded you." With that, he raises the ignited Darksaber.
Koska stiffens minutely beside her. Even Dune and Shand seem entranced. The black blade is a fragment of the night sky wrought by human hands, a symbol of Mandalore's power and the awe it inspired. It makes her sick with rage to see it in the hands of one of its destroyers, paraded about like a common war-trophy.
"If I recall correctly, you have some history with this weapon," Moff Gideon remarks conversationally. Bo-Katan grinds her teeth so hard her jaw ached.
"Your sister—Dutchess Satine Kryze—died by this blade."
(Cold stone under her knees, as she brushed her sister's hair out of her face, one last time — )
" —Killed by the Sith lord you aided during your coup."
(I won't leave you again, I promise — )
"Mandalore's self-proclaimed saviour is nothing but a murderer and terrorist—"
"I have fought the Empire for twenty years. Against all hope, against all odds, all so my people could one day be free." Bo-Katan snarls. "I will not be lectured by the monsters who razed Mandalore to the ground and hunted down our people like rats."
The plastoid shell of the transmitter has dug welts into her clenched fist.
"You are but a single step on my path, Gideon." Bo-Katan continues, her voice is soft and full of promise. "I swore on my dying breath to hunt down every last murderer and profiteer and bring them to justice at my hands. I will restore Mandalore. I will unite my people. And we will rise up, more glorious than before. My sister will live on through our legacy and Mandalore shall be her monument."
"Stirring words," Moff Gideon says calmly, his face a perfect mask. Slowly, he reaches off-screen and produces a single ingot of pure beskar. The gleaming surface is marred by inept smelting and stamped with the Imperial insignia.
"No!" Dune is on her feet even before the entire transport unit is brought out. The tray is stacked high with several dozen identical, shining ingots. Steel that had once been part of a full suit of armour.
"My offer stands, Lady Kryze." There is no mockery in that bland smile. Only a sort of reptilian hunger. "Reflect well. I'm afraid your numbers are dwindling."
And the transmission ends.
"Alor?" Koska murmurs. A tomb-like silence has descended. Dune is rooted to the spot like a pillar of stone, her face and lips bloodless. Even Shand looks disturbed.
"We proceed as planned," Bo-Katan replies calmly. "Open fire."
Notes
Mandalorian translations:
(nc) non-canon stuff I made up
jate – good
vor'e – thanks
Mando'a- the Mandalorian language
Alder'ade- (nc) an Alderaanian, literally: child of Alderaan
Krownest—a Mandalorian planet. Everything else, including Axe's backstory is (nc)
Lore:
- data-PACs (nc)
- the Fall of Mandalore (nc)- The war fought between the Mandalorians and the New Galactic Empire.
- the Hundred Day Siege (nc)- also known as the Siege of Sundari, a series of decisive battles fought around the capitol.
- "Mandalore lives through her children" (nc)- An ancient Mandalorian saying. Axe has taken some liberties with the translation, a more literal meaning would be "Mandalore is in the child."
Comments
Reply to Kondoru:
Thank you for your comment, I'm so glad you enjoyed the story! I love writing about cognitive dissonance and the mundanity of "evil." The Empire might be defeated but its influence still remains. There are still people who support the old regime and they were willing to excuse its tyranny for relative stability. Not only will the New Republic need to win battles, they need to win hearts.
I really enjoyed writing the character of Jorge the Stormtrooper because of his challenging psychology. It's easy to recognise evil when it's big and obvious, but what if it's comes to you dressed up as safety and stability and everything you've ever wanted? How far would you be willing to go? Jorge recognises on some level that he's doing wrong, but he continuously rationalises and deceives himself. It's so easy to propagandise people, especially when they want to be deceived. The stormtroopers start every day with a light brain-washing; the destruction of the Death Star was an act of terrorism. Information is so highly restricted they think they WON the fight with Boba Fett. It is easy to control people when you control the truth.
I want people to recognise that fact the average person is much closer to a stormtrooper than Luke Skywalker, but at the end of the day we all have a choice. We can chose to do the right thing.
I really like your interpretation of Grogu but in my opinion the baby's real power is innocence and humanity. Jorge continuously dehumanises the enemy and tries to seperate himself from his job. "the Asset" "the Mando" "you're not paid to think." But Grogu forces him to confront their humanity. Jorge empathises on some level with Din despite never meeting him because he is also a father, and he feels conflicted about how they treat Grogu. Is HE the bad guy? Is HE on the wrong side? The Empire's greatest fear is for its goons to realise "the enemy" are people too.
Lastly, I want to show why the Empire is doomed to fail. In chapter 2 multiple stormtroopers are injured in action and/or suffer PTSD but as long as they are "functional" their pain is ignored. The Empire does not care about their own people, not even the soldiers on the front lines. The system is built to reward cruelty and promote the most ruthless; each higher ranking officer is more sadistic than the last. They get results, but they needlessly sacrifice their own men. Everyone and everything is disposable and the machine chugs on. But the machine will eventually collapse under the weight of its own indifference.