The Mandalorian across from you curses in Mando'a as you win yet another round of sabacc. He's lost three games to you now but just can't seem to accept the fact that you are a better player than him. You were quite surprised by the eagerness of the Mandalorians to join in your game when you emerged from the Kestrel, cards in hand. Now, you wonder if Mando's constant disapproval of your gambling habit comes from personal, rather than religious beliefs. You just assumed that the Tribe had raised him to avoid anything fun at all... but instead, the Tribe actually seems to be enjoying your entertainment profusely. In fact, not a single one of them seems to have any reservations about the morality of gambling with you. Hell, some of these bucket heads clearly have experience playing classic sabacc. They just aren't quite as practiced as you, thank the stars. You suppose all those years playing against the wealthiest crime lords in the galaxy are finally paying off.
Your opponent reluctantly slides his credits towards your side of the table, and you snicker at the growing pile of winnings in your possession. The Mandalorians laugh and shout with each other as they collect their own bets amongst themselves. You feel a swell of pride at how many of them wagered in your favor.
All the commotion draws the attention of Mando and the Armorer, who have been conversing in the strategy center for the past hour or so. You throw back another snort of spotchka when the two stoic leaders weave through the crowd to inspect your makeshift casino.
The Armorer's disapproving voice silences the rowdy spectators at once, "Not exactly a warrior's game."
You shrug nonchalantly, "Nothing wrong with a little fun. Why don't you sit back, relax and enjoy the show? I happen to be the best in the parasec, ya'know."
Mando grumbles lowly, "The best? I doubt that."
"Is that a challenge?"
The Tribe members buzz with excitement over your cheeky banter with their fierce hunter. They rarely see anyone go toe to toe with their Alor.
"What's the bet?"
You can't help the astonishment written all over your face at this out-of-character behavior from him. The Mand'alor is going to wager against you in a game of sabacc? Does he even know how to play?
"The Kestrel," you look up at him from under your lashes and feign a sweet smile.
"You want to play for the Kestrel?" He asks incredulously.
Pouring yourself another drink, you settle into your chair smugly, "This is the Way."
Mando thunks down in the seat across from you and theatrically drops a small object on the table. His helmet is angled forward towards you, making him appear quite menacing as his visor reflects the orange glow from the overhead lights. You shiver and look at the small velvet bag he has presented to you. Your jaw drops when you realize what the object is. It's the artifact from the vault on Cato Neiomodia! You can't believe you nearly forgot about this thing! Reaching forward, you meticulously remove the little metallic cube from its black pouch.
Oh, kriffing stars.
It's a Sith Holocron. And not just any Sith Holocron, this was your Master's. No wonder it was like a magnet for you back in the storehouse. Temptation gnaws at your stomach as your fingers trace the ancient language carved onto the Holocron's sides.
"You have no use for this," you murmur as you place the Holocron back onto the table.
"It's obviously worth as much to you as the Sterling Kestrel is worth to me."
Well, this just turned into a very high-stakes game. Losing the Holocron is the last thing you want. Yet, at the same time, winning the Kestrel could be glorious and it would give you a guaranteed ride off Mandalore when the war is over.
"If you want to back out, I think we would all understand," Mando taunts as he leans back into his chair.
A prickle of annoyance at his arrogance makes you scrunch your nose. Seriously? You of all people are not about to cower away from a game of Corellian Spike.
"Deal me in."
Turns out, Mando absolutely knows how to play sabacc.
Sweat is dripping down your forehead as you contemplate your next move. With a perfect zero in your hand, you have the means to win the entire game, unless the next roll of the die forces you and Mando to pull new cards. If that happens, you'll only have three cards to give you a low score, but in your experience, that's highly unlikely. The thing with sabacc is that skill only ever gets you so far. Luck is also a huge part of the game, and right now, you don't know how much longer your luck will last. Since Mando has you one to one, whoever claims this last round will be the big winner.
You lick your lips anxiously.
Kriff it. You'll hold this hand. You gesture for Mando to take his turn and when he draws a card, you lift an eyebrow. Interesting choice. He already had a large hand, and now it's even bigger; seven cards in total. His helmet gives you no indication of how he is feeling, and you roll your eyes at the irony of playing against a man who doesn't even have to try to maintain a neutral expression. It's almost unfair.
You pass the die to the Armorer, "Do the honors?"
She looks between you and Mando for a moment before huffing a resigned sigh. Despite her initial displeasure with the game, she seems extremely curious about who is going to win in the end. Her soft gloves brush against yours as she plucks the die from your hand, and you watch intently as she rolls your fate delicately across the table.
Doubles.
Karking hell.
You growl as you fold your two cards and draw two new ones.
"Karabast!" You yowl as you see your new hand.
It's a nineteen! Nineteen! You had a kriffing zero!
Throwing down your cards in frustration, you look over to see what hand the Mandalorian has drawn. With so many cards, his number is bound to be lower than yours.
"Eleven," the Armorer declares after a moment.
You stand up, pushing your chair back so hard that it falls backward with a thud. Dramatically snapping your cloak, you spin yourself around and sulk away from the crowd of stunned Mandalorians.
Nobody better follow you, unless they are willing to chance losing an arm to your lightsaber.
Kriffing sabacc.
Kriffing Din.
You stumble to your bed, tipsy from all the spotchka you drank after losing the Holocron. You don't notice the beautifully shined armor neatly laid out on the floor of the bunkroom assigned to you until you sink to the floor clumsily. At first, you don't know what you are looking at. Then, you remember that this is the unique set of armor is that Mando liberated from Crimson Dawn's storehouse. But what in the galaxy is it doing here, in your quarters? Your inebriated brain prevents you from being able to come up with a logical explanation, but you are able to take notice of the wonderful job the Mand'alor had done at cleaning up the armor.
You pick up the helmet and sit back lazily on your knees. Would it fit you? Is it weird to try it on? Are you even allowed to try it on? Kriff, since when do you worry about rules? You turn the glossy helmet around and slowly raise it over your head. When you slide it on completely, you get an immediate feeling of discomfort at the darkness enveloping your face. It's like most of the world is blocked from your senses. It's suffocating. It's... lonely. The visor shows you a strange version of the world. It's like you are looking through a holo where everything is devoid of all the rich colors that give life meaning.
You use your hand to feel for a button on the outside of the helmet, next to the visor. When you find one, you give it a firm push, and the helmet goes into night vision. Everything becomes staticky and magnified, sending a violent wave of nausea rolling through you. Maybe that bottle of spotchka wasn't such a good idea. You rip off the helmet and toss it on the floor in front of you. The harsh nature of the Mandalorians suddenly makes so much more sense. Wearing that thing all day would make you grumpy too.
The rest of the armor is very different from what the other members of the Tribe wear. The chest plate is beskar, but the arms and legs of the suit are made mostly from some type of animal leather. It must have been made for a woman, judging from the size and shape. You remember hearing rumors about how this suit held important historical significance to Mandalorian culture and you wonder if the Tribe knows why. Mesh'la, you think to yourself as you trace the well-crafted neck guard. If you were just a little bit soberer, you would try the whole thing on, just for the hell of it. But for now, you needed to sleep off the alcohol swirling through your system.
