"Mando," whispered Mayfeld. "Holy fucking shit. I mean…what the fuck, Mando?"

"Don't call me that," snarled Din. "Ever again."

The only thing Din could see was the wall of windows, tinted dark gray. Din's cell was next to Mayfeld's, but he couldn't see him or any of the other prisoners.

But that didn't stop Mayfeld's mouth.

"I gotta call you something. Brown Eyes?"

Silence.

"Okay, sorry. Low blow."

"Djarin," Din said after a long, long pause. The drug, the fight, the stress, the shock, the horror, the worry for his son, and the fear—yes, the fear—all of it was taking its toll. A creeping, numb exhaustion was taking over his mind and body. He struggled against it.

"Jaaah-rin." Of course Mayfeld butchered it. "Aq Vetina, sounds like, more than Mandalorian? I knew a guy from there. What the hell did you do?"

"Long story."

"Gee, my schedule's wide open tonight. You know they don't listen to the shit we say. They look at us all the time but we can say anything we want. Why should they care? We can't do anything. So why are you here?"

I came to rescue you because I promised your wife. Because I would do anything to make her happy.

Well, that didn't sound right.

"I was working for the New Republic."

"Well, that was your first fucking mistake."

Don't I know it. "There's a lot of missing prisoners."

"Yeah, no shit."

"I was helping look into it, trying to find them."

"Congratulations, big guy. You found 'em."

"I was undercover as a guard for Merrix, but I got exposed."

"Exposed. Yeah, you could say that. What about your fancy armor? Your gadgets?"

Din said nothing.

"Okay. Silent treatment. Fine." Mayfeld cleared his throat. "Did you ever find your kid?"

"Yes," said Din quietly.

"Like, in one piece?"

"He's my son now. I adopted him according to the rites of my people." He hadn't really planned on sharing this but it felt good to say that, felt good to have that essential truth to hold on to. Even though he was failing at parenthood spectacularly. Where was Grogu now?

"Wow! That's good news. So he's a regular little Mandalorian now? Is he wearing armor now too?"

The answer was actually yes, but there was only so much Din could share. "One day, when he's older. If he wants."

"Wow," said Mayfeld again. "Trying and failing to picture that. Kriff, you didn't bring him to this shithole, did you?"

"He's safe," said Din evasively. At least they couldn't see each other's faces.

"Good. I was worried, tell the truth. I didn't think you could get him back. I mean, a Moff." He was silent, and Din hoped he was about to stop. "We were a little rough around him back on your ship. Dropping him. I feel bad about that."

"You should," said Din curtly. But Mayfeld kept going.

"I see now why you were being cagey about what that kid was to you. I wouldn't trust Xi'an or Burg as far as I could throw 'em. I got a new appreciation of fatherhood lately. Never something I thought I was cut out for. But my wife says it doesn't matter, you just gotta suck it up and do it. She knows a lot, that one. Here I was a responsible family man with a stepdaughter. Nice kid, too. Starting to be a young lady with a good head on her shoulders, like her mom."

Din leaned his head back, wired and exhausted at the same time. The talking was annoying but perhaps it was keeping him from spiraling into despair. Yet he was very tired.

"And I fuckin' blew it."

Din closed his eyes.

"I gotta get back to her," Mayfeld muttered. "Tell her I'm sorry. Tell both of 'em."

Din opened his eyes. Sorry for what? But Mayfeld didn't seem inclined to chat further.

"Time for shut eye." Mayfeld's voice was rough. "You gotta sleep when you can and eat when you can here, even if it makes you sick. You have a hard day ahead of you. Every day here is hard."

###

He slept, some.

He woke to bright lights and a harsh alarm. Around him he heard grumblings as men stirred. Din looked around his white, stark cell as if for the first time—he had been too overwhelmed to take any of it in at first. He, who had always been so alert to his surroundings. He had to get a grip on himself. Toilet, sink, some kind of food dispenser with a feeding tube next to the water. Basics for shaving. And a small screen with a number.

100

"Mayfeld," he said softly. "What is this number?"

"It's Mica, Man—Djarin." A sigh. "Good morning to you too. I'll tell you on the floor. I have a little speech I tell the new men."

"Tell me now."

"That number is the number of shifts you have until your next review. Then they decide to promote you to manager, keep you in place, give you more privileges, switch you to a new floor…or throw you out with the trash."

A hundred shifts. Even if he could endure that, what about Grogu? Din decided to take Mayfeld's advice (he was NOT going to call him Mica if he could avoid it) and ate from the food dispenser. A tasteless, disgusting paste. But he was actually hungry, and he'd eaten a lot of terrible food in his life. He needed to keep up his strength, for Grogu's sake if not his own.

"For context, I got this number too. I got two shifts left, my friend. Two fucking shifts. I got a shot at being a guard."

Mayfeld could do it, Din thought. He was an Imp, he knew what they liked. Din felt something like the stirrings of hope.

"And if I'm a guard," Mayfeld continued, "I get a chance at getting home to my family. So do NOT fuck this up for me."

"It doesn't make sense," Din said. "Being a guard doesn't seem much better than being a prisoner. If guards can go off planet, why don't they just run?"

"Don't you get it? If they left, they'd still be wanted men. Merrix would hunt 'em down if they blow the whistle on this joint. And, you know, buncha former felons don't have a whole bunch of other job offers lined up. Plus, you gotta understand that the people they select for guard are the worst."

Din nodded even though no one could see him. "So I've seen."

"They love this petty little power trip. They love the uniforms. They love the human-first bantha shit Merrix shoves down our throats. But I can pretend as well as any of 'em." His voice became low and urgent. "Listen to me," he said. "Just follow my lead today, okay? Don't be stupid. Don't do something noble or heroic."

"I might say the same thing to you," said Din coldly, thinking of how Mayfeld's righteous, understandable, and completely inappropriate outburst had nearly ruined everything on Morak.

Mayfeld lowered his voice even more. "Because if I can get out of here and back to my wife, you better believe I'm gonna fucking run."

"ON PROGRAM." The red lights on the floor went out.

Din followed the lead of the others, moving onto the floor with hands on head. And now that he could see everyone's faces—and they could see his—the panic and horror nearly made him vomit all over again. He tried to comfort himself.

They don't know who I am. A Mandalorian.

But I do.

A door opened at the far end of the hall and they all marched toward it. A guard pointed them toward a communal shower. The other prisoners, used to this, silently stripped and placed their old coveralls in a chute.

Din froze.

"Just do it," hissed Mayfeld. "No one cares. No one fucking cares."

Finally, swallowing hard, controlling his breathing, Din followed their lead. He had used the toilet back in the cell, but he could not see anyone looking at him, so he could do what he needed to do.

But this...this was different. Profoundly so.

The shower blasted them with cold water, which would be a luxury somewhere else. Here it felt like being hosed off like livestock. Din stared straight ahead, not looking at anyone around him (especially not Mayfeld), and the others did the same. He dared not look even at his own wretched feet, much less the rest of his exposed and vulnerable body. He shook with rage and shame.

He thought then about Grogu, about how natural and even comfortable it felt to be without helmet and armor around him back in that room. Why had that simple realization taken so very long?

But now this was different—this was an unnatural humiliation, a violation.

In his mind he spoke to his son. When I get back to you, if I survive this, I will never hide from you again.

But first, I will raze this place to its foundations and kill anyone who gets in my way.

The water turned off and a jet of hot air dried them all. Then the inmates moved to a changing area where fresh sets of coveralls waited. Din moved like a droid as he put on the hated garment.

"ON PROGRAM."

They moved next down a corridor to the factory floor where he had first seen Mayfeld. He hesitated, unsure where to go. Mayfeld poked him in the shoulder and it took every bit of self-control Din had not to punch him.

"Table Two." Then Mayfeld looked at another clearly new inmate. "Table Four for you. But first you listen." He launched into a series of instructions. "These tables all play against each other. I play against all of the other shops on this floor. What's the prize? Better food, more likelihood of getting promoted or a better job. You lose, you get the floor. You keep losing…you don't want to find out. You sick, you hurt? Let me know, we'll get a medic. Going crazy, feeling sad? Boo hoo. Shake it off because they sure as shit don't care."

At Table Two, the man named Boxer nodded. "Just don't off yourself by throwing yourself on the floor at night, okay? That's no way to go and just makes it worse for the rest of us. That's why our output is down on Table Two." He pointed at Din. "You. Take that spot. Now follow my lead. Hands ups."

Pneumatic drivers lowered from the ceiling for each table, along with a rack of machine parts. Each table also had basic hand wrenches and other tools. Boxer gestured to the tools and the metal parts.

"We have to assemble this, see?" As Din watched the five other men began what seemed like an intricate dance, fastening, welding, and tightening. Din had no idea what this machine was supposed to be—maybe an engine part. Maybe for an Imperial ship.

"Okay. Clear," said Boxer when they were done. The assembled device was hoisted onto a trolley. "You join in now."

And Din's first shift really began.

He caught on quickly after years of maintaining an old ship. He was faster and stronger than his table-mates, so their productivity went up rapidly. The others seemed relieved. The work was long, hard, and repetitive, but Din welcomed the mind-numbing work, the opportunity to let his mind go and simply focus on working with his hands.

Another alarm hours and hours later signaled the end of shift. Again the hated ritual of the floor, and this time Table Two was the winner. Boxer slapped him on the back.

"Thank the stars you're here, man," he said. "We're on the way up now." It was tempting to feel proud about helping them, tempting to think of them as comrades in a struggle against the other tables. But of course, it was artificial. That was the conditioning. It just meant that another group of unfortunate inmates would get the floor.

Then they were shuffling back to the cells. Din was stiff and weary from the repetitive stress on his joints. His feet also ached. He had not stood barefoot so long for…years. He was dismayed to think that wearing structured, supportive boots his whole life had actually made him delicate.

Food was welcome, and while the texture had not improved, the taste had. A reward, as opposed to a punishment. More conditioning. "One more shift," said Mayfeld. "Djarin, my man, you continue to work like that and you'll be a guard in no time. In fact—"

"Just shut up," Din said. He fell asleep nearly immediately after eating.

###

He awoke to a small scratching noise.

The cell corridor was dark except for the red lights indicating that the floor was active. Maybe it was coming from above, maybe some small scurrying in the ductwork above? The vent on the ceiling was tiny, too tiny even for Grogu to fit through.

But it was still a vent.

Din sat up, wide awake, alert to every sound. He held his breath. He focused.

Father! Buir!

And then there was his son, tapping at his thoughts like he was tapping on a door to be let in.

I found you!

Din felt his throat close. He was desperate for his son's presence but hated for Grogu to see this utter degradation and misery. Tears welled in Din's eyes and he wiped his face angrily as they spilled. Wearing a helmet meant Mandalorians never needed to cultivate stoicism. Helmets were designed to wick inconvenient moisture away.

"Buddy. Ad'ika. Are you safe? Are you finding food?"

I am very good at hiding. Many lizards also hide in these tunnels, away from the sun. They are delicious!

"Oh…good." Din shuddered at the mental image Grogu helpfully supplied. He wished he could see his son, but he imagined he could smell him. The unwashed boy was perhaps getting a little ripe. Din sighed and wiped his face again. "I've let you down. I've failed you, failed everyone. It's my fault I'm here. I wasn't careful, I made bad decisions."

Buir. No. It is the fault of these bad people.

"Yes, but—"

No. Something changed in the tenor of Grogu's thoughts, warning Din he was about to receive a stern talking-to, as if he was the one found stealing eggs or ship parts for a change. Buir is brave and clever.

"I don't know about the clever part."

No. Buir is helping our friends and fighting these bad people, even though it is very hard.

"Grogu. I have fought in many battles. But this…this may be the hardest thing I have ever done."

You are very strong. I am grown strong too, Buir. I will help you fight, like I did before.

"No, Grogu. Stay hidden. I can't fight unless I know you'll be safe."

I know I am little. I will hide. But when it is time, I will fight. I will fight with you, Buir.

"Yes. When the time is right." Din closed his eyes, feeling some strength and courage return. "We will find a way. Can you bring my gear closer?"

Yes! The beskar is very light. The boots are very heavy. But I will move it all!

Another idea came to Din. "The lizards come into the tunnels. Can you see a way to the outside?"

Yes, I have seen one. There is a thing of metal in the way but I can break it. Grogu's tone was boastful.

"Okay. Good. Maybe later. For now just worry about the gear."

I will, Buir! I will bring it to you.

"Good boy."

A yawn from the cell next to his. "The fuck you muttering about," said Mayfeld crossly.

"Nothing."

Din tried to speak to Grogu without his voice, wondering if it would work. Go. Please, just be careful and quiet. And no floor. Ever.

I will be back for you, Buir.

Din willed the little boy to read everything in his heart, everything beyond words in any language he knew. The wave of emotion that returned to him from Grogu was like a blessing, like a drink of water in a Tatooine desert. That's what Grogu had done for him—enriching his barren heart, turning him into someone who could both receive and give love despite himself. Stilling that lonely voice.

Their song would not end now.

Then Grogu was gone.

###

It was easy to lose track of time here, but Din's internal clock was still strong. He woke up before the lights came on.

"Mayfeld."

A yawn and a groan. "Hey, I told you not to call me that."

"One more shift, right?"

"Yeah."

"They'll make you a guard. I know it."

"Yeah," said Mayfeld, like he knew what was coming next.

"You have to come back for me and get me out."

"No fucking way, pal. I'm not gonna screw up my chance. Work your way up to manager or guard."

"You owe me."

"I don't owe you anything. I helped you get your kid back."

"You nearly botched the whole thing."

"It worked in the end, no thanks to you and your dumb face. We're square."

"I got you out of your sentence."

"Yeah, well, you put me there, asshole."

"You double-crossed me. You tried to trap me and steal my ship. Burg and Xi'an nearly killed me. That droid tried to kill my son. You're lucky I left you alive."

Mayfeld shut up. Not much comeback for that.

"Get me into a guard uniform and we can both get out of here," Din said. The lights would turn on any minute. "Then we can bring Merrix down."

"Hey, you can be heroic on your own. Don't involve me."

"Do you really think you can just run? Come on, think. I've seen Merrix up close. They have a base on Sorgan. They hire the best bounty hunters in the sector. They'll go after you and they'll go after your wife and family."

A long pause. "How do you know about Sorgan, Mando?" Mayfeld asked slowly.

Din had not wanted to even mention her name here, but it had to come out at some point. "I met her—your wife—before. We were lying low and her village hired us to fight off raiders. Me and Marshal Dune." He exhaled. "I said I would look into missing prisoners as a favor for a friend, then I got hired by the New Republic. I came to Sorgan because I knew Merrix was behind everything and I knew they had operations there. I came to talk to your wife because I trust her judgment. Then I found out about you. And I said I would do everything I could get you back to her."

A much longer silence followed. The lights turned on. Hurriedly Din ate and drank as the time for their shift drew closer.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" asked Mayfeld at last. He sounded stunned, like he had received a blow to the head. "That was you and Dune? You have got to be fucking kidding me. She told me they hired mercenaries. She never said one of 'em was a Mandalorian. Or a damn Marshal. Aw hell. How come she never told me?"

"She knew hunters were after the kid. She swore the town to secrecy. And Dune wasn't a Marshal yet."

"Aw hell."

"You're the biggest reason I'm here, Mayfeld. I've seen what you think about the Empire. Do you really want to give them what they want? You want to bring this place down as much as I do. If you want to get back to Omera and Winta, then you have to help me."

"Don't you say their names. Don't you dare say their names here." There was a thud, like Mayfeld had kicked the wall of his cell. "This galaxy is a pretty crazy place, Mando."

"Yes. It is."

"I mean, of all the people…" He trailed off.

"Just come back for me."

Mayfeld might have said something back, but the alarm blared.

And another shift began.