"ON PROGRAM."
Another shift began.
The shameful routine repeated—food, shower, new coverall, work. But this shift, Din did not let his mind go numb but instead spent the time carefully observing the other men, the number of guards, and every detail of the factory floor.
Mayfeld himself was jumpy, barking at the men, and paler than usual. He would not meet Din's eyes. Din, meanwhile, felt calmer and more in control after his visit from Grogu. Whether this came from inside or was a gift from his son, Din couldn't say and didn't care. If Grogu could heal the injured and soothe beasts, he could probably calm a rattled Mandalorian.
At shift's end, the same ritual of tables being rewarded and punished for their day's productivity. Mayfeld pointed at Din's table "Table Two, you're on top again." A ragged cheer went up from the others at Din's table. "Table Three, sorry, guys."
"Hey man," said one of the unfortunate men assigned to Table Three after they received their jolt of pain. Din could feel himself becoming used to the sight, and he didn't like it. It felt like losing his soul, his humanity. Warriors were used to seeing pain and suffering, but not this dishonorable torture. "You gotta redistribute the men around the tables. This ain't fair. The same table can't win every day."
"Pipe down, Sandros," said Mayfeld.
"Yeah!" said another. "Give our new table the new guy. He's fast."
"I said pipe down!" yelled Mayfeld. "If I get my promotion today, you'll get a new boss. Take it up with him."
"ON PROGRAM."
The shouting died down and the prisoners assumed the stance, hands on heads. A trio of guards entered. One of them jerked his head impatiently at Mayfeld. "You. Come with us."
Mayfeld threw down his data pad and looked at the surrounding men. Din moved one step closer. A guard pointed his blaster at him. "Stop moving or it's the floor for you!"
Mayfeld looked at him and Din caught his glance, held it. Apparently Din was bad at concealing anything on what Mayfeld called his dumb face. Now he willed Mayfeld to read his expression. Come back for me. Get us both out of here.
"Back to your cells, scum."
Another guard seized Mayfeld's shoulder and he was gone.
Buir!
Din sat up from the bunk, looking at the tiny vent. He had been dozing until he felt that light tapping on his mind. "Ad'ika."
Ad'ika is me?
"Yes. It means child. My child. I meant to teach you more Mando'a before. Now that we can speak to each other better, I'll teach you more." He kept his voice very low, even though the cell next to him was now empty and the other men slept like rocks.
I will learn fast, Buir!
"You will. Still getting enough to eat and drink?"
Yes! I found a pool where water drains. Many frogs and tasty little fish, plus still lizards.
"You're a real Mandalorian, living off the hunt. Were you able to move my armor at all?"
Yes, it is near the place where the ships come. I did not bring it all here. This hole thing is too small for your things to fit. That is all right, Buir?
"Better than all right, Grogu. That's great. I can't get the armor through that little vent, but Mayfeld will help me get out of here, then I'll dress up like a guard again and we'll get a ship."
That is good! I do not know the word for the thing near your hand? In his mind Din saw an image of himself shooting a whipcord, blasting fire, releasing the whistling birds. He looked like an absurd, larger-than-life hero from some cheap holo, but it was how Grogu saw him.
"It's called a vambrace."
I have them here!
"Good job, buddy!" Din felt another surge of hope. A vambrace would fit through the vent.
Buir will fight many enemies!
"You better believe it." The next problem was actually opening the vent cover so he could get the vambraces. Would they see what he was doing? The cell was watched constantly, even if no one heard what they said. "Grogu. Can you just loosen the screws that hold that vent cover in place? When no one's looking, I can reach in and get them."
Grogu agreed enthusiastically. For some time, he worked in careful concentration. Din could not see the boy but could picture the way he sat cross-legged, eyes closed, claws working. He dozed on and off while Grogu worked. Gradually, one by one, the screws holding up the vent cover came out, but not all the way. The cover hung on, but just barely.
A loud yawn came from the vent. Time for the next shift drew nearer.
"Go," whispered Din. "Get rest. We need to be ready for anything."
"ON PROGRAM."
The beginning of the third shift. Maybe the fifth day since he had taken off his armor. In a terrible way, he was getting used to it. Was it worse to wear the armor of an enemy guard or to be barefaced and barefoot in the garb of a prisoner? Was there much of a difference?
One part of him wanted to curl up and shut down like a faulty droid. But there was Grogu. There were his oaths. There was Omera. There were the Wookie brothers back at the Arena and Kino Loy. Hell, there was Mayfeld. His other friends and allies, on Mandalore, Tatooine, Nevarro.
And there was vengeance to exact on Varro and Merrix.
All his life he had been driven by single-minded purpose: Take the Creed. Join the Guild. Provide for the Covert. Find the quarry. Protect the child. Find the Jedi. Find other Mandalorians. Destroy Gideon. Bathe in the waters. Retake Mandalore. Sometimes that focus had been helpful, sometimes not. But now, Din's ferocious sense of purpose held him together, Creed or not.
After the shower, a guard came and unceremoniously gave the datapad to Boxer as the new shift manager. The shift passed quickly. Now Din's table was down a man, but thanks to his capacity for hard work the men avoided punishment, even though they did not come in first at shift's end.
After eating enough to keep up his energy, Din fell quickly asleep in his cell.
He awoke to a banging sound. A guard stood directly in front of the cell. "Rise and shine, sunshine."
There was no mistaking Mayfeld's voice behind that helmet.
Slowly Din rose to his feet. He wasn't expecting this so soon. Maybe his luck was starting to change for the better?
"Mica, is that you?" called Boxer from the corridor. "The hell you doing here?"
"They got a charming little tradition when an inmate becomes a guard. You're supposed to choose one of your former underlings for a nice visit to the Warden," Mayfeld said.
Well, it was luck. Not exactly good, though.
"Come on, don't take him," said Boxer. "He's a good worker."
"What can I say? The Warden likes a challenge."
Din saw one more guard standing at the end of the corridor. Then he looked squarely at where Mayfeld's eyes were. He nodded, once, at the ceiling vent, and reached a hand up in a slight point, hoping the message was getting across. Mayfeld stepped into the cell, his body blocking the view.
"Get going, asshole," said Mayfeld. "We can't wait to see what the Warden wants to do with you." More quietly he said, "Are you waiting for a formal invitation? Would you hurry the fuck up?"
Carefully Din moved the plate, reached into the small hole, found the vambraces, pulled them out. He put them on his bare forearms and pulled the sleeves over them. The feel of the vambraces on his wrist was comforting, even if they rubbed a little bit without a barrier of cloth. Then he replaced the cover—it was crooked but would have to do.
"Come on." Mayfeld grabbed Din's upper arm and pushed him out. "On program!" Din placed his hands to his head.
"Oh yeah, this is gonna be good," said the other guard. "You shoulda seen the last time the Warden wanted to make an example out of some prisoner. He put up this tough front but then soon enough he was crying for his mother. Took a few buckets to take all of him out."
I'll kill you first, thought Din.
Mayfeld walked behind him as they left the cell block. As he walked past the other prisoners, some looked away, some shook their heads. Several protested but none dared anything—the other guard hit their cells threateningly with his baton. "Shut up, dirtballs, unless you wanna take his place!"
They walked. Din readied himself, studied his surroundings, planned for their next move.
The other guard lingered behind them, talking to another guard that had joined them. When there was a little distance, Mayfeld asked in a soft voice, "How did you get those little toys in here?"
"We have some help," said Din.
"You're gonna need it," said Mayfeld. "That Warden is a seriously crazy motherfucker."
"Was this your idea?"
"Oh, no. This is real."
"Merrix and Varro can't allow this."
"You kidding? This is Merrix's idea. Merrix loves shows and this conditioning shit. It's like a win-win."
"Will Merrix be there, or Varro?"
"That Varro lady is off planet for some reason. She is some piece of work. I don't know about Merrix."
Din moved his head slightly at the other guard out of earshot. "We can take him. Now."
"Don't be stupid. Everyone's watching us." And Din had to admit he was right. The windows of the Panopticon were hard to avoid. "We gotta get out of sight. I've seen you at work. You can take the Warden."
"I can take the Warden?"
"Right behind ya, buddy." A pause. "Wait just a fucking minute. Who is this help?"
Din said nothing.
"It's the kid. He's hiding here somewhere, isn't he?" Appalled horror in his voice. "You brought that kid with you. Oh man. You raving asshole. You crazy prick. You're his father."
"He's my apprentice," said Din, stung.
"Oh! Well! That's okay then! Your apprentice! That little kid, that baby, here? Unbelievable."
"This wasn't exactly my choice," hissed Din. "Calm down."
Both stopped talking as they reached the corridor to the central tower. They entered a lift and the other guard said, "Game Room." Din didn't remember a game room from the prison plans, but he had a bad feeling about the games played here.
Finally they came to a large, circular room on an upper level of the Panopticon. There were no windows, which was good, but everything else was bad. It had the same lethal tungsteel floor with short white pillars scattered unevenly. The tallest came to Din's chest, the shortest only shin-height.
The Warden waited in the center of the room, accompanied by ten guards. Mayfeld and the other two guards went to stand with them.
Twelve. Plus the Warden.
"How marvelous," said the Warden. There was the familiar face of Boba Fett again, but twisted, with madness shining from his dark eyes. "I remember you. You withstood the sedative. Quite tough. This will be a fine Game."
As he spoke he pulled off his upper-body armor and shirt. The man was impressively fit, but every inch of his chest and arms were covered with scars and a dizzying tracery of tattoos. He still wore the vambrace that controlled the floor.
"Welcome the Game Room," he said. "Our genius founder Mr. Merrix created the concept for this room. It must be said that my patroness Miss Gallia Varro does not altogether approve of Mr. Merrix's proclivity to games. This room was strictly intended for guard training by Miss Varro, but Mr. Merrix has made improvements and of course invented the Game. In short, this is Mr. Merrix's secret from Miss Varro and we will keep it that way. Activate the lookdown protocols." An extra set of heavy steel doors shut over every exit. The Warden smiled. "We seal the Game Room from the rest of the prison. We have a saying. What happens the Game Room, stays in the Game Room." He looked at the assembled guards. "This is to be an honorable fight. You will all place your blasters in the depository."
One by one the guards obediently placed their blasters in a mental slot. And why not? They still had their clubs and stun sticks, as well as the floor. They were all helmeted, but Din knew which one was Mayfeld. When Mayfeld came last, did he actually throw his blaster into the slot, or did he just rattle it convincingly?
"Get up there, you," said the guard closest to Din. He pushed Din to a pillar. Din stepped onto it as the Warden gave another speech.
"You see, the genius of this place is that I too was a prisoner once. After my time in service, I had to make my way through an uncaring galaxy. I was quite good at killing and inflicting pain. I loved my work, perhaps overmuch. But I got caught." He smiled fondly. "Miss Varro—bless her!—saw my great potential. We tell new guards to choose a prisoner from their own block for my practice. It could be a man they worked with. It could even be a friend. This symbolizes the transition from prisoner to guard. Of course, sometimes we turn guards back into prisoners." The Warden took a long, white knife—more like a sword—from a sheath on his thigh. In his other hand, a small club. "In a moment this floor will be activated to lethal levels. My men and I are protected by our boots. You must stand on the pillars. But of course, you will have to avoid me and avoid being knocked to the floor. This is a one-on-one fight. My men will not interfere. You have a chance to survive, you know." He smiled. "But none have before."
"There's a first time for everything," Din said.
He took in a deep, calm breath, centering himself, focusing on his balance. This was more like it. He was on familiar territory now. No more hiding or pretending. It was not good to be without full armor or helmet, and frankly his feet were getting sore after several days of being barefoot. He missed his boots as much as anything else. But an open fight felt refreshing. He had fought without weapons on Mandalore. He had fought without his armor or even a functioning blaster on Morak.
Perhaps his whole life he had been preparing for this moment, this battle, and not known it.
At least now he had his vambraces, but he would have to be sparing. He couldn't exhaust the fuel or whistling birds too soon.
"I like your spirit." The Warden nodded and the group of guards moved to a platform on the side of the room raised above the floor, Mayfeld among them. "A shame that Mr. Merrix himself could not witness this Game, he does so enjoy it. Let us proceed." The Warden extended his wrist and activated the floor.
Din leapt immediately to another pillar. The Warden followed, made a swift feint, but Din avoided the blade. Again he leapt, and again the Warden followed. He lunged and this time his blade caught Din on the thigh. The shallow cut ripped the thin coverall. It did not hurt but blood spotted the white fabric. Din parried his next thrust with his forearm. The Warden frowned in puzzlement. The coverall sleeve, sliced by the Warden, fell away to reveal Din's beskar vambrace.
From the corner of his eye, Din saw Mayfeld edging away from the other guards. Good—they were on the same wavelength.
"Oh ho!" said the Warden in evident delight. "Mandalorian by the look of it. Part of the missing beskar trove. I have always wanted to test myself against proper Mandalorian weaponry. By the end you will reveal the location of the rest to me, as you lie screaming in a pool of your blood."
The Warden was dismayingly fast and strong. He followed Din as he jumped from pillar to pillar and slashed with the blade, swung with the club. Din blocked a blow once with the vambrace, but it hurt, badly. The next blow hit him hard on the shoulder and he grunted with pain. Like on Morak, he had to change tactics because he couldn't rely on his complete beskar to absorb blows.
Din shifted his feet, adjusted his balance, made as if to jump right, but instead he jumped left. But the Warden was fast. He slashed out and Din parried once more, but just barely. Another slash across his chest ripped through the prisoner's coverall. The cut was shallow but stung, blood now running down Din's chest.
Enough of this.
Din's flamethrower erupted squarely on the Warden's bare face and chest. He screamed in agony and fell back against a pillar. He did not fall to the floor but he was clearly in pain. Good. "You fools!" he screamed. "Come assist me!"
So much for the idiotic one-on-one, fair fight posturing. The guards began to advance across the floor toward Din. Mayfeld rapidly drew the blaster he had clearly not surrendered and shot three guards in the back as they scurried toward the Warden and Din. Still a good trigger man. This surprise threat confused the guards badly—they paused, then four turned back to deal with Mayfeld, while the other five advanced on Din. They wove between the pillars.
"They're both in on it! Don't kill them. I want to know where the rest of that armor is," shouted the Warden. "I want them to suffer."
A guard swung at him with his stun stick. Din parried with his vambrace and dove to the next pillar—the vambrace absorbed the shock. His feet tottered dangerously on the edge. He shot the whipcord and ensnared his attacker, yanking him back so his head hit a pillar with a loud clang. The guard fell to the floor and died with a scream.
Eight left.
Meanwhile, it looked like Mayfeld was in trouble. He had taken cover behind a pillar, staying low while still not allowing any part of his body to come in contact with the floor except for his boots.
"We've got to turn this floor off!" Din shouted at Mayfeld.
"You think!?" Mayfeld took a shot at the others advancing on his position but missed at his awkward angle. "You need to get the Warden's controller!"
In answer Din crouched and released the whistling birds. There was a pop, crackle, and whine as the tiny projectiles hit home and brought three men down. His supply was now sadly depleted. Only five men left, plus the Warden. Din retracted the whipcord, shot it out again. The cord wrapped around a guard's neck. Din pulled him close. In the brief struggle that followed Din twisted off the man's helmet while breaking his neck and grabbed his club.
Three left. And the Warden. Where was he?
In answer, a ferocious blow hit Din on his left side. He lost his breath and nearly fell to the floor. The pain was astonishing but he turned to face his attacker. It was the Warden, looking somewhat red now but recovered enough to fight again. His face was wild with rage. Din had a club in one hand and for some reason the guard's helmet in the other. Without thinking Din struck the Warden with the helmet. The Warden met it with his club and the miserable helmet shattered. Din was left holding a long shard of a plasticene-like material. A long, sharp shard. He slashed out at the Warden, cutting his cheek, then brought down the club on his wrist. The Warden's vambrace shattered and he howled in pain—his arm was clearly broken. The lights flickered. Another swing from the club and the Warden fell to the floor—but the tungsteel floor was no longer activated, so he did not cook in his own skin.
On the other side of the room, Mayfeld was still fending off his own attackers. He managed to bring down one more. Two left, but then one managed to get to Mayfeld with his stun stick. Mayfeld screamed, fell.
But Din could hardly focus on him now. He had achieved a state of pure, red-minded berserker rage, focused entirely on the enemy in front of him, his pain pushed down. The Warden was back on his feet. He snarled like an animal, fighting despite his injuries as was Din. Now they were more evenly matched with the killing floor deactivated. The Warden now only had his club, his blade arm shattered. Din's nose had been broken. He could barely breathe but he could not stop. He slashed out again with the helmet shard, deeply cutting the Warden's throat. A spray of blood covered Din, mixing with the copious amount of his own blood already smearing his face and body.
The Warden sank to his knees, clutching his throat. His dying eyes bulged. He convulsed. Then he stopped.
The remaining two guards ran at Din. Din turned to face them. They stopped abruptly when they saw his bloody face and wild eyes. Then they turned and fled in terror at his wrath. Din pursued them and clubbed them down.
Now it was just Din and Mayfeld alone in the Game Room, now hideously stained with blood. Din staggered to where Mayfeld lay unconscious and bloodied. Was he all right?
Because Din wasn't.
"Mayfeld," he said, or tried to say. He fell to his knees, dizzy. All of the pain he had pushed away could not be held back any more. He felt everything he had gone through since coming to this planet—every cut and bruise, his broken ribs, his broken nose, the horror of the floor. The hideous grinding pain of broken bones in his forearm.
And now a new, intense, ominous pain somewhere in his upper left abdomen. He knew exactly what this was. The Warden's club has ruptured some vital organ on his left side, beneath his ribs. He had seen strong people die this way, bleed to death from the inside.
He was dying.
It would be a noble death, but that was little comfort. He had failed. The Panopticon and Arena still stood. Merrix and Varro still lived. Mayfeld was badly hurt, maybe dying as well. Kino Loy was unavenged. The Imps would grow stronger.
Grogu would be alone.
Din fell to his right side, curling up in agony. Delirious thoughts tumbled through his mind.
Grogu. Ad'ika. I failed you. I wanted to be your father. You will have a long life without me. I wanted to be there for you, even if just for a little part of it. Be strong. Escape and get help to defeat our enemies. Do not be alone. Go back to Mandalore and Bo-Katan and live in honor among our people, help rebuild our shattered world. Go back to Skywalker and become a mighty Jedi. Go back to Boba Fett's palace, he too will honor you and you will serve a great daimyo. Go back to Greef Karga and he will spoil you but also teach you his cunning ways. Hell, go back to the Duchess and play games and eat sweets in her palace.
Go back to Omera and be happy and loved.
There was a loud crash, somewhere above him. What was it? He couldn't quite open his eyes.
You can do all of these things. But I wish…
From his barely open eyes, he thought he saw a glimpse of eyes like bottomless dark pools. A feel of a small hand. Was it real? It was so hard to tell. He pulled away. "No. This is too much for you…"
Then everything was black.