Outside a drizzly gray morning dawned. Din watched Winta and the neighboring children play a farewell game of tag in the little yard. The window was still ideal—Din could eat while watching Grogu play. And Grogu certainly knew he was being watched, because he was starting to show off. Some of those flips were pretty fancy. So far Grogu hadn't tried actually pushing kids down—not that Din thought he would really try, but it was good to get going before he got carried away.
He hadn't planned on spending the night, but it would have been wrong not to take Omera up on her offer of hospitality. Never turn down food and a comfortable place to sleep. It might be a long time until there was enough privacy to rest without his helmet, let alone wash or eat without awkwardness.
A gentle knock. "Have you had enough breakfast?" Omera asked through the door.
Yes, hospitality was the only reason Din had decided to stay the night.
"I have. Thank you." Din studied the helmet resting on the table next to his bowl. Every line, curve, and slight indentation was much more familiar to him than the reflection of his own face in the beskar. Then he took it in both hands, inhaled deeply, then placed it where it belonged.
Downstairs, Din put the last packet of dried krill jerky in his pack. "Thank you again," he said. "We'll have a long walk from the ship to the trading post."
Omera leaned against the door. "Are you sure you won't leave him here? Just while you're…working?"
Grogu would lead a quiet, safe, happy life here, well-loved and well-fed. "I appreciate the offer," Din answered. Again he pushed away a bothersome flutter of sadness. "But his path and mine are joined now." He paused. "No matter where I go, he's safest with me."
Omera smiled wryly. "Maybe you're safest with him."
Din said nothing.
"I hope we see you again soon," she said. "I guess, good luck? Good hunting isn't quite right."
"No, good hunting is fine."
"Thank you. Please, be careful. Both you and Grogu."
Din nodded and went to the door. "Time to go, buddy," he called. The children, Grogu included, looked crestfallen. His ears drooped dejectedly. Din turned back to Omera, not especially wanting to see any tearful goodbyes. "Take care of Winta. And…take care of yourself too."
###
"I have a plan, kid," Din told Grogu as they camouflaged the ship. "It's risky, but it's a way in."
Din tugged at the net of woven branches to stretch it out over the N-1, but then he felt it move on its own. The net slid into place over the engines on its own. Din looked down at his son, who stood with hand outstretched.
"Thanks. But when we get to the settlement, keep it to yourself, until we really need it." The boy's big dark eyes were quizzical. "Don't worry. I'll keep you safe, like always. Follow my lead and stick close. You'll know when it's the right time."
Grogu rode on Din's back for the walk to the post for the sake of speed, pausing for one very inadequate (for Grogu) snack. Sounds of construction filled the forest as they approached the outskirts of the trading settlement, and Din put the boy down so he could stretch his legs.
The place was much larger than Din remembered, and even rougher. Ramshackle buildings spread out into the forest and on piers over the swamp to its north. The ratio of bar to inhabitant was quite high, to say nothing of brothel. Gangs of workers roamed the winding streets, some in Merrix guard uniforms, others in construction coveralls with Merrix and other company logos. Both sets gave each other hard looks.
Yes, it was very similar to the many Outer Rim boom towns Din had seen over the years. But instead of ore or machines or even krill, this one now mostly revolved around the trading of people. But the convicts themselves were nowhere to be seen. It was all happening in orbit, in the Merrix station.
So that was where Din needed to be too if he was ever going to find "Mica."
It's a better life…with Merrix!
The Merrix logo was vaguely reminiscent of a planet orbiting a star, cheerful blue and yellow. Holos played in a constant loop around the Merrix recruitment pavilion. The cheerful voice continued.
Yes, no matter your career path, Merrix offers unlimited opportunities for training, bonuses, and advancement. Whether guard, clerical staff, crew member, or construction specialist, you're sure to reach new heights with Merrix Fleet Services. So why not start on your path to success in the exciting, growing field of correctional transport? We have a place for you and your unique skills. Welcome to the Merrix team!
Accompanying the voiceover and music, the holos showed a variety of smiling, cheerful, and improbably clean cut Merrix employees, nearly all humans. Long lines waited at tables in front of the pavilion as a steady stream of people sat for on-the-spot interviews with Merrix recruiters. Grogu gazed up at the holos, mesmerized by the light.
It's a better life…with Merrix!
They would definitely have a place for Din and his unique skills. But he suspected that waiting in line for an interview was only one way to get there.
###
"Spotchka? Best in this part of town."
Din shook his head. "No. But kosh milk for him." The barkeeper nodded and moved off. Grogu "hmphed" disappointedly. "Don't give me that look. You're too young for spotchka." He took this opportunity to study the clientele. This bar seemed to serve mostly guards, with a few traders or possible contractors in the mix. A particularly troublesome-looking cluster of men in Merrix guard uniforms occupied a corner table. Din counted six, and they looked distinctly rougher than the smiling employees in the holos.
They kept looking in his direction as they talked.
Din knew what was going to happen next. He had been in dozens, maybe hundreds, of places like this over the years, and he knew the signs—the look of the place, the feel of the people inside, the unspoken tension in the air.
He knew what was going to happen, and he was expecting it. It was part of the plan.
But it still made him weary.
As Grogu drank, little hands wrapped around a thick mug, two of the men got up. Din moved from relaxed watchfulness to readiness, his body not really tensing but preparing.
One of the guards leaned on the bar next to Din, an unpleasant smile on a greasy, unshaven face. "Hey," he said, spewing bad breath that Din's helmet did nothing to stop. "My buddies and me have a bet."
Din was silent.
"Are you a real Mandalorian?"
More silence.
"'Cause my stupid hoople-head friend says they're extinct, but I know better. I worked with one couple years ago. Everyone thought he was some kinda tough, scary guy, but tell the truth I was never impressed." He took a sip from his drink. "But I do know what real beskar looks like. Mighty shiny."
"What the hell is this thing?" This was from the man standing on the other side of Grogu. He looked down at the boy with fascination. "This is a new one on me."
"Boy, that's a good question," says the first man. "Maybe it's a bounty. That's what they do, you know. Mandalorians." Grogu's ears perked up, but he continued to drink his milk, seemingly unconcerned.
"Work for the highest bidder."
"Anyone can wear armor," said a third man from behind Din. Without turning around, Din could sense he was the biggest, and probably posed the greater threat. The three others at the table were paying very, very close attention to this conversation. "But I've always thought it was all reputation with Mandalorians. All appearances. If they're so great, where'd they all go?"
"True professionals have steady jobs," said the first man. "Bounty hunters can't hack real work."
"Not professionals," agreed the third man. "Always wondered how I'd do against one, though."
"Aren't they supposed to be weird about never taking off their helmets?"
"Oh, yeah."
Here it comes, thought Din.
"Even when…?"
"Never," said the third man. "Even then. That's what they say."
"I wonder what he got for this thing," said the second man, still staring at Grogu. "Can't have put up much of a fight."
"Just goes to show," said the third man. "All reputation."
"All fluff, no stuff."
"But that beskar, though."
"Not in here, boys," said the barkeeper sternly. "Not in here." The three men looked at each, shrugged. The tension decreased, but only a little. Din kept facing forward.
"Hey!" The second man next Grogu yelped and stared down at his blue and yellow uniform, now stained brown. "That thing got kosh milk all over me."
The mug had tipped over, but it was not clear how so much milk had stained the man's uniform. Grogu looked up at Din with that wide-eyed, innocent, who, me? look that he was so familiar with.
"That smell will never come out," said the first man. "Merrix will take that out of your pay."
"You better pay up for the cleaning bill, Mando," said the milk-stained man.
"This beskar will pay for a lot of cleaning," the third man and put his arms around Din from behind. It was not a bad hold, and the man had a little training. But not enough. Din butted his head backwards sharply, feeling the helmet crunch cartilage. The man held on but Din pushed his legs against the bar and kicked back, throwing the big man off. He collapsed, holding his nose.
The rest of the bar's patrons scrambled for cover. The second man tried to chase Grogu, but he had crawled into a vent underneath the bar, just out of reach behind a metal grill. The first man pulled a knife. Din took the knife out of his hand, breaking the man's wrist in the process. He sank to his knees howling next to his broken-nosed friend. The second man tried to dive behind the bar after Grogu and Din hurled the knife at him. It hit home squarely in the back of his thigh, and the man yelled, curling up in pain.
The three others stood and approached now, one with a blaster. He aimed but not quickly enough. Din shot the whipcord out, looping around his knees and pulling him down the floor hard enough to crack his head against a table on the way down, his blaster clattering away.
Now there were two—one tall, one short and jittery-looking. The tall one was thick, muscular, and moved like he knew what he was doing. He came forward, holding a metal stool, while the smaller one hung back. The tall man grinned.
"Wanna play, Mando?"
Din could have ended this very, very easily. But that wasn't the goal right now.
The stool swung at Din's head and he ducked, then ducked again as it came back the other way. The third time he swept the tall man's legs out from under him. The stool clattered out of the man's hands and Din seized it, smashing it on his back. He was about to deliver a second blow that would leave his opponent stunned on the floor when two arms wrapped around his neck from behind. A blade was inches from his visor—not just a plain knife but a decent vibro blade.
"I think I can find a soft spot in this armor," hissed the short man, who had been the true threat the whole time. Din fought to break free, but the man's grip was wiry and unrelenting. Din slammed the man backwards against walls, knocking over many tables as they fought. Then Din tried to flip him forward but the short man had secured his foot behind some kind of ductwork.
In the struggle, Din caught sight of Grogu hiding under a table, peering up at him with worry. Din felt their eyes meet even through the helmet. No, he thought, trying to shake his head, hoping that the boy could understand. Not now. Not yet. And Grogu did seem to understand, because he retreated further. But the short man noticed.
"Ooh, cute lil' critter. You sure seem to like it. Maybe I'll bring it in stuffed, like a throw pillow. Get the bounty that way."
This kind of talk never failed to enrage Din. The short man was clearly used to goading enemies until they made mistakes, counting on rage making his opponents more clumsy and less effective. But Mandalorians understood that rage was just another weapon in their arsenal, helping them become more focused, more dangerous.
Din twisted, pulled, and broke the man's grasp, feeling a satisfying crunch and pop in the man's shoulder as he threw him down. But even on the floor, the man's eyes glittered with malice. Din stepped hard on his hand as he tried to reach for the blade, feeling more bones break underfoot.
"Enough."
Din looked up, his breathing hard but still controlled. A hooded woman had been sitting in another corner the entire time—he had spotted her the moment they entered the bar. Now she came forward, pushing the hood back. Beneath the plain cloak she was as carefully coiffured and made-up as if she had stepped out of a Coruscant fashion district. But her dark face, framed by enormous earrings, was hard and calculating.
"Very impressive," she said. "It's one thing to hear about Mandalorians, another to see them at work. You took down six men, without actually slaughtering them." She looked over the human wreckage groaning on the floor with disdain. "Not our best, but not our worst either. Your restraint is admirable."
"Who are you?" asked Din, pretty sure he knew. Grogu waited beneath the table, studying her intently.
"My name is Gallia Varro. I'm the head of recruitment for Merrix Fleet Industries. And we're looking for good people to provide security on one route in particular, transporting some of the most dangerous convicts in the galaxy." She smiled, but it was not a smile that reached her eyes. "I would like to offer you a job."