When Din opened his eyes, he knew he had dreamed about the floor, even though he couldn't remember his dreams.

He felt a brief moment of panic when he realized he wore no helmet. Then he felt Grogu curled next to his head. Everything came back to him then, and he relaxed. He lay for a moment listening to his snoring child, feeling his warmth.

His next thought: This is a terrible plan.

The first part of the plan had worked so far. He had successfully taken on a guard's identity and helmet. He had smuggled both son and armor into the prison. Back in the Arena safe room, it seemed the next logical step would be to take on the identity of a prisoner. After committing to remove his helmet and impersonate a guard, impersonating a prisoner seemed the logical next step. He had resolutely shoved the question of the Creed into a box to think about later.

This task was too important—not just because of Mayfeld and Omera, but because of the scale of evil this facility represented. This place must supply materiel to Imp warlords throughout the galaxy.

Plus, Grogu's faith in him was total.

But now that he was actually here, Din simply didn't think he could pull it off. All of this pretending and subterfuge was really not his strong point, even with his face covered. It had felt terrible even just to see his bare feet exposed in front of Varro and Merrix. On Morak, he had been reduced to gaping idiocy by that damned Imp. He could barely respond to a direct question once his face was exposed for just a few minutes.

How well was he really going to function for days with his face exposed, crippled by shame?

Then there was the Panopticon. Kino Loy had told him how the prisoners on Narkina 5 had staged their escape by flooding the tungsteel floor in order to disable it. The prisoners had been able to make plans because the Empire had understaffed the prison, and with their typical arrogance did not even bother listening to anything said in the cells. It seemed as if the Imps had learned a few lessons since then. Between the constant surveillance and the fact that even the factory floor toilets were now open to observation, Din could not hope to exploit the same weaknesses.

Part of him—a very small part—wanted to put back on his own armor, kill Varro and Merrix, and try to shoot his way down to Mayfeld's cell. Probably dying a glorious death in the process.

But the rest of him—including the fatherly part—realized that "pointless, stupid death" didn't necessary mean "glorious death." First, of course, was Grogu. Living for Grogu was infinitely more important than dying for him. And getting Mayfeld killed in a firefight wouldn't help Omera at all, much less the other prisoners. It would also serve as a poor memorial for Loy, a brave man. Maybe he should gather as much information as possible, contact Teva for support, and get the hell out of here with Grogu. Not necessarily in that order.

It would be nice, however, to kill Varro and Merrix personally. It would be more responsible to turn them over to the New Republic, but look how well that had turned out with Moff Gideon.

No, he would have to stay disguised as a guard for this to work. Din might not be able to play the part of a convict convincingly, but Mayfeld sure as hell could pretend to be a guard. Plans had to change in order to adapt to reality.

"Grogu," murmured Din. "Wake up, son."

After a lot of luxurious yawning and stretching, Grogu opened his eyes. "Boo."

Din fetched them both some kind of porridge from the food dispensary. They both ate quietly, but Grogu never took his eyes off Din's bare face.

"Guess you're still getting used to this, huh?" asked Din.

"Huh," agreed Grogu.

"Me too."

Grogu set his bowl aside and tapped on his upper lip with one claw. "Huh?"

"What? Oh." Din smiled. "This?" He pointed at his own upper lip. "Mustache."

The little boy nodded. "Muah," he tried.

"You think I should shave it off?" That got a vigorous shake of a head. "Okay. Needs a trim, though. Maybe when we get out of here."

Grogu stared with rapt fascination, occasionally patting his lips, as Din quickly washed and dressed to get ready for his shift. Of course he would be curious about Din's face and body—that was normal for kids, even Mandalorian kids. In a very short time, Grogu had gone from barely a glimpse of his father's face to, well, a good look at a whole lot more of him. His unblinking gaze was so intense that Din felt a little bashful.

He'll get used to this, Din thought. I will too. It's not bad to be like this, just the two of us, as a family.

Din had always assumed the Creed forbade helmets removed even around family—but now he was beginning to question that assumption. He wondered, painfully, about Ragnar. Visla had taken the formal step of adopting the boy, something that had inspired Din. Had Paz Visla, that most resolute and ferocious Mandalorian, removed his helmet in privacy with his son?

Of course I wouldn't know, Din thought, rising bitterness taking him by surprise. Din had been well-cared for. He had always loved his tribe, his rescuers, the foster parents under whom he had been apprenticed. But no one, no clan, had ever taken that formal step for Din, had they?

Why? What was wrong with me?

It was a child's whisper deep inside, a whisper that Din had always tried to ignore and push away. Maybe he had been too surly, too quiet, too prickly, too difficult? Perhaps he had just seemed like a self-reliant, solitary youth who wanted to be alone. But that wasn't true. He thought then about his parents on Aq Vetina, how they had tried to save him, how it took him so long to really understand. I didn't want you to shut the doors. I wanted you to keep me with you. I was only afraid when I was alone.

Maybe that was why he had taken so many risks to find redemption in the waters, nearly getting himself killed. Maybe that's why he backed Bo-Katan and pushed so hard for Mandalore to be retaken. Maybe it was all to silence that lonely child's voice.

Din looked at his raw face in the tiny mirror above the sink. Fine time to ruminate on sad and unproductive thoughts. He never used to brood like this—must be fatherhood. Din shook his head as if to clear it. He wasn't alone any more. Grogu would never be left behind. Even if they had to temporarily separate to destroy this prison and defeat their enemies, they would do it together.

The Creed guided his life…but he would raise his son in his own way. It was that simple.

Din turned to meet Grogu's intense, expectant gaze.

"Are you ready to explore?" he asked.

The boy nodded eagerly, as if he thought Din would never ask.

###

Din reported to his post at the station near Control Room 4. Sarge was waiting with helmet off and frowned when Din appeared. A nod of conspiratorial understanding passed between them. After their ordeal with Varro yesterday, Din hoped the man wasn't getting cold feet about smuggling the armor out of here. He needed more information from him.

Somewhere, deep in the structure of the Panopticon, Grogu was exploring. Din was not exactly in touch with the Force, but he could feel his presence, and hoped he was okay.

The two of them had spent time going over prison floor plans back in the room, Grogu studying the maze of vents and ducts and tracing routes with one claw. Then he had disappeared into the vent with aplomb. The boy's rapid growth in understanding and courage never failed to impress Din. After all the years hiding in darkness, Grogu was making up for lost time. More fatherhood lessons—if you treated children like they were capable, they would try to rise to your expectations.

Now Din studied the control room itself. Floor to ceiling windows looked out onto factory floors and cell blocks. Guards studied view monitors and listened to earpieces. They checked productivity and food and water intake. With a sinking heart, Din realized they could see and hear everything. But some stations were unmanned. Like Kino Loy had said about Narkina 5, the ratio of guard to prisoner was definitely in the prisoners' favor. They relied on the floor for control and power.

White-suited convicts toiled ceaselessly. They churned out machine parts, rifles, ammunition, armor, even rations. They labored in great kitchens producing meals for the facility. In other workshops, they laundered and fabricated uniforms. The floor bosses and shift managers stalked factory floors, urging their men to higher productivity—and why not, if it meant a chance to be a guard? Walls and ceilings were stark white. Monitors showed closeups of men in their cells sleeping, eating, and trying to stay clean. Some faces were determined, especially the bosses. Most were numb and resigned.

As far as Din could tell, every floor had open cells and every factory had open tables. The steady influx of prisoners to use as slaves couldn't keep up with demand.

But who was in charge of this facility when Merrix and Varro were away? Who was their second?

"I want us to be reassigned to another floor," Din said quietly. "You can swing that, right?"

Sarge's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"I know one of the inmates on six. He has black market contacts who can help us get a fair price for the beskar."

Sarge nodded thoughtfully. "And we get him better food, privileges, maybe a chance at being a guard." Then he frowned again. "But he'll want a cut of the profits."

"We'll be long gone." After spending a lot of time around criminals, Din found it disturbingly easy to act like one. "But we have to be careful. I know they can hear everything everyone says in the cells." He nodded at the monitoring stations.

Sarge actually laughed, a short, bitter bark. "Are you kidding? Don't be paranoid. That's the least of our worries." He also nodded at the monitoring stations surrounding them. "If they had droids monitoring the audio, sure. But they won't use 'em. Merrix is obsessed with that 'humans first' crap. No droids, even when there's something droids could do better. You think there's enough actual people here to listen everything everyone says?"

Din nodded, feeling a stab of hope. Maybe this plan could work after all. "Okay. Then get us to six."

"Tell me his name."

"No. You have to trust me."

"Why?"

"Because I'm trusting you not to expose me. We each have leverage."

Sarge put on his helmet. "Mutually assured destruction. Yeah. You keep saying that."

"Because I don't want you to forget it."

Soon Din, Sarge, and two others patrolled the sixth level, working their way through the corridors between factory floors and cell blocks. Men worked on tables in a smooth flow, as automatic as if they were droids. Din kept an eye out for Mayfeld, finally spotted him roaming the factory floor. He would remember that pale, red-stubbled face anywhere. He was stalking between tables, datapad in hand, haranguing and coaxing the convicts fabricating machine parts at eight tables.

"The hell you doing? Stop screwing around and get a move on…Hey man, focus. Look at me. Focus! You wanna get a kriffin' zap from the floor? I sure as hell don't…Oh, you're tired? Tough shit, princess…"

Of course Mayfeld would rise to be a foreman. He knew what the Imps liked to see.

"If you want to talk to one of these guys, best bet is shift change," said Sarge. "Only one hour more."

Din nodded—that would make sense. Periods of transition—new inmate transfers and shift changes—were the most unstable and he would need to take advantage of them. As they continued to patrol, Din studied everything—every door, every vent, the number of guards per floor, how the factories brought in raw material and sent out finished products. Every possible weakness. As the shift change grew close, a warning bell rang and strobe lights flashed. Din followed the lead of the other guards as they readied themselves around the factory floor.

"ON PROGRAM." A harsh, distorted voice echoed throughout level six.

"ON PROGRAM!" yelled Sarge.

On cue, the prisoners stopped their work and put their hands to their heads. From where he stood, Din could see Mayfeld studying his datapad. "All right, you rotten sons of bitches! Listen up! Shift winner is Table Six."

The men at one work table nodded at each in a kind of weary triumph. "All right, a good dinner for a change," muttered one.

"Nice work, boys," said Mayfeld. "Now for the bad news." Din noticed how Mayfeld looked down so he wouldn't have to look anyone in the eyes. Shame on his face was plain. "Table Two."

Instantly the men around Table Two screamed as Sarge used his controllers to activate the floor under their feet. Sarge's activator, unlike Varro's, only seemed to work for the prisoner floors. The other guards chuckled at the sight of this torture, and the other prisoners seemed to take a grim satisfaction that it wasn't happening to them.

And that was the evil here, wasn't it? They had turned men into…what, exactly? Not animals—animals didn't inflict pain like this. Not machines, either—whatever you thought about droids, they didn't feel delight in suffering. Din nearly shook with disgust and rage. He hated the idea that Grogu might have seen this.

The punishment was swift but short. The prisoners staggered back to their feet. "It's not fair," groaned one. "Our table's down a man. How can we be expected to keep up?"

"Pipe down, Boxer," said Mayfeld, gritting his teeth. "Don't make 'em do it to you again."

"Feel lucky you just got level three, you worthless mudscuffers," sneered Sarge. "On program!"

I can make this work, Din thought. If he could stay stationed here on six, he could find a way to incapacitate Sarge, take his uniform and helmet. Mayfeld could impersonate Sarge and both of them disguised as guards could get out of here with Grogu in tow on the next prisoner transfer shuttle. It had worked before, mostly. Maybe it could work again—as long as Mayfeld kept his mouth shut this time.

Then Din would return with backup and burn this place to the ground.

Mayfeld also raised his hands, his face a careful blank. Without another word the barefoot prisoners turned and marched to the exit, back to their cells. He moved to follow, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. "Come on," Sarge said. "New prisoners on the way."

"I need to talk to my contact," said Din to Sarge, when the other guard was out of earshot.

"Don't worry. You'll get your chance." Din tensed. There was something unpleasant in his tone, something he did not like. He would need to be ready for anything.

The four of them—Din, Sarge, and two others—moved to the bridge, a glass-walled tube that carried guards from the outer ring of cells and workshops to the central control tower. A long, Grogu-sized duct stretch on top. Again, Din had to hand it to Varro and her damned Panopticon. In the unlikely event of an uprising they simply had to close these bridges off.

"Incoming inmate," said an automated voice. The door from the tower opened and a single prisoner, already in the white jumpsuit, came through with yet another guard. This would be the new man for level six, Din guessed, bounded for the unlucky Table Two. The door closed, and they were shut in the tube—five guards, Din, and the prisoner.

"Opaque," said Sarge. The windows surrounding them turned black. Those inside could no longer see out—and the control tower could no longer see in. Sarge took off his helmet, a smile on his bland face. "I've always thought this was a nice feature. You can see everything everywhere all the time here. But sometimes…sometimes we gotta blow off a little steam, you know? Away from windows and video feeds"

The guard pushed the helpless prisoner so he fell to his knees. He was a tall, burly man, but now he was visibly shaking. "The floor?" asked one of the guards.

"Nah. I think I think I'd like the old-fashioned way." Another guard took a small club off his belt and swung instantly at the helpless prisoner, hitting him squarely in the back of the head.

"Careful," said Sarge. "No blood. It'll mess up the suit. And blaster fire triggers the fire alarm, so none of that."

The prisoner groaned and fell to his face. Instinctively Din moved toward the man, but the second guard pinned his arms from behind. Sarge turned to Din and grinned.

"Now it's your turn, Jonas," he said. "Take off your helmet and uniform and switch into this convict's suit. Too bad, you'll be the only casualty in an escape attempt. My friends searched your room and didn't find that beskar—not even in the vent." Din did not move. "I've switched you in the system, so you're knocked back down to prisoner. You'll take this sucker's place on six. And you're gonna stay there, working all day and getting the floor all night until you talk."

"I'm looking forward to that," hissed the man behind Din.

"So you'll all split the beskar profits, share and share alike?" asked Din, contempt in his voice. "You made a big mistake."

"Five to one, Jonas," warned Sarge. "Don't be stupid."

"I like those odds," said Din. Careful—I'm not in beskar right now. He moved one foot back and twisted, taking the man holding him off balance. Then he seized his arm and threw him over his shoulder to crash into Sarge, bringing them both down. They writhed and moaned on the floor. The guard with the club came at him next but Din easily seized it away and swung at his head, bringing him down instantly. He hit Sarge for good measure. The third guard tried to rush him. Din grabbed him and held him from the back, using the club to pin him painfully by the throat and holding him as a shield.

The last guard who had brought the prisoner aimed his blaster at Din. "Watch it," said Din. "Like Sarge said. They can detect blaster fire. Let's all play nice and start again, okay? We can come to an arrangement." Then he yelled as a needle jabbed into the sinew behind his knee. Sarge withdrew the needle and panted, still recovering on the floor.

"Didn't know you had those fancy moves. You'll be cooperative soon enough."

Then the control tower door opened again.

"Warden!" said Sarge in horror.

It was a single man, medium-sized, in a dark cloak with a single escort. It was not Merrix or Varro. This must be the man who ruled this place when they were away. Din felt a kind of sick dizziness. What had he been injected with?

"Bothering prisoners again, I see," he said. He pulled out a blaster with a swift and practiced hand and shot the last guard, then the guard Din held as a shield. Both crumpled and fell.

"No, please," said Sarge from the floor. He pointed at Din. "It's all him. He—"

"I don't care." The Warden worked a control. "Level Ten."

Din swayed on his feet. Have to keep standing. The stompers will protect me.

"NO!"

The floor activated. Sarge, the other two guards still alive, and the unlucky prisoner did not even scream. But Din could smell their cooking flesh. He felt like vomiting, but tried to master his body. Keep standing.

Over, finally. The Warden lowered his arm. Din fell to his knees.

The Warden took off his helmet and studied Din over the carnage. And Din felt shock like a punch in the gut and had to fight against sickness again.

Boba Fett.

The same face, the familiar voice. But no, that wasn't him. One of those clones, like Bo-Katan said. Short bristling hair, a face free of scars. And more than that, his eyes were…different. This man had a light of cruel glee behind his gaze. Fett was hard, stern, closed. But not cruel, not officious.

Not insane.

"What a stroke of luck I started my rounds here today. I hate disorder in my facility." He studied Din. "You seem fairly tough. Looks like you've been injected with Soporfin. I'm surprised you're still conscious. They're down a man on six. Production is not where it should be. You'll be slotted in."

"Not a prisoner," Din said. His words were slurring. "Name is Jonas…"

"I don't care what you are. I certainly don't care about your name. All I care about is order and production." The Warden turned to the man behind him. "Salvage this man's armor and helmet, and put him in a coverall. Then the cell."

"No," muttered Din. Not like this, not like—

When he woke up, he was being dragged. He wore the white, baggy jumpsuit of a prisoner. His feet were bare.

His face was bare.

"ON PROGRAM."

Calls down the cell block. "New man!"

"About time," said a familiar voice

Waking was painful. Din found himself shoved unsteadily to his feet. He couldn't breathe. He really would vomit now.

No. No. Don't panic.

He looked up. And there, in a cell, looking at him with horrified recognition, was Mayfeld.

"FLOORS ACTIVATED IN FOUR, THREE…"

Din stood in front of an empty cell. The people who had dragged him here were gone.

"…TWO…"

"Get the fuck in," hissed Mayfeld.

"ONE."

Din stepped into the cell. Lights around the edge of the corridor turned red. He couldn't hold it together any more. He sank down and vomited in the toilet for what seemed like a very long time. Looked for water, drank some, threw it up again.

He had thought pretending to be a prisoner might be his plan, in the end, but he had changed his mind, had realized this would never work. And now here he was anyway, truly a prisoner, after a long line of poor choices and bad decisions. Shamed, dishonored, truly disgraced. Stripped of even the shabby Imp helmet, face bared. His own armor and weapons out of reach, maybe lost for good. His apostacy absolute and irredeemable.

And somewhere, lost in this prison run by Imps, criminals, and madmen, was his son. Alone. His only hope.

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

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