* Reviews and constructive criticism are always welcomed.
Adaptability
Boba Fett wasn't exactly a Mandalorian. Quite frankly, Din wasn't sure who he was or where he stood. He said he was a simple man, and nothing more. At the sight of the Razor Crest's destruction, he presented his chain code, informing Din with detailed proof that he had a right to the armor. He was also a man of his word, of integrity. Their deal, as it turned out, was not complete. With Boba's armor returned to him, he and Fennec still had to hold up their end of the bargain. Which was to ensure Grogu's safety.
Din was a jaded person and had his share of pessimism, but he never considered himself to be a hopeless individual. However, the way he saw it, Boba and Fennec had fought this battle beside him, with everything they had. And they all still lost. As silent thanks for all that they had tried to do for him, Din was more than ready to release them from their deal.
When Din spoke, his voice was strained, almost devoid of whatever emotion he had left. "The Child's gone."
Boba probably would've been allies with IG-11 if the droid was still alive. Because he didn't relent. He was stubborn, and certain that the next step would be to get Grogu back.
Din only stared at him and Fennec, clenching the beskar staff, until it almost trembled in his grasp. How blind were they? They fought in the battle, they watched the Razor Crest be destroyed, they watched troopers carrying the kid away, and Boba saw the Imperial cruiser. Judging by the sound it made, it launched into hyperspace minutes after Grogu's capture, which meant that he could be anywhere in the universe. What more could they do?
What else was left?
"You do not have a ship anymore," Boba noted to break the silence. "But I still do. It's fast and aggressive."
Fennec half-smirked. "Kind of like all three of us."
Realization dawned on Din, and his grasp on the staff slowly relaxed. He exhaled a short breath. "You would allow me to utilize your ship?"
Boba nodded serenely. "So long as I'm its pilot, we will help you rescue your foundling."
Din's shoulders sagged.
The Firespray, which Boba called Slave I, was no Razor Crest – in his opinion, no other ship would ever come close – but it was transportation. He had no idea where the galaxy was currently hiding Grogu – not to mention what they were currently doing to him – but Din now had the means to traverse it. And his mind raced as he tried to figure out a way to find his exact location.
"Thank you," he breathed.
Boba's smile was an odd one. It was a combination of a battle-hardened warrior, and maybe even a sage who'd seen much of the universe. They boarded the Firespray. Once the entrance was closed and Boba started the take-off sequence, Fennec had an observation.
"So does anybody have a plan?"
Din sat down in a passenger seat. "We figure out where the Imperial cruiser currently is, infiltrate it, and get the kid out of there."
Fennec snorted. "Short, sweet, and simple. Let's try to stick to that. For our sakes, and the kid's."
Boba asked, "Did they ever say what they wanted with him?"
Din was contemplative. "It's difficult to explain. Even I don't exactly know why, and I've been dodging them for almost a year now. I think they want to experiment with him."
"Damned Empire," Boba growled as he stared out the windshield. "What we're doing will be a grueling task. A few days of hard travel, most likely, until we locate their ship. We don't have time to waste, it sounds. Not to mention the inevitable bloodshed."
Din nodded. "An Imperial cruiser will be filled to the brim with troopers, guards, and crew. And whatever those…darker stormtroopers are. With just the three of us, our odds will be interesting to say the least."
Fennec's grin never faltered. "A Mandalorian, a Tusken, and an assassin raiding a huge Imperial ship. I don't mind those odds whatsoever."
Din let out a hum, lost in thought, still going over his mental checklist, and in great detail.
Transportation was now no problem. And as far as weapons, they were pretty set, all things considered. Now, they needed a location of the cruiser, and manpower if possible.
Between the three of them, if their backs were up against a wall, Din would bet the remaining credits in his pockets that they would survive and win. But it was a big 'what-if'. What if something went wrong? What if they got separated, imprisoned, or killed? What if they were dangerously outnumbered from the start? A cruiser could hold dozens, maybe even a hundred fighters. If having another person or two backing them up tipped things further in their favor, he would do his best to make that happen. Otherwise, if things went wrong upon immediately arriving there…Grogu would never be saved.
Above all, it was a matter of finding him. And Din had an idea to kill two birds with one stone.
"We need to make a pit stop," he said. "There's safety in numbers, and I know someone who might help. Or at the very least give us information."
They needed to visit Nevarro.
It was there he found that Cara was still Marshal. Specifically, a Marshal of the New Republic, and not Greef's city. He'd heard rumors, such as a recent speculative transmission from Greef. Din was indifferent to her new status. He had his reservations about the New Republic, but not about her. She not only could handle her own, but it also meant that he had a friend in law enforcement, something he was sorely lacking.
Din needed the help of a prisoner, a former Imperial, which Cara had access to those records. Once they figured out where he prisoner was being held, and the reason behind all of this, Cara was quick to hesitate, given her new job.
She preferred self-preservation in every sense of the word. Din understood that probably better than anyone, but her level-headed morals often won out. And Din wanted to afford himself, his foundling, and his friends every opportunity to remain alive and safe.
He didn't just want her help, he needed her help. "They have the kid," he said, allowing the remainder of his hopeless desperation to be very clear to her.
Cara's face instantly hardened. Her jaw clenched and her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Next time, Mando," she said. "Lead with that."
Her badge was sitting on her desk. It represented her position in the New Republic. Esteemed and law-abiding. She snatched up the badge and tossed it away into a drawer. "I'll be back for that later," she noted. "Not like any mud-scuffing Imperials will care to see it. What do I need to bring?"
"I need your help acquiring Mayfeld," he said. "That's it. After that, I can take it from there and you can return here." Much as he wanted her to fight alongside him, he couldn't ask much more of her than this, not wanting to impede her work.
She smirked darkly at him. "Not what I asked. You know me. I'm always in it for the long-haul."
He cocked his head. "Won't your bosses miss you?"
She clacked her tongue and stood up from her chair. "If it's an Imperial problem, they'll give me free rein. I'll just spare them some of the gritty details."
After a moment, Din nodded once. "You'll need your weapons, any you can carry on you. Also, any clearances for the chop fields to get Mayfeld out of there."
"No problem," she said, heading for a door near her desk. "I'll be ready in five. Meet you at the starport?"
Before she could leave, Din's voice was vehement. "Thank you, Cara."
The door opened, but she didn't walk through it yet. She eyed Din closely, no doubt analyzing the weariness in his shoulders and neck, and the rigid posture of his spine. She was a combination of a soldier getting the lay of the land, as well as the careful observations of a close friend. "After we find the kid," she said. "After we raise some hell…The Empire won't bother him ever again."
He shook his head, slowly and ruefully. "I don't know if we'll find him. I don't-" His lungs cut himself off, for a second of weakness. "…I don't even know if he's still alive."
Her eyes narrowed again, and this time her jaw flexed. "If your face wasn't covered in beskar," she said. "I'd punch you right now. A year ago, that kid choked me from across the room in order to protect you. He's tough. He's got it handled on his end. Now, we just gotta meet him halfway."
Din opened his mouth. Then closed it. Before decidedly opening it again. What he was about to admit was to be said freely in the presence of someone he trusted implicitly. But the words themselves still terrified him to hear it aloud, even from his own vocal chords.
"I'm worried, Cara."
"I know," she said, without missing a single beat. "And you need to put that aside, until we know he's safe."
Her words meant something to him. She was right. It was just a matter of believing them and adhering to them, for his own sake. He might've nodded, but he wasn't completely sure. He turned towards the exit.
"The starport," he said. "Look for the faded paint job on a Firespray."
"What about the Razor Crest?"
He placed his hand on the threshold. "Don't remind me," he muttered.
There was a pause. "Looks like these Imperial bastards have two crimes to answer for. Don't they?"
He said nothing to that, just headed in the direction of the starport to wait for Cara to join them.
He felt numb. He didn't want to feel anything at all.
There was a difference between impulsivity and spontaneity. Impulsive acts led to one's destruction. But to embrace spontaneity, the unknown, was to be adaptable. It allowed growth of one's character and skills. The universe was chaotic and ruthless, with death waiting in every blind spot. Mandalorians were taught to prepare for it on day one of their training, sometimes even day one of their existence. It was a depressing fact, but a real one nonetheless. This was the Way.
Din's adaptability was something he prided himself on. Out of all the members of his long-gone covert, he was always the one to do the riskiest yet most efficient jobs. The hunts were the risk, the rewards were the efficiency.
An example was bringing back beskar ore that Imperials had warped and manipulated in their own forge. The other members of his covert didn't like that, and felt it was sinful to bring it back. While the circumstances of how he got it were blatantly sinful, and he would humbly admit to that any day, beskar was still finite. Hence, the job was the risk, and the ore was needed for the sake of efficiency.
That particular ore had been used to replace his armor damaged from the mudhorn incident. And possibly to even forge his Signet. There were days where he wished he hadn't acquired that ore, given the immoral circumstances. But in the end, he vowed to atone every day that was granted to him and the kid. And he wouldn't trade the armor or the Signet for anything now.
It was the definition of adaptability in his eyes. Realistic, and imperfect.
The entire plan he concocted with Mayfeld also fell under that definition.
Before he had joined Ran's crew, Mayfeld used to be an Imperial sharpshooter. From what Ran had described, he actually wasn't a bad shot, which was quite rare in the Empire. This meant he had a level of competency that other ex-Imperials didn't. It might also mean that he would know how to find the cruiser. In exchange, they would give him some temporary freedom from his imprisonment.
The plan started with a refinery, filled with volatile fuel, where they could gain access to the cruiser's coordinates. If only walking through the main doors was that simple. Between Cara, Fennec, and Boba, the Empire would either recognize their genetic signature or their faces.
Despite Din's history with them, the Empire didn't have knowledge of either of these things where he was concerned. That said, he didn't plan to show his face. Stealth and blending in was key. The former he had plenty of experience with it. The latter, not so much.
Accompanied by Cara for the time-being, they hijacked a Juggernaut that was transporting the rhydonium. The guards manning it didn't stand a chance. When the transporter was safely pulled over, they tossed out the guard's unconscious bodies and stole their uniforms. While they got ready, Cara stood watch.
Din was hidden in a dark alcove, out of sight for right now. He removed each piece of beskar from his body, one by one. He did this meticulously and painstakingly, taking care not to coat everything in a layer of mud. His movements were stiff and mechanical, not liking what had to be done. But this was his plan they were enacting, and he would commit to it.
On the transporter, he had found a duffel bag of sorts, hidden away in a luggage compartment. He folded up his cape and cowl, and placed them in the bottom of the bag. His armor and the rest of his clothes followed, resting overtop of it. To ease his mind, he felt around for an ammo pouch, looking for something important and to double check that it was there, before sealing everything up.
Now, it was time to put the…other armor on. It was a scuffed and filthy grey color. Not only did it smell heavily of sweat, but he could also smell the hints of dried blood that clung to the inside and out. Blood from opponents or innocents, Din dreaded to think. This armor was clearly old and had seen many wearers. It didn't originally belong to the guard, just as much as it didn't belong to him, and it made his stomach churn.
He put it on, piece by deplorable piece, until the last thing was the pitiful excuse for a helmet. It felt like his entire body locked up when he slid it over his head, but it had to be done.
He swung the bag over his shoulder, comforted by how heavy it was, and carried it in the direction of the transporter. He knew how he looked, head slumped forward slightly, but he was more than willing to blame that on the bag. He didn't want to show weakness in front of Mayfeld whatsoever.
When he walked out of his hiding place, Mayfeld chuckled loudly at him. "Look at this," he said, causing Cara to turn around. "Oh, the shame. Now that right there is worth the price of admission."
Din ignored him, keeping his focus on Cara, and subsequently the mission.
Cara's smirk was an empty one, knowing full well how bleak this was. "Wish I could say it looked good on you, but I'd be lying."
Damn it all, Din really wasn't in the mood for anyone's sarcasm, even hers. As he spoke, he resisted every urge to look at the ground. "Just make sure you take out the rooftop gunners, or we're never getting out of here."
Her face turned serious. "We got you," she assured.
Din handed her the bag. "Take care of this. Keep it safe."
She nodded once, knowingly. "I will."
Minutes prior to taking the transporter, he took Cara aside in private, letting her know what his plan was and if it tracked. She didn't like it anymore than he did, but she agreed with him. And she also agreed to look after his armor in his absence.
Din had also told her about the little silver ball in the ammo pouch. Knowing full well who it belonged to, Cara did not question its importance whatsoever.
On the way to the refinery, Mayfeld nattered on and off, and Din tried his best to shut him out.
Din was looking at the road through a visor that was almost blocked by the helmet's forehead. In fact, it felt a size too big for him, but that was probably because it had no pressurization to help keep it in place. He stared straight ahead, only slightly okay with the fact that Mayfeld was driving. Truthfully, he didn't want to take up the controls anytime soon, too locked inside his own head – and body.
The armor felt clunky, and thin as a leaf. No wonder average weapons could rip through this. It also shifted over his legs, arms, and torso with the same movement as a decaying tooth. Its edges dug into his skin to remind him that it wasn't shaped beskar. It didn't form to his movements or body. It simply laid against him, not a part of him whatsoever.
For all these years, beskar armor felt like a second skin to him. Now, it was yet another piece that was missing from him, no matter how temporary.
This stormtrooper armor didn't belong to him. It wasn't of Mandalorian origin. There was nothing natural about this. He didn't even want to look through this helmet, knowing this visor had seen so much unnecessary bloodshed and hell. It was wrong to be wearing this. It was damn-near disgraceful.
Perhaps he ought to listen to Mayfeld's one-sided conversation. At least then he'd get a distraction from how nauseating this all was.
Mayfeld removed his own helmet at some point. "Feels better when it's off," he remarked with a mocking grin, gesturing to his face. He then proceeded to go quiet for a few miles.
Yeah. That didn't really help Din's psyche.
There wasn't much to see in this countryside. They had passed a few old wreckages, but some hostility was to be expected out here. They even passed a village at some point, with the road they were on cutting right down the center of it. This road had clearly been created as a path to the refinery, and judging by the looks on the villagers' faces, none of them appreciated it.
There were some children sitting by the roadside, with judgment and sadness in their eyes as they stared at the transporter.
"Yeah. Empire, New Republic," Mayfeld commented. "It's all the same to these people. Invaders on their land is all we are." They left the village. "I'm just saying, somewhere someone is ruling, and others are being ruled. I mean, look at your race."
Din looked at him out the corner of his eyes, tilting his head in the process, hoping to silently convey for him to tread lightly.
"Do you think all those people in wars fought by Mandalorians actually had a choice," Mayfeld asked him. "So how are they any different than the Empire?"
Mayfeld had no idea what the hell he was talking about. It was a choice, to walk the Way of the Mandalore. Sure, one might be raised in it, but to stay and fight was always of one's volition. Din never knew a Mandalorian to force a friend or ally to stay. It was a disgusting thought, being forced to fight in any war. He couldn't fathom it.
Mayfeld scoffed lightly at his silence. "Look. If you were born on Mandalore, you believe one thing. If you were born on Alderaan, you believe something else. But guess what?"
Much to Din's growing irritation, he felt a hand clap his shoulder.
"Neither one of 'em exist anymore."
Din turned to look at him, while knowing that his harsh glare wouldn't get through to Mayfeld.
Mayfeld merely shrugged at him.
Din looked away in an effort to compose himself. Just because they were "gone", didn't mean they didn't matter. Mandalore's cultures and legends held so much reverence to him and his people. Even if he had never been there before, the planet's history would always live on.
"Hey, I'm just a realist," Mayfeld said. "I'm a survivor, just like you."
"Let's get one thing straight," Din snapped tiredly. "You and I are nothing alike."
Mayfeld made a face, and a shrug. "I dunno. Seems to me like your rules start to change when you get desperate. I mean, look at'cha. You said you couldn't take your helmet off, and now you got a stormtrooper one on. So what's the rule? Is it that you can't take off your Mando helmet, or you can't show your face? 'Cause there is a difference." Mayfeld continued chattering, about how everyone had lines that they would or wouldn't cross, and Din did his best to tune him out for a few moments.
Din refused to even look at him. Once again, Mayfeld knew nothing. Once he swore the Creed, Din was always taught to never remove his helmet in the presence of others. And it was also a good idea to keep it on as often as possible. This was for two reasons. To avoid becoming an apostate, and to keep oneself and their clan safe. The helmet, as well as the rest of one's armor, was a necessity as well as a comfort. Why was this always brought into question by other people?
Mayfeld's voice grew quiet. "…As far as I'm concerned, if you can make it through your day and still sleep at night…you're doing better than most." He said this as he looked beyond the road, at the distance, no doubt remembering something Din couldn't see. He recognized that far-off look.
It was the same look that many a bloodstained soldier could never get rid of.
It was also said in the same tone of voice that some of his fellow Mandalorians used to have.
Adaptability was a rather humorous thing. Of course, Din wasn't really good at laughing anyway.
Pirates attempted to take the transporter. In the pathetic and flimsy armor, with a blaster that could almost be considered a toy, Din still somehow managed to shoot and fight until the very last possible second. Mayfeld manned the controls the entire time, yelling in a panic that they should've left him in prison. Once they got close to the refinery, TIE fighters joined in, destroying what remained of the pirates and allowing Din and Mayfeld to continue on their way.
Din nearly died several times during the battle, but such is life. He only hoped he would get his own armor back sooner rather than later. The way this armor creaked and barely protected him was getting on his last nerve.
Though the fight was over, the aggravations sure as hell didn't end there. Apparently, they were the only transport that day to bring rhydonium back without getting killed. And their "fellow" Imperials welcomed them back with open arms.
Din's helmet obviously remained on, while Mayfeld didn't bother with his. And this was where Din felt utterly disgusted.
Even though all Mandalorians had a helmet to wear, no two helmets or armor were alike. Easily distinguishable. Easy to recognize who was friend and ally. All of the Imperials at the refinery that welcomed them didn't know that neither of them weren't Imperial.
They only saw disposable stormtroopers, dressed in cold and flimsy shells. Who they were didn't matter so long as the job got done.
Though Mayfeld gave them all a weak salute, neither he nor Din were smiling. They were both still reeling from nearly getting killed multiple times. They went right inside the refinery, surrounded by celebrating stormtroopers. They ignored them all, just kept on walking to the mess hall.
At the other end of the room was a terminal. According to Mayfeld, it could hold the coordinates to Moff Gideon's ship, and they could record it on the data stick that they brought. Mayfeld couldn't access the terminal, too intimidated by a nearby general he personally knew. Din was irate. He saw panicked cowardice in Mayfeld's eyes, or at least that's how he was reading him, and in that moment he couldn't believe he had been a sharpshooter.
These days, Mandalorians were independent by nature and necessity. If they wanted a job done, they did it themselves. He demanded that Mayfeld give him the data stick. There was just one caveat.
The terminal would have to scan Din's face in order to grant access.
He glanced anxiously at the terminal, clenching his jaw. "Give it to me," he snarled at Mayfeld, all but snatching the data stick out of his hand.
His joints were stiff as he stomped silently into the mess hall. He paused for a moment, sparing a look at the general that Mayfeld was so terrified of. He was a scrawny man, and he held himself with tall arrogance. It hardly mattered to Din, having swatted smaller insects than him in the past. Still, best to avoid a confrontation if he could.
The general gave him a nod, and Din gave him an emotionless salute.
With slower and more calculated strides, he went over to the terminal. He hoped Mayfeld would be wrong about having to remove the helmet. After all, it had been a while since he'd been involved in the Empire. By this point, technology might've changed.
Standing in front of the terminal, as he tried to access it, bright lines appeared over his visor. The terminal suddenly locked itself, saying that the facial scan was incomplete and that the system would shutdown. The terminal was loud, and Din glanced hurriedly in the general's direction. His eyes, as well as many others in that hall, were staring expectantly at him. In ten seconds, the terminal would cut off access to Gideon's ship coordinates. In ten seconds, higher-ups would be alerted that something was wrong. Imprisonment or a shootout could occur.
In ten seconds, he would lose Grogu. Forever.
Din had failed him too many times in the past. That was going to change, right here and right now.
Brows coming together, he gritted his teeth and removed the helmet. It was a split second decision. It didn't come naturally to him, but he did it with no regret.
As quickly as he could, he pushed a few buttons, hoping the terminal would rescan him. All the while he was fully aware of how assaulted his sense felt. Chatter was sharp in his ears, dried bantha steak from someone's lunch flooded his nose, and a draft from poorly designed windows stung his skin. All the while, he still felt eyes on him. His skin crawled, but he stared right at the screen, and nothing else, keeping his focus where it needed to be.
Lines appeared over his face again, flashing against his pupils. Stubbornly, he refused to blink against the harsh sensation. When the facial scan was complete, his jaw was still clenched, but this time it was more with focused determination. He inserted the data stick, and started searching the database.
It only took seconds to find the coordinates for Moff Gideon's ship. This record was recent, from minutes ago.
That's when Din finally allowed himself to blink. He closed his eyes, and silently exhaled, allowing his shoulders to sag in relief.
He had a lead on where Grogu was.
The general suddenly beckoned for him, but he paid him no mind, thinking about the next step. Even with hyperspace travel, Gideon's ship was still a couple days away. Impatiently, he waited for the data stick to record the coordinates, his senses still painfully aware of things happening around him. Dank farrik, everything was so sharp, like the point of a vibro-knife touching his ear drums.
Footsteps approached, their strides suspicious.
The general snapped at him, expecting Din to obediently respond to every call and question. Din turned to face him, neutral and stone-faced. He was dead-center in a stormtrooper refinery, surrounded by enemies, in useless armor, and his face was completely bared to everyone there.
And it finally sunk in, just how exposed he was here.
He answered the general's questions the best he could, not knowing what the hell he was even asking of him. His mind raced. If a fight ensued, he could figure that out, though he had wanted to avoid that from the very beginning. The likelihood of getting out alive was already slim to none.
But this? Trying to talk his way out of a situation with everything stacked against him, while his mind was still reeling from removing his helmet? He had no idea how the hell to navigate this situation. His spine was as stiff as a rifle's barrel as he spoke short sentences. As the general stared confusedly at his face, his heart thudded anxiously.
Mayfeld stepped in at some point, smiling respectfully, yet talking quickly. He explained to the general that Din was hard of hearing. Without missing a beat, Din played the part of semi-deaf simpleton. Stealth and blending in was key to his entire plan after all.
Mayfeld's impromptu help allowed him to breathe for a moment, silently grateful that the focus was away from him. His face was so damned exposed. But this day wasn't over yet, and they couldn't simply leave to enact the next phase. The general was relentless in wanting to sit down and have a drink with them, to congratulate them on bringing the rhydonium back.
Din's hand clenched painfully around the data stick in his palm. The knowledge that his foundling had a location, that he was only a couple days away, made him absolutely restless. But he was useless to Grogu if he couldn't get out of the refinery alive. He had to play along. He put the data stick into the safety of a pocket. For the entire conversation, his hand rested over it.
The general was already a little tipsy. He continued to drink more. While he never got completely sloshed, his speech was still a little slow, as were his movements. It came across as relaxed, but Din saw the subtle ways the alcohol affected him. As did Mayfeld, it seemed. The general poured drinks for Din and Mayfeld, but neither really touched their mugs.
Din was merely a bystander right now, listening to Mayfeld and the general talk. What started off as light conversation quickly turned into reminiscing of battles. For only a few short minutes, Mayfeld was reasonably respectful, until he decidedly wasn't. And the conversation slowly spiraled, dissolving into tense words, of the debate of morals and ethics.
From where he sat, Din hardly blinked, waiting for the inevitable. He slowly and subtly shook his head at Mayfeld, warning him that he should stop, that his emotions were now commanding the conversation. Mayfeld's grin grew darker, less controlled, his cocky demeanor giving way to something more haunted and shaky.
Din refused contribute to this whatsoever. It wasn't his business. But Mayfeld wasn't exactly in the wrong. The general didn't care about how many people under his command had died and wouldn't return to their homes or families. On Mayfeld's end, there was no implication, no riddles nor metaphors. He was blatantly telling his superior how terrible and immoral it was that so many people had lost their lives, soldiers and civilians alike.
Perhaps it was the alcohol's influence, but the general was almost downright oblivious, smirking through it and not exactly hearing the threat in Mayfeld's words. The general blathered on about the disarray of the New Republic, the strength of what remained of the Empire, and his twisted concept of freedom.
All the while, Din saw it…The silent and pained grimace on Mayfeld's face. Soon, Mayfeld grinned again, and brought out his blaster. At point blank, he shot the general, in the middle of the mess hall for all to see. The stormtroopers in the vicinity immediately stopped what they were doing, not believing what just happened.
Din stared at Mayfeld, more exasperated than surprised. A fight was inevitable. They would have to shoot their way out now.
During a lull in the action, Mayfeld gave the guard's helmet back to Din. "You did what you had to do," he said. "I never saw your face."
A few minutes later, as soon as they were safely on board Boba's ship, Mayfeld fired a shot at the rhydonium on the roof. The refinery went up in flames.
Din found the duffel bag in a locker on Boba's ship, safely and neatly tucked within. Making sure that no one was watching, he removed the trooper armor, and got to work putting his beskar back on. His mind still reeled.
He had exposed his face to dozens of stormtroopers. He and Mayfeld had also killed all of them, and possibly everyone at the refinery. The likelihood of any survivors having seen his face was slim. Unfortunately, Mayfeld had still seen his face, and that counted. Although, did it? Aside from the fact that he said out loud that he never saw his face, Din had also removed his helmet for a righteous cause.
There was no greater honor than saving a foundling. And if he had to remove his helmet and show his face to do so, then so be it. Once Grogu was safe and sound with him, would that be enough for atonement?
Would he still be Mandalorian?
He stared down at the familiar black visor, at the shiny beskar's reflective surface. His own eyes stared back at him, dark irises, and worry lines etched all over his face. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see himself, too many thoughts and what-ifs right in front of him. He slipped his helmet over his face, and he didn't remove his hands until he heard and felt its pressurized hiss, securing it around him.
He took the data stick from the pocket of the stormtrooper armor. And he placed it inside the ammo pouch on his belt. Right next to the little silver ball. Whether he was still Mandalorian remained to be seen. For now, Grogu needed him. Nothing else mattered.
A little while later, Din and Mayfeld walked down into the hull of the ship, passing Boba on the way. Boba mentioned that they would eject the stormtrooper armor once they were in space. Mayfeld snickered at that, but his tone was hollow, almost empty, too tired for his usual sarcasm.
When they were outside, Din thanked Mayfeld for his help.
"Yeah," Mayfeld huffed, face serious. "Uh. Good luck getting your kid back." He put his wrists together, assuming the shackles would come next.
Din and Cara looked at each other. Instead of taking Mayfeld back to the scrapyard, they agreed to let him go, explaining that it was a shame he had died during the refinery explosion. It took Mayfeld a moment to get the hint. Gradually, though, he walked away, disappearing into the trees.
"You get the coordinates on Moff Gideon," Cara asked.
"We did," Din said.
"What's our next move?"
The next move was simple. Rescue his foundling.
Din took out the little silver ball, having yet to actually see it since putting his armor back on. He rolled it around in his hand, getting Cara's attention with his silence. What remained of the ball's shine glinted off the sunlight.
"Your kid."
Mayfeld certainly wasn't the first person to say that. That said, Grogu wasn't exactly his kid, and he never directly referred to him as such. He was supposed to be a foundling to be returned to his people. He was only meant to be under his care temporarily. Tython was the last step, to summon a Jedi who would care for and train Grogu.
And no Jedi ever showed up. No Jedi ever came to get him.
Din's hand slowly closed around the ball. Though his grasp was gentle, a fierce loyalty and protectiveness settled within every fiber of his being. Grogu's people never responded to him. But Din did. Ever since Din had found him, lonely and abandoned, he responded to his coos, his cries, his happiness, his sadness. His calls. He wasn't just his foundling. Grogu was his kid.
No one else's.
Din put the silver ball safely in its pouch. Cara stared at him, waiting patiently.
"Our next move," Din said slowly. "…is to rescue my child from the Empire."
Cara grinned widely at him, instantly hearing the way he worded it. "Damn right we will," she said.
It was late, getting close to the time where everyone should get some sleep. They were gathered in the cockpit, a small space that wasn't really meant for this many people. Boba was pointing to the maps on his console.
"We are here," he indicated. "And the Moff's ship is over here. It's more than forty hours away, if we're lucky. If we jump into hyperspace…right there, then we'll make decent time. Once we're all rested, we ready ourselves almost immediately." Boba put his ship on autopilot and stood up from the pilot's seat. "There are hammocks stored in the hull, and a locker to store all our weapons."
They were all ready to get some shuteye, but Din stayed in one of the passenger seats.
Boba noticed this, and clasped his shoulder. "If you want to get your little one back, you will also need your rest. You're no good to him if you're dead on your feet."
"I know," Din said. "And I will in a moment. But first, do you think we're close enough to send a transmission to Gideon's ship?"
A serious crease appeared between Boba's eyes. "Not a transmission. But a recorded message, yes."
Din nodded once. "It'll have to do. May I?" He gestured to the control console.
Boba nodded, and Din moved to the pilot's seat in order to activate the recorder.
For a long moment, he was silent, staring out at the darkness of space, stars only barely visible as they sped past at a speed that was still too slow for Din. Soon, Grogu would be by his side once again, and Gideon would harass him no more. Stealth was useless against the Moff, as evidenced by the first encounter with him on Nevarro.
Din wanted him to know he was coming. And that Gideon was the one who needed to be very careful.
From behind him, Cara abruptly spoke up. "Alright, everyone. Give him room. Let's get some sleep."
There was a wry chuckle from Fennec, but everyone did as Cara said, going down into the hull. Before she disappeared, Din turned towards her.
"Thank you," he said. "For everything. Without you, we wouldn't have made it this far."
She smiled sarcastically. "Look at how often you say thank you these days," she commented. "You better not be getting soft on me."
His chuckle was empty, but it was a chuckle all the same.
Her smile fell away, replaced with neutrality. "You know what you're gonna say to him yet?"
Din nodded. "Yes."
Cara didn't ask him to talk more of it. She simply told him goodnight, and left him to his privacy.
Din turned towards the recorder again, and hit a button. Moff Gideon had put him and Grogu through hell for too damn long, causing them so much fear. It was time for Din to return the favor. His voice took on the tone of a cold bounty hunter, a voice that was almost unrecognizable to himself now.
"Moff Gideon," he said slowly and clearly. "You have something I want." His tone held simplicity, directness, and an obvious threat that needed no snarl nor elaboration. Gideon was clever, which meant that he was clever enough to hear him. Loud and clear. "You may think you have some idea what you are in possession of. But you do not. Soon, he will be back with me."
Din paused, inhaling deeply and silently, steadily. And then he continued. "He means more to me…than you will ever know."
He hit a button, ending the recording. And he sent it to Moff Gideon's ship.
Din stared out into space, in the exact direction of the Imperial cruiser. The one that took his child – took everything – away from him.
"Alright, kid, don't worry," he muttered softly, all trace of his vicious bounty hunter demeanor completely gone now. "I'm coming to get you."