The streets of Nar Shaddaa were always crowded with people, but this hour proved especially bustling. The undercity crawled with rag-clad, fly-clotted peasants moaning for even the scantest scraps of edible slop. They pawed at her feet like animals as she passed. Lynora paid them no mind.
One thought the helmet in her hand was a bowl of food. He tried to snatch it. He would have learned a quick lesson, if it hadn't gone oozing out the hole in his head with his brains.
The alleyways turned and twisted, growing more unwieldy with each intersection she passed. Everything down here was metal and rust, dirt and grime, sewage and sludge. This was where all of Narsh's unwanted were thrown. Living or not, they were less than trash in the rest of the planet's eyes.
The long alley she walked had been a bazaar the last time she'd been here, three standard years ago. Now, the glow in the shop windows had gone out and rusted metal shutters littered with scorch marks filled the holes. The canopies that rested overhead were torn and tattered, the cloth blowing wildly in the artificial wind. Old neon signs lingered overhead. One or two tubes were still lit up, each one a different color. The rest were long dead, little more than empty grey wires hanging above.
A beggar hounded Lynora for credits as she passed. She ignored him until he grabbed her ankle. The helmet slipped from under her arm and started rolling across the ground. She kicked the beggar square in the jaw. She heard a wet pop from his neck as he lulled backwards, slumping against a broken window. She found the helmet stuck against a garbage can. A womp rat sniffed at it. She shooed it away.
At the end of the alley was a dive called the Frisky Dug, the only place in the galaxy where you could get a drink without credits. And she needed several drinks.
It had been her favorite hangout in her youth. Before she enlisted with the Mandalorians, Lynora spent as much time as she could soaking up the local rumors along with the local flavor. Handsy Aqualish taught her how to fight, skittish Chadra Fan taught her how to haggle, impish Devaronians taught her how to steal, and wayward Fondorians taught her how to drink. When she'd snatched enough credits to take the lift to the upper city, she never looked back. Once she ran into that Mandalorian cadre, Lynora knew there was no more place for her here.
Then Mandalore turned out to be nothing but a petulant gloryhound, driven by a fool's nostalgia for two millennia long gone. He raided and pillaged the galaxy, not for loot or recruits, nor to strike fear into the hearts of men, nor even for the sake of honor. It was all for some petty revenge against the Jedi, who had beaten back his ancestors in some ancient war all those years ago. "His." It always made her laugh to think about it. While deep in his cups, one of the officers let it slip that Mandalore the Unassailable was just some spoiled rich brat from Byss who wanted to play at being ruler of the clans. She didn't doubt it for a second.
She knew the helmet she held in her hands was a replica, and a poor one at that, but what Skid didn't know wouldn't hurt him. He'd be happy to take it off her hands for credits. Her only regret was leaving the armor behind aboard that Sith's ship. Lynora hoped he would forgive her for the hole she had to carve to get out.
The Frisky Dug was the same as it always was. Drunken dregs wandered aimlessly outside the front. Others were keeled over at round durasteel tables, their cups overturned, spilled, or otherwise shattered in tiny pieces on the turf. The place wasn't fancy enough to have one of those sliding plasteel doors, either. It was just two wooden slats that folded open as she pushed them.
The place smelled like shit. Shit, vomit, drink, and sweat. People worse than her had died within these walls. She'd watched it happen enough times before, almost always over something trivial. Three tongues would sound out, and the third was always blaster fire. No one would carry out the corpses, and they brought botflies for days. Not like Skid ever lost business.
She felt the eyes on her as she walked in. She knew exactly what they were staring at, and it wasn't the helmet. It didn't wound her pride at all anymore. She stepped over to the bar as the patrons began to chat in Huttese about all the things they would love to do to her.
Skid was cleaning cups as Lynora slid onto a stool next to a burly Besalisk. He had clumps of hair on his upper lip, and his four arms were chiseled and throbbing with varicose veins.
"What are you looking at?" he spat in Huttese. He gulped down a drink. "Can't a man mope in peace?"
"Yeah, Lyn," Skid said as he walked over, cup still in hand. "Leave Bes alone. A man's got a right to mope."
Skid was a black-horned Devaronian. He was slight of frame, but sometimes all-too big of head. His acid-colored eyes were marked by crow's feet, now. As a girl, Lynora didn't think Skid would ever get old.
"What's that you got there?" Skid pointed to the helmet with his cup. Even in the brown glass, Lynora could still see all the grime caked inside it.
She craned forward. "It's the helm of Mandalore," she whispered. "One of a kind." She set it on the bar in front of him.
Skid raised an eyebrow. "And where does a girl like you happen to get a thing like that, hm?"
"It's a very long story," Lynora said, easing herself back on her stool. "I'm sure you don't want to hear the grisly details."
"Not if they're too grisly." Skid looked down at the cup and sighed. "Still fekking dirty." He held out his hand and dropped it to the floor. He approached the helmet and gave it a once over with his own eyes before pulling a set of goggles out of his apron. He pored over every inch of it before finally taking them back off. "Sorry, but I can't take this," he said as he slid the goggles back into his apron pocket.
"What?" She'd been stuck in the slums for seventeen years, and there had never been a single item Skid wouldn't take. "Why the fek not?"
"Language," he said, swatting her on the hand. "If it's a fake, then it's worthless. If it's the real deal..." He set both hands on the bar and lowered himself down to her level. "Forgive me if I don't want the Mandalorian clans raining down on my bar," he whispered.
"If you must know, the clans are splintered and Mandalore is dead. I don't think that's going to happen."
"Still not a chance I'm willing to take. Sorry kid, you're on your own with this one." Skid turned and walked down to the far end of the bar to serve a fat-tongued Baragwin.
Lynora glowered at him. She spun the helmet around and looked directly into the t-visor. It was black as pitch. The paint all around it had been worn off by her constant clinging to it and dropping it. She had to get rid of the head still stuck inside once she'd gotten to the undercity. There were worse smells here anyway.
I wonder if it fits. It was a strange thought, but it came to her nonetheless. How hard would it be, anyway?
She felt a tap on her shoulder. Instead of reaching for her gun, she spun herself around.
It was a Gand that stood before her, short, brown, and stunted. His silver compound eyes glittered in the dim red lights of the bar. He stood with both three-fingered hands gently grasping his long breathing tubes.
"Midge wishes to speak with you outside." The voice that came from the Gand's apparatus was feminine instead of masculine. It caught her off guard.
"Can't you see I'm busy?" Lynora turned back around to face the bar.
"Ah yes, I see. Midge will wait outside for you then." The Gand shuffled off on plodding footsteps.
Lynora clasped both hands on the helmet's sides, then brought it up against her face. The cold metal felt good against her skin, even if it did chill her to the bone. She found her thirst replaced by curiosity. Let's see what she wants. She sighed and got to her feet.
Outside, Midge was waiting just like she said. She was standing next to an overflowing trash can swarmed by flies.
"Midge is glad you came," she said. "She hears Mandalore is dead, his flagship destroyed over Malastare. You come bearing his helmet. Can you confirm Midge has heard the truth?"
Lynora rolled her eyes. "Yeah, he's dead. Here, take a look." She thrust the helmet forward. The Gand peered over it and huffed when she was done.
"So the rumors are true." Midge turned her compound eyes to the ground. "Well, you are not the only one who has lost a king."
"What are you on about?" Mandalore was no king of mine.
"The Fat Minister was slaughtered in his own palace," Midge said, pawing at her breathing tubes. "By a Sith."
Lynora's eyes went wide. Can it be? "Tell me more."
"Midge heard rumors from the above-world that the Sith brought the body of Mandalore with them. But Midge figured that more than likely they dressed a dead beggar in Mandalorian plate to try to fool the Hutt." She cocked her head sideways. "With the helmet in your possession, Midge now knows her initial assumption was unfounded and incorrect."
"What do you want from me, Midge?" Lynora swore she had seen this Gand before, but she couldn't pinpoint where. Surely just in the bar?
"Midge wants a way off Nar Shaddaa," she said. She bobbed her head around as if to watch her flanks for eavesdroppers. "She has been here long enough. What better way out than with a new Mandalore?"
Lynora laughed. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Why laugh? This is serious."
"You can't be-" Lynora tried to fight back her laughter to no avail. The whole situation was just too ridiculous to bear. "Look, lady. I'm just a dumb scavenger girl from the undercity."
"You left to join the Mandalorians three years ago. This I know." Midge lifted one hand to her chin. "Do not lie to Midge."
"I'm a former Mando. So fekking what?" Lynora shrugged. "It's all a big load of poodoo anyway. What do I care about some pseudo-religious gobbledygook? It's just a mask."
"No, no. No, no." A strange chittering emanated from Midge's breathing apparatus. "The mask is important to the Mandalorians. This you know as well as Midge does."
"Does Midge also know it's fake?"
"Only Skid, you, and Midge know this. The Mandalorians will not."
"Seriously," Lynora said, placing her hands on her hips. Her left yearned to creep just a bit farther towards her holster. "What do you want?"
"Wear the mask," Midge said. "Get me out of here. Then go, unite the clans."
"Why do you care about this?"
"The Hutt cartel comes back to Nar Shaddaa now." Midge tugged at her breathing tubes. "Urga Masidii the Elder sits in the Chamber of Commerce. He is without mercy, and his second Ootono'nemura is even moreso. Ootono'nemura intends to declare his daughter Ootwyla'nemura queen of the smallfolk in an effort to appease the peasantry."
"Who are understandably riled at the Fat Minister's death," Lynora said. "That's all well and good, but what aren't you telling me?"
"Midge worked for the Masidii in years past. She fears this will bring the ire of the undercity down upon her. Midge wants out before bad things happen."
"And what better way out than nipping at the heels of Mandalore herself?" Lynora couldn't help but crack a smile. Warrior queen of the Mandalorians? Maybe life ain't so bad after all.
"You make it sound so undignified," Midge said with a gasp. She wheezed. "Yes. That is what Midge wants. Will you help Midge escape?"
Lynora took another look at the helmet. She smiled wide. "Yeah, I'll help Midge." And myself. "Just one thing."
"Oh, yes of course. How can Midge assist?"
"Well, two things now that I think of it. The first is easy: we gotta get the armor that goes with this."
Midge let out a sharp wheeze. "That is probably still in the Chamber of Commerce. If it has not yet been discarded by Urga and his court. This might prove an insurmountable task."
"Nothing is insurmountable, Midge," Lynora said, wagging a finger. "We'll start planning in a bit." She bit her lip. "You don't happen to be a wayfinder, do you?"
"'Wayfinder'?" Midge shrugged. "Midge does not know this word, but she is a findsman. Who do you need found?"
Lynora giggled. "A Sith Lord."