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The Mandalorian was not happy.
What was supposed to be a quick and painless supply run ended up taking an unpleasant turn downhill, causing the Mandalorian and the child in his care to ground themselves at a nearby inn.
The Mandalorian huffs angrily, irritation at their current situation bristling beneath his skin as he paces the length of their small quarters. He reaches the wall before turning on his heel and marching the well-worn path back to the other side. The child, situated in the cloth carrier strapped over his chestplate, coos and babbles to himself, the small metal ball turned toy gripped between his three fingers.
It isn't until the child taps on the Mandalorian's helmet did he stop in his tracks, blinking back to himself. He looks down at the child, his gaze meeting dark pools of ink as the child stares back. The child tilts his head ever so slightly, equal parts curious and concerned at the waves of the Mandalorian's annoyance rippling off him.
The Mandalorian sighs wearily. Remaining angry does nothing for them in this situation. He will just have to make the best of it.
The Mandalorian lays a gentle hand across the child's back, hoping it's reassuring. The child smiles at him, his eyes wide, and he coos contentedly. The anger that once consumed him is replaced with fondness, a small smile gracing his face beneath his helmet as he cups the back of the child's head with his palm.
Suddenly, three sequential knocks sound throughout the room. The Mandalorian snaps his attention to the door, his hand already hovering over the blaster against his hip.
"Room service," a feminine voice calls. The Mandalorian exhales, moving across the room and opening the door a crack. A humanoid woman with blue skin and a too-big smile stands on the other side.
"I didn't order anything," he responds. The woman shakes her head.
"We serve complimentary dinner here." She steps aside, gesturing to the cart filled with food beside her. A refusal is on the tip of the Mandalorian's tongue when a small coo floats up into his ears, causing him to glance down. The child against his chest is chewing rather aggressively on the metal ball in his hand, saliva coating his little fingers. The Mandalorian wordlessly pulls on the child's wrist, effectively removing the ball from between his teeth. The child whines as the Mandalorian pinches the ball between his fingers and stuffs it into his pocket.
"Is that a little one you have there?" The woman asks, craning her neck to try and peek into the room. Something protective flares in his rib cage, and he twists his body away from the woman's curious eyes. The woman doesn't seem offended, instead turning back to the cart and pulling out a small container, setting it on top. "I always keep broth on the cart, in case of infants."
The woman looks at him almost imploringly, her hand gripped on the cart, ready to wheel it into their room. With a final glance at the child, the Mandalorian nods once, granting her access as he opens the door fully. She pushes the cart into their small space, placing it against the wall by the single table and chairs.
"Thank you," the Mandalorian says, cupping the child's back. She bows slightly in reply before pulling the door closed behind her.
The child peers at the food-filled cart with rapt interest, tiny claws gripping at beskar as he twists and leans forward for a better look. The Mandalorian removes the child from his carrier, placing him gingerly onto the chair. He hands the child his broth, to which he slurps down almost instantly. The Mandalorian reaches out quickly, lowering the angle of the cup to something a little more appropriate.
"Slow down, kid," he chides gently. The child's ear twitches, but he obeys. The Mandalorian unclips his rifle, the strap falling over his shoulder, and he props it on the floor against the wall. He sits down in the opposite chair, the day's events weighing heavily on his shoulders.
He observes the child through his transparisteel visor. The child looks right back, his black eyes holding innocent curiosity and a warmness that causes a strange flutter in the Mandalorian's chest.
The Mandalorian is used to being guarded when it comes to others. Most of his interactions are with clients, where all he needs to know is his pay and if the poor sap he hunts down needs to be dead or alive when he brings them in. Even amongst his people, there isn't much. There is only the Way and making sure that it lives on in dark hallways, where all you can hear are the pittering of small feet and hushed laughter.
With the child, it is different. Everything with the child is different and the Mandalorian can't help but feel like he is dabbling in something that is completely out of his depth. Whenever the child looks at him, it's like the child can see beneath the armor and right through him to his very core. He thinks the child sees something in him, though he has no clue as to what. He doesn't fully understand why it doesn't bother him.
The child finishes his broth, placing the cup back onto the table with finality. The child doesn't move his gaze away from the Mandalorian, looking at him in an almost expectant manner.
"What?" He questions, though the voice modulator of his helmet makes him sound irritated. He clears his throat. "What is it, kid?"
The child continues its weird staring contest before drifting his eyes to the cup of water and simple meal on the cart. The child glances back to him. He sighs.
"I'm not hungry right now," he states. The child doesn't waver. His resolve crumbles.
"Fine," he mutters. The child grins at his victory.
He rolls his eyes somewhat good-naturedly, gripping either side of his helmet and pulling it off. The first breath of air he inhales he finds to be the most pleasant feeling after removing his helmet. Although the air on this planet isn't the cleanest, he will admit that it feels nice to breathe without an obstruction. He runs a hand through his wavy hair, dislodging it of its flat-pressed appearance.
The child tilts his head, his big ears lopsided, like it's the first time he's seeing his guardian's face. The Mandalorian simply raises an eyebrow.
"I haven't changed since the last time," he says, his voice slightly higher-pitched, clear and without hollow feedback. The child's ears lifted when he spoke, utterly intrigued.
Then, the child reaches for him, his hands clenching and unclenching in the universal sign of wanting to be held. The Mandalorian leans forward and gently grips the child beneath his armpits, placing him on his knees. The child coos happily, and he instinctively starts bouncing his legs in a rhythmic motion. The Mandalorian rubs his thumb over the child's robe-clad arm, holding his index finger out in silent invitation. The child gladly obliges, wrapping the offered finger with his three little digits. The Mandalorian can't help the quirk of his lip going up.
"You're lucky you are my ad'ika," the Mandalorian murmurs, his words fueled by the warmth in his chest. The child doesn't seem to hear him though, blissfully unaware of the importance of revealing his face to him, and on multiple occasions in the past as well.
The first time it happened, it was on accident. Before, when the child was an asset and said asset was asleep, he slipped away to care for his wounds gained during his fight with the Mudhorn. After treating his two broken ribs, his bruised torso, and his head laceration, he walked out of the room to see two large ears and a set of intelligent, curious eyes on him. It took him longer than he'd like to admit to realize that he didn't have his helmet on. He was horrified at his carelessness at first, but the asset didn't look at him any differently. Instead, it smiled, warm and bright. The Mandalorian decided then that an infant seeing his face surely didn't break the Code.
Once Omera had referred to the child as his boy on several occasions, it only served to solidify the role the child had in his life now. It was simpler than he thought, and yet the most daunting thing he has ever had to take on: the child as his foundling. He had whispered it to the child during a quiet moment, holding the weight cradled in his arms with much reverence.
"Ni kar'tayl gai sa'ad."
I know your name as my child.
The Vow of Adoption.
The Mandalorian sighs, taking notice of the wooden cup filled with water on the cart. As if on cue, his tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth. He stops bouncing the child, reaching into his pocket to receive the metal toy ball and plops it into the child's waiting palm. With one hand holding the child, he grabs the water cup and downs it in one gulp. He cringes at the metallic aftertaste, setting the cup on the table.
Well, he's had worse.
It doesn't take long before he starts to feel… unusual. Not like himself. Detached, almost.
He thinks maybe he is tired.
He thinks…
He thinks…
He can't remember.
It hits him all at once.
The way bone-deep exhaustion strikes him, forcefully tearing its claws into his every limb. The coil of panic that grips him is painful and aware but brief in its wake as the unnatural exhaustion drowns it out. The feeling in his gut screaming at him that something isn't right is quickly stomped out by nausea.
He tries to fight, he really does, but the enemy attacking him is one he cannot see and it drags him down, down, down.
He doesn't know how he ended up on the floor, his cheek pressed against wood planks. Despite his blurred vision, he sees the cup tipped over, rolling sideways, and his mind somehow supplies the word drugged.
Everything feels impossibly heavy, his eyelids most of all, and it takes every ounce of strength he has to keep them from closing.
He feels a tiny hand on his cheek and his eyelids snapped open (he didn't even know they closed), his vision tunneling on the child.
The kid.
He sees worry, concern and, worst of all, fear swirling in the child's galaxy-like eyes. He frowns. The child should never have that look on his sweet, round face. He should probably provide some comfort. Kids like that sort of thing, he thinks. Maybe. He decides to give it a go.
"H-heyyyyyyy," his tongue feels heavy too, his words slurred, but he has to try. "'Sssss okayyy. 'S 'kay, kiiiiid."
It feels like it takes eons, but he manages to bring a gloved hand above the child's head, patting it clumsily. The child whimpers, his large ears pressed close to his form.
"'S okay, aaad'ikaaa," he mumbled.
His eyes roll back as he is pulled under.
He knows nothing.
When the Mandalorian comes to, it is a slow process.
The most forthright feeling is the stabbing sensation in his skull. He groans rather miserably, the pulsating behind his temples making it hard to think.
Slowly, he drags his eyes open, the corner's of them feeling stiff with grit. The sunlight pouring into the room through the cracks of the curtains stab at his sensitive eyes, exacerbating the pounding in his skull. He blinks to rid the stars from his vision before testing his limbs. He knows his fingers move, and soon the rest of him too, but it's as if he's detached from his own body. After a few agonizing minutes, he manages to get to his feet. He leans heavily against the small table, his eyes squeezed shut, one hand cradling his head as the room dips and spins.
All of a sudden, his eyes burst open at the realization of his gloved hand touching his bare face, and he hones in on his helmet, sitting untouched where he laid it the previous night—
The kid!
Immediately, panic-fueled adrenaline shoots through his veins and he begins searching every nook and cranny of the room, pushing aside his dizziness and headache.
"Kid?! Kid, where are you?" He calls frantically, upturning all the furniture for even a sliver of a green ear. Something hot and dreadful forms in the pit of his stomach, and his chestplate feels tight against his rib cage, making it hard to breath.
"Ad'ika, please," he begs, getting down on his hands and knees to search under the cot, when something shiny catches his eye and he freezes. He reaches out and grabs it, the familiar object causing a sharp pang behind his sternum. The child's toy metal ball sits in the hollow of his palm, and he can't help but stare at it as nausea churns his stomach. The child never lets go of his toy willingly, always fighting him in some way to get it back in his grubby little paws.
The nausea builds uncomfortably before he feels it begin to rise and he stumble-runs into the bathroom just in time for bile to splash into the toilet. He grips the edges of the seat as he vomits again, his muscles cramping with the force.
When his body finally grants him mercy, he leans back on his toes, breathing heavily and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He allows himself two more lungfuls of air before standing, too quickly if his vision whiting out is anything to go by, but he doesn't care.
He can't afford to.
The Mandalorian rushes across the room with purpose, slipping on his helmet and grabbing their few belongings. In one whirl of his cape, he was gone.
He storms to the front desk of the inn. A Twi'lek woman with dark skin and intricate markings adorning her face smiles warmly at him. He doesn't return the sentiment.
"Hello sir, how—"
"Give me a list of all your employees," he demands sternly. The woman is clearly taken aback, her lips parted in surprise.
"I-I'm not sure if—"
He tosses her a spare credit. She changes her tune.
Her fingers fly over the holographic screen before she swivels it towards him. He leans over the counter and peers at the identification photo of each employee, flicking his finger over the screen to scroll until he finds—
"Her," he exclaims, pointing at the picture of the woman who served him the previous night. "Who is she?"
The woman's brows furrow. "Se'rai? She finished her shift about a half rotation ago."
"Where can I find her?" The Mandalorian all but growls.
"She works at the local marketplace selling fabric and textiles."
The Mandalorian abruptly pushes off the counter and leaves, ignoring the woman's shouts about the bill.
It doesn't take long for him to find her.
Her attempt to run was futile. Especially with the way the Mandalorian's blood boils.
"Where is he?" He asks, every vowel he spoke lined with venom. Se'rai shakes her head.
"I-I don't know—" she starts, but that doesn't satisfy him. He tightens his grip around her neck, watching her squirm before pressing his blaster against her ribs.
"I'm going to ask one more time," he starts slowly, barely able to contain his rage. "Where. Is. He." With each clipped word, the blaster digs deeper into her skin and she flinched, her eyes wide with fear.
Maybe he's being too harsh, but he can't bring himself to care passed the mantra in his head of find him find him find him get him back!
"I-I swear I don't know," her tone is pleading, "he just paid me to give you a white powder in your drink. I-I think I heard him say something about going to a spaceport along the Outer Rim. That's all I know."
The Mandalorian narrows his eyes suspiciously… but he believes her. He pulls away quickly as if he were burned and marches off to the Razor Crest.
He cannot bear the silence.
It didn't occur to him how used he was to the sounds the child made. Every coo and babble and squeal. Every little bang as he played with his toys, or when he'd use his mystical powers and they'd start to fade from his tiny grasp, spare nuts and bolts clattering on metal grates.
With nothing but the white streaks of stars stretching infinitely as his ship flew at hyperspeed, his mind drifts.
The Mandalorian likes to think he is skilled at his work. He has been hunting for years and was never afraid to get his hands dirty, knowing a million ways to kill someone in an instant. That knowledge seems to taunt him now, as the dark parts of his conscience creep forward. Images of the child in pain, injured, afraid, crying for the Mandalorian to save him, twisted beyond recognition, dead—
No.
He cannot accept that possibility. But the images of fat tears swirling with blood invoke something within him, visceral and writhing. The helplessness that torments him is too reminiscent, ripping open an old scab.
He blinks and he's in that dark bunker, people screaming, blasters and guns firing, the putrid smell of burning flesh and sweat making his stomach flip. He had sat in the corner, curled up into a ball, not making a sound (his father told him to be quiet like when they'd play hide-and-seek) as tears rolled down his cheeks (his mother would wipe them away with an impossibly soft touch). He was old enough to understand his parents' choice, but so incredibly young that he foolishly believed they would come back.
He was is afraid.
The hardened pit of dread in his gut tightens painfully and he grits his teeth. His hands tremble violently, and he grips the control wheel. He is sure his knuckles are bleached white beneath his gloves.
His headache comes back with full force, pulsating behind his temples. His chest feels like it's caving in, a nebula collapsing and the heavy beskar is being pulled in, squeezing too tight. He barely catches the sound of fast, ragged breaths over the static in his ears and somewhere it registers that it's coming from him. His vision blurs along the edges and he shuts his eyes against it, pins and needles in his hands.
He's about to lose himself.
Don't do this.
He reels himself back as much as he can, remembering who he is, where he came from, the roots of the Way engraved into his very soul. He forces himself to take a breath, the intake like thorns. He takes another, and another, and another, until he feels a little more sane.
(Inhale)
His foundling is missing.
(Exhale)
But he's not gone.
(Inhale)
The Mandalorian will get him back.
(Exhale)
Even if it is the last thing he does.
He continues to look blankly out of the transparisteel windshield. He flicks on the ventilation system as high as it will go, hearing it roar to life as cool air blasts into the cockpit. The silence isn't as suffocating now.
It is a fifty-fifty chance.
After scanning his planetary navigation system, he narrows down the possible location to two spaceports. Both along the Outer Rim, both used to be owned by the Empire. One port is to the left, and the other to the right.
His jaw hardens at the thought that the life of his child is coming down to a guess, a gamble, a game. He is running out of time, and if he chooses wrong, there will be next to no chance of getting the child back.
And it's all down to a lucky pick.
He closes his eyes for a moment, hoping, praying to whatever deity that will listen, that he makes the correct choice.
He steers his ship to the left.
The spaceport isn't particularly large in size. Rather, it is like a labyrinth, the narrow alleyways stretching on and splitting off into further avenues.
He marches through the outpost with a frightful kind of purpose, a wordless warning to all those in his way to make room or die. Wisely, people part like the red sea in his blistering wake.
With every passing second he does not spot even a sign of where the child might be, the numbing static thrum spreads through him, making his hands itch with a sickening type of desperation. All he could hear was blood rushing in his ears in his panic-stricken state, and he has to remember to breathe. The flickering spark of hope, of a possibility, of throwing the dice just right is what keeps him scouring through the dusty streets.
He cannot put a name to the turns he takes, only marching in stride with the deep-seated feeling in his gut like a compass. The primal instinct that flared awake upon seeing the child for the first time could be an adjunct to it. But there's something else, like a string pulling him where he needs to go. Whatever it was felt like it sat buried in his bones, as ancient as the dirt he walked on, as the air he breathed. He feels like it's on the tip of his tongue but his hesitancy brings him pause. He thinks of the stories told at night to children, of a time where there were people called the Jedi who could tap into some unseen power and use it to their ability. He thinks of the child, using all of his might to lift the Mudhorn off the ground; giggling as he made screws and bolts float and spin with the tip of his claw. He doesn't want to think anymore.
He enters the mouth of an alleyway and isn't surprised to see it's just as narrow as the others, the walls barely an arms width apart. His boots crunch against pebbles as he scans for a clue as to where to go next. The string that had been tugging him along suddenly fades, and he turns his head—
The sound of a laser round firing pierces the air and instinctively he reacts, muscles tensing as he dives forward into a barrel roll. His hand flies to his blaster and he whips it out, aiming at the first figure he spots. He pulls the trigger, vaguely registering the face of a Trandoshan before the figure crumbles to the ground.
Two others follow, trapping the Mandalorian in the alleyway. The Mandalorian scowls beneath his helmet.
He fires at the enemy on his right. They dodge both shots, ducking in a way that they must've tasted dirt, and the Mandalorian uses this to his advantage.
He charges and uppercuts his fist, feeling his knuckles collide with the solid form. He hears the wind being knocked out of the stunned being's lungs.
He swivels on his feet to the Trandoshan on his left, seeing them run towards him. The Trandoshan raises their blaster and fires. The Mandalorian attempts to dodge, but the alleyway is cramped, leaving him scrambling for room.
He barely manages to move before a laser round hits his right shoulder pauldron. He grits his teeth at the heat radiating through his shoulder and across his collarbone. The Trandoshan fires again, aiming for his chestplate. He crouches quickly, dragging his boot in a semi-circle across the dirt, kicking up dust clouds.
The Trandoshan starts choking on dust. It gives him just enough time to swing his pulse rifle over his shoulder. His actions are so practiced he doesn't even have to think as he loads a vaporizing round from his bandolier into the chamber. He aims at the target. The Trandoshan is gone in a flash, the only remnants left of them floating off.
Arms loop around his neck in a choke hold and the Mandalorian shoves the butt of his rifle into his opponent's stomach. The arms loosen a fraction, allowing him to drop the rifle and grip the back of the Trandoshan's shirt. He throws them over his shoulder. They landed with a loud thud and before they can even take a breath, the Mandalorian shoots them between the eyes.
The Mandalorian senses movement behind him and he twists on the balls of his feet, his blaster raised and his finger primed to pull the trigger—
The scene in front of him steals his breath away and he freezes as a barbwire coil of fear grips him. A figure in all black has the child clutched against their side, holding him firmly in place. It doesn't take long for the Mandalorian to recognize the figure as Sallo Veir, considered second in the Guild.
Years of training and experience has taught the Mandalorian to watch every minute detail of his enemy's movements, to get inside their head and catch their vulnerabilities to use against them.
That goes out the window immediately as the Mandalorian's vision tunnels onto his child. The child who has a gag in his mouth. The child squirms and tries to throw himself towards the Mandalorian, and the sunlight shows the glimmer of tear streaks down the child's face.
The Mandalorian sees red.
Before he can sprint forward, Veir is suddenly holding a blaster to the child's head.
"Don't, Mando," Veir calls out, "or else your prized possession gets it."
The Mandalorian grinds his teeth, his hand not gripping the blaster curling into a shaky fist.
"Let him go," the Mandalorian snarls. Veir tilts his head and narrows his beady eyes.
"You aren't in a position to make orders here."
The Mandalorian glances to his child being held at gunpoint, his sweet face creased in fear and worry and not being able to fully understand what's happening around him. His heart aches.
"Drop your weapon, Mandalorian," Veir commands. The Mandalorian begrudgingly obeys, slowly lowering his blaster to the ground. Veir jerks his head to the side and the Mandalorian fights a sigh as he kicks his blaster away. Veir nods, satisfied, when the Mandalorian senses another presence behind him.
Something is fired and it hits him squarely in his backplate, electric shocks like wavelets coursing through him. Blue arcs of electricity run over his beskar armor plates as he hits the ground. He's partially curled on his side as he convulses painfully, his muscles seizing and spasming wildly. He thinks he bit his tongue, tasting wet copper pooling in his mouth. The blurry image of boots enter his line of vision.
"I don't understand why you hide. You aren't so special," Veir says, his voice warbled to the Mandalorian's ears. The Mandalorian ignores him, tearing his eyes up to the child. The child is sobbing around the rag in his mouth, trying its best to reach for him. He feels his heart shatter.
"I was going to give you to the Guild," Veir continues, "once I took care of your little friend. But the Empire really doesn't like you. They were more than willing to compensate for both of your heads."
Veir reaches for their blaster and shoves it into the base of the Mandalorian's neck, the soft spot between his helmet and the frayed collar of his linen cloak. The barrel is cold against his exposed skin.
He can barely think past the electricity burrowing into his flesh like knives, his inability to breathe as his lungs spasm, the blood coating his tongue. He wants more than anything to move, to speak, to fight for the child he was so sorely in love with.
The hardest realization he had to come to was that he wasn't invincible.
"Goodbye, Mando."
I'm sorry, ad'ika.
Suddenly, a garbled scream rings out and the Mandalorian froze as he recognized it. He had never heard the child scream in such a manner, but he knows the sound of his kid. He watches as Veir is thrown back violently by an invisible wave. He hits the wall and falls to the ground, unmoving. The shocks tormenting his body stops and he sags against the ground bonelessly, panting for air. His vision is blurred around the edges as his eyes swim unseeingly at his surroundings.
He blinks and then there are big, bottomless eyes looking right through him, his big ears lowered and his brows furrowed in concern. Despite the pain, he finds himself genuinely smiling at the sight of his child.
"Hey, womp rat," he rasps. The child immediately perks up at the sound of his voice, lifting a small hand and pressing it to his helmet. A strange concoction of emotions fill his chest cavity, and he blinks back the burning behind his eyes. His voice cracks uncharacteristically as he murmured, "I missed you too."
Slowly, he finds the energy to stand, sweeping up the child with him. He is quick to remove the rag from his child's mouth, frowning slightly as the child smacks his lips together, trying to rid himself of the dryness. The Mandalorian's limbs are trembling, and he isn't sure how long he can keep standing, but the weight in his arms is good and warm. He cradles it as close as possible, the child curling comfortably in the crook of his arm, pressing his fuzzy head against his chestplate. Yes, this feels right.
He looks up from the bundle in his arms to the black-clad figure lying limply against the sandstone wall of the alley. He can feel his blood beginning to simmer just looking at him. He looks down to the child, who looked very content in his place and was starting to chirp softly.
"Just a second, kid," he mutters, shifting the child up to his shoulder. The child seems to want to protest at being moved, but he ultimately doesn't, settling in his new position and clutching on to the pauldron. The Mandalorian gingerly walks over to his pulse rifle and lifts it off the ground, yanking the chamber open. He slides in a vaporizing round before cocking it. He aims and fires, gaining nothing but grim satisfaction at the disappearing flurries.
Feeling undoubtedly better, the Mandalorian begins shuffling back to the Razor Crest, finally at ease with the child cooing in his ear.
It wasn't until the Razor Crest broke the atmosphere did the taut knot between his shoulder blades loosen considerably, and he exhaled further back into the pilot's seat. The child lays curled on his lap, snoring away the last several, grueling hours. The Mandalorian doesn't blame him.
The pull of sleep is heavy and enticing, but he cannot bring himself to it just yet. That would involve moving to his cot in the lower deck, and the child needs his sleep. Instead, he flicks on autopilot, having no destination set, and stares at the breathing little form of his child. The sight of him, finally safe and where he belongs, brings the Mandalorian the utmost relief. The rise and fall of the child's chest is a comfort like no other.
The Mandalorian gently cups his gloved hand atop his child's head, running his thumb soothingly behind the child's ear. The child's sigh of content is almost inaudible, and he unconsciously snuggles further into his guardian's stomach. The Mandalorian smiles softly, affection blooming in his chest.
"You're lucky you are my ad'ika."
Well, maybe he was the lucky one.