Chapter Text
When you laid awake at night, you hadn’t considered your fate would be determined by handfuls of imperial credits. That your life hung in the balance between payments exchanged underhandedly in the back corners of the crowded cantina over watered down drinks became more believable, though, the longer you lasted in servitude. It was easier if you thought yourself not human, not one of the patrons whose gazes followed your movements.
You couldn’t see them, but you could feel them.
It somehow made it a little worse to your pride just the same, and a lot harder to ignore.
You would never be called a slave out in the open, because you knew the ramifications of such an error in this place. Others working alongside you knew, too, so not only did they try not to talk about you, but they avoided you at all cost. The laws of slavery were a prickly topic for some people, and those around you didn’t want to chance unhappy customers by a small slip of the tongue. You weren’t quite far enough in the outer rim to escape even honor, it seemed.
So, at night, you would think of your old life that was gentle and kind, and you’d pretend that you were still in your old room, in your old bed.
It wasn’t the hardest existence, you’d give them that. They treated you like some otherworldly thing, a blind woman who could wait tables and fetch drinks. As if a disability was a personality trait. Men’s underestimation typically worked in your favor, and you had learned that lesson well. It was not unheard of for workers to be punished for missteps, and you found it easy to claim the fault as your own. The wilting flower was not so far from the truth, once, and when you ducked your head and clasped your hands in apology, no one was made an example of.
As far as organic lives went, you were expensive . Not more than a droid, you figured, but still worth enough not to deal damage to, and anything that damaged the worth of property wouldn’t be tolerated. That was a bit of armor you savored wearing.
You stood near the bar using a rag to clean glasses. You couldn’t quite make out a lot inside the cantina, as it tended to be darker, but your impaired vision did afford you shapes and shadows. With more light, you would be able to make out more, but since arriving on this dusty little rock of a planet months ago, you didn’t feel motivated to exactly acclimate . You simply listened to the dull thrum of life around you, conversations rising and swelling, the clatter of glass and the slosh of drink. When the door would open, fresh air and light would blow in with bits of sand in the wind, and you could taste the dry climate sticking in your mouth.
Stacking the next glass carefully on the back of the bar, you became aware of someone coming to stand across from you. They didn’t speak, simply stood at the bar, and you wondered where the other girl was that usually took drink orders. A prickle rose up on the back of your neck the longer the stranger stood across from you, and you carefully refolded the rag in your hands, inclining your head upwards to the shadow.
“I’m looking for someone,” said the newcomer, his voice low and pleasantly modulated. Your eyebrows rose, and you hid a grimace when he spoke the owner’s name.
Never a good sign.
You paused, thinking of the back, dingy rooms where the man in question usually haunted, and you took a deep breath. “I can find him,” you answered levelly. You paused, laying a hand on the edge of the bar before turning away. “May I get you anything while you wait?”
There was a beat before he said, “No...thank you.”
Manners , you admired with a small smile. You nodded once and turned, but at the same time the absent barkeep in question came stumbling out from the back, knocking into you and overturning nearly every glass you’d managed to clean. It was such an epic sweep, you’d think later, that you still weren’t sure how she managed to break so many things and retain a job.
Both of you went down like rocks and sprawled across the floor, shattered glass dusting your robes and laying like invisible teeth on the ground. You sat up, cringing when you could feel sharp pricks through the fabric of your clothes.
“Are you alright?” you ask, reaching out a hand to the girl. You can make out her shape, though she can’t seem to be still.
“He’s going to end me for this!” she hissed, her voice laced with anger and shame, and the two of you begin sweeping the glass up hurriedly with your hands.
“Blame it on me,” you mutter, wincing when a shard pricks your palm. You pull yourself up by the bar, sweeping more of it with the sole of your boot to make a pathway.
“I can’t do that.”
“You can, and you will,” you answer primly, turning and grappling for a serving tray. You pile the glass on it and begin chucking it into the trash. “Go find him, leave the mess with me.”
“But-”
“He has someone waiting for him.” Your whisper must draw her eyes up, and you nod your head to the side where you know the newcomer still stands on the other side of the bar. You’re not quite sure what makes her scramble away so quickly, but you’re grateful she does. As well-meaning as the girl is, you doubt she’ll last much longer in an establishment where she’s constantly underfoot.
You dust away as much glass as you can so you can kneel without impaling your knees, then reach up onto the bar for the rag you’d had. There’s a moment where you feel nothing but smooth wood, until a gloved hand bumps into yours. You freeze, blinking, but then the rag is pressed under your fingers.
For some reason, the silent help makes you smile.
“Thank you,” you murmur and duck back down to use the rag to sweep glass up onto the tray. You can hear when the girl and the owner return, for he’s painfully loud and obnoxious to boot. The barkeep seems to be trying to explain away the accident with the glasses quickly and distract him with the fact he has a visitor, and she’s lucky he’s simple because it works like a charm.
You don’t quite catch what he says under his breath, but you flinch back when he kicks some glass behind the bar, almost hitting you in the face. You turn quickly, brushing it off and growing irate. This isn’t how you wanted your day to go, kneeling on the filthy floor and dumping the tray into the trash again.
“Mando, good to see you in these parts again. Come with me.”
You rise up once they’re gone, sighing deeply and feeling tense. All the chaos that typically clamored in a cantina wasn’t good for your nerves or patience, you decided, tossing the rag in a bin to be cleaned later. You fetch a broom, now that the barkeep has returned and begins taking orders, and you sweep the floor so no one will step on any wayward glass. The chore is nearly done when she returns, sliding a tray towards you.
“Take it to the boss and the Mandalorian.”
Frowning, you slowly set the broom aside and turn to the tray, feeling the drinks to make sure they’re balanced before you lift it up. A Mandalorian. That would explain the modulated helmet, you supposed. You try to think of what you’d heard of them in the past, what you had read. If you remembered it right, they didn’t remove their face coverings in public, so the drink seemed...inappropriate.
Possibly even rude .
Moving with care, you thread the needle of tables and patrons, their shapes and shadows blending before your pale eyes. You follow the sound of the owner’s voice, loud and barking, and you only hesitate once.
“...not for sale.”
From the direction of the noise, you know you stand closer to the strange visitor, and you quietly set the tray down on the table between them. Your hands are confident and your face is unflinching in the repetitive movements of serving, staring straight ahead even when the owner’s hand strikes out and grabs your arm with a meaty fist. You suck in a breath and go still.
“Unless you’re willing to pay a premium price,” his rocky voice chuckles across the table, nearly vibrating in your chest. “I can only imagine what kinds of uses a blind servant can have for someone like you .”
This was not the first time he’d implied such things, and it was not the first time you’d had to school your face from cringing over the alcohol you served. Ire simmered in your breast, and bile threatened to burn the inside of your mouth, just the same.
A terse, modulated voice crossed the table in a quiet mutter. “Let her go.”
You swallowed as the fingers tightened around your wrist before they vanished completely, and you did everything in your power not to snatch your hand back. You let your arms fall to your sides, controlling every tense muscle, and curled your fingers at your sides. The silence that follows is cold and unforgiving, but you feel hot with embarrassment.
The quiet sing of steel signals the Mandalorian standing from the table. You expect something more explosive, for the owner’s rudeness, but perhaps it wasn’t worth it to someone like him. Starting fights in bars with small minded men at the edge of the rim probably wasn’t on his to-do list, you imagined.
You listen for the retreating sound of boots against the floor, but it doesn’t come. Instead, there is a firm clunk that hits the table in front of you, and suddenly all the heat that was blooming in your face drains.
“You can’t be serious,” the owner laughs, but the visitor says nothing. “This is a third of what I am owed for keeping her, much less buying her.”
“And you won’t find anyone else with the credits to make a better offer,” the Mandalorian answers shortly, impatience now evident through the modulator of his helmet. He leans down near the table, and you think he must be intimidating a sight to shut the owner up so quickly. “Not from anyone with a taste for it.”
Sickness curls in your belly as the moment stretches into silence, time keeping you hostage as the two men stare each other down. It must be difficult trying to glare at someone’s face you can’t see, you think, when you’re not used to it. The thought is ludicrous, but it’s distracting enough to keep you from falling apart in the middle of the crowded cantina while you’re being traded like cargo.
The quiet clatter of the credits inside a pouch is retracted from the table, and a lump grows in your throat as you realize you’ve just been bought. Paid for.
It never felt like something that would happen, not again .
“Get out,” the owner snaps, and you flinch at the words so ruthlessly directed towards you when you’d been ignored up until then. It was enough to make you take a step back, against your better judgment, but the Mandalorian was behind you and seemed to be made entirely of steel and iron.
“You forgetting something?”
You hear a growl from the man still seated at the table before he tosses something onto the table, letting it clatter. You feel the man behind you tense before he carefully tucks away whatever was just exchanged. Your mind was reeling, trying to keep up with all the details.
Swallowing, you’re almost too nervous to move when boot steps begin walking away. The cantina’s noises swell around you, and it occurs to you that you’ll never have to step foot into the crowded, dirty establishment again.
You scramble to catch up with the man who just traded credits for your life, fighting past patrons and listening for the sound of armor. It’s a quiet slide of steel that would almost be drowned out by everything else if you weren’t paying attention. Stepping outside into the bright sunlight makes you wince, having been so used to the dingy shade of the bar, but you can see the Mandalorian’s own shadow fully for the first time.
Standing a few inches taller than yourself, his shape isn’t as bulky as you expected. It’s broad, in your sight, and even though there’s a hum and bustle of people coming and going all around you, he stands completely still.
“Keep up.”
Then he’s walking off again, and you’re hurrying after him. The few inches he has on you has you huffing to keep up, and you’re so focused on not losing him in the crowd that you don’t have time to be overwhelmed by all the smells and sounds of the market. The sun is bright enough you can keep his shadow in your line of sight, and you’re grateful he doesn’t try to guide you by the hand. It feels like a small but precious dignity to stretch your legs and taste dust and dry air without feeling like you’re being led on a leash.
It’s when you pass from the market, then the city, that the noises of other organic life seem to fade, and all you can hear is the wind and the whipping of your robes and his cloak.
Suddenly, he stops and turns towards you. Heart climbing into your throat, you curl your hands at your sides and ready for the worst, but what happens next is unexpected.
“I didn’t...did you leave...things behind?”
What?
Your face must betray your confusion, because he goes on. “Back there. Did you...you didn’t bring anything with you.”
You think of the spare dress you were allotted that felt rough and scratchy against your skin, of the broken comb and the lone, threadbare ribbon you used to fix your hair whenever you had work that needed a bit more elbow grease.
You shake your head quickly, and you both stand in silence. The arid surroundings make you feel hot beneath your clothes, and you wish you could gauge what he was thinking. Most people talk...well, most people tend to run their mouths around you. As if you needed everything narrated, simply because you couldn’t see.
In fact, the silence is a relief, like a balm you didn’t know you needed for a burn that you’d been ignoring for too long.
You hear him grunt under his helmet, almost too quiet for the modulator to pick up, and he turns and begins to trek again. His boots hit sand, and you follow as gracefully as you can in soft soles that weren’t meant for anything more than being indoors. It’s easy to see him now, his general shape, and you can tell when he stops and when he starts walking again, giving you a chance not to fall behind.
There’s a long stretch of time, perhaps more than an hour, where you both walk in silence. You pull the hood of your robe up over the crown of your head, the sun beginning to sting and make your eyes sore and face burn. You’re watching his boots, following the path they make, but when you look up again, a large, terrifying dark shape looms in front of you.
You must make a sound, because he turns to see you hesitating, taking a step away.
The Mandalorian seems to consider something before approaching you, and when the breeze ruffles your clothes, you can smell leather and sweat off of him.
“Hold out your hand,” he says, then adds quietly, “Please.”
There’s a shift of fabric before you feel something small and cool press into your palm. “The trigger, connected to the transmitter chip they injected when you were...bought,” he explains to your baffled expression.
The thing that could kill you instantly.
Your stomach drops and your ears begin to ring, holding the small round object in your hand. When you speak, your voice is hoarse with unshed tears. “W-Why…? What do you want me...to do with it?”
“Keep it,” he grunts, shifting his weight between his legs. “Until I can neutralize the chip.”
Your free hand drifts to your neck, blinking hard against the wind as it begins to pick up. Sand begins to dust your lashes and catch in your mouth, but his words have left your throat bone dry all on their own. “I don’t understand.” He didn’t respond, and you shake your head, dropping your sight level to where your hand holds the trigger. “Why-?”
“I don’t need a slave. I don’t want a slave.” You think you can hear a frown, somewhere behind the steel of his armor. “I need someone to help me on my ship, and I can pay you for the work.”
Confusion turns to shock, because it’s such a blow to what you thought would be a normal day that you can’t control the muscles in your body anymore. Your knees feel like they’ll buckle, and he’ll leave you there in the sand for the sad, small creature you feel like you’ve become. That this is all some kind of cruel joke.
When you don’t respond, that hesitation returns to his voice. “Unless...you wanted to stay...here.”
“No. Never.” Your lip quivers, though you don’t think you’ll cry. You hope you won’t cry. You can’t quite understand what you’re feeling, but it’s visceral and causing you to tremble like a fever.
There’s a quiet, metal tinged sigh, and you think it sounds as relieved as you feel. When he starts walking again, the muffled sound of his boots in sand change to striking against metal, and you’re careful as you step up, gingerly toeing up what seems to be a ramp. The large shadow looming ahead was a ship, you realized, only ever having boarded one once before.
When you reach the top, his voice is quiet. “There’s a step down.”
Heart thrumming in your breast, you reach out with a shaking hand to lean against the side of the door, your boots carefully settling on the metal flooring. Inside is just as dark and cold as a cave, but it’s a blessed feeling compared to the dry heat of the sun outside.
“This is yours?” you ask, pushing the hood of your robe back and feeling sand fall from the cowl. You can hear a minuscule echo of your voice inside the metal walls. He makes a noncommittal grunt in your direction, moving about in the dim lighting. You hear the flip of a switch and the ramp behind you retracts, followed by the hatch closing you in true darkness.
Your orientation blurs, and your shoulders rise to your ears with tension. You wait for some instruction or command, but neither comes. As your nerves accumulate, all the questions you should be asking- What kind of work am I to do? How are you going to neutralize a chip that could kill me? Who exactly are you? -fall by the wayside.
You hear his boots walking away again, and you wonder if he’ll ever speak at all. Is he so used to people just answering to his silent expectations he doesn’t need to? The line of thought is enough to distract you from the shock threatening to overtake your system, and you trail unsteadily after him. It’s only a few paces, and you listen as there’s a snap of fabric and a short sigh.
“You’ll sleep here.” You feel him step aside, and you blink curiously, walking forward. It doesn’t seem to be a room as much as it is a nook, a curve in the metal framework of the ship’s hull holding a bed. You lay your hand down on the carefully tucked sheets, trailing your fingers up to a blanket that’s been folded at the foot of the cot. You turn towards him, trying to think where to begin with your questions, but he goes on. “I’m going to set coordinates for our next destination. It would...be best if you stayed here.”
“...alright.” You sit down, finding the mattress plusher than you expected and sinking back. The weight off your legs has you sighing, head falling forward in relief. You listen to a slight strain of leather-perhaps he’s flexing his hands?-before you hear his footsteps begin to retreat once more.
You suspect he’s unused to company. Of organic life being so close.
Before you lose the nerve, you call softly, “Thank you.”
There is a slight pause in his stride, but he doesn’t turn back or reply. He disappears, climbing a ladder into a level above you, and you’re left alone in the cool dark.
You realize, after sitting in the quiet and listening to the engines hum to life, that your hand still cradles the trigger connecting to the chip. That’s what he’d said, hadn’t he? You swallow, fingering the small object and thinking of the procedure you’d undergone when they implanted the device at the base of your neck.
The Mandalorian said he’d neutralize it, and you wondered if there would be pain.
That didn’t scare you as much as the idea of something going wrong when he would take it out.
You don’t remember laying down on the cot, and you certainly don’t remember falling asleep. Perhaps it was the shock, but you fell unconscious into a deep, dreamless slumber, curled in the nook at an odd angle. A firm hand on your arm woke you up, and though it wasn’t a tight grasp, and he didn’t shake you, it was still unnerving. Just a solid touch, and your eyes flew open.
“We’ve landed,” he says, removing his hand and stepping back as you sit up. You blink, wishing half-heartedly there was more light to make out anything around you, but you don’t think any amount of light would have prevented the sudden dizziness you feel when you stand up. Your hand strikes outward, landing flat against the wall with a loud slap to steady yourself.
That same gloved hand cups your other elbow, and you swallow when he doesn’t let go. “The jump from hyperspace can be a lot if you’re not used to it,” he says. You don’t even remember the ship taking off, much less any kind of jump. You wait as your bearings come back to you, your weight swaying between the balance of your feet. When you don’t move, his fingers flex gently around the delicate bones of your arm.
“I...I might need...help,” you finally confess, your stomach unsettled and your head swimming lazily like fish in a pond. How long had you been asleep?
The Mandalorian doesn’t say anything, but his hand leaves your arm to lightly brush your back. You focus on breathing and begin walking forward. He guides you silently through the ship, down the ramp once he opens the hatch, and onto firmer, rocky foundation. Not unlike an anchor for a boat being tossed at sea, you don’t question how you’re able to let him guide you.
Such a thing was so...intimate. Even dangerous, being vulnerable this way. You don’t want to think about it, so you take a deep, steadying breath and begin asking questions.
The conversation is nearly one-sided from how little information he gives you, but the answers are sufficient enough. You’re on a planet called Avarla-7, which means nothing to you. You’re visiting one of his associates. You slept nearly 9 hours.
“Oh.” You listen to the crunch of rocks beneath both sets of your boots, considering the chill in the air. “It must be very late, then.” An answering hum from under the helmet is the only confirmation you receive. Something tickles at the back of your mind, and you incline your head towards the Mandalorian that walks to your left. “I...expected to be put to work rather quickly.” He doesn’t answer your vague comment, and you frown gently. “What kind of work do you need from someone like me?”
His hand presses slightly into the middle of your back, a bit firmer as you crest a small slope, giving you stability where there is none for you to find at night. “We’ll talk about it later.”
A voice calls out, wizened and deep across the expanse of dusty rocks, “I expected you back sooner. You are getting slow in your age.”
Your eyebrows raise, and you hear your companion beside you sigh again-this time in mild annoyance. You slow your steps with him, and you become aware that you have arrived near a building. Perhaps a tent, you think, with the sounds of fabric flapping in the breeze, but the noises of wandering animals nearby makes you think it’s a farm. Your curiosity heightens as you hear approaching footsteps, short and direct until someone stops in front of you.
“You have come to fetch the child, then? He has grown restless in your absence.”
A child?
The Mandalorian shifts beside you, and you think he must nod. “Yes. But I need to ask for your help again.” There’s a pause, and you can feel them staring at you. “She has a transmitter implant. Can you neutralize it?”
The associate steps closer to you, but you don’t feel threatened by the quiet approach. You fold your hands patiently, feeling steadier on your feet with the Mandalorian’s hand at your back.
“I am called Kuiil. May I have your hand?”
It is not demeaning, nor implying you need the help, and in fact you feel safer suddenly than you have in...in years . It’s hard to describe, the forthrightness and honesty in this voice that makes you feel a burgeoning amount of trust.
You hold out your hand, and the receiving grip is gentle and polite. He turns, and you follow, feeling like a young girl trailing after your father again, when you still had capricious bravery and the kindness of everyone near. Then, he says, “I will not neutralize it. I will remove it entirely. You will stay here until you are rested. I have spoken.”