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One moment Din is speeding through the desert, raising clouds of sand behind him, and the next, his speeder decelerates so abruptly that he flies through the air, narrowly avoiding crashing along with it.
Carried by the element of surprise, the raiders take the upper hand in a flash.
Din's hips throb from landing on his feet. Before he can make sense of the situation, three sets of arms are either restraining him or pointing blasters at his helmet. He struggles, but doesn't pay them a lot of attention—his eyes are following the shortest of the bunch, who is rushing toward the child, fallen a ways away on the sand.
He's acutely aware of the empty spots on his vambrace where he keeps the whistling birds.
In the span of a few seconds, he breaks his right hand free, smashes shoulder-first into the alien to his left, letting gravity do some of the work for him. He takes out the vibroblade he keeps in his boot and stabs the other below the ribs. The scuffle goes on a bit longer, but Din overpowers the rest before they can do anything more than leave a bruise or two.
When nobody else remains standing but the short thief, Din realizes the real danger has yet to pass. In their thin arms they have the child, held tightly by the stuff of its clothes.
The child whimpers.
"Easy, easy," Din says, hands stretched out in front of him as non threatening as he can muster. "What do you want?"
The short bandit repositions the blaster against the child's head. Their bright eyes dart frantically from Din to the child to the limp bodies of their allies.
Din calls their attention back to him with a sharp whistle. As long as the thief is looking at him, they're not looking at the child.
"What do you want?"
The alien is clearly scared, despite having the upper hand. Perhaps he can intimidate them further.
Din takes one step forward, telegraphing his movements from start to finish.
At once, the alien straightens. Their hold on the child tightens considerably—it makes another pitiful noise, the sound of which feels like a knife twisted in Din's gut.
Oh, when I'm done with you… He glares at the alien from the depths of his heart.
The alien lifts one clawed finger from the blaster and points it toward Din.
"What?" Din gestures to his jetpack, the inkling of a plan forming in his mind. "This? Is this what you want?"
He twists around and unclasps the device from his back. As soon as it comes free, a shot rings out, muffled.
Din's blood turns to ice. Is this how he finds out the color of the child’s blood?
The child wiggles in distress and drops to the ground when the alien's hold on it slackens. A smatter of dark brown liquid stains the edge of the child's robe.
With a quiet, final moan, the alien slumps to the ground, dead.
The child runs to him as fast as its little feet can carry it. When it is within reach, Din hoists it up in his arms and turns around, shielding it from the shooter with the beskar on his back. There doesn't seem to be any injury on its little body, only the immense fright of being kept in such a situation.
"You're safe," he tells the child. The words soothe him more than they soothe the baby—the little creature seems to sense the danger has passed instinctively and, though buried against his breastplate, it relaxes.
Footsteps close in on them, unhurried. Din listens to them, trying to gauge the new threat.
The suns are slowly setting behind him; his shadow forms at his feet, a trace of darkness in this expanse of golden sand. A second shadow joins it, but the newcomer stops a respectable distance away. Too far to be within stabbing range, should the need arise for that.
Din clenches the vibroblade harder in his fist.
"What do you want?" he asks, patience wearing thin.
The newcomer is silent at first.
Din waits, ready to spring.
The stranger’s shadow moves, the sand crunching underneath their boots as they approach. They gesture with the length of their weapon somewhere farther away, near the wreckage of Din's speeder bike.
There is nothing of interest there, only the smoking scrap of metal, and beside it, buried in sand, the…
"No." Din's finally reclaimed that set of armour. He won't go about pawning it for information he can obtain by himself through other means. “The armour is non-negotiable,” he says as he turns around.
The stranger is a man, at least forty years old. It's hard to tell for sure. Life in the desert has left its marks on his face, deepening the wrinkles around his eyes. Scars mottle both sides of his head, reaching back around his skull. He's wearing light colours, a cotton robe reminiscent of the Tusken style of dressing.
"As you wish,” the stranger says, voice rough and accented.
"That's it?"
He watches Din intently, almost as if he can see right through his helmet. "I don't claim any particular oratorical skill," the man says. "Would anything I say make you change your mind?"
“No,” Din replies, annoyed with the situation. The short bandit has succumbed to death meters away before any harm was brought to the child, all thanks to this man’s intervention. "Thanks for the help. Is there nothing else I could offer?"
"No."
Din frowns behind the privacy of his helmet. "Were you following us?"
Instead of answering, the man turns and stares at the crepuscular sky. "Come. We should get a fire started before the cold settles in."
The stranger walks away toward the suns. A bantha reveals itself half hidden behind a dune, only the top of its head and ears visible.
Din hurries up to gather the stuff strewn about around the speeder, then joins the man by the animal.
In the in-between state, when the first sun has vanished below the horizon and the second is barely teasing the line, the scorching heat subsides, and becomes more bearable as the seconds pass. Everything is bathed in golds and reds, and the darkness rises up from the other side, bringing with it the subtle twinkling of early rising stars.
They sit in silence for a while, watching the campfire. A piece of meat from the krayt dragon is roasting over the flames, given to the stranger in lieu of thanks. It gives off a mouthwatering smell, reminding Din that he is very much starving. His last meal was at Mos Pelgo, over a day and a half ago. This hunger isn’t enough to hinder his reflexes, but with the food cooking an arm’s length away, it’s difficult to ignore it.
“I’ve never had dragon before,” the stranger muses. “It’s kind of stringy, to be honest.” While he cuts himself another bit, he glances at the child leaning against Din’s leg and asks, “What about the kid? Does it eat meat?”
Din snorts. “While it’s still alive, even.”
The man recoils, eyes wide in surprise and apprehension. He looks at the child again and laughs. “Really? Am I in danger then?”
Instead of answering, Din shrugs.
Amused but clearly bothered by the concept of man-eating green aliens, the stranger reaches across the space separating them and offers the child a tiny portion of cooked krayt dragon meat.
The offering is accepted and ingested without delay.
“That’s right, cooked dragon meat good, human meat bad,” he says, pointing at the slab of meat and then at himself in turn. “Do you understand? Nod if you understand.”
When it becomes clear that the stranger isn’t about to give them another piece, the child, completely ignoring the words addressed to it, turns toward Din and taps on his knee insistently, begging for more. No shame in that one. None at all.
“Stars,” the stranger grumbles, appearing a bit shaken for reasons Din can’t figure out right away.
Din prepares a larger chunk of dragon meat and hands bits of it to the kid as it chews and looks back up at him expectantly.
“Aren’t you hungry?” the stranger asks.
“I am Mandalorian,” Din replies plainly. A huff of laughter makes him turn to the other man frowning. “What?”
“I didn’t know Mandalorians never get hungry.”
“It is forbidden to remove the helmet in the presence of other living beings.”
The stranger lets out an unintelligible noise then starts coughing. The fit lasts for a good minute and as soon as he is no longer in any danger of choking to death, he croaks, “What?”
Din’s temper is balancing on the edge of a thin blade; only the presence of the child at his feet, interrupting his train of thoughts with a demand for more food saves the stranger from a more aggressive rebuttal. “This is our creed. Do not mock our ways in my presence if you value your life.”
For what it’s worth, this sobers the man up. “I apologize. I have had dealings with some Mandalorians, way back. They were rather uhh, exhibitonist.”
“They were not Mandalorian,” Din says firmly.
“Hmm, that explains it.”
The man’s tone still carries plenty of laughter in it, but Din manages to let the subject drop.
Once the child is done eating, it sits closer to the fire. Entertainment comes in the form of playing with a stick by keeping it into the fire for a few seconds, until its tip turns to cinders, then waving it around while it maintains a glimmer of burning. It makes circles in the air and taps Din's knee constantly to show him each new shape it creates.
He indulges the game as he waits for the little creature to tire itself out and sleep.
Din has camped in the desert for many days already, while he was heading to Mos Pelgo; he's listened to the stories of the natives while looking up at the starry sky of Tatooine. He's seen it before in its entirety, yet each time, when the last sun rays vanish and night settles over the desert, he finds himself transfixed with the wonderful painting that is the universe.
Travelling from one star to another is rarely so picturesque. Inside the Razor Crest, there is either darkness or distorted artifacts from travelling at lightspeed littering the screen. Out there, the universe is business. A target on a planet far, far away that he has to reach within a few hours. Credits to put food on the table for the foundlings.
Here?
Here Din remembers the universe is a wonder. He allows himself to feel it in the dead of the night while he keeps watch, one eye on the child bundled up next to him.
"You should rest," the man whispers. It’s the first word he speaks since their small disagreement during dinner.
Din disregards the words right away. As he lies motionless, he hopes that the stranger will leave him be. There is no such thing as anything going according to his wishes, however, as the man continues to talk.
"If I wanted to kill you, you'd be long dead."
At least he's quiet and mindful of the sleeping child, if in no way courteous of his conversation topics.
“That’s reassuring,” Din comments, only half sarcastically. “Why did you help?”
A whole minute passes in silence. The stranger mulls over his answer unrushed; his face is scrunched up deep in thought. The fire dances on his skin and softens the cold, furrowed set of his eyebrows. Din stares at him, waiting. Something seems familiar about this man, like Din has seen him before somewhere. It feels like a memory from his early childhood, tied to the battle-droids that so often plague his nightmares. He strains to remember, fights past the reflexive wish to lock the separatist war away from this consciousness, even though the act is like swimming against the flow of a turbulent river, weights tied to each foot, heavy metal bearing the manufacturer seal of Geonosian droid factories.
The familiarity exists somewhere in his mind, a face he has seen in passing.
"Sentiment, perhaps."
He follows the man's line of sight and stares at the child as well. It's sleeping peacefully, curled up into a ball. Some of the cloth acting as a blanket is bunched up and hugged tightly to its chest.
Din reaches down and adjusts one of the edges to protect its long green ears from filling with sand. "Have you seen more of its kind?" he asks, barely above the crackling of the campfire.
Silence stretches on between them, telling enough on its own. When Din straightens his back and looks to the other man, he finds the stranger leaning with his elbows on his knees, staring into the fire.
"More than two decades ago," he confesses. "A lot has changed in the world."
“Can you—"
The stranger shakes his head. "This information is long since useless."
Hope swells and falls within Din. Briefly, he was certain he'd found the best lead for his quest, but the resigned frown on the man's face leaves no room for bargaining.
"What about Mandalorians? Proper Mandalorians?" Both of them glance at the green armour, which prompts Din to add, "Why did you ask for that?"
"Thought I could get a droid in exchange from the Jawas," says the man smiling sardonically. "It's a pile of scrap. Have you seen it?"
All it needs is to be polished, Din thinks annoyed. "Listen, I appreciate your help, but if you don't have anything useful to say, why don't you take your own advice and sleep?"
“You’re the one asking questions, Mando,” he points out, but does turn away and lies back on his side. “Save your strength for tomorrow.”
As much as Din wants to deny it, the man is right. He bunkers down more comfortably and drifts to sleep after a while, lulled by the sound of the fire and the knowledge of the stars watching from above.
The stranger does not, in fact, abandon them at first light, as Din expected. He's tending to the remains of the fire when Din wakes up. A shudder goes through him when he realizes just how deeply he slept—carelessness which might not be so kindly received the next time he lets his guard down.
Still, it appears this person (ally of the Tuskens? Part of them?) knows a thing or two about honor and kindness. As they prepare to leave before dawn break, while a pleasant chill still hangs in the air, Din wracks his brain to no avail for a way to repay the stranger.
The bantha is invaluable: Din loads everything up on its back, secures the kid in the textile bag at his side, then the two men set out toward the town. There is little to discuss about the road; the stranger keeps a hand on the bantha's reins and guides it loosely, while he walks briskly a few steps ahead of Din, one with the surroundings.
The dunes all look the same to Din, and the few outcroppings of rock and skeleton remains in the sand, while vaguely familiar, are hard to use to orient himself. With a guide by his side, he doesn’t need to check his navigator as often.
The child's whining starts early on in the day. Din tries his best to distract it, but the child won't have any of it and spends an hour complaining, speaking gibberish until it almost sounds like it makes some sense. The stranger keeps looking at the child with this blank face that annoys Din further. He can't read him, can't gauge whether he is angry or only checking in on the source of the noise.
Around noon, with the two suns at their peak, there is nothing around them but sand and air. In the far distance, a few large rocks appear as black columns flickering in the heat, shapeless to the point of gas.
"The kid's been quiet for some time," says the stranger.
Din looks down at the pouch hanging at his side and finds the wrinkled baby slumped over the edge, with both its hands over the rim of the pouch. He touches it on the top of the head, a brush of his fingers only.
The child stirs from its slumber with a dozen seconds' delay and opens its eyes bleakly. It looks up at him with glazed over eyes, not really focusing on anything beyond the general direction of the sky.
"We need to hurry," Din says in alarm. Such high temperatures must not be so well tolerated at its young age. They should have reached Mos Eisley yesterday night with the speeder—a different experience altogether compared to this burning torture they’re in now.
"Wait, Mando," the stranger calls, voice steady and even. "The armour coolers should work."
It takes him a second to process it.
A moment later, he is turning on the system inside the rusted mandalorian helmet and scoops the child into it. It won't be as well maintained as a full set connected at the base, but it should provide some relief the rest of the way. Thankfully, the child isn't close to the size of a womp rat: it fits right in, and, upon sensing the difference in temperature, breathes outs in relief.
Mos Eisley is within sight when Din's resilience starts to waver. He tilts to the side, almost tripping over his own feet but somehow managing to keep his balance. The two suns of Tatooine have chipped at his resources all day and he is exhausted.
In front of Peli Motto's hangar, Din tries to bargain again, but the stranger refuses any credits. He does appear uncertain about what he wants, and though Din pushes his offer more strongly, hoping to finalize their business, the answer remains the same.
With no other choice but to return to his ship, he bids the man goodbye, gathers all his things from the bantha, and brings them inside to Razor Crest. The three droids Peli keeps in her employment scutter away when he crosses the landing area; without her presence, the tin cans hesitate to show themselves to Din, preferring to keep to the storage rooms.
He's bone-weary and sweaty and there is definitely sand inside his armour from all the rolling around in the dunes that he did. He doesn't even spare them a glance, too eager to reach his ship to care.
Razor Crest's hull is full of trinkets and mementos from places he's been in, enemies he's defeated in battle. He leaves the Mandalorian armour next to the wall, right underneath the chassis of the black protocol droid droid, then takes the remaining meat and his things further in.
The child coos from the helmet, demanding attention. It reaches up toward him with its tiny hands, and then, once Din sets it down on the floor, it hurries to the wall of the ship and puts its cheek on the metallic surface.
"We're out of the heat now," Din says, watching it with sympathy.
Peli Motto is out in town, one of her more advanced droids tells Din, and he finds her gambling over cards at a run-down pub. Several players are gathered in a circle, cards, drinks, credits and jewellery scattered across the table in the center. The betting pile seems to be growing by the second as each of them adds coins on top of coins with confidence.
The impulse to interrupt them and talk to her is strong—he needs to be constantly moving—but the dismay at finding nothing concrete for his quest halts him in the doorway and turns him to the barman instead. He eyes the collection of alcohol sitting on the shelves behind the barman, but asks for something solid instead, for the child.
The barman hands him a plate of dry fruit and charges an exorbitant amount. Din pays up, his helmet hiding his frustration. This isn’t quite the child’s preferred diet either, but perhaps munching on the fruit will keep it entertained. It looks like it is in dire need of a distraction.
The place is bustling with people, not quite an unsavoury crowd, but loud enough that Din seeks out a more isolated seat. Though he won't be consuming anything, he wants to indulge in the general ruckus of locals partying at night and use their cheer and banter to tune out the doubts creeping at the edge of his awareness.
Is he capable of reuniting this child with its kind?
Trouble finds him wherever he goes, but it is so much more dangerous now that another's life depends on him. It doesn’t matter that his beskar armour is flawless, because his weak point is living and breathing and a few paces away, vulnerable, for all to see.
If he fails to find a member of this species, could he really take care of the child?
Din sighs.
The child takes one piece of fruit in its hand and lifts it up to its eye level. For a few seconds, it analyzes it, then decides it must be worth the risk. With slight hesitation and careful, slow movements, it takes a small bite. The child looks at Din, who has been silently watching this unfold, and they stare at each other as it chews.
Wordlessly, the child reaches for another fruit.
A strange metallic contraption is bolted above the entrance to the pub. When the door opens, it rings out weakly, barely making a sound. Din keeps an ear on it, as he always does, staying with his guard up when he is off his ship. When it chimes next, he glances at the door.
The stranger from the desert is there, dressed in different, more travel-oriented clothing. He walks up to the barman and orders a drink with practiced motions, not even bothering to look at the offer. He is either a regular or someone looking for 'the strongest drink.'
A loud shout followed by rapid-fire insults in huttese break across the pub like a bolt of lightning. Din cranes his neck—as do many other patrons, including the stranger from the desert—and he sees a gamorrean is throwing a fit at the gambling table. The pub's security detail goes to fetch the rabble-rouser and escorts them outside despite the complaints and many elbows the guard receives.
“I know a place.”
Suddenly, the stranger is standing right beside their table, holding a glass and a bottle in one of his hands. The liquid inside is sickeningly yellow and shimmery, appearing almost unsafe to drink.
Din seizes him up. He is, after everything, not surprised to see the matters between them have not concluded yet.
"What's your price?"
"I come with you."
“You know, I really do have the money for the information,” Din retorts rather than argues. It’s fruitless anyway.
Instead of a reply, the man just looks at him, jaw set. Din returns his look just as intently, but the man stands his ground, seemingly immune to the simplest (but often most efficient) of Mandalorian intimidation tactics.
The destination wouldn't be revealed without an agreement, so Din tries his luck in a different fashion. "How long would this take?"
"A few days to get there, I imagine," the stranger replies.
Din narrows his eyes. There is nothing on the man's face or in his tone to suggest otherwise, but a gut feeling warns Din of more things at stake. "That's not all there is to it," he says lowly, only a guess, but confident he guesses right.
The light shines on the stranger from the side, pouring down from another table, illuminating the left half of his face. His scars are hidden by a shawl he has thrown over his head, but the ones reaching down his temple and around his eye look like pale tendrils against his brown skin. He narrows his eyes, then glances at the child.
Din's hand reaches for the blaster instinctively.
"We can work out the details on the way," the man responds.
Perhaps Din has grown too paranoid. After the ambush on the outskirts of Mos Eisley, he has good reason to stay reticent, but there was also the kindness of the Tuskens and the nightly campfires they allowed him and the child to join. There was the Marshal of Mos Pelgo, honouring his word once the service was performed. There was this stranger himself, who helped him out in the desert.
"Alright. I will take you there. You are certain about this information?"
The stranger waits a beat before he breathes out noisily. "Yes, I am."
Din gestures to the seat across from him lazily. "Might as well sit down, then, if we'll be traveling together."
The stranger settles down heavily, with the air of someone who has often brokered deals over bar tables. There is an ingrained confidence in his mannerisms, despite the overly empty and unreadable front he is putting up. He opens the bottle with the blunt edge of his knife, then pours himself two fingers of the yellow drink. Out into the light, it shimmers even more strangely and its smell doesn't reach Din, but the stranger inhales it deeply and brings the glass closer to his face to savour it more easily.
He looks through his lashes at Din, still holding the glass near his nose. "I would offer you a drink, but…"
Din shrugs.
"Do you need to pack anything? We leave at dawn."
"I've got everything I need right there," the stranger drawls, tipping the bottle toward him.
Din sighs quietly enough his voice amplifier doesn't pick up on it. This will be a strange ride.