Chapter Text
Din’s mission on Trask was complete. The events that had unfolded were still fresh in his mind, from their narrow escape on the sailing vessel to the revelation of where to find a Jedi.
Even with a new heading charted for Corvus— once his ship was repaired /properly/— Din had a feeling he had not seen the last of Bo-Katan and her fire team just yet.
The removal of their helmets had shaken Din, almost as much as nearly losing the child to the mamacore had.
Even now he found himself questioning their motives. If they were truly Mandalorian, they would not have revealed themselves so readily. It was a perversion—an insult—to the creed he’d sworn as a child.
Din tried to force it from his mind. They were behind him now, for the time being. He needed to focus on getting to Corvus.
And if his ship was trying to tell him anything by the way it shuddered and shook, was that it would need another pit-stop before they even reached Nevarro.
With his ties to Greef and the guild, he knew proper maintenance would be both more affordable and more reliable.
But that would mean nothing if they couldn’t get there first. Entering hyperspace was risky enough, but prolonged travel meant risking the ship falling apart as they flew.
He sighed, and set the coordinates for a halfway point. His navigation showed a suitable planet, one just large enough to be equipped with a halfway decent maintenance bay and mechanic...or so he hoped.
——
“Looks like we have to make another pit-stop, kid.” Din turns his head just enough to glance back at the child, who is sitting in the passenger seat and looking a little drowsy.
The child’s ears twitch upward at the sound of Din’s voice, however, and he lets out a small “Eh?”
“The ship is barely holding up as it is.” He goes on, as if the child truly understands him. How the kid can look about ready to fall asleep even as the Crest shakes and bounces is beyond him.
He swats away another section of netting as it falls from the ceiling, before pulling it down altogether.
“Mon Calamari...” He huffs indignantly, wondering why he’d paid the amount for the repairs at all. He could have sworn he felt a panel or two detach just on take off.
The kid picks up on the exasperation in Din’s comment and coos inquisitively, head tilting ever so slightly.
“Don’t worry.” Din’s tone changes again, as he finds it increasingly hard to be upset around the kid.
“This shouldn’t be an issue.”
——
Oh, how he would come to eat his words.
It turns out the bounty for beskar was growing even faster than he thought. The crew of the trawler on Trask had just been waiting in ambush.
This next group, however, would not wait around so idly.
——
Din had set the ship down in the next open maintenance port, and even now he could not seem to keep a low profile.
Apparently the condition of the Crest was deemed worthy of gossiping over, and he heard snickering and low banter even as he searched for the head mechanic.
“Limped all the way here in that hunk of junk?” He hears a bypassing Rodian ask, from somewhere behind him. Rude, but not a threat.
Din does not even entertain the question. He shifts the bag a little further under his cape, the kid tucked safely inside and asleep.
“How many credits do you have?” Comes another voice, the owner a heavy set human with all the looks of a /real/ mechanic. Not a Mon Calamari fisherman pretending to be one.
The man is covered in various leathers, gloves and a tool belt that are worn by work and stained in oils and grease.
Old scars run up the length of one arm, and tattoos snake up the other.
“Enough to get me to Nevarro.” Din answers, finding no need in trying to haggle.
“Needs a lot of work, just for that.” The mechanic approaches the Crest, and looks over the landing gear. The ship is still listing to one side, a problem with the hydraulics. The loading ramp doesn’t lower all the way, and there are indeed a few panels missing.
“How long will repairs take?” Din knew it wouldn’t be so simple.
“A day, probably two.” The mechanic is honest, his mustached upper lip twitching as the Crest sinks another few inches towards the left. “At least.” He adds.
Din sighs, but he was expecting this, even if he had /hoped/ for a quicker resolution.
“Do what you can.”
“Will do.” The man says, and calls out a few small worker droids.
Din is about to protest, but they don’t have time for more delays.
He pulls a number of credits from his pouch and passes them to the mechanic.
“And one more thing.” The man adds, giving Din a once over.
“Watch out for other bounty hunters and mercs. They’re getting greedier by the day.”
Din just nods, and heads off to make a small restock on food supplies.
To his credit, he had attempted to be subtle. But being covered in highly reflective armor was no testament to that.
It did, however, take longer for this trouble to find him than he had expected. It had been nearly a full day when he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
“Hand it over, Mando.” A gruff voice calls out from behind him.
Din hears the footsteps of a group approaching him before he even turns to face them. Instinctively, he pushes the bag behind him as he does, keeping the child as far from harm as possible.
Four of them carry various weapons, some more crude than others.
The fifth carries a modified blaster in hand, and a bludgeoning tool hangs from his belt.
The leader, Din thinks. The man has a foot on him, at least, and the horns that crown his head instantly identify him as a Zabrak.
Intricate markings crisscross up the man’s torso, arms, neck, and face, but Din pays little heed.
“The kid stays with me.” He answers, hand hovering over his blaster.
“Kid’s just a bonus. We want the beskar.” The Zabrak laughs darkly, and yet he stands back as the rest of his group encircles the Mandalorian.
“Over my dead body.” Din’s voice is low and threatening, his own array of weapons at the ready.
“That’s what we’re aiming for.” One of the thugs sneers, a hand on his blaster.
It’s a rag-tag group, for sure. The battle scarred Lasat that just spoke, a Weequay with a jagged short sword, a Trandoshan with a hooked spear, and an Amani, who stood menacingly in the shadows.
The quiet ones were often the bigger threats, watching and planning their attack rather than running their mouths.
The Zabrak made five, and yet Din stood his ground. At the moment, he had no choice otherwise. His only regret was not being able to find somewhere safe to deposit the kid, and he knew he would have to think of something before the impending fight got ugly.
Thankfully, the Zabrak seemed to have some forethought as to whatever plan he had conjured.
“Put the kid down. Would hate to see the thing die before we even got a chance to bring it in.” The man laughed again, prompting a chuckle from a few of his group as well.
Din felt anger roil in his gut, but he would save his energy for the fight. He complied, however, reluctantly setting the kid down behind some crates. “I don’t want him to see this.” Are the only words he spares to the thugs. Momentarily out of sight, he whispers something else to the kid.
“Time for hide and seek, kid. Don’t show yourself until I come looking.” He motions away from the area with a tilt of his head, and can only hope the kid will follow through and stay hidden somewhere until this is over.
The kid lets out a little whimper, and his ears drop, but Din does not turn back to face him.
Their are still five enemies in front of him he needs to deal with.
The Zabrak smirks.
“Weequay. Get the kid.”
Din fires from his hip, and clips the the Weequay in the shoulder before he can get anywhere near the kid.
The Weequay grunts and staggers back, his wrinkled face grimacing as he growls and reaches for his own blaster.
Din takes two blaster shots from other mercs, but his beskar stops them. He’s used to the force of the hits, and it does not distract him from steadying his hand and finishing the Weequay off.
The merc drops, dead before he hits the ground with two smoking blaster holes in his chest.
The Zabrak growls, but does not seem too concerned by the loss of one of his team. It meant more bounty money for the rest of them.
Din glances at the remaining mercs. The Amani has yet to move, or even seem thoroughly invested in the current fight. He does not dwell on the observation for long, as the Lasat and the Trandoshan both come rushing at him at the same time.
The hooked spear jabs at him and then pulls back just as quickly, trying to hook any clothing or flesh it gets close enough to. Din blocks another incoming hook with his gauntlets, and leans back as he grabs the shaft, pulling the Trandoshan off balance and towards him.
Din twists and jerks the spear and it slips from the Trandoshan’s grip enough to pull it free, and turns the weapon on its previous owner.
He does not allow himself anything other than a tiny smirk, as he sees the lizard like alien’s expression turn.
Swinging the spear and then jabbing it forward, he buries it deep into the leather of the Trandoshan’s armor, earning a pained gasp.
Before he can pull his newly hooked enemy any closer, Din has to duck and step away from the Lasat, who’s coming at him with sharp claws and full momentum.
Din’s lost his hold on the spear, but the Trandoshan is still distracted, desperately trying to pull the weapon free from where it’s stuck. The tip comes away bloody, but the lizard like being is not done fighting yet.
The Lasat isn’t done either, turning and lunging at him again. Once more, Din’s gauntlets take the brunt of the blow, but the Lasat’s fists are heavier than the Trandoshan’s spear.
Din slides back, his boots losing purchase from the force of the hit. Din knows the Lasat has felt it as much as he has. Strong as they were, the Lasat’s fists were still hitting metal.
“Oh, just finish him already, I or will!” The Zabrak calls from somewhere behind them, and Din can hear a blaster prime in the few seconds he has to react.
The Trandoshan’s spear appears again, and now he has to dodge two attacks at once.
Din activates his flamethrower and the air ignites into a fiery plume.
It’s enough to push the Lasat back and light the Trandoshan’s spear shaft like a match stick, who drops it with a surprised grunt.
“You idiots! Get him!” The Zabrak shouts and fires a few shots at the Mandalorian, all of which ping uselessly off his armor.
Din readies himself again, as the Lasat comes swinging once again.
The Trandoshan is close behind him with the dead Weequay’s short sword, but appears no more menacing than before.
Grappling with a Lasat proves more troublesome than any of the fight yet. The purple hued alien is physically stronger, and Din feels himself losing ground, unable to overpower the other merc this time. And with the Lasat’s hand around his arm and pushing it upward, another blast from the flamethrower won’t do much good.
Din strains, grunting against the Lasat’s grip as he tries to break free. He brings his blaster up, but the Lasat twists his opposite arm, the burst of pain distracts him enough that his blaster is knocked away uselessly.
“Let’s see what you look like under there, tin can—” The Lasat smirks, and shifts his other hand to grip the base of Din’s helmet.
This affront redoubles his own efforts, and with one hand around the Lasat’s wrist, he goes for his vibro-knife with the other.
The helmet begins to shift upward enough to expose his chin, and with a newfound desperation, Din buries the knife between the Lasat’s ribs.
The mercenary drops him, and wheezes out a pained breath as he stumbles away to fall over, already breathing his last.
Blood drips from the knife as Din rights himself, his chest heaving with the new rush of adrenaline.
He does not have long, however, for the Trandoshan brings the jagged short-sword at him in a downward arc.
The blade clangs and deflects off Din’s metal gauntlets, not even leaving a scratch.
The Trandoshan does not relent, however, and swings again and again.
With the knife in one hand Din feigns back, faking exhaustion, though at this point he knows it is not far away. He has to end this quickly. The Zabrak and the Amani are still standing.
He lets the Trandoshan swing at him again, using the merc’s own momentum against him. He buries his vibro-knife into the lizard like arm, and twists it hard.
The knife separates muscle and flesh from bone, and in an instant the Trandoshan is crippled significantly. The short-sword falls to the ground with a clatter, and Din buries his own blade once more, this time into the Trandoshan’s neck.
Blood splatters and the alien gurgles, clawing at his opened neck as he writhes on the ground.
The mercenary does not live long, eventually going still and joining the rest of his fallen group.
Din is panting now, but he knows it’s not over yet.
“Fine! I’ll do this myself!” The Zabrak steps over his fallen comrades and pulls the bludgeon off his belt.
Much like the Lasat’s fists, he can feel the bludgeon every time it comes down on his armor. This will definitely earn him some new bruises, if nothing else.
The fight drags on longer than he thought it would, but the Zabrak had gotten used to giving orders, not sorting out fights himself.
Din means to save the grappling hook for the Amani, but when the chance presents himself, he springs the impromptu weapon on the Zabrak, the cord wrapping around the mercenary leader’s legs and toppling him over.
A struggle continues, up until Din buries his knife into the Zabrak’s chest, immediately ending it.
Din stands victorious, but his thoughts return to the Amani that had been lingering in the shadows—
He turns to face his final opponent, only to realize the tall, spindly alien is no longer there. If he was an cockier, he might have thought the Amani had turn tell and run while he could.
‘It wouldn’t be that easy.’ The thought comes to mind, as he turns to go back for his blaster.
By the time he hears the noise, it’s too late.
Something slams into him from behind, sending him sprawling onto the ground with a pained wheeze.
It takes longer than it should to reclaim the air that was so suddenly forced from his lungs.
He coughs under the helmet and pushes himself back up, turning as quick as he can in an attempt to track the movements of the Amani. He still doesn’t have his blaster, and he is sure bruises are already starting to form up his back from the hit. It hurts to stand upright, but he can’t give up now. He’s so close to winning this and getting back to the kid.
The glance he spares towards the crates is all the distraction needed.
The Amani is curled up tight into a ball and hurtling towards him, but this time he is ready.
In a split second he fires the grappling cord again, and the hook sinks into the Amani’s back.
The balled up alien turns and rolls away, dragging Din along with it.
He catches the edge of a wall and uses his remaining strength to pull back on the cord, in an attempt to throw the Amani off.
It works, for a moment, until the alien changes direction again and the cord rips free of its back. The Amani comes careening back at him with deadly intent.
Another plume of fire is his last defense, but the Amani bounces upward into the air and the last thing Din sees is a dark shape coming right at him.
His helmet hits a wall—or maybe the floor—with a sickening thud. He’s knocked unconscious before he can tell the difference, or hear the dying screams of the Amani as it’s thrown repeatedly into the wall.
——
Din wakes, but the head-splitting ache that rushes to greet him makes him wish he hadn’t.
His movements are sluggish, as if weighted down by some unseen force, and his mind is foggy even aside from the pain. He keeps his eyes shut a moment longer, knowing any source of light will only make the headache worse.
He lets out a heavy groan, and tries to sit up again. And then it hits him. The kid. “Where—”
Panic spears him into action, but before he can react, a sturdy hand pushes him back down.
“Easy, Mando.” The voice takes a moment to recognize, but Din cannot see the mechanic even when he opens his eyes. Most everything is a strange shade, caught somewhere between black and brown. He can make out the man’s general shape, like a shadow in the corner of a darkened room.
“Where’s the kid?” Din rasps, his body aching fiercely with each new movement, but he sits up anyways.
“Little green guy? Right here.” The mechanic sounds surprisingly concerned, but a small whimper and a coo follows the man’s words.
Din’s shoulders sag in relief, and he moves to the next question. The smells of oil, grease, fuel and soldered metals is enough to place them back at the maintenance bay, but Din distinctly remembers there being multiple lights hanging from the ceiling. So why where they all off? “Why is it so dark in here?” He groans and brings a hand to his helmet, as if that might lessen the still pounding headache. It doesn’t.
“It ain’t that dark. I got the lights on. You sure your helmet ain’t blocking out anything?”
The mechanic replies. “I think you took one hell of a hit back there. Found you laying in a group of bodies. When you didn’t come back, I thought you’d skimp on the payment so I came looking...”
Din’s heart pounds against his already bruised rib cage. His hearing seems to buzz as the reality sets in. He doesn’t hear the second half of the mechanic’s words.
‘I got the lights on.’
The lights are on, and he cannot see.
The kid whimpers again, and yet Din seems lost to the world.
His breathing picks up, spurred by the panic that grips him again.
“I can’t see.” He forces the words, but barely hears his own voice over the pulse pounding in his ears.
“Can’t see? You sure there ain’t something wrong with that helmet?” The mechanic doesn’t need a hysterical Mandalorian lashing out at him.
“I need to go.” Din forces the words out, his mouth dry as he reaches blindly for the kid. Shaking hands find the child’s robes, and he pulls him close. He can’t see the worried look on the kid’s face.
He’s blind.
“Hey, now wait a minute, you can’t pilot a ship like that. You still need to pay me the rest, and I won’t have you taking out half the maintenance bay—”
Din pulls a few more credits out. It’s likely too many, but he can’t seem to care about that right now.
Against the mechanic’s judgement, Din forces himself to stand, and nearly falls back over. His whole balance is off, and he can barely even keep himself upright, let alone walk.
Somehow he manages, perhaps by desperation alone, and makes it back up the ramp into his ship.
His arm stays out, as he feels his way along the wall, but he hears one final warning from the mechanic.
“I’ll cut the fuel lines if you even try taking off!” The threat is genuine enough, and Din knows the man is right even if he won’t admit it.
The ramp closes anyways, and for a moment Din tries to collect himself.
His chest is still tight, and his breathing has not yet slowed.
“H-hold on, kid.” Din stands there, in the middle of the storage bay, and for the first time in a very long time, he’s utterly at a loss.
It’s just him, the sound of his labored breaths filtering out from the helmet, and the worried coos of the kid in his arms.
Something makes him afraid to set the child down, like he might lose all track of him for good if he does.
He needs help.
It takes more time than it should have to find the ladder and climb his way up into the cockpit.
He curses as he trips over the base of the passenger seat, and comes to a rough stop against the back of the pilot’s chair.
Finding his way around it, he sits down with much less grace than usual, and earns a surprised squeal from the kid.
“Sorry.” He forces the word out, past his own racing mind. What if this is permanent? Forget bounty hunting, or searching for others of his own kind— how is he going to protect the kid if he can’t see a damn thing?
Din fumbles, gloved hands still shaking as he ghosts them over the controls. He’s done this in the dark before, so why can’t he remember the sequence of buttons now?
The headache has abated somewhat, but not enough to think as calmly or steadily as he needs to.
He curses again, pressing a button that makes the ship rumble awake, instead of opening a communication line.
The uneasy feeling must be radiating off him, because the child continues to whimper and whine, insisting on pulling his attention from where it needs to be.
“I can’t, kid— I can’t—” Din’s voice catches in his throat, and he shakes his head in a feeble attempt to clear the fog.
He feels dizzy, like he’s spun around one too many times. He can’t tell if it’s from the panic or the concussion. Probably both.
He goes for the buttons again, and it becomes a short trial and error session before he finds the right one.
The line carries a bit of static in the background, but Din grasps the small moment of relief when he hears Cara’s voice come over the line.
“Hey, Mando. You still looking for work—”
“Cara.” He interrupts her, voice shaky and his tone uncharacteristically worried.
“What’s wrong?” The levity leaves her voice immediately. “Is the kid alright? Are you—”
“Kid’s fine.” He starts, the tightness growing in his chest as he forces the next few words.
“I think I’ve gone blind.”