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Batuu was a strange world. He’d been here a few times, years back, and the curious petrified spires towering upon the planet’s surface had struck him as unique. He pointed them out to the kid as they flew closer to the port. The kid’s eyes widened, taking in the odd sight, and he let out a babble.
“I know. We’ve been to a lot of deserts, right, kid? But these are trees, or they used to be. The locals say they used to be thousands of meters tall.” He smiled faintly, thinking of the kid standing against the base of one of the spires. It made for one hell of a mental image.
The docking bay crew of the Black Spire Outpost gave him clearance to land, but he noticed a lot more bright colors throughout the marketplace and the streets than he remembered as they descended. He did the math in his head. Huh. Life Day again already.
He didn’t know what Batuuans did for Life Day, if they were spend it at home with family types or if they were dance in the street types. He suspected the former -- they were fairly reserved people, as he remembered, if you didn’t count the smugglers and mercs -- but crowds could make it harder to get around, and expose him and the kid to more wandering eyes. But there were rumors Jedi came through town now and then, here on the edge of the galaxy, and that was what they were looking for.
He’d been wrong. Batuuans weren’t stay at home types for Life Day, it seemed; they were out in force, whooping and hollering, trading their normal drab clothing in blues, grays and browns for reds and violets. He left the pram in the Crest. It’d be too easy to lose the kid in this crowd, even with it set to follow him as closely as possible.
The kid, for his part, seemed fascinated by the crowds, leaning over the edge of Din’s arm to reach out at waving ribbons tied overhead along every path. Streamers and pennants fluttered in the breeze. People in bright cloaks and vests bumped off of Din’s shoulders as they passed, and he kept his free hand resting over his blaster in case of thieves.
He traced his way down the old stone streets past the grubby little cantina. Thumping bass and electric squeals seeping through the walls were loud enough that the kid put his hands over his enormous ears. “Don’t worry,” Din said to him. “We aren’t going in.” He knew an awful lot of people loved that stuff, but Din didn’t understand the point; music was just a distraction, a sometimes painfully loud one at that.
The kid leaned against his chest, slowly lowering his hands as Din walked further from the cantina. Din kept an eye on the Wookiee bouncer outside as they passed. Crowds there might be today, but a Mandalorian still was an unusual sight, and he suspected he’d be remembered no matter where he went.
The crowds around them flowed and chattered excitedly, kids in oversize festive hats skipping past, parents laughing and humming snatches of songs, young couples strolling from market stall to market stall holding hands and giggling in their finest clothes. Even the unsavory element that flourished here looked to be in the spirit; he saw a few skulking Rodians with colorful ornaments jingling on their vests, and people clustered in shadowed alleys played furtive rounds of sabacc while wearing red and gold kerchiefs.
Din looked down at the kid frequently, checking to make sure he wasn’t overwhelmed by the sounds and sights. To the contrary, the kid seemed to be getting more and more excited as they walked. He chirped and cooed and swiveled his long ears this way and that, sometimes grabbing Din’s hand by the thumb and shaking it for emphasis when he saw something interesting. Din chuckled, holding the child closer.
“I know, I know. There’s a lot going on,” he said, leaning down close to the kid so that he could hear him through the crowd noise. “Want something to eat?” The kid looked up at him, mouth opening hopefully. “I guess it was a stupid question. You’re always hungry.”
He rounded the corner, sidling past a group of children tossing dice to the ground and whooping at the result. The kid stiffened and stared up ahead at their destination. Ah. He’d smelled lunch.
Din made his way up a set of stone steps to the entrance of the market, marked by an enormous slab of ronto slowly being spun over a huge open fire on a spit. The kid reached both hands out in a clear gimme gimme and Din bent to tell him, “Hold on, you’ll get to try some. Be patient.”
Din waited until a clear space opened up at the counter, and he sidled up to the shopkeeper, giving him a nod. Drask Corfin was a decent sort, and he’d given Din tips more than once on bounties and good deals. Din’s hand went to his hip, pulling out the Batuuan spira he kept around for his rare visits.
“Bright suns, Drask. Looking for anything you can tell me about Jedi,” Din said. “I know they’ve been here before.”
“Bright suns. Good to see you, Mando,” said Drask. “Now, that’s new.” He nodded at the kid, who stared soulfully at a plate of ronto meat before a customer grabbed it away.
“He likes the festivities,” said Din. He liked Drask fine, but he knew he wasn’t the man’s only customer, and giving out needless details was a dangerous game. “Any recent Jedi visitors? Or Mandalorians?”
“You’re still the only Mandalorian I’ve ever seen. As for the Jedi, I haven’t heard anything for at least a year or two,” said Drask, getting the message and shifting his gaze from the kid. “They used to come around now and then, looking for some kinda fancy rocks, but since the Empire… afraid I got nothing, Mando.”
Din sighed. Well, it’d been worth a shot. He fought down a wave of disappointment; the trip had been for nothing, after all. “Keep an eye out for me. If I don’t get any leads, I’ll check back again.” He handed the man a few spira for his trouble, and a little extra. “Got some food for me and the womp rat?”
“He’s old enough to eat solids?” Drask asked doubtfully. “My kids weren’t eating my food until they were practically twice his size.”
“You don’t want to know what I’ve caught him eating.”
“Sure. Just a sec.” He returned with two wraps bursting with meat, bundling them into a flimsy bag, and Din gave him the rest of the money.
He glanced around at the thronging crowds. “Hey, you got somewhere quiet we can eat?”
Drask jingled the spira in his hand. “For you, Mando, sure. There’s a staircase round the back. You two can take the roof for a little bit if you like. Might get a good view of the band, too. They’re due to start soon.”
Din didn’t care about that, but he appreciated the idea of a little relief from the jangling noise and the crush of people. “Thank you. Til the Spire, Drask.”
“May your deals go well, Mando.”
True to Drask’s word, the roof offered a respite from the hustle and bustle of the streets below. There was a raised ledge that made for a decent seat, and Din set the kid down on his lap. He pulled out one of the wraps and handed it to the kid, who looked up at him with wide eyes.
“Yeah, that’s for you. Go on, it’s good.” Then he realized the shape of the food was all wrong for the kid’s little hands and small mouth. “Hang on, let me just --” He reached down, breaking the wrap and the meat within into a few large pieces instead of one, and set the food down on a napkin spread on the kid’s tiny lap. His gloves came away sticky with sauce, which he brushed off on his cloak. “Don’t want you choking.” Then again, he’d seen the kid slurp down a whole frog, so maybe choking wasn’t something he had to worry about with him.
The kid giggled, stuffing a hunk of ronto into his mouth. He chewed it for a second before gulping it down, then let out a sneeze.
Din paused, about to lift his helmet and take a bite of his own food. “You okay there, buddy?”
Another tiny sneeze, but the kid kept eating, getting sauce all over his hands. Din took a bite of his own food, enjoying a pleasant burn of spice in the creamy sauce. Ah. The kid wasn’t used to anything spicy.
“Let me know if it’s too spicy for you,” Din said, swallowing his bite. “We can always find something else if we need to.” He lowered his helmet and glanced down just in time to see the kid let out a burp that was more like a hiccup than anything else. He’d finished the whole damn thing.
Din shook his head. Where did the food go? Maybe the kid’s powers burned through energy like nothing else. He ate through his own meal more methodically, allowing himself a moment to enjoy the bite of two different cuts of ronto, the vinegar tang of slaw, the soft chew of the thick wrap and the creamy, spicy sauce. It’d been a long time since he’d been to Drask’s, and he’d forgotten how good the food was.
He finished up, then cleaned up the kid. Time to head back to the ship, then. There wasn’t much point in hanging around since the hoped-for lead hadn’t materialized.
Before he could get to his feet a loud noise burst through the crowd hubbub below, and he quickly leaned over the edge of the roof from his seat to search for threats. It took a second for him to recognize it as merely the start of a song. Down below in the open square was a shabby little stage with a band, the players holding a variety of different instruments. Around them the Batuuans started dancing and singing, some of them swaying from side to side, others leaping up and down with their hands up. He guessed this was a popular one, then.
He felt a sudden lightness on his lap. “Kid?” he asked, looking down. The kid had slipped down from his lap and landed between his feet, and he stood there, still as a tiny statue except for his ears. They vibrated slightly, then raised, tilted, focused.
“What is it, pal?”
The song changed, something bright and peppy with a strong drum beat. People below began to clap and stomp, the rhythm rolling outward from the band, streaming into the people in the crowd. And the kid started to dance.
It took Din a moment to realize that was what it was. It started as a little sway of his head, a gentle bobbing back and forth along with the rhythm. Then his hands lifted, curled themselves into tiny fists as he waved them. Finally, he started shuffling his small feet, shifting from side to side, and he let out a stream of giggles.
Din watched him. The kid’s attention was fixed toward the crowd, mostly, but now and then he would turn his gaze to look up at Din, his ears twitching happily, and Din looked back at him, feeling a satisfaction that had nothing to do with no longer being hungry.
Music wasn’t forbidden to his people by Creed, but his tribe had stayed hidden for so long that music had become an unnecessary risk. Their secrecy would have been challenged by drums and strings, by voices lifted in song, and so they let it go, as they had let so many things go in their exile. Din had not missed it. Music was not forbidden, but neither was it a tenet of the Way.
But watching the kid dance his clumsy, happy dance, the people celebrating down below, the music seeped in. Din felt drums thrumming in the hollows in his lungs and belly, the whine of vibro-guitar buzzing in his ears, the chirruping of a bright flute weaving in with the warm brassiness of trumpets. And over all the voices, the clapping, the stomps of a people celebrating, a people joyful. There was a story here in all these layers of sound, and it washed over him, a force in and of itself.
His foot stirred. Itched. Shifted. It hummed with the urge for movement. He looked down and saw it tapping of its own volition, keeping time in a steady beat.
Between his feet the kid danced, waving his small arms, his face tilted up to look at Din’s as he laughed. Din tapped his foot against the roof as the music swelled, and he thought, perhaps, that the trip had been worth it after all.
