Work Text:
The first thing they did was take off the helmet.
Din was too stunned to fight them. The concussive force of the blast still rang in his head. Everything sounded far away; everything looked a little blurry. They had dragged him upright, pinning his arms to the wall. He swayed on his feet as the Imperial officer strode towards him.
He can see you, they can all see you, part of his mind was screaming.
All he could do was breathe, ragged and shuddery.
The Imperial barely spared him a glance. He gestured to the stormtroopers for the helmet. A cold smile lit his face as he turned it in his hands, slow and deliberate, gazing on it with covetous eyes. Din wanted to rip it away from him and scour it clean of his fingerprints.
The Imperial mused, almost conversationally, "I have always wondered what it looks like from the other side." And he lowered the helmet onto his own head.
Din froze. This could not be happening. Like he was spiralling down into nightmare. An overwhelming sense of wrongness, as he stared into the dark visor, at his own reflected face.
The Imperial removed the helmet and handed it off to the nearest stormtrooper. He reached forward and Din jerked back, turning his face away. But the hand went lower, caressing the surface of the breastplate, tracing a line from collar to navel. "Pure beskar," he sighed. "So beautiful. So strong."
Then, to the stormtroopers, "Strip him."
This time Din tried to fight them.
#
They threw him in the cell like an afterthought, not even bothering with restraints. What could he do, after all, with no armour, no weapons, and nothing else of use? The cold of the floor seeped through his shirt and trousers, chilling his skin. Din forced himself to sit up, back against the wall, eyes shut to stop the room from spinning.
His bruises were starting to ache, his muscles starting to stiffen, and something in his chest hurt when he drew breath. Not the first time his body had been battered by a mission. But it might be the last. He wondered why they hadn't killed him yet. They already had everything they needed. His armour was almost the last thing they could take away, after his covert, his ship, his creed. At least he knew Grogu was safe with the Jedi, somewhere far away from here. His heart was hidden and invulnerable.
Maybe it was okay to stop and rest. Just for a bit.
#
Din lost track of time. Food and water came through the slot in the door at intervals. He tried to keep count, to measure the days, but they blurred together. Could it be concussion? He probed his skull for fractures, but all he could detect was the matting of dried blood.
Without the protective shell of his armour, he felt weightless and untethered. He let himself drift.
He had no warning before the cell door swung open on sudden brightness. The shadow of a stormtrooper fell across the floor. Din tensed. He should be ready to spring into action and fight his way out, but he wasn't sure his body would obey him.
"They really worked you over, huh?"
Din knew that voice. He would know that voice anywhere. And he knew that voice should be nowhere near here. With incredulous disbelief, he said, "Mayfeld?"
The stormtrooper took off his helmet. "Yeah, surprised?" Ex-Imperial, ex-mercenary, ex-felon. Last seen disappearing into the jungles of Morak, presumably shedding his old identity to start a new life. "Don't worry, I haven't enlisted again."
Din stared back, still unmoving, still unsure if he was hallucinating.
Mayfeld wore an expression Din had never seen on his face before. A furrow of his brows and a tightness in his eyes, that only deepened as he scanned over Din. "Hey, Mando." He snapped his fingers. "You with me? They give you something?" He picked up the cup of water and sniffed it dubiously.
Din said, in a hoarse voice, "They took the armour."
Mayfeld grimaced. "Yeah. I kind of got that."
"What are you doing here?"
"What does it look like? Come on, we don't have much time." Mayfeld eyed him. "Can you stand?"
Din was wondering the same thing. He temporised, "Depends. Which way is up?"
"Did you just make a joke? Okay, they really must have given you the good stuff. Too bad you're not this relaxed all the time." Mayfeld tossed the stormtrooper helmet to Din. "Let's go."
Din caught it reflexively. "What--"
"Put it on." Mayfeld was already unbuckling the stormtrooper armour. "That's the bad news. We're too deep in the facility to run for it or shoot our way out. We're going to have to walk through the checkpoints like everything's fine."
"What about you?" There was only one set of armour. They would not pass inspection as half a stormtrooper each.
"We have to swap," Mayfeld said, with patience. "I can't waltz out of here with you as my prisoner. They know your face." When Din flinched, Mayfeld looked away. "Yeah, sorry."
"And I can waltz out of here with you as my prisoner?" Din couldn't help his scepticism, despite the exhaustion in his body and the haze in his mind. "This is your plan?"
"You got a better idea?" Mayfeld spread his hands. "I didn't say it was a good plan. But it's the only plan we've got."
"No." Din pushed himself to his feet. He was holding the wall for balance. That was all. "I'm not wearing that. Not again." This wasn't like infiltrating the refinery, where there was no other choice. He had options this time. Besides, it was absurd for Mayfeld to take that risk. He was a wanted man too--wanted by both sides in fact--unless he stayed firmly dead.
Mayfeld swore. Then he waved at the helmet. "Don't you want--"
It was intended as a kindness. Like last time. Din met his eyes. "It's a bit late for that, isn't it?"
Mayfeld said nothing, just looked down, as Din pressed the helmet back into his hands. He was still half in and half out of the armour. With a huge sigh, Mayfeld started fastening the buckles again. "If you get shot, I told you so. You know if I come back without you, your marshal friend is not going to let me walk away a second time?"
"Cara's here?" His heart leapt. "Where is she?"
"Making a hole in security for us to get through. As long as we hurry."
#
"Prisoner transfer," Mayfeld told the guard station, and a string of numbers that Din hoped were the right codes. Din kept his eyes on the ground, afraid his face would give them away. He was only imagining the target painted on his back. It felt like forever before they were waved through.
"How did you find me?" Din hadn't told anyone the details of his plan. Just an offhand mention to Cara of a possible lead on where his covert might have gone. It had seemed like a long shot. Rumours of Mandalorians, on the barren moon of a remote planet around a dying star. But what else did he have to do, now that his quest was done, but follow rumours? He owed it to the Armourer to confess his breach of the creed and seek expiation for his sins.
"Yeah, funny story, that." But Mayfeld didn't launch into it. He scanned every side corridor they passed, his blaster drawn, ostensibly guarding his prisoner. Din walked ahead of him, wrists loosely cuffed, ready to break free in an instant.
The moon had once been a rich source of iron. But its heyday was long gone, the seams exhausted, the mines abandoned. The facility still stood: a processing plant and shipping terminal, hollowed out by tunnels.
Din focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Every step took effort. His concentration kept fading in and out. He wasn't sure what was physical damage and what was sheer terror at being so exposed. He couldn't afford to lose it now.
His vision blurred. Next thing he knew, a hand lay on his shoulder. In trained reflex, Din twisted away, ready to strike. He stumbled sideways instead.
"Whoa, easy there." Mayfeld let go and backed off, hands raised. "You were going to walk into the wall. That's all."
Din stopped. He must have blacked out for a moment. "I think moving may have reopened a wound."
"Yeah? When was the last time they changed your bandages?"
Din gave him a blank look.
Mayfeld stared hard at his shirt. At the dark bloodstains on the material. There was a long silence before he said, "We're not going to get very far like this." He consulted his map. "Medbay."
It was a makeshift medbay with only rudimentary equipment. No one was on duty, which saved on questions and lies. Din sank down on the bed while Mayfeld rummaged through the supplies. He came up with a couple of bacta patches. "Uh. How do you want to do this?" He was still avoiding eye contact, keeping his gaze averted. It gave Din the illusion of concealment. He was thankful for that at least.
"Give it here." Din lifted his shirt, clenching his teeth as the material peeled away from his torso. It exposed an ugly wound, the raw red of a blaster burn. Not infected, but unhealed. He dressed the wound with a bacta patch, the thick gel numbing and soothing. It would take a few hours to have full effect.
He remembered the last time he had been injured so badly. IG-11 had healed him from near death. IG-11 had sacrificed its life for his own. Never again.
Mayfeld glanced his way when Din pushed up from the bed. "Is that enough? You look in rough shape." Din shook his head to any more bacta patches, but Mayfeld looked doubtful, and pocketed the spares.
"We have to backtrack a bit," he went on. "But it's not too far. We just have to get to the hangar."
"Wait," Din said. His head was starting to clear now. "We can't leave yet. I have to get my armour." His skin crawled at the idea of leaving it in the hands of the Imperial.
Mayfeld looked unhappy. "I get how important it is to you, but we can't bluff our way through that kind of security. There's no reason to take a prisoner there."
That kind of security? Din pressed on. "Do you know where it is?"
"We're on the clock here, Mando," Mayfeld said, a little desperately. "The second they find you gone, they'll know where you're headed. We're not going to win a firefight. There's just too many of them."
"Not once I get the armour back." Din would have his jetpack, his flamethrower, and his guns. "I'll deal with them."
"Like you did before?" Mayfeld snapped.
Din drew breath to snap back, but the words stuck in his throat. He suddenly had no air. He had no idea what his face was doing, but Mayfeld's did something complicated, his mouth hard but his eyes soft.
"You want to know how we found you?" Mayfeld pulled out a holodisc. "This leaked on the black market."
An image sprang to life, a translucent blue shimmer. A full set of beskar armour. His armour. Helmet, breastplate, pauldrons, vambraces, gauntlets, greaves, and jetpack. Laid out in pieces in a display case, like the carapace of some dissected insect.
Din found words. "For sale?" There was an illegal trade in relics.
"No. In a private collection."
"I have to get it back."
Mayfeld gave him a strange look. "Don't you get it? Anyone who saw it would know it was yours."
"Of course. Every set of armour is unique. Irreplaceable."
"Forget the armour! We all thought you were dead."
Din was silenced by the vehemence in his voice. It was the natural conclusion. He would have died rather than give up the armour. He felt like a ghost, haunting the site of his death. Cara had seen him willing to die rather than remove his helmet.
Mayfield knew otherwise.
"That's what your friends wanted me to find out. If there was any chance at all--" Mayfeld broke off. "We didn't come to get the armour. We came to get you."
An unexpected pang. Din pushed it down deep. "I'm not leaving without it."
"This isn't the plan," Mayfeld said, one last time, but it was a token protest. He sighed. "Fine. It's your funeral."
#
They evaded one security patrol, and nearly ran into another. After a long detour, they finally reached their destination, behind a double locked door. The seconds stretched like hours, as Mayfeld used a datastick to bypass the lock codes.
Not an armory, but an executive suite, set up like a trophy room. The walls held racks of rare and exotic weapons. Antique rifles, gilded and engraved. Axes and knives, intricately carved. Definitely not regulation issue. Treasures plundered from a dozen different worlds.
The display case stood in the centre of the room. Empty.
Din stared in stunned disbelief. The armour was gone. "They already sold it."
"We'll find it," Mayfeld said. "We'll track it down somehow. Let's just get--"
"Looking for something?" said a familiar voice.
Din turned around.
It was himself. Walking through the door, in full beskar armour, shining like the sun. But moving wrong. Slightly out of sync with his own bearing and gait. Like a distorted reflection from a broken mirror.
Someone else wearing his armour.
"Holy shit," Mayfeld said, in a low voice, impressed and horrified. He drew his blaster, but hesitated to shoot. He threw a quick glance at Din. No way out except back the way they came.
Din stood transfixed. This was like a fever dream.
The Imperial beckoned. "Come here." The voice modulator distorted the sound, with echoes of his own filtered voice. "I almost didn't recognise you. Do you think your friends would?"
He meant other Mandalorians, Din realised. He could lure them here, just by pretending to be Din. The thought made him feel sick.
The Imperial raised the whipcord launcher. The monolink filament shot out at Din and coiled tight around his arm. Din tried to pull free, but he was caught fast. The Imperial watched impassively, making no move to pull Din towards him. Was he unfamiliar with how to reel him in? Or enjoying the struggles of the fish on the hook?
A bright flash fell between them. Mayfeld with the axe from the wall. Not just decorative after all. The blade cut the whipcord and it snapped in two. Din staggered back as the tension broke.
"Go!" Mayfeld yelled, dropping the axe.
They bolted down the corridor, chased by the roar of a flamethrower and the ringing of laughter.
#
The elevator took them down a mine shaft, into a maze of disused tunnels. The stormtroopers would have trouble tracking them through here. But now they were even further away from the hangar. Mayfeld consulted his map again, leading them via an alternate route. Bare light bulbs flickered overhead, making the shadows sway.
"An axe," Mayfeld muttered, in disgust. "I can't believe it. I was a sharpshooter to get out of hand to hand combat. Lucky I didn't cut off my own foot."
Din said nothing, following on autopilot. The holo of his armour must have been deliberately leaked. Any Mandalorian who saw it would feel dutybound to retrieve it and return it to its ancestral home. These Imperials were laying a trap for Mandalorians, to steal their armour and harvest the beskar. The cold calculation took his breath away. These were warlords, not serving the Empire, but building their own empires. Crushing resistance using the very tools intended to protect the innocent.
It still seemed like a nightmare. His own weapons turned against him. Had he ever actually been good at what he did, or was all the skill and success in the things he owned? He said, slowly, distantly, "What is a Mandalorian without his armour?"
"I don't know, what is he?" Mayfeld glanced at Din when he failed to respond. "Sorry, was that a rhetorical question?"
"You asked me once what the rule was." About not removing the helmet. About not showing his face. "I don't know anymore."
Mayfeld gave him a sideways look. "You're not your armour, you know. Bravest thing I ever saw you do was when you weren't wearing it."
"Not when I took down the droids on the prison ship?"
"Yeah, okay," Mayfeld admitted, "that was impressive. But I meant Morak."
He meant the computer terminal. He meant taking off the helmet. But he didn't say it. You did what you had to do. I never saw your face.
"I never said thank you," Din said. "For coming to get me out of here."
"Yeah, well, we're not out of here yet. Save it for after we survive this."
"Thank you anyway. It means something that you came."
Mayfeld flushed, colour high on his cheeks. No fast talking this time. Maybe Din wasn't the only person who didn't know how to cope without armour.
"Why did you come though?" Din wondered aloud.
"I told you. Your friends needed someone who could break into--"
"No, why did you agree? You were a free man."
"You know, I keep asking myself that." And there it was, the quippy response. But he said it with a faint smile, like he was astonished at himself. "I've been figuring a few things out."
They walked on, in oddly comfortable silence.
After a while, Mayfeld said, "The kind of work I did before. That's no way to live. Not for long. I've had enough second chances, you know? I should have died with my squad at Burnin Konn. I could have been shot by you on the prison ship. Still don't know why you didn't."
"I probably would have, once." Din was a hunter, not a murderer, but he had been less picky about bringing the target in dead or alive. He had worked hard to provide for the covert. Obsessively even. No room for anything else: not friends, not family, not lovers. Things looked different to him now. "I've been figuring some things out too."
"You know, Mando--"
"Din."
"What?"
"My name. Din Djarin. You can use it instead of Mando." He tried for a sardonic smile, but it probably came out sickly. "I don't know if I can claim that title anymore."
"Hey," Mayfeld said. "Not the time for an identity crisis. That's not you, you're not some tin can. You think your kid cares about that?"
The last time before they parted, Grogu had wanted to see the man underneath the mask. He already knew who the real Din was, even before Din himself did. "Well. He likes shiny things."
Mayfeld snorted. "You're all right. Din."
#
They emerged from an access hatch into a service tunnel full of pipes and wiring. It led to a door that was supposed to be the closest point to the hangar where their ship was waiting.
The door slid open onto an empty corridor, right as a security patrol rounded the corner. The two stormtroopers came to attention fast. Din found himself looking down the wrong end of a blaster.
His first instinct said to tank the shot on his breastplate, where the beskar was thickest. His second instinct screamed warning, but it was too late, he was too slow--
Mayfeld pushed him aside, stepping in front. He staggered as two shots seared the air. The blaster fell from his hand in slow motion.
Din snatched up the blaster and returned fire. The stormtroopers dropped. Alarms shrieked. Reinforcements would show up any minute.
"Give me that," Mayfeld said. He slumped against the wall, pale and sweating. "You can make it if you run. I'll hold them off while--" He waved a hand. He meant to stay and die defending the corridor.
"Like hell you will." Din dragged Mayfeld back into the service tunnel, sealing the door shut. He shot out the controls for good measure. "What were you thinking? You're not wearing beskar!"
"Neither are you!" Mayfeld retorted. He tried to stand, but began to collapse. Din eased him carefully to the floor. A starburst cracked the plastoid armour, right in the centre of the chest. Something dark and wet gleamed under it.
Din unbuckled the armour and lifted it away. Blood welled up from the exposed wound. Din tore a strip off his own shirt to put pressure on it. Hoping it was enough.
"You should have gone," Mayfeld rasped. "You've got people waiting for you."
Din shook his head. "So do you."
"Like who? Ran? Qin? Your friend the marshal?" Mayfeld coughed. "I already died on Morak, remember?"
"Then you can't die twice. That would be ridiculous."
"Is that another joke? You're full of surprises." That faint smile fluttered across his mouth again. "I wish I'd told you--" He lifted a hand towards Din's face, then let it fall, eyes closing.
Din took his hand. It was far too cold. He pressed it to his cheek. "Stay with me, damn it." He needed the medbay. They would never make it in time. "Oh, hell." Then he remembered the spare bacta patches.
Mayfeld groaned as Din patted him down and rifled through his clothes. "You have the worst timing. You're as terrible at this as I thought."
"Terrible at what?" Din said, but heat rose in his face. He finally found the bacta patches, tucked into an inner pocket. He ripped one open and laid it on the wound.
Mayfeld let out a shuddering sigh as the bacta patch started its work. Din watched, heart suspended, as his breathing evened out and some colour returned to his face. He was still in bad condition, but no longer on the verge of dying.
"We're going to get out of here," Din said, emphatically. "Both of us. And then--" He didn't know how to end that thought.
Neither did Mayfeld, from his expression. "This isn't how I imagined this would go."
Fists pounded the other side of the door. They jolted apart. The whine of a laser cutter filled the air, followed by a thin red line burning through the door.
"We have to get moving," Din said. He hauled Mayfeld upright, the other man leaning heavily against him. "Is there another exit?"
"There's one last way out." Mayfeld licked his lips. "The problem is--"
"What?"
"They know there's one last way out too. They'll be waiting."
#
The Imperial stood at the entrance to the hangar. No way past except through him. Din peered out from behind a column, trying to calculate the odds. The Imperial only had four stormtroopers with him. A mere courtesy escort. He didn't need more. Wearing the beskar armour, he was equal to a dozen of them.
Din and Mayfeld had one blaster between them, and Mayfeld was still half dead on his feet. Din needed a rocket launcher, or thermal detonators, or anything else really. What did he have without his armour or weapons?
"What are you waiting for, Mandalorian?" the Imperial said. "I know you're there."
He wasn't even counting Mayfeld. He was confident. No, overconfident. That kind craved power. The power to possess and control. Why else had he kept Din alive for days after capture? He still wanted something from him. Din thought he knew what.
"If you can take down the stormtroopers," Din said to Mayfeld, "I'll take care of him."
"With what?" Mayfeld said, frowning. He pushed the blaster at Din. "Take this at least."
Din shook his head. "Trust me."
Mayfeld swore. "If he doesn't kill you, I will."
"He doesn't want to kill me. He wants to defeat me."
Din walked forward, hands raised, weaponless. The Imperial gestured to stop the stormtroopers from opening fire. Nothing showed on the blank mask of the helmet. But there was anticipatory tension in his stance.
Din stopped in front of the Imperial. "Give me my armour back. And I will serve you faithfully." He went down on one knee, bowing his head.
Mayfeld made a strangled sound of outrage.
Din thought, Hold your fire.
"An intriguing offer. My tamed Mandalorian." A hand descended, running over his scalp. Din tried not to shudder. His own gloves, the leather scraping over his stubbled jaw.
The Imperial had no intention of giving back the armour. But he wanted to see Din bargain for it. Beg for it. As though he were chained to it. Din let him think what he liked. He knew exactly how vulnerable the armour was.
He grabbed for the vambrace and found the controls. Pressed the right combination of buttons. The jetpack ignited with a roar.
The Imperial snarled in fury and slapped at the controls. Din grappled with him as they flew, breathless and spinning. Blaster fire below. They hit the ceiling at high speed. The armour took the brunt of the collision, sparks shooting from the beskar. They fell to the floor.
The Imperial lay motionless. Din felt like he had been thrown and trampled by the mudhorn again. The armour was dented in several places.
How do I explain this to the Armourer? Din thought dazedly.
Mayfeld ran up to them, panting. Conflicting expressions warred over his face, like he was torn between punching or embracing Din. "Are you insane?"
"Probably," Din said, and kissed him.
Well. That seemed to be one way of rendering him speechless.
When they finally pulled apart, Mayfeld said, "Just how hard did you get knocked on the head?" But he wore a shaky smile, like the one Din had himself.
"Drawback of not wearing a helmet," Din said.
"Advantages too," Mayfeld said, and kissed him back.