Chapter Text
Tor Vizsla allows for two kinds of subordinates in his world - either you get him the things that he wants, or you’re the way for him to entertain himself. Arla’s seen enough of the latter - floating in space or splayed across the floor or dripping down the walls - that it’s been worth her time, effort and blood to stay profitable, too valuable to turn into another plaything on a whim.
Until today. Until he’d called her in from a hunt she’d barely started halfway across the Rim, commanded her to return to a nowhere tent in a nowhere camp in the middle of kriffing nowhere - and this is what she keeps forgetting, because after everything, she’s still that same idiot child who never learns. It was only ever in her head, thinking she knew how Tor saw the world, that there’s any way to be safe in this endless, violent shipwreck of a universe that’s led her here, now, to this - her baby brother chained in a cage and Arla watching him from the other side of the bars, with the hand of the leader of the Death Watch on her shoulder - and she knows the look on his face by the look on Jango’s.
She’d been long dead and forgotten, and good riddance. Dead was better.
Better than this, the last moment she ever wanted, the way his eyes lock on the Kyr’tsad insignias on her beskar’gam - top-of-the-line, no patchwork battlefield suits for little Arla. Little Arla has proven her worth.
She imagines the possibility of just stopping it here, the way the betrayal often quietly plays out in the back of her mind, like a song at the other end of a crowded bar, out of her control. One step back, bring her hand up on Tor’s and twist, just enough to have him stumble forward. Just enough surprise that she can get her blaster out first, empty as many shots into his head as it takes to make absolutely sure there’s not enough left to come back, and then bring the barrel up under her chin and -
Except she never will. Arla’s a survivor. So she can keep having days like this one.
Nothing’s ever just one threat with the leader of the Kyr’tsad - this is gloating and entertainment and a test of her loyalty all in one, and Arla’s thankful that locking it all down has been reflex for as long as she can remember, that there’s still half-decent buzz in her veins, keeping the world sharp and clear and just that little bit distant. Always a risk - Tor didn’t care what got her through a job, but tended to disapprove if she didn’t return to him clean, nothing that might blunt whatever he might want to make her feel - but there’s little that can give her away, her expression professional and cold, almost bored, even now.
Arla can still see the tiny, pale scar on Jango’s chin, some genius adiik inspiration to see if he could climb to the top of their roof that had all ended in blood and a broken arm - but even then, he hadn’t made a sound, shocked and teary eyed but stoic as a statue.
Everything’s changed, and nothing has.
“You’re a warrior, boy.” Tor says. “I do respect that. Allied to an embarrassment of a cause and a di’kutla pretender of a leader, but you wouldn’t be worth much to me if a little pain was enough to change those loyalties so fast. It occurred to me that a reunion might encourage things along. Have you hear the truth from a familiar face, the value of reconsidering your allegiances from someone fortunate enough to land on the right side of this war.”
Arla had been trained in the long eclipse of Tor Viszla’s supposed demise - she’d been thrown before him with the stink of smoke and blood and twisted wreckage still thick in the air, bits of fabric and under armor melted in long, deep rivulets across his skin. Arla had thought he would kill her then - hurt her first, maybe, the way he’d been hurt, and toss what was left away to die.
Always the fear, so much of it inside of her that there are times it feels like there’s nothing else. When a job’s gone bad, when one prize or another has slipped through her fingers - “you’re disappointing me, Arla,” with his hand in her hair, long enough to twist around his wrist, yanked back so sharply she can barely keep her feet “I didn’t train you so well so you could disappoint me.”- and all she’s ever been able to do is promise to do better, swear she won’t fail him, and how many people has she watched beg and die just like that? How many times has she watched him take an eye or a hand or even let the poor bastards make it to the door before he cuts them down and she’s never been sure what it is that’s kept her mostly whole and alive. A happy accident - roll the dice, put the slug in the chamber and let it spin…
“I missed you, Jango.” Arla says, not because it’s true but because it’s what might hurt him the most and that’s the only thing she’s here to do. Anything in her that might have missed him, thought about him had been cauterized a long, long time ago. Memories of a life that might have been hers once, but she’s forgotten when she even stopped caring.
His eyes flash, a dozen emotions at once, but he doesn’t answer. Pure Fett stubbornness in the set of his jaw, old Vhett roots that refused to be torn up no matter how deep the digging - this isn’t going to be fast, and it’s going to be anything but clean.
Jango had been a menace from the moment he could walk - run, really, walking more of an inconvenience - and always seemed to be aimed at exactly whatever would get him killed the fastest. On a farm, there’d been nothing but a wealth of opportunities. As the older sister, she’d had a responsibility to look out for him, and Arla had resented him as much as it seemed he’d resented her for standing between him and death by kriffing combine harvester.
She remembers when he’d been so small, their mother used to bathe him in the kitchen sink.
“Your allies are all gone, little brother. It’s all over, it’s done. There’s nothing left for you out there, but thinking about your next best move.”
Arla’s fairly sure she’s lying about that. Tor wouldn’t have called her back - Jango probably wouldn’t still be alive if he’d actually beaten the Haat outright, and it was stupid of her to come into this so blind, so kriffing stupid not to check the lay of the land, but it was hardly the first time Tor had pulled her from a job before she’d started, because the war demanded it or because he could, and Arla was still recovering from the last close call. The New may have claimed they were pacifists, but still had allies to defend their borders, and she was nursing a chest full of bruised ribs courtesy of their more conventional views on peacekeeping.
Arla had felt the drag on that invisible line even more than usual, yanking her back to the heart of the Kyr’tsad, and as foolish as it was she hadn’t wanted to know what had changed, had wanted to keep every atom of space and ignorance between herself and whatever was coming for as long as possible.
Still, she’d heard a few mentions of a battle, the surprise and alarm that Tor Vizsla had finally, formally returned from the grave - but Arla had been trained up on those who’d thought he was gone years ago, who’d wanted to improve their position in his absence, steal a piece of Death Watch victory for themselves. So many people who thought they were so clever - he’d kept a low profile for a long time, digging out threats and traitors, Kyr’tsad usurpers and attempted runaways. How many times has the last look in their eyes been one of shock at who had sent her? How many corpses, still not quite believing it was possible.
Tor Vizsla doesn’t lose, doesn’t forgive, and death has proven only a minor inconvenience. A hard, unfair truth, but the universe is built on little else. The Kyr’tsad are an inevitability and always have been, and there’s nowhere to run to and nothing to do but try to survive it. The only thing she’s been trying to do for so long - and now Arla has to find a way for Jango to survive too, even if there’s no way for him to do it and still be himself on the other side - even if she knows for certain that he’d rather die first.
It’s in the way his eyes narrow, sliding from her to Tor - ignoring her completely now, and Arla knows what’s coming next, would plead with him not to but he wouldn’t listen and it wouldn’t make a difference anyway. Whatever she can save him from - if there’s anything at all, the barest scraps - it’s not going to happen anytime soon. Tor has to have his fun first.
“Just get on with it already, you sad, mangled excuse for a osik-eating, rancor-kriffing hut'uun ori'buyce, kih'kovid rusted-out, karked-over shabuir dar’manda"-
Jango’s still swearing when the first drops of blood hit the ground, when Tor suggests that Arla take over, slips one of her own knives from its sheath and puts it in her hand. Jango doesn’t acknowledge her existence, no matter what she does, only stops cursing when they finally get to the needles, when he stops being able to trust anything that comes out of his mouth, and what finally does come sounds more like a sob than any attempt at an insult.
Arla knows how this goes, as familiar as a second skin. Sooner or later, there’s nothing left but the screaming.
————————————
Cal looks up, as another stifled cry of pain carries across the camp. It’s not the first time they’ve tortured people here - sometimes other Mandalorians they’d captured, once a member of their own camp, a younger Kyr’tsad who’d been caught stealing, and that had been… nothing worth remembering now. Cal thinks this might be the worst one, because he’d actually talked with Jango and he seemed friendly enough - cool, definitely cool - even if Obi-Wan always encouraged caution and they both know where Trilla had been, what will happen if they put their trust in the wrong person.
It’s a little selfish, and Cal hates himself for thinking it, that he doesn’t want to see Jango hurt - but also that if he dies, the closest thing they’ve ever had to a chance to escape dies with him. No tactical advantage in saving a bunch of ade whose buir isn't the Mand’alor. Kriff, if Jango gives up, if he joins the Death Watch and tells Tor what they were planning, what Obi-Wan wanted to do…
Another cry, and Trilla flinches in his arms. Cal tightens his grip around her, tucking his chin on her shoulder and grateful she isn’t hiding somewhere they can’t find, tries not to think about this getting any worse where he might slip, and she might overhear.
There are times, that he’s almost jealous of her and Obi-Wan. Cal knows he’s the least useful of them, at least when it comes to the Force. He can hear the both of them fine when they reach out, but trying to glean anything from the less Force-sensitive is rarely worth making an effort. In large groups like this, he can feel the dread and worry, but Cal figures a handful of loose gravel could sense that things are anything but okay here, so that’s not terribly impressive.
When he’s on his own, Cal doesn’t mind so much - the Force gives him a heads up on where he shouldn’t be, help him throw a few rocks if he ends up there anyway, and the rest he can usually muddle through one way or another. Watching Obi-Wan work, though… he never even realized how much more there was to know.
Obi-Wan says he’s not weak, that the Force manifests its gifts differently for everyone - and that if he’d meditate, maybe he’d have more focus to hone his skills. Except that meditation is the most boring thing that anyone has ever invented and he’s half-convinced Obi-Wan just made the entire idea up, to see if he’d fall for it - which at least usually earns him a laugh, a long-suffering sigh.
It’s better than when he says it’s not that Cal’s less powerful, but that there’s no one here to train him right, to learn where his strengths truly lie.
He doesn’t like the way Obi-Wan gets sad, when he thinks about the past - doesn’t trust those Jedi who were so wise and kind but left him out here anyway - but he’s just as glad they’re gone, too. Afraid they might return some day and take Obi-Wan away, leave him and Trilla behind because they were never Jedi and they don’t matter. He doesn’t understand how Obi-Wan can think he’s not good enough, when he’s the only one who’s ever been able to stand up to the Kyr’tsad in any way that’s made a difference.
He’s doing it right now. Supposedly, they’re working through lessons, Obi-Wan teaching the youngest Basic while Talni, a Torgruta girl about Cal’s age, repeats the words in Mando’a - but Obi-Wan’s gone silent and still a half-dozen times already, and he’s been doing nothing but breathing steady with his eyes closed for the last quarter of an hour, just about the time the worst of it started.
Cal can’t do what Obi-Wan does, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know what’s happening. Obi-Wan’s done it before, plenty of times, whenever an ad is sick or injured - he’d done it for Cal, when one of the Kyr’tsad had been annoyed by something he’d said or done or daring to exist within easy range, and hit him hard enough to leave him gasping for air, his ears ringing.
Obi-Wan put a hand on his shoulder, the lightest touch, and the pain had drained away to barely an echo. Cal’s never seen him do it at such a distance, especially for someone who can’t reach back in the Force - but he’s also never seen Obi-Wan not try. So Cal watches him flinch and grimace, beads of sweat at his temples and his breath going ragged. Everyone pretending it’s still a normal lesson, keeping up a low, steady murmur of noise - the Kyr’tsad usually don’t notice them using the Force when there’s nothing much to see, but it would be a disaster now if they started connecting any dots.
Cal rubs a thumb along the edge of the holster in his pocket - little more at the moment than pieces of scrap fabric and half a good idea, carefully tucked away. He’d just gotten started on it, before Tor had arrived, and it’ll probably be worth losing sleep if he can finish stitching it together fast. It seemed like the best thing he could do, giving Obi-Wan some way to conceal the lightsaber if he has to, keep it as close as possible. Cal can’t kriffing wait to see it, can’t figure out how he might get the chance to see it, but something will work out - and there’s no reason to rush except that Tor is here now, and who knows what that means and there’s never such a thing as too prepared.
One of the younger Twi’lek boys at Talni’s side passes Cal a cup of water - easier for him to reach Obi-Wan without completely disrupting his concentration, and when Cal hands it over, he drains it without comment, lets the empty cup fall from his hand. The real sign of what this is costing him, that Obi-Wan is actually impolite.
“Oh, kark.” Cal says, watching Zai make his way toward the tent, hands flexing into fists and a smile on his face. “Kriff, it’s Kaine, he’s-“
A nod, Obi-Wan’s lips pressed into a near invisible line, and a few moments later Cal sees him go even paler, one hand clenching against his knee, the knuckles white, and Cal reaches for him. He’s figured out how to do this much, at least, provide some support when it’s needed, no skill in it but at least a boost of extra strength when it counts - but Obi-Wan pulls away, a sharp, short shake of his head.
“I can’t… I don’t want you to…” He blinks, and his eyes seem molten, just for a moment, shields so strong they’re almost a tangible presence pushing Cal away. Protecting him, from whatever it is he’s seeing and feeling, or however he’s doing what it is he’s doing. Obi-Wan worries so much about that, too - there’s something in him that’s dangerous, like those golden eyes of his are contagious and if he didn’t know that Obi-Wan wouldn’t take it right, Cal would tell him he didn’t even care if it was. Didn’t matter what color his eyes were or what it meant or if Cal was doomed alongside him - who cares, whatever. Let it happen. He doesn’t know Jedi stuff, not like Obi-Wan does, but there can’t really be much worse in the universe than abandoning one of the only people who’s ever given a kriff about what happens to him.
I’m not afraid of you. Cal thinks, unsure if Obi-Wan will hear it, but feels a nudge of warmth, determination and approval from Trilla, glad that she seems less upset than she was, but not entirely happy with the way she’s looking toward Jango’s tent - not fearful, but thoughtful. No sounds for the moment, but the silence is no less disturbing.
“Don’t you go getting any ideas.” He says. Trilla pulls his arm tighter around her, but doesn’t look away. He’ll have to try and keep a better eye on her, at least as long as that blonde woman is around. She seems like the kind of person who pays very close attention.
“Ba’jur bal beskar’gam“ Cal’s eyes snap up, to where Talni is crouched with a few of the other ad, speaking softly, trying to reassure them, the smile mostly in her eyes when she sees him watching.
“Education and armor.” He murmurs back, watches that smile grow. It’s the rhyme the enemy teaches their ad, the Resol’nare of the Haat Mandoade, and the punishment can be brutal if they’re overheard, but all of them know it anyway - what’s more interesting than forbidden knowledge?
Talni says she was taken too old to ever be Kyr’tsad - she’s never been afraid, not really, her aliit already teaching her how to fight, how to be mandokarla - and she also swears they’re not dead, that her buire survived the ambush that brought her here, that they’d come for her if they knew where she was. She’s determined to be next out to the camps - to defect, the moment she gets a chance, and then she’ll come back here and bring her aliit and they’ll save everyone.
Cal hasn’t told her that he’s heard that before, from people who went away and never came back - but who knows? Talni’s got a little group of them who all think the same, share the same dream - and maybe one of them really will make it, maybe this time will be different.
“Ara’nov, aliit“
Self-defense and clan. Talni claims it’s wonderful, having a real aliit, strong people who care, who want to teach them how to be strong, too. Cal isn’t sure if he can even be Mandalorian - if Obi-Wan’s not, if Trilla can’t, then he’s not going to be, they’re his aliit, they’re what matters most - but it wouldn’t be so bad, maybe, if they all could be, together. If Jango knew a place they could go -
A howl from the tent, rage and pain and kriff only knows what else, and Obi Wan lets out a little gasp like he’s been knifed, bent nearly double for a moment with a hand against the ground, slow, careful breaths like anything else would be a mistake.
“Infirmary.” Talni says, moving to help him up, her voice a little louder, just in case anyone noticed. “Must be something you ate.” It’s hardly an uncommon occurrence - the ade are a mix from so many planets, hardly anyone eating what’s best for where they came from, when there’s enough that’s worth risking to eat at all. Cal wants to follow, but it’ll just attract more attention that way. Obi-Wan will probably do better without any distractions, and Jango obviously needs all the help he can get.
Mando'a bal Mand'alor— An vencuyan mhi. Trilla thinks quietly to him, finishing the rhyme, even easier not to get caught when there’s nothing to hear, and Cal sighs. Survival. It’s the best any of them can do for now - stay careful, stay hopeful, and wait for this new storm to pass.
—————————————
It’s dark by the time Arla tastes fresh air again, Tor called away by urgent news from the front and his little carbon copy right on his heels in case there’s any boots in need of licking. Jango was unconscious anyway, so there was no need to draw attention by trying to stay behind. It feels like an entirely different world when she pushes the canvas back, a drop in pressure so fast she’s nearly lightheaded, fighting to keep her breathing steady, and Arla knows her hands aren’t shaking but she keeps glancing down, can’t stop herself. It feels like they’re shaking even though they’re not, but if she keeps checking them, someone’s going to notice.
A risk to palm the vial in her pocket, a risk for even one quick hit, but right now Arla needs the clarity badly, even if it’s artificial. Needs to not feel things for a while.
Lock it up, Arla. Lock it the kriff up.
Some parts had been easier than others - easier than Arla had expected them to be, and hadn’t that been a joy to learn? What kind of an irrational, insane, vindictive monster would resent their little brother for getting out, for being safe, for finding a life with anyone who wasn’t the Death Watch? She’d gone for that angle anyway because she’d known Tor was expecting it, a way to flatter him and hurt Jango all at once, just the kind of thing he’d want to hear - but once she’d started it hadn’t stopped.
Oh, the words were all pure osik - she didn’t blame him, he’d been an adiik, and Tor has told the story so many times, so many lies about that day and what had happened and who was responsible - her parents, Clan karking Mereel, Jango or even Arla herself, somehow - that the details had long since blurred together, flashes of light and chaos and the sound of it more than anything. The brittle, violent rattle of explosion after explosion as the whole field seemed to catch at once, paint melting off the barn before the metal buckled in and her mother’s limp hand in the dirt and the hungry roar of that inferno, a whirlwind desperate to tear her into screaming cinders -
Arla knows better than to think anything she remembers, or feels about it is real - but there’d still been something waiting in her, with Jango looking through her while she’d spat out all the stupid lies she knew she was supposed to say - wanted to find yourself a better family, huh? Bored of where you were and thought that bastard Mereel was the better deal or were you really just so scared that it was worth killing us all to make sure you survived? - but a part of her she didn’t recognize, didn’t want to know she had suddenly slipped the leash.
An ugly, jagged part of her raged at the sight of him - so perfect and untouched and noble. Lucky little boy growing up with his safe little verd’goten and a whole aliit to cheer him on, the proud warrior with his honor untouched while Arla had been getting nine kinds of osik kicked out of her by men twice her size, survival seeming as impossible as freedom - and he was judging her, wasn’t he? She was just one more enemy, one more kriffing Death Watch for him to look down on when he’d dodged all the consequences and the misfortune and left the target on her back, when he’d had all the best handed to him and how dare he judge her now, how dare he think he was so much better and -
Arla couldn’t even hear the poison coming out of her mouth by then, but Jango didn’t blink, never looked up, and Tor looked as if he’d never seen a better third act, ready to applaud when it all came crashing down.
He didn’t tell you what to say. He certainly didn’t tell you to mean it. Arla’s known what she is for a long time now, it shouldn’t have been any kind of surprise.
Of course, she’d pitched in with everything that followed, especially after Tor had called in his ver’alor, this one not nearly as frightening as some of his inner circle but plenty mean, his first punch enough to snap Jango’s head back - more than eager enough to kill, given the go ahead - but Tor appreciated that Arla could do more damage with half the effort, get in his head without even trying, and if she struck as much with words as blows, at least there was no risk of her taking an eye or a limb, damaging anything worse than it could heal.
Drugs were the best bet for interrogation, for maximum results with the least chance at irreparable harm - but that had meant the fun of watching Jango fall apart piece by helpless piece, slowly stripped down to a confused, agonized mess and he still hadn’t said anything, responded to all of Tor’s attempts at interrogation with the same ragged silence - but he’d flinched, keened at the sound of her voice, a high, wrenched sound of pain and a litany hissed out through clenched teeth - “you’re dead, you’re dead, you died, I killed you, I’m sorry."
And wasn’t this exactly what she wanted? What she hadn’t even known some part of her had wanted and here it was, his shame and sorrow on demand and snapping her in half in a whole new way.
Monsters can hurt and still be monsters.
Nothing changed, Jango gave them nothing new and they learned nothing and it still went on forever. Eventually, he’d passed out and couldn’t be roused - still breathing, although Arla couldn’t get close enough to check his pulse - and so now here she is, looking up at a cloud-strewn sky in the middle of kriffing nowhere and feeling her hands shake even though when she looks down there’s nothing to see. She’s fine.
Lesser villains build their own little empires out of whatever happens to be around, and she assumed the ver’alor of this camp would have to have someone to lord over, a village he could terrorize or prisoners of war to abuse - or ade, because he really was that pathetic, half a camp full spread out in the shadows, only a few of them close enough to see and even fewer glancing at her when they think she’s not looking.
It would make sense for Arla to have someone to train up, her position hardly one with a long shelf life, but she’s grateful Tor’s never mentioned the idea. He dislikes it, when the things that are his dare to find new things of their own, and she’s sure that even if it was on his order, at some point she’d be ordered to kill whoever he’d allowed her to take as an apprentice. Probably have them try to kill her as well, just to see what would happen.
Arla’s already his top pick for those kinds of jobs, when his operatives try to keep secrets, when they find other allegiances, when they try to run. Which is why she’s kept her own preferences to cantina dancers who charge by the hour and don’t ever bother with names and she’s never a repeat customer.
“You.” Arla says to the first ramikad who passes by with their helmet off, watches the change in their expression - she knows what most everyone’s ever said, why they think Tor keeps her around - but that little hint of a smirk falls away when Arla doesn’t blink - and this one, at least, is smart enough to consider that maybe pissing off the person Tor sends out when he wants things to die is not the smartest move. A rather narrow list of people, even in the ranks of the Kyr’tsad, that she could kill and elicit more than a shrug from Tor, and none of them are in this kriffing camp.
“A-alor’ad?”
“What happened with the Haat? Is Mereel still alive?”
The soldier pales. Arla can’t blame him. Tor has a reputation for shooting messengers depending on the news, the weather, the time of day - and there’s no way for him to know how many of his habits she’s picked up. If it’s an honest question or she’s waiting for him to answer in a way she doesn’t like. He still stammers his way through a truncated series of current events - Mereel likely alive, their mole dead, the plot mostly a failure - and Arla’s as relieved she wasn’t within the same star system as Tor when he’d heard that news as she is suddenly, overwhelmingly furious, once again, at a man she’s never met.
Arla’s hated Jaster Mereel for a long time - not anything he is or even anything he’s done, not really. The version of him in her head doesn’t even look like the holos she’s seen, the ones that occasionally leave Tor breaking those very same projectors - he’s an empty outline, more or less. A blank suit of armor that had dropped like a detonator, destroyed her life and scattered what was left to distant stars - hating him like he’s a person feels like trying to hate a landslide, or an asteroid strike. Arla just hates because there are so many times she needs to hate something, needs to put that feeling somewhere and he’s always been the safest option, and now is no different.
Why didn’t you protect him? She wants to scream, wants to dig her nails in and draw blood. You had one job to do, you stupid kriffing bastard, and that was to keep him from ever being here.
Arla has to get Jango out, even though she can’t. Find a way to keep him safe, even though she knows exactly the kind of unholy wrath that Tor will bring down, unleashing every other weapon like her that he keeps tucked away for just such an occasion. It’s not the thought of dying she gives half a kriff about - but Tor wouldn’t kill her, if he found her first. He wouldn’t stop looking until he found her, and then he wouldn’t kill her for a very long time.
Arla looks down, flexes her hands, expecting something other than the stillness - ashamed of how steady she is. Considers getting a drink at whatever they’ve decided to call a bar in this place, maybe beat the kriff out of the first person who makes it worth her time to see if it improves her mood. Considers going back to her ship, and how long she’ll have to stare at the ceiling before Tor decides it’s time to yank her out for another surprise. Considers stealing something a little bigger, setting the hyperdrive and aiming the ship into the biggest star she can find and just… enjoying the show.
More guards are moving on their nightly patrol behind her, boots scuffing in the gravel, voices carrying in the otherwise quiet evening.
“… heard something moving around out there, just past the perimeter. Sounded big.”
“If anything shows up, we can send the dar’jetii to deal with it.”
Arla turns on her heel.
“I’m sorry, the what?”