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Chapter Text

Din stepped through the opening, leaning heavily on the doorframe upon his shamed exit.  A shaky gloved hand hovered over the side of his thigh; trouser leg singed through to the skin from his untimely accident with his own weapon. Metal met metal with a clank, Din resting back his head on the frame, fingers not willing to brush his recently disturbed wound. Under his helmet sighed a half decent breath, wincing as he straightened up to look around. The alley gave no one away, if anyone was hiding, Din couldn’t see them.  Then again, not many seemed to walk down the Kolzoc.

Grunting, Din pushed himself off from the wall. Support gone he hobbled forward alone, left to think to himself. He wondered if telling the truth was the right call… Admitting to his sin. After all, he had put his helmet back on a one too many times and still proudly claimed to be Mandalorian. Maybe that was the greater transgression.

Annoyingly the Darksabre had grazed his leg just beside his Beskar plating. An inch to the left and his most current dilemma wouldn’t be plaguing him so. But still he limped on, light from the decks above providing him passage over the trash littered terrain. A tram hissed as it whizzed by overhead, its approach alluded to by how the fabricated ground shivered under his feet.

He rested on a wall ahead, the grey, dank surroundings seemed ripe for someone to get the drop on an injured man. His fight previously with Paz Vizsla had troubled an already troublesome wound. The limited supply the remaining two Mandalorian’s had been able to procure were not enough to leave him problem free, but more mask the pain for a while.

A light beside him flickered, with his shoulder to the wall he thumbed and input into his gauntlet, visor blinking into life. The image shook, distorting the world with a blue tint. Din heaved himself forward, catching sight of what he was looking for. The marks that had been concealed on the walls, that led him to the Mandalorian’s, were now his ticket out.

Steam hissed from a couple of pipes to his right, a constant drip sounding somewhere in the distance harmonised with his stuttered steps. The image in his visor shimmered with static, the path he had walked was coming back to him now. He moved forward with intent, keen to leave the loathsome place behind him. Evidently, he was no longer welcome.

Paz Vizsla had been a worthy opponent, not one to leave his heart out of a fight. Though Din still had cursed himself for not expecting such a challenge.  He should have come to assume there would be those who would want to claim the Darksabre as their own. Paz Vizsla would not be the first or the last.

“Creed.” Din huffed under his breath, taking another much-needed moment to rest. He recalled what the Armorer had said, the story she told of the blade and the significances of such a weapon. To rule Mandalore, all one had to do is win the blade by Creed in battle.

Was this the way?

Din quickly pushed on ahead, limp now more pronounced, the short reprieve having not done him any favours. The unpleasant thoughts had spurred him on, wishing to banish them with pain. It worked. The muscles in his thigh shuddered with each step, the flesh on fire as if it still burned.

An announcer spoke over the hustle and bustle of the spaceport, grasping Din’s wavering attention.

“Attention please. Flight 1020, Nonstop service to Tatooine, is now ready for boarding at gate number one. All passengers, please proceed to the boarding area immediately.” The communication ended, leaving Din focusing on his hindered movements. Walking was more effort than it should be, concealing this fact making his life just that little more difficult. Though still a formidable and not easily defeated warrior, those who spot a wounded Mandalorian can’t seem to help but try their luck. Often, the cards aren’t in their favour, even with such an advantage. But the last thing Din wanted right now was trouble. He had the money he needed, he just needed to get back to Tatooine.

Doing his best to conceal his limp, he moved with the crowd to board. Though immediately he found himself caught in another unwanted dilemma. Alarms beside him beeped rapidly, two red lights flashing as he passed them. He shuffled to a stop, hanging his head slightly at his consecutive misfortune.

“Excuse me sir.” The security droid politely chimed his way.

The situation was explained, his weapons forfeit. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but it was one he could work round. The process of unarming himself had been a lengthy one, and not absent of embarrassment. It was rare to see a Mandalorian these days, especially one unarmed. The process of course was not aided by his current injury making the procedure sting just a little more. Eventually he boarded the shuttle unarmed with what dignity he could claim he had left. A thought did linger after the display at the security point… Was he still even a Mandalorian?

The droid beeped as it glided down the aisle, drinks in hand for any passengers wishing one. It brought him from such dreaded thoughts at least, the advance of space through his window one could find themselves staring at for hours, mind easily lost in the emptiness of stars. Din adjusted his leg uncomfortably, a sweat starting to build on his brow beneath his helmet. Catching a glimpse of his masked reflection in the window was the last thing he needed, he was happy to look away, advert his own gaze to find that of another. A child, green in colour, eyes big and full of wonder. It was peering over the back of its seat at him, unfazed by his masked gaze, the wave his little hand made solidified that. A stern word from its parent got the child to sit back in his chair, though the damage had already been done.

Din’s mind wondered once more, these days he wished it didn’t. His hand pulled from his things the gift he had forged for Grogu. He questioned if the Armourer had been right about the so-called Jedi ways, their abolishment of any worldly attachments. He hoped her to be wrong. Even the thought of questioning someone so wise made him swallow deeply. Maybe he had strayed too far from the path. A man without Creed, without purpose. Left with only questions.

He held the small parcel for a moment, coloured fabric standing out against the plain grey interior of the transport shuttle. Ultimately, he put it to one side, sleep beckoned, and he couldn’t leave the call unanswered.

Din awoke to the landing gear contacting the ground, he sat up harshly, apparently having forgotten how his leg would protest to such a move. He bit back a cry, transforming it into a stifled groan. The sound was masked by those already on their feet, pulling their hand luggage from overhead bins or spare seats beside them. There were those who were in a hurry, eager to depart the shuttle, individuals holding them up quickly prompted to move aside or gestured too rudely.

After all, he had just arrived at Mos Eisley, described by some as a retched hive of scum and villainy. Din would fit right in. Bounty hunting after all was not a glamorous business, but least it was business.

Upon his departure and most likely due to being seated for so long, his leg was stiff and sore, he half fell down the ramp, the support mechanism that lowered the platform the only thing that kept him on his feet. He got the odd look but no one’s eyes lingered for long, some too preoccupied with reunions, two women quick to embrace in a hug.

“Welcome to Mos Eisley.” The droid from before approached with his belongings, safely stashed away in the sealed white container. It stuttered a pre-programed line thanking him for his patronage while he collected his belongings. Everything seemed to be in order when he lifted the lid, weapons still where he had left them. It was a breath of fresh air to be weighed down by his artillery again, though his leg was still not too pleased he continued as needed, sustaining the false façade of health. Trying too at least.  

Walking with the crowds got him from the shuttle depot mostly unseen by troublesome folk. Though Din couldn’t be sure, he was confident he slipped by the gangs staking out new arrivals.

For the first time in a while Din knew where he was going. Hanger 3-5 wasn’t too far at least; Motto would be expecting his arrival. Motto had been the one to contact him, saying she had a replacement for the Razor Crest. Whole reason he took the last bounty, needed the credits.

His boots felt heavy on his feet, Beskar weighing him down more than usual as the twin suns beamed off the metal. Din was sweating, had been since he woke up, though now he summed it up to the climate.

He made the sharp turn into an off street, leaving the large crowds behind him, able to let up the charade just a little. A shaky hand traced the wall, letting it bare some of his weight every couple of steps. He had been too caught up keeping up right when something collided with his shoulder. Din almost met the ground, to be honest he wasn’t sure how he remained on his feet. He turned to see who had passed in such a hurry, hand reaching for the blaster holstered on his hip.

With an all-mighty clang something struck him on the back of the head, he hit the ground face first. He had half drawn his blaster before being struck, it lay only a few inches from the tips of his fingers. Groaning, half dazed, with a searing pain irradiating from his wounded leg, Din reached for his weapon.  A finger managed to brush the hilt before a boot kicked the blaster from his grasp, just before being swiftly kicked in his side, not once but twice, the second flipping him onto his back.  The strikes had been well placed to avoid his Beskar plating, now he lay awkwardly on his jetpack. He tried to roll back onto his front to get up, coughing as the air had been booted from his lungs. The butt of a rifle struck him on the back of his helmet just as his hands were getting under him, his face graciously greeting the sand he had come so acquainted with.

“What we got here then?” Someone standing above him sneered. Din was still sputtering for a half decent breath, mumbled grunt accompanying any movement he made.

“This isn’t the one sniffing about Mos Espa?” Another voice huffed, almost disappointed with their catch.

“You thought this was that new Daimyo?” More approached, a group quickly surrounding him.

“Oh, leave off it, not like there’s a lot of these suits walking about.” A gruff voice came to his own defence.

Din wanted to take their moment of squabble to make his move, though his leg had other things in mind. He tried to lunge the closest thug, but his leg gave out on him as soon as he put weight on the thing. His chest hit the ground first with a thud before his face at least, people stepping back with cheers of surprise, they seemed unconcerned with his futile attempt to fight.

“Get this over with!” Someone called from the back, Din could barely look up let alone see how many there actually were.

He heard the click of a blaster pointed at him. It was now or never.  

With whatever strength he could muster he kicked out with his unhindered leg, striking someone in the shin behind him before rolling out the way of a blaster shot. It struck his shoulder, pinging off his Beskar like a coin. The walls in the side road where narrow, using one he scrambled to his feet, letting adrenaline conceal the crippling pain shooting from his thigh.

Half leant up against the wall, another shot grazed off his armour as other members of the gang opened fire. Din clutched the hilt of the Darksaber, the blade igniting in conjunction with a buzz. The void that the blade encompassed not unlike the stars sitting in the black advance of space.

He jabbed forward, making one of his attackers stumble back, tripping over his own feet. More shots rang against his back, he spun on his good leg, cautious with the bad. The blade swung overhead, taking the hand off a gunman, leaving him whimpering on the floor. In these tight confines, the blade was in its element. Though in his hands it seemed to only grow heavier, each swing adding more weight to what is in truth a well-balanced weapon. His elbow jabbed back at someone lunging at him from behind, he caught his attacker in the throat getting a sputter of panic before the blade glided through his stomach.  Upon retrieval, the man slumped dead, the blade’s tip penetrating the ground, sand hissed and blackening.

A couple of members had already fled, their lives not worth the Beskar. A well-placed shot collided with the back of Din’s head. Ears ringing, he turned. The thug Din had so kindly freed of his hand was propped up against a sandy wall, remaining hand having hold of Din’s own blaster. He was shot at almost point-blank range.

A red bolt ended the thug’s life before Din could even get the blade off the ground. His eyes followed the path of fire, two figures at the end of the narrow street. 

Din breathed heavily, panting out of breath. Though his heart did beat like a drum, the pain from his leg now roared louder. The Darksaber was retracted with a sharp sissle, Din falling to his good knee, he kept his face from a reunion with the sand.

“I’ve seen better things come out the back of a Bantha.”  The masked Boba Fett approached, Fennec at his side.

“Good to see you too.” Din panted a half-hearted retort. He attempted to stand before his allies swiftly came to his aide, hands finding his arms and helping him up right.

“We need to move, now.” Fennec rearranged her weapon, trying to remain on guard while assisting Din in remaining on his feet. “They can probably smell the credits coming off the Beskar at this point.”

“I’ve got him, cover us.” Fett gave the order and Fennec listened without hesitation. Din did his best to carry his own weight as he was fully passed off onto Fett, an arm slung over the green armour.  Fennec claimed Din’s blaster from the ground, stashing it in her belt before leading the way from the blood-soaked sand.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t easy supporting an injured man, especially one clad in Beskar armour. Din could feel himself needing Fett more and more as they traipsed the sand-stricken streets of Mos Eisley. Keeping to the backways, only the few who walked these streets saw the two men in Mandalorian armour stumble by. Fennec had gone off ahead, making sure their path was clear.

“Just the Mandalorian I was looking for.” Fett’s chuckle was strained under the effort of keeping Din walking.

“You were looking for me?” Din puffed between each step, wincing under the weight his injured leg had to endure.

Fett suddenly dragged Din into an open doorway, hiding in the dark of a back-alley store. There were a few shouts, orders of a search as a couple of thugs passed by on the opposite roof tops.  

“More on that later.” Fett tried to get the Mandalorian focused on the matter at hand. Survival being their current priority.

At that point Din noticed he still clutched the hilt of the Darksaber, orange tipped gloved fingers wrapped around it tightly. In their moment of pause he returned it to his belt.

“How did you find me?” Din wasn’t finished with the questioning.

“Got word of an injured Mandalorian traveling in on the next shuttle, not through the nicest channels mind you.” Fett peered out through the entryway; blaster held to his chest.

“You didn’t know it was me.” Din realised. Against the wall he adjusted his weight to bare more on his good leg while Fett scanned the area.

“We hazard a guess.” He could hear the man smiling beneath his war-torn helmet. “Come on.”

Din helped the best he could, being gathered up by the older man they left the relative safety of the shadows, back out into the blistering heat of the suns.

A wave of pain gripped Din as he fumbled over his feet, his brief lapse in concentration in his steps an error he wished he’d hadn’t made.

“Urh…” Din groaned, hissing out a breath as Fett adjusted his grip, left hand taking him by the belt, leaving Din to keep his arm around his shoulders.

“Take it easy.” Fett kept his guard up, checking both ways down the road. A few people stared in curiosity however posed no threat. “We’ve got a couple speeders at the edge of Mos Eisley; from there we make for the Plateau.”

Din got the feeling those thugs were more than just thugs, something sinister brewing under the surface giving him glimpses of the real danger he had stumbled upon. Scouts of some kind had spotted him back on the space station, giving word ahead for his arrival. As soon as the shuttle arrived, they were looking for him. It was a well thought out and planned operation.

Din’s good knee buckled, the extra strain just too much for a second. Fett kept him on his feet though with great effort. He could hear the man straining, grunting himself as he pulled him up right.

“Come on.” Fennec appeared as if summoned, stepping in to help get Din moving once more, though she pulled away once Fett had a good hold. “It’s clear for now.”

Sweat drenched his face, a pounding growing lounder in the back of his skull all while of course the feeling of acid in his veins reaching from his thigh. But with the combined effort of the two men, they stepped from the side roads, back into a more populated area.

Fennec had vanished into the crowd, leading the way unseen.

“Where are we going?” Din thought they would be able to hold out somewhere, but it seemed Fett and Fennec were determined on getting out of the spaceport.

“Anywhere but here.” Fett cared little for the scene they were creating. At least the sea of people parted on their approach, gasps and murmured whispers reaching their ears as they passed. “Let’s just say, the populist isn’t too fond of me lately.”

Eyes up off the ground Din spotted Fennec. She stood by two speeders, having readied them for their arrival. They had just about hobbled halfway when a blaster shot kicked up the sand beside Din’s feet. Panic gripped the area like a wave, one scream led to another, people running into those who didn’t know what they were now running from.

“Move!” Fett ordered Din, shoving him forward, making him use his damaged leg. He got a few good strides in before dipping to the floor momentarily, the threat on his life made sure he was quick to get back to his feet. The sound of Fett returning fire encouraged him on even more.

Fennec had taken cover behind her speeder, eye peering down the sight of her rifle as she took calculated shots to keep their attackers pinned.

Din practically fell against the closest speeder, Fett suddenly behind him ushering him swiftly into the seat. Fumbling fingers gripped the controls, Fett taking up position behind him and with an unspoken order Din pushed forward on the controls and the speeder took off.

Fennec was right behind them, her speeder wheezing and sputtering after the quick escape. Combat paused, Din now navigating the expanding streets of the spaceport with the aid of Fett. He weaved the speeder through tight bends, a couple of close calls with pedestrians not paying close enough attention.  In the end the open vastness of the Great Mesra Plaueau stretched out before them, unhindered twin suns beating down on everything, ground forever scarred by the intense heat.

Din heard the ever-familiar zing of the blaster shot whizz past his head, Fett cursing something under his breath as he returned fire, four speeders baring down on them.

There was a cry from Fennec on his right, making Din look over to find her leaning into one arm. She fought to keep the speeder on track with one hand, while the other was occupied with Din’s blaster, her own rifle was secured to her back, weapon too bulky to be used with one hand.

A shot had grazed her arm. He could only estimate the damage from his position.  

Din tried to move unpredictably, avoiding the array of red bolts fired at them. Soon the spaceport of Mos Eisley was left behind, the advance of sand and stone all that remained for miles.

The speeder rocked violently; a strike made to the tail end. Din could feel something grinding against the ground, speed greatly reduced.

A burst of fire ignited in Din’s peripheral, Fennec’s engine going up in flames she dived from the speeder before it had a chance to take her with it. The explosion almost took him and Fett out too, but they remained in one piece.

“When I say, hit the brakes!” Fett called over the whipping winds. His voice threatened to be claimed by the snatching force.  “Now!”

Din pulled back on the handles, the speeder halting abruptly, making them fall behind those chasing them. Fett fired catching their pursuers off-guard, each falling from their speeders just as their own caught a rocky patch of terrain sending them over.

The pounding in his head was what greeted Din upon consciousness. He had every right to slip back into the unknown bliss of darkness, but his leg sizzled with pain as it was pressed against the hot sand. He was half buried, pulling his head up causing sand to cascade off his armour. He squinted beneath his visor; moaned huff inescapable. The first thing he attempted was to flip over off his front, get his wound away from the searing sand.

“Fennec, Mando?” Fett called out from somewhere nearby.

Din stirred, getting himself over onto his back, breathing heavy after the effort.

“Here.” Din wheezed a pathetic reply, not sure if Fett even heard him. He sat himself up sooner or later, Fennec already on her feet making her way over. Destroyed speeders were scattered amongst the sand, one behind Fennec still ablaze. The flames licked at the hot air. Smoke billowing skyward.

“That could have gone better.” Fennec cradled her injured arm, sand throughout her platted hair.

Having been thrown by the same now totalled speeder, Fett wasn’t too far from Din. The older man was getting his bearings, yanking his helmet from his head he wiped sweat and sand from his face, green armour easily distinguishable against the landscape.

“You’re not wrong.” Fett glanced over at the wrecked speeders. At the speed they were going as soon as the drivers had been taken out, the vehicles had sped off a sheer drop or met a simple sandy demise. Plumes of black smoke rose from the corpse of each one, beacons against the blue sky.

Din, still half dazed, didn’t clock Fett approach, the sudden hand grasping his arm making him flinch.

“Easy Mando.” Fennec crouched beside him, tilting her head to get a better look at his leg all while blood dripped through her fingers. Her hand remained clasped around her arm, applying pressure to stop the bleeding.

“You get that back on the space station?” Fett queried, eyeing the wound with Fennec. His eyes squinted at the harsh rays the sun bared down on them, hand coming up to his face to shield his eyes when it got a little too much.

“Something like that.” Din croaked, manoeuvring as much as he could. He wanted up off his ass, but then again it was easier said than done in his state.

“Smoke will attract more company.” Fennec stood, rolling her shoulder she glanced back the way they had come.

“We’re close to the B’omar Flats. From there we can travel on the edge of the Bantha Plains, throw anyone off that tries to come after us.” Fett dawned his helmet, his hand then offered to Din. Graciously he grasped it, putting all his weight on his good leg he was heaved up. Fett’s hand met Din’s silver chest plate, stopping him falling forward, unable to adjust his footing in time to do so himself.

“Start moving, I’ll grab what I can.” Fennec offered Din his blaster back before turning towards the nearest speeder, kicking sand over the flames to snuff them out.

Fett and Din shuffled along in silence for the most part, focus on getting as far from the totalled speeders as possible. The terrain had shifted, elevation currently changing as they made the boarder of the B’omar flats. The landscape ahead of them became fixed, flat path stretching to the horizon. Instead of venturing out into the open, they lumbered along the edge of the Plateau, hiding amongst boulders.

Din’s head hung, unable to keep it up, eyes fluttering under his helmet. He was tired, exhausted.

“Here.” Fett suddenly moved Din towards a collection of tanned orange rocks, helping him take a seat. Din wasn’t about to protest. If he didn’t sit down, he would soon enough fall down.

Din lent his shoulder against the stone, shaded by a formation higher up both Din and Fett breathed heavily, Fett taking the moment to relieve himself of his helmet.

“Catch.” The familiar female voice called from their left. Looking round, Fennec was scaling down a rocky ridge something in her hand. She tossed it Fett’s way, the man catching it with his free hand, helmet held under his arm by the other. He rolled the charred container around in his grasp, water sloshing about within. “Spotted a band of speeders, heading for the wreck. Covered our tracks.”

Fett nodded, pleased with Fennec’s work. “Nicely done.” He unscrewed the lid from the flask, taking only a single gulp of water before offering it to Din. “Drink.” Fett pushed the flask into his hand when he didn’t claim it immediately.

Din almost forgot the pain shooting from his thigh, the tiredness that wished for his eyes to slip closed, the thumping in his head that was just part of existence at this point. He looked to them both, still leaning on the bolder, head raised in their direction.

With an unspoken understanding the two altered their gaze away from him, looking to each other instead. Din took the moment to look to the side, lifting his helmet enough to take a swig from the flask, still going to lengths to hide his face.

Din didn’t have time to question his choices.

“We can make the Bantha plains before nightfall if we move now.” Fett eyed the horizon. Din watched as Fett was ushered aside by Fennec, hushed words not enough to go unheard.

“Can we?” Fennec doubted, a look over her shoulder at Din only determined what he already assumed. “He can barely walk.” 

Din got himself to his feet to prove a point. At first, he balanced against the stone beside him, before feeling able to hold steady on his own. He was leaning into his good leg, but he was holding his ground.

“Let’s go.” Din offered the flask back to Fett, the man smirking at the display.

“We can.” Fett answered Fennec.

Chapter Text

Din refused aid in walking, though he sorely needed it. Stumbling from one rock formation to the next he was not in any condition to stand let alone walk. Fett was keeping close, helmet carried under his arm. He would catch the man watching him in the corner of his eye from time to time. Din got the impression he looked as bad as he felt.

At times he thought the dunes in the distant shifted and danced. Though blinking rapidly quickly determined that the dizziness he was experiencing was playing havoc with his perception. Unpleasant yes, the feeling normally accompanied by momentary blurred vision, though the heat rising off the ground on the horizon was distorting the landscape enough.

He could hear his rapid heart in his ears, even though his breaths were quick they remained shallow and by this point he was practically dragging his injured leg along for the ride. The burned area was black and felt tight, skin around it never ceasing in its torment.

“You going to tell us how you got that?” Fett inquired from his side, Din never turning to face him. Fennec looked back at him from up ahead, having scaled a ridge, a higher vantage point making it easier to spot anyone following.

Din kept quiet. He was a Mandalorian, injured by his own weapon. It wasn’t something he was overly open to share.  His silence however didn’t help conceal the truth.

“Nasty burn. That blade of yours can really do some damage.” Fett was quick to decipher the obvious.

“Should have… told that to my last bounty.” Din spoke through his troubled breathing.

“A Mandalorian cut by his own blade. Now that’s a story.” Fennec softly chuckled to herself, having descended the ridge, waiting for the others to catch up.

“Seems you’ve been busy.” Din swiftly changed the subject, glancing down at his feet to make sure he still limped in rhythm. “Got a new title I hear… Not through the nicest channels mind you.” He mimicked Fett’s line from earlier. Din had made his own conclusions after overhearing the thugs that had attacked him.

“Got tired of working for idiots who are gonna get me killed.”

“Tell me about it.” Din stopped for a moment, taking a much-needed breather. Rocks held him strong, structures standing the tests of time, sands shaping them smooth.

At this point the twin suns were drawing to their rest, a bed of sand waiting for them at the horizon line. The air was cooling, but he still was sweating, weight of his armour and jetpack unpleasant to say the least.

“We took the Palace, was easy enough. Now there are those who work for us.” Fennec tied the strip of fabric on her arm a little tighter, rifle over her other shoulder as she worked. The bleeding had pretty much stopped, the tattered fabric offering up just a red stain.

“And that’s why you were looking for me?” Din coughed on his dry throat, though standing still he could see the world wobbling through his eyes. “What’s the bounty?”

“No bounty. We need muscle.” Fennec explained.

“Heard of the Pyke Syndicate?” Fett adjusted his grip on his helmet, a hand resting on his belt.

“Other than the fact they run one hell of a spice trade?” Din scoffed. Though he had rested for long enough, his breathing hadn’t improved much.

“Their mustering troops in Mos Espa. Tatooine has all but been absorbed into their spice trade, draining this planet of whatever wealth it had.”

“Sounds like you’ve started a war.” Din hadn’t not noticed the serious shift the conversation had taken.

“And I’m planning on ending it.”

Din looked down at his leg, hand taking care to peel back the burnt fabric. He hissed, pieces of the trouser caught in the wound.

“Not sure what help I can be.” Din winced, hand pulling away from his leg. The effort wasn’t worth the pain, thigh a mess of burnt flesh, the skin around the burn a blistering red.

“Don’t worry. We’ll set you straight.” Fett stepped forward gripping his shoulder.

Din watched his head tilt, eyes lingering on something, hand tightening its hold.

“Fett?” Fennec read the concern on his face like a book.

“Had your bell rung?” Fett tried to meet Din’s eyeline through the visor.  “You’re bleeding.”

Din reached back, Fett stepping aside as his glove felt the back of his neck. Retrieving it, eyes glaring down at the shaky appendage, blood glistened on his gloved finger tips.

“Day just keeps getting better.” Din wiped his hand down his already ruined trousers, using brute force to shove himself off the supporting stone the only way for him to get back on the move. “Let’s go. No point sitting around.”

Din could feel Fett’s eyes on the back of his bleeding head as he passed the older man.  He couldn’t see, but blood stained the back of the scruff of his cape.

They just about reached the edge of the Bantha Plains when the last light of the suns was giving the land a final look. The waves of sand were frozen in time, the moment captured perfectly in the gleam of the lowering suns. The ridges and rocky terrain they had been following had slowly given way to the sea of sand, though the stone ridge of the B’omar Flats kept on their left, the ground beneath their feet shifting to a soft sand making Din’s boots sink with each step, just the added effort he needed in a time like this.

“Herd of Bantha’s ahead. Their a way off, just caught a glimpse of them behind the dunes.” Fennec returned from her scout. Fett still having not left Din’s side, keeping just behind him as he walked.

“Tusken’s?” Fett asked, stopping with Din in front of the woman. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, catching her breath after her jog back.

“Not that I saw.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. We keep our distance.” Fett gave the orders, the others not questioning otherwise.

“There’s a spot ahead, good place to rest for the night.” Fennec turned, her words encouraging them to follow.

Din was slow, pace all but a crawl. Stopping and starting was the worst of it. Getting into a rhythm he could come to ignore most of the pain. However, the awkwardness of having to stop, rebalance himself to keep the weight from his injury and then push off again drained him each time.  Still Fett kept pace at his side, Din establishing this now to be on purpose.

Ahead the area was as Fennec had described. A small indent in the cliff face to their left suitable shelter for an evening rest. The thought of sleep almost put Din to sleep, eyes heavy, limbs even heavier.  He practically fell down into the sand.

“I’ll take first watch. Get some rest.” Fett looked to Din, as if specifically addressing him.

Din unhitched his jetpack, leaving it to one side he rested up against some soft stones, letting his limbs go slack. It felt good, having been tensed to keep upright the whole journey. He took the water offered, again only a sip, their supply limited.

The suns had all but vanished from sight, the slightest humming orange and tint of red shimmering on the horizon line, leaving the world in a soft shade of blue. He watched Fett offer the last of the water to Fennec, the flask tossed aside.

After that, sleep quickly claimed him, only hearing muffled conversation between Fett and Fennec before he was swept into a deep slumber.  

Boba watched the Mandalorian as he slept, it wasn’t cold, but he could see the man shivering in the bed of sand. The moon and stars above gave them limited light, the sand reflecting the glow enough to give him sight a fair distance.

“He’s in a bad way.” Fennec rose from her resting position, propping herself up on her good arm to follow Boba’s eyeline.

“You should be resting.” Boba folded his arms, looking to her instead of the troubled Mandalorian, unsure how long she had been awake.

“We should be moving. We still have at least a day’s journey ahead of us.” Fennec sat up right. “Look at him Fett, the longer we’re out here the worst he’s going to get.”

“He’ll make it.” Boba assured her, seeing her concern not just for Mando but for them all. The lands of Tatooine where not travelled lightly on foot, especially when injured, not by choice anyway.

Fennec was evidently stumped for words, brushing the sand from her hands she looked back to Mando.

“I hope you’re right.” She finally uttered under her breath.

She was right, the Mandalorian was in bad shape. The wound on his leg obviously a big concern. From what Boba had been able to gather the wound was done by his own hand somehow, or at least by the Darksaber. The shape and position could allude to an over swing, the end of a strike clipping his leg. He doubted any common bounty would have been able to acquire the weapon from the Mandalorian mid fight. Other than the risk of infection the blistering burn offered, the blood on the back of the man’s neck wasn’t the best sight either. Head wounds bled bad; this Boba knew. He could only hope the wound was superficial, a graze and nothing more. The best they could do for him, would be to get him back to the Palace, from there his wounds could be attended too.

“What was that?” Fennec became alert, getting up from her rest.

Boba had heard it too.

Fennec clambered the closest rock ledge, taking her rifle with her she took position, eye down her scope.

“Bantha’s, just over the next dune.” Fennec called down. There was no way in telling if they were the same herd they had spotted earlier, though it was safe to assume so.

“We should-”

The battle cry of the Tusken Raiders echoed from above, Boba being jumped by a diving figure.

Din had his blaster drawn before he even opened his eyes. The sound of battle triggering a kneejerk reaction, he just about avoided the strike of a Tusken baring down on him from the cliff face above. He rolled, leg the least of his problems right now. The spiked staff hit the sand with a thud, Din pointing his blaster, shot striking the figure in the chest getting a wail of pain before it crumbled back against the rockface.

His weapon was kicked from his hand, the crash of a blunt glorified stick clipping him on his helmet putting him in a dazed state. The blade of the Darksaber was drawn, the night enhancing the swords glow. The blade went up, slicing the Tusken’s weapon in two upon its strike. With his poor leg he had no choice but to whisk the feet of the raider out from under him, bringing the Tusken to the floor. Clutching his leg in pain the Darksaber hissed as it was retracted, Din kicking out from his prone position, striking the Tusken in the face rendering him out of the fight.

Din went to sit up, sounds of fighting having not ceased. A shot zinged off his pauldron, another shot finding his chest making him scramble for his blaster and for what limited cover there was. Flashes of blaster fire could be seen on the tip of the closest sand dune, Fett currently engaged in punching the Tusken he was entangled with. The creature fell to the floor, Fett taking cover just ahead of him.

Fennec was returning fire from the terrible cover they had.

“We’re pinned down!” Fett called over the blaster fire, shots being fired from both sides. Fett didn’t have his helmet on, Din spotting it in the sand nearby. Clearly, they were all caught by surprise.

“Draw their fire!” Fennec shouted out.

Din and Fett did as they were told, blasters up they shot back, aiming in the direction of their opposition. They couldn’t see much other than the red glow of blaster fire from the peak of the sand. Fennec took the opportunity to make a mad dash from cover, slipping away into the night hopefully unseen.

“Where’s she going?” Din spat out a question, throat dry and irritated.

“Trust her.” Was all he got from Fett.

A few minutes went by, both Din and Fett exchanging shots on either side. When suddenly cries, pained wails from the Tuskens filled the night. There were shots, red glows flashing from behind the sand, then nothing. Silence.

A familiar silhouette then stepped upon the sands ridge, Fennec coming into view. She had her rifle casually over her shoulder, hands occupied with carrying something.

Din didn’t refuse Fett’s help, the man coming to his side, hand taking his arm in hold. He was helped up from cover, keeping his blaster in his hand he scanned the dunes for heat signatures. Through his visor he saw nothing but the cold sands before them.

“Grabbed their provisions.” Fennec tossed one of the leather flasks to Fett, keeping the other to herself. “We should keep going, there could be more.”

It was a sensible suggestion, though Din would much rather go back to sleep. Even after the solid few hours of rest he had managed, he was exhausted, the threat on his life gifting him the adrenaline he needed to survive the fight.

Din eased himself away from Fett, unsure why he was so determined to prove he could continue alone. Maybe he was trying to prove he was a formidable warrior, that he truly was Mandalorian.  Whatever the case they pushed on into the night, leaving the Tuskens to the sand from which they came. Din couldn’t help noticing Fett linger behind just a little longer, looking to the fallen Sand People mournfully.

In the end they all moved off, a whistle in the air, strong wind drawing close.

Chapter Text

A fierce wind had swooped in, landscape fading into a blur of brown and yellow, Din and Fett’s helmets keeping the desert from their eyes. Even with this added aid, Fennec continued to lead, using her arm to shield her face, the tail end of her coat flapping wildly. Neither of them could see anything, the storm having attacked fast, swiftly encircling them. All they could do was keep in sight of the rocky terrain on their left, following it round wouldn’t lead them astray. At this point, walking out into the open sands would be a death wish. With no landmarks, no light of the sun to guide weary travellers. One would soon find themselves buried by the dunes.

One step at a time, that’s all Din could do. That’s all any of them could do with their visibility greatly reduced. Under the mask unseen, his face was slick with sweat, feeling droplets drip off his nose and down his brow. His hands were shaking, legs too. However contradictory, he could feel a warmth irradiating off his face.  Din’s eyes would stutter closed for a moment, his limbs taking that as an excuse to relax, forcing him to dredge up whatever strength remained to put one foot in front of the other.

Inevitably he hit the sand. Funny enough he didn’t even remember taking the fall. One moment he was limping along, the dunes being raised up by the wind, crashing against his form, boots having to be pried free from the grounds sinking grasp. The next, he was sprawled out on the ground.

“Mando, you with us?” He heard the fleeting voice of Fett ask from his side, a pair of hands hoisting him up off his face.  

He was with them whether he wanted to be or not. For how long he couldn’t say. Din couldn’t even give Fett a reply, nodding his only option, unable to find his voice.  Fett hooked his head under Din’s arm, standing he forced the wounded man to join him. It was a difficult task, wind attempting to push them over. A wave of pain threatened to render Din unconscious, a quick shake from Fett kept him from such a relief.

“Fennec?” Fett was looking around; Din could feel the man shifting as he hung his head. He hadn’t the strength to keep it on his shoulders. “Fennec!” Fett called louder over the screaming winds.

There was no response. The assassin nowhere to be seen in the still thickening sandstorm. 

Fett said something Din couldn’t make out. They stood there ideally before he motioned for Din to start walking.

Their progress was painfully slow.

“Leave me.” Din managed to wheeze, being able to at least conclude their predicament was undesirable.  All Din could feel was his heart going a mile a minute, like a jack hammer in his chest it beat at an ungodly fast rate.

“Not going to happen.” Din was surprised Fett heard his hushed murmur over the roaring sand.

“You need to leave me.” He tried once more with the limited words he could get out. All this did was make Fett hold onto him tighter.

There was nothing else to do but to do his part, moving as ordered, keeping up with Fett as he set a pace.

“Fennec!” The man continued to call for their lost ally. At times the wind would pick up and slow, almost like a chuckled exhale. The sands laughing at their misfortune.

Din couldn’t help thinking if he hadn’t been so careless, his friends currently wouldn’t be risking their lives… Maybe the Darksaber wasn’t meant to be wielded by him.

Maybe it was a curse upon those who carried it.

These troubled thoughts were like a sickness, one he was inflicting upon himself, a tragic escape from his physical pain. Soon enough he snapped himself out of such reflections, self-deprecating questions not being a means to an end. They weren’t helping anyone, especially not himself. After all, he had a gift to give, dying on this hunk of dry rock not an option.

The ground beneath them suddenly vanished, both having stumbled over the edge of a dune that went by unseen. They plummeted like stones. Din felt Fett lose his grip, separated in the harsh roll down the towering sand mound. When he came to a stop, he was on his side, lifting his head Din could barely see a few paces ahead of him.

One thing got him to stand. Or better yet one person. His arms moved under him, willing him back up, leg awkwardly angled. Din wasn’t sure how he managed it but the next thing he knew he was fighting against the storm. Wandering out into the dark, no rocky wall to point him in the right direction, throat too dry to call out.

At some point Din had passed out. A heaviness surrounded him, body and limbs suspended by sand. Buried by the storm he lifted himself free, emerging to only find the blizzard of sand still raged. However, now there was a shimmer of light beyond the brutal sands, twin suns beginning their assent.  Grand pedestals in the sky waiting for them. This gifted Din a little more visual range, but it didn’t do him any good, all he could see was sand. The rocky walls they had been following before now out of sight, Din unable to determine left from right. For all he knew he could have been walking back towards Mos Espa.

Din let his head hang, forehead resting on the sand as he lay on his shoulder. His whole body felt sore down to the bone, a cloud in his mind. Thoughts wouldn’t arrange themselves in order, events of the passed a jumbled mess, a cryptic puzzle never to be solved.

Din’s eyes widened at an unmistakable sound.

Fear drove him from his sandy grave, scrambling like a frightened animal he swayed on his feet. Everything was spinning, winds of sand hypnotising as they whirled around him, taunting him as they shoved him forward and backward.

The mechanical wheeze was drawing closer, programmed gate audible upon its heavy motorised steps. Din pulled the Darksaber from his belt, a gust of cruel wind almost throwing him over. He didn’t extend the blade just yet, waiting to see if the danger would pass, glowing edge possibly giving his position away.

The first thing he saw was the red of its artificial eyes, piercing through the wall of sand that encompassed him. Din prepared himself, getting a better stance about him, readying for the fight. Eventually it came into full view, the B2 battle droid. Din hadn’t seen the likes of such a droid since he lost his parents that fateful day. Clearly the Pyke Syndicate was more resourceful than he had first believed, an antique from the Clone Wars set out to finish them off. In a way he found it poetic, to die by the hands of this particular droid. But he wasn’t about to go down without a fight.

The metal machine rattled forward, arms down as it approached. Din primed the Darksaber, blade taking shape. The winds of sand hissed and evaporated at contact with the weapon.

The battle droid’s arms went up, pointing at him, wrist blasters primed.

With lightning-fast reactions Din drew his blaster firing from the hip, blade in his off hand. The shot struck the droid in the head giving Din the distraction he needed to close the gap. With one hand he swung the blade up overhead, using the pain and adrenaline to put strength behind the blow.

The droids arm went up to defend itself. The thick metal somehow held up, blade hissing and spitting out white sparks as it rested against the forearm of the droid, grey metal starting to glow red from the heat.

Din stumbled back, swinging again, this time slashing for the stomach, wanting to cut it in two. The droids arm deflected the blow, gliding off the metal surface.

Confusion plagued him, he didn’t understand, the droid should be in pieces by now. Din had little time to ponder such things as the droid’s hands raised again, this time grabbing for him. Din raised the blaster in a panic, firing consecutively, the droid taking it in the chest, sparks flying but not a scratch revealed. Its hand took hold of Din’s wrist, fighting to wrench the blaster from his grip. He swung with his other hand, Darksaber cutting through the air, droid ducking under the slash scraping its back, spewing more sparks. The droid then kicked Din in his injured leg, making him cry out and buckle to his knees, the blaster wrenched from his hand, but he still held onto the sabre.

Frantic quick swings made the droid dart back, Din’s chest heaving, head about to split open he was standing once more, swapping the blade into his dominate hand.

If this was to be his final fight, his last stand, he was going to lay it all to bare. Heart fully committed to the showdown.

Din jabbed forward, hoping the change in fighting technique would catch the droid off-guard. After all, it was just a droid, one with a limited ability to formulate strategies.

As he thrusted, the droid’s arm batted the tip of the blade away, Din being off balance was kicked swiftly back. He could barely lift the thing now, two hands just about keeping the Darksaber from slipping away into the depths of the sand. Not only that but his vision was a blur, multiple droids shimmering in the sand before forming the correct image in his mind.

Din kept his new defensive stance, breathing heavily. The leg didn’t hurt anymore, though it refused to move when told at times, and when it did it was sluggish and slow.

The droid’s arms were raised again, Din unable to close the space between them prepared to take the shots.

It didn’t fire. It’s hands hovering around its head.

Din blinked rapidly, sweat dripping in his eyes, vision hazy. He dropped the Darksaber, blade returned within the hilt with a sharp snap.

“Fett?” Din watched the image of the droid shift into a man, one clad in green Beskar armour. Having removed his helmet Fett displayed a serious look of concern. He raised a hand in surrender, slowly placing his helmet on the ground.

In that moment, the pain in his leg returned with vengeance, eyes rolling into the back of his head, finally freed of consciousness.

After coming too, Boba had managed to pick up on the last remnants of tracks. He called out for both Mando and Fennec, not sure who he was following. For all he knew he could be tracking that of a Tusken. Visibility was appalling and for the most of it he was working in the dark. Eventually the suns blessed him with a little more visibility just as he picked up on a heat signature somewhere in the distance. The depth of the tracks had also increased, meaning he was getting closer to whoever was ahead, the sandstorm not having enough time to conceal the drag marks.

In the end he found who he had been tracking, the suns just about peeking through the thick storm, giving a warm glow to the surroundings.

“Mando!” Boba called, spotting the shine of the Beskar. He breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t sure himself how much further he could had trekked after his quarry, his only rest having been the time he was rendered unconscious. Boba was also feeling the drain of the landscape, not immune even after his time on the Dune Seas. But he knew how to push through, overcome what many would not. Boba was a survivor, and he would like to keep it that way.

The Mandalorian didn’t make an effort to approach him, Boba finding that strange in the moment. He proceeded towards the man with hurried strides, fearing he would vanish, claimed by the dunes.

There was an abrupt flash of light, the Darksaber forming from the hilt Mando held.

“Mando its Fett!” He cried, voice forced over the winds, hands going up to show he was not armed. In a split second Mando had drawn his blaster, firing, striking Boba in his helmet. The force knocked him back slightly, when he regained himself, he barely had enough time to raise his gauntlet in defence of the Darksaber. The blade held there for a while, sparks flying as the Beskar gauntlet started to glow red at the point of contact.

“Mando!” Boba tried again to reason, the familiarity of his voice maybe being the key to snapping him out of his daze.

The Mandalorian pulled back striking again, words having no effect, forcing Boba to block the low strike with his forearm. Beskar plating thankfully preventing him from losing a limb. With his failed attacks Boba grabbed at the man, trying to relieve him of his weaponry, forced to duck from another wild slash.

“Sorry kid.” Boba took the opportunity to hit Mando where it hurt, using his injury to his advantage. The Mandalorian yelled out in pain from the hit to his injured leg, forced back, blaster no longer in his grasp. But still he clutched the sabre like his life depended on it, the thing clearly heavy in his hands, frantic strikes illuding to the fear the man was enduring.

Boba deflected attack after attack, remaining on the defensive, never drawing his blaster. Words weren’t cutting it, actions hopefully speaking for him. In a moment of pause, the Mandalorian finally standing back defensively, no longer frantically swinging his way, Boba took the chance. He slowly raised his hands, removing the helmet from his head.

“Din Djarin!” Boba addressed the wounded warrior with authority.

“Fett?” The blade was dropped, sharp edge vanishing back within the hilt before the Mandalorian crumbled to the ground.

Boba rushed over leaving his helmet. He wasn’t surprised how long the Mandalorian managed to put up a fight, sure he could have gone on longer. Boba tilted the man’s head to the side, hand reaching passed the cloak around his neck, feeling for a pulse under the helmet. Mando’s skin was warm and clammy, artery pulsing as frantic as the Mandalorian’s fighting had been.

At least he was alive, Boba could work with that.

He returned briefly for his helmet, gathering up the fallen weapons he then positioned the Mandalorian over his shoulders, standing with an almighty heave, hand clasping the man’s leg and arm to keep him perched there. They needed to find cover, somewhere at least free from the storms touch.

He walked into the light of the rising suns, only now did the suns shine bright enough to determine a direction.

Chapter Text

Boba woke, sputtering on the water that was being poured down his throat. Hands moving something away from his mouth instinctively.

“Fett.” Fennec was crouched over him out of breath, her face a mess, sand throughout her windswept hair.

“Djarin?” Boba sat up in an instant, eyes flicking around looking for the wounded warrior. The storm was gone, remnants of clouds above, blue skies restored beyond the shallow cave they were resting in. Boba felt it safe to assume they were back against the wall of the Plateau.

“He’s here.” Fennec moved aside, revealing the Mandalorian laying on his shoulder, jetpack facing them.

“How is he?” He half crawled over to the man, coughing up the water that had slipped into his lungs mistakenly.

“I just got here.” Fennec explained, still undoubtedly recovering from the distress of stumbling upon her unconscious friends.

The time for pleasantries was over. Removing the jetpack was easy, allowing the Mandalorian to roll onto his back, Boba then tugging the helmet from the man’s head without hesitation.

Young. That was the first thing he thought upon seeing the Mandalorian’s face. Boba’s hand moved to find a pulse, taking note of the scruffy patchy beard and dry blood down the back of his neck. Under his fingers he could feel the young man shivering, but his skin was warm and clammy with sweat, breaths short and as rapid as his heart.  

“What happened?”  Fennec queried, scanning the face of the Mandalorian as Boba gently pried back one of the man’s eye lids, finding a dilated pupil amongst the brown of the Iris.

“We lost each other In the storm.” He delicately laid the Mandalorian’s head to one side, trying to get a better look at the wound on the back of his head. “I found him delirious. He attacked me.” Fennec’s eyes widened slightly at the casual omission.

“Dank farrik.”  She turned away, running a hand over the top of her head, smoothing back wild hairs that had escaped from her plat.

On inspection of the head wound it looked bad with the amount of dried blood present, but at least the bleeding seemed to have stopped. Parting the hair with his fingers Boba could make out a deep gash that had started to scab over. Unable to do much more with this information he turned his attention towards the troubled leg. The wound looked awful, black, and blistering around the edges; an infection having set in for sure.

“Water?”  Fett looked to his belt, hand not finding the leather flask Fennec had acquired previously. It’s loss not unlikely with their tumble down the sand dune or in his tussle with the Mandalorian.

Fennec stepped closer, offering him her flask from the side.

With one hand Boba scooped up the Mandalorian’s head. He didn’t garner a response, breathing the same rapid shallow wheeze. He attempted to get the young man to drink, but the water awkwardly trickled from the side of Mando’s mouth; no attempt made to swallow. Boba didn’t give up, trying again, this time getting a weak cough for his efforts.

“I’ve seen wounds like this before.” He carefully laid the young man’s head back down into the sand, Mando’s lip trembling as if he was cold. Boba sat back with his hand rubbing the side of his temple. “If allowed, an infection can get into the blood.”

Fennec moved away without a word, stepping out to see past their cover, shielding her eyes as she looked out into the wilderness.

“We at least made some ground during the storm; we can make it before the end of today.” Fennec picked up her rifle, making sure all her equipment was secure.

Her optimism spurred Boba on, leaning forward he lifted the Mandalorian up off the sand, getting the man back up on his shoulders. Fennec assisted as she could, helping him to his feet with the extra weight, assuring the Mandalorian’s cape draped over his own back out of the way.

His legs were weary, strength non-existent. This mattered little for Boba, tapping into the determination that had kept him alive all these years, that kept him fighting.

Fennec carried the Mandalorian’s jetpack, slung over her back with her rifle, his helmet under her arm. The bright Beskar gleaming in the suns late morning light.

Din could feel pressure on his stomach, one of his arms dangled in front of him, swinging freely. His muscles were completely slack. He wasn’t even sure he could open his eyes, being barely aware of the fact that he was semi-conscious. Everything was just a daze of pain and sand, memories not fully forming at the forefront of his mind.  Though from what he could gather, he understood that he was in trouble. But that was about it. Even with that limited, worrisome information he wasn’t concerned. He was too tired to be concerned.

Din felt something adjust its grip around his arm, whole body being shuffled into a better position. A muffled voice spoke, words not reaching through the cloud that surrounded his mind. However, things were starting to become slightly clearer. Din could feel and determine the movement of steps under him, strained tired steps to be precise.

Another sensation came to him. He could feel the sun on his face, a warmth that was attempting to dry the sweat clinging to his skin. But all this information meant little to him, the true weight of what he was learning not quite sinking in, pieces not going together in any coherent formation.

In the end curiosity brought Din to open his eyes, more incoherent conversation in the background. Din’s immediate reaction upon just getting a gleam of the suns bright burning light was to scrunch his eyes closed, being sure he made an audible sound of disgust.

There was a pause in movement, Din’s hanging hand softly swaying to a stop. Something brushed the collar of his cape, feeling a touch on the skin of his neck. It remained there for a moment before pulling away, which was followed quickly by the sensation of movement returning.

Din felt himself slip in and out of consciousness for a while, behind the darkness of his eyes time was just a jumbled mess. Once again upon pulling himself from the brink, he instinctively opened his eyes. Yes, the sun still burned but he blinked through it, squinting hard to at least get a glimpse of his surroundings.  

Sand and tracks, boots coming into view with each stride.

He wasn’t breathing fast anymore, in fact at times he wondered if he was breathing at all with the sips of air he was taking being so shallow. Numb would be the best way to describe his current predicament. Numb to his own body as well as the outside world. And just like that his eyes slipped closed once more, having indulged enough in what the world had to offer, curiosity satisfied.

The next time Din came to he was sure he wasn’t moving, a consistent pressure on his back, head rolled to the side. Something touched his face, and he couldn’t resist opening his eyes. Almost like he was being urged too. He lay in more god forsaken sand, somewhere shaded. Two figures were ahead of him, looking away, engaged in conversation. Din squeezed his eyes closed, not enjoying the brightness even in the shade.

Something against his face encouraged him to open his eyes again.

Grogu tilted his head, wide eyes watching Din, little hand laid on his cheek. The child babbled something. The usual sounds Din had never been able to understand. But this time, this time he got a feeling as if he knew exactly what the little guy was trying to say.

He was reminding him of a promise.

Boba went to drink from the flask but upon seeing the little contents changed his mind, reattaching the lid and stowing the container away. The short break had given his shoulders a rest from the weight of carrying the Mandalorian, the terrain not making the endeavour any easier. Surprisingly Fennec had been the one to insist on the moments rest. He quickly gathered this as a strategic play, because after all, she wouldn’t be able to carry both him and the Mandalorian back to the Palace.

“Grogu?” A hushed whisper sounded from behind him, Boba having been looking out into the vast expanse of sand. Spinning round, he could see the Mandalorian laying on his side his eyes just about open. Fennec shot a quick glance at Boba in surprise before approaching the man on the ground.

“Mando?” Boba slowly crouched before the dazed man, eyes looking up but through him. “Djarin?”

Boba had felt the Mandalorian shift in his grip earlier, Fennec having been the one to check on the dying man slung over his shoulders. He hadn’t shown signs of consciousness then, but his heart had slowed, though it wasn’t much better than the rapid rate his heart had been pumping previously. Now it was the exact opposite. Slow and sluggish, his breathing matching.

“We’re losing him.” Fennec pointed out what Boba already knew.

The moment of attempted consciousness was gone before Boba could try to get another word out of the Mandalorian.

“I know.” Fett sighed. Saying it out loud making it all the worse.

Din’s eyes pinned open immediately, going to sit up he felt sore all over making him wince.

“Easy there, take it easy.” Fett had jumped forward from his seat, a firm but comforting hand lowering him back down.  

Din’s hand came up, pinching the bridge of his nose as he sat through the discomfort, head throbbing. This however led him to a realisation. His hand brushed against the skin of his face, running down through his scratchy beard before resting on his bare chest.

“Fett…” Din didn’t know what to say, he couldn’t even meet the man’s eyeline.

“We almost lost you there.” Fett instead picked up the conversation, sitting back in his chair, glancing at the Bacta tank behind Din.  The suns where only just starting to rise, environment a calming blue and yellow, curtains slowly floating about in the gentle touch of the breeze.

“What happened?” Din finally looked to the man sat beside him. He leaned on the arm of the chair, armour also removed, leaving casual black attire.

“What do you remember?”

Din looked to the ceiling; Fett having posed a good question. He racked his brain for relevant information. The last thing he could recall was a sandstorm.  

Fett explained the details that had been lost to him. How they had been separated from Fennec, too their scuffle in the sands, prompting an apology from Din. He didn’t even remember.

“Whatever you were seeing. It wasn’t me.” Fett didn’t seem to be caught up on their impromptu battle.

Din tried to remember, taking a moment to really think on it. But only one thing came to mind.

Grogu.

“The kid.” Din muttered his internal thought accidently.

“You spoke your little green friends name a few times.”

Din laid their awkwardly, a few solid chunks of his memory lost to him. He felt vulnerable without the full picture as well as his armour, a feeling he was not fond of, much like the tingling aching that lingered.

“You’re on the mend, best keep it that way.” It was almost as if Fett was anticipating his attempt to sit up. Din remained where he was, keeping his eyes skyward, away from Fett.

“What’s the job?” Din wanted to talk about anything but himself.

“Straight to business.” Fett found this amusing, leaving a smirk on his face as he leaned forward. “The Pyke Syndicate has been gathering soldiers the last few weeks now.” He began, a stern look in his eyes that Din couldn’t see.  “The mayor of Mos Espa, Mok Shaiz. He’s on their pay roll and has recently flown off world.”

“Then that sandstorm was the least of our problems.” Din huffed a chuckle. His breathing was a lot better, his lungs no longer complaining with each breath.

“Real storms about to break.” Fett concurred. “With you, and another acquired ally of ours, we’ll have enough experienced muscle to act as enforcers.” Fett sat back. “If you’re in of course.” 

Din over better judgement ignored the man’s suggestion from earlier started to sit up, getting his elbow under him the easiest part, heaving his upper half straight by far the hardest.

“I’m in.” Din made eye contact, both men understanding the weight of what was being asked.

“Just like that.” Fett was impressed.

Din simply nodded. He owed this man more than his life, a debt needing to be repaid.

 “There’s just one thing.” Din held his side, ribs protesting slightly at the movement. “First, I’ve got to pay a visit to a little friend.”