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Din surveys the compound through the scope of his rifle. The feed fills with artefacts and white noise whenever he zooms in on the building, most likely due to a signal blocker hidden somewhere inside. He gleans little information that he can’t see by looking directly at the place.
He needs to get closer.
He climbs down the cliff and makes his way across the sandy terrain as stealthily as he can muster. There are many mercenaries gathered outside the compound, some in the courtyard, some mounted on the rooftops.
An IG unit appears from the opposite direction from Din. It walks unafraid toward the mercenaries and announces its intentions in a clear, monotonous voice.
Din listens to it with half an ear, mostly focused on coming up with a plan of attack. This close to the building, he notices the doors are all locked down with reinforced durasteel, as if the emergency system were already alerted , yet the mercenaries on the high ground have their sniper rifles trained on the main door, not on the IG unit.
The IG advances undeterred, engaging the enemies without room for compromise.
Somehow, Din finds himself in the fray, helping the droid clear out the area. The blaster-fire is deafening, coming at them from all sides. It chips at the paint on his armour—and leaves bruises in its wake, but thankfully that’s all it does. The much stronger metal in his helmet protects him better, giving him the chance to peek from cover and assess the situation when the fight slows briefly.
Many corpses litter the ground, in the shade between the columns of the main entrance and slumped behind crates of goods. Din frowns. The bodies are in various stages of decomposition, which means the most recent one must have died at least half a day before this skirmish.
Eventually, the mercenaries bring in a large, heavy machine gun.
They take aim…
…and the party starts anew.
What is going on?
Din moves on auto-pilot, moving from cover to cover, shooting mercs, and keeping a constant eye on the heavy weapon.
As soon as he spots an opening, he yells at the droid, asking for cover, and dives for the merc handling the machine gun. The IG unit responds immediately, twisting and turning its artificial body as it wields its blasters to maximize the amount of damage it does to their opponents. Din grabs a hold of the weapon controls, turns it around on the mercs, and does his best to bring their competition down to zero.
Well, to one, considering the IG unit continues to be a threat, regardless of their temporary alliance.
"Do not self-destruct," he warns the droid once the dust settles.
In the absence of blaster fire, the area is oddly silent. With so many fresh bodies strewn around, it is a grim and repulsive sight. The scorching sun shines down on them directly, baking the corpses further in its merciless heat. Din checks for survivors, finds none, and exchanges a silent look with the droid as they both head over to the door to open it.
"Something is wrong," Din says.
"Explain," the droid prompts neutrally.
"Something feels wrong."
"I do not feel, but from my assessment, I have observed the mercenaries’ behaviour before the fight."
"And?"
"It did not compute. The mercenaries were preparing an attack of their own."
Din stops fiddling with the lock on the doors; he stands straight and studies the IG unit pensively. He suspected something of that sort himself, having noticed the snipers trained on the main doors from the beginning.
The tracking fob beeps strongly, acknowledging the presence of the bounty in the building before them, but Din isn’t so sure their path is clear anymore. He turns on the heat vision in his helmet and studies the interior.
The feed bursts into static.
No use.
Whatever waits for them inside has taken great care to shield its presence.
"Any luck with your scanners?" he asks the IG unit.
"Negative."
"At least you’re still functional."
"An EMP blast would be most unfortunate," the droid says.
"Don’t let your guard down just yet," Din says, returning his attention to the door. They’ll need something powerful to knock it down. Something as powerful as the heavy weapon, perhaps. "On guard," Din reminds the droid.
"I am always on guard, bounty hunter," the IG unit deadpans.
The moment the doors open, a handful of balls roll to their feet through the opening.
Din throws himself behind the pillar the very same second.
The beeping of the thermal detonators quickens into a singular high pitched noise.
They explode with a loud bang, throwing the IG-unit in pieces to the other side of the courtyard. The pillar crumbles, the shockwave sending Din on his stomach several meters away from the door, dazed and bruised beyond reason. He lies on the ground for a few seconds, groaning and gasping for breath. A cough builds up at the back of his throat, and he braces himself for the stabbing pain in his side when he can’t hold it back anymore.
One part of the droid’s limb landed near Din’s head.
He stares at it emptily. Looks like the thermal blast proved just as unfortunate.
However, the threat remains a definite one.
Running on pure adrenaline, he picks himself back up from the ground and grabs his blaster.
A strange rumbling erupts within the compound. A humanoid shape appears by the doors. They step forward; the sun bathes them in light, revealing a Mandalorian man of average stature, bulkier than Din, holding a strange grey sphere in his arms.
Din throws his whipcord at the man instantly. At the same time, the man propels himself upward via his jetpack, but the cord wraps itself around his foot, stopping his ascent and dragging Din on the ground toward him with the initial force of the blast.
"Shit," the Mandalorian groans, stopping his escape. He hovers just above the ground and stares down at Din, who is a sad, bounty hunter-shaped lump covered in sand and sweat. "Of course there’s one left. Fuck."
The momentary confusion gives Din enough time to get moving. He pulls on the cord, tipping the other man off-balance in the air, and attaches his end to the heavy weapon, praying it is secure enough to hold him down.
The Mandalorian attempts to fly away, but the weight keeps him well anchored. He gasps in pain and squirms, trying to shake the cord loose. The sphere in his arms prevents him from taking out his weapons.
Infuriated, the Mandalorian dives toward Din. He sends the sphere rolling away from them right before his feet touch the ground.
Din notices it from the corner of his eye, but he has little time to study the item, because the Mandalorian throws himself at Din with pathos, demanding attention with a fist squarely to Din’s side.
They grapple with each other, Din looking for an opening to immobilize him, and the man struggling to cut the cord tied to his leg. The Mandalorian pulls out a vibroblade from his boot, angles it toward the cord, but Din pushes his hand away.
"Wait! I have questions!" Din says.
"Do I look like a protocol droid to you?" the Mandalorian grunts. He wrenches one of Din’s arms behind his back, places one foot in front of Din to trip him up, but Din simply uses the momentum to roll them over until the Mandalorian hits the heavy weapon with his back, and Din presses him back with one shoulder.
The cord has tangled itself around Din’s knee now, forcing him to lean half on the weapon, half on the Mandalorian in order to keep standing.
"Are you after the Asset?"
"‘The Asset?’" The Mandalorian scoffs. "Do you think I'm on vacation here?"
"You’re Mandalorian," Din says. Right? It goes unspoken.
"Oh, your eyes are working! I was afraid your visor was malfunctioning, considering the stupid things you are asking me. Get off!"
He knocks Din away.
Din flails, grabbing onto the Mandalorian’s cape before he falls, and ends up dragging him down with him in a heap of arms and legs.
Din coughs painfully. There’s an elbow in his side and a heavy weight draped over his legs, pinning him down.
The Mandalorian flicks the bottom of Din’s helmet with his gloved hand. He exhales noisily in distaste. "Personal space?"
"This is your fault," Din grumbles.
"If you really want to be pedantic, I’m sure the blame is even, seeing as this is your cord and everything."
"Get off!"
The man reaches down and fishes out a blade from Din’s boot.
"Hey!"
"I’m working on it, Mando."
He cuts himself free from the cord. Din sits up, reaching for the part wrapped around his knees, and they free themselves more or less at the same time. The joy of unhindered movement is short-lived, as Din doesn’t give the man any chance to escape, springing into action by tackling the Mandalorian to the ground and reversing their previous position.
The man goes down with a oomf, caught off guard.
"You are so persistent," he says.
Then they are punching and kicking each other like two Foundlings fighting over who gets the last piece of cake. The Mandalorian is methodical, conserving his energy well, choosing to strike only when he spots Din making a mistake in his defense—mistakes that Din becomes overly aware of, as none goes unpunished. He gives back just as much, though, and their tussle ends with a sharp clang as the Mandalorian headbutts him, sending him backward into the sand.
The Mandalorian gets up heavily, holding his middle. He no longer attempts to flee. Walking backward a couple of steps, he assesses Din with his helmet tilted slightly to the side, while his hands pull out a back-up blaster from one of his many pouches.
Din takes a moment to inspect him right back while his head stops ringing. There seem to be as many belts, shells of ammunition, and weapons on his person as Din has himself. The armour, though of obvious Mandalorian design, looks awful. The green paint is chipped in most places, the chestplate is missing its ka’rta beskar, and the surrounding plates are molten together into an amorphous shape that just barely covers the Mandalorian’s chest. The helmet has several dents, and the view-finder is torn right above the ear piece.
"You've seen better days," Din says.
The tilt of the Mandalorian’s helmet deepens.
"Your armour is…"
"A spare," the Mandalorian stresses, annoyed. "Don’t underestimate me." He angles the blaster at Din’s throat.
"Where’s the Asset?" Din asks.
"..."
"Dead?" Din's eyes fall on the sphere the Mandalorian had been carrying. "Are you bringing back the head as proof?"
This question rattles the Mandalorian; a visible tremor travels through his body, and he adjusts his grip on the blaster, disturbed.
"I don’t do that," he spits, full of disdain. "Enough chit-chat."
And he shoots at Din without warning.
Din ducks, letting his helmet take the shot instead of his much-more vulnerable body. He starts shooting back, aiming to incapacitate. They consume the heat sinks of their blasters shooting each other in close quarters. Some bolts hit (armour), others fly wide into the sky or the compound walls, and when their blasters jams, the skirmish devolves into wrestling once again, both holding onto the other’s wrists, pointing the weapons away from them in different directions.
When they stop, smoke wafts in the air from their singed capes, now ridden with holes, and the gravel takes a second to settle while their blasters cool down.
Din’s chest hurts from the multiple bolts that hit him, but he bears no injuries beyond bruises. Going by the Mandalorian’s stance however, one of Din’s bolts must have caught him in the calf, as the man is leaning heavily on one side.
Their helmets are very close. Din tips his head down, taking advantage of his height (and the injury keeping the other man hunched in, on the defensive.)
"I need this bounty," Din says. "The reward I was promised—it will help my tribe."
"Yeah?" The Mandalorian laughs. "And you think my reward is worthless?"
"Beskar."
"Mm, expensive."
"Beskar back in our hands," Din adds. "Where it belongs."
"It’s worth so much on the market these days," the Mandalorian says. "And duraplast does a fine job too."
Without preamble, the Mandalorian springs into action, powering up the flamethrower built into his vambrace. He wards Din off and takes flight.
I need a jetpack, Din thinks with half-hearted discouragement, watching his opponent fly out of reach so easily.
The Mandalorian aims his vambrace toward Din.
Something hisses through the air.
Din jumps out of the way of the concussion missile in the nick of time.
The ground shakes from impact. Small rocks fly from the epicenter, hitting Din’s back like low-energy peanuts from a malfunctioning weapon. In his stumbling, he notices the strange sphere nearby and makes a run for it.
"No!" the Mandalorian yells, diving toward the object.
Din gets to it first and throws his body over it, rolling with it in his arms. He comes to a stop with the sphere in his lap, one arm clutching it protectively, the other holding up his blaster at the Mandalorian.
The Mandalorian lands a few steps away, tense.
Both of them are breathing heavily. It feels like ages since the battle first started.
"Don’t move that around so much," the Mandalorian says stiltedly, almost unwilling to speak the words.
"What’s inside?"
Din pulls out the tracking fob. The beeping is very intense, indicating the presence of the bounty somewhere close. Very close. He feels the scathing glare of the Mandalorian on his body while he unlocks the metal sphere.
Holding his breath, Din opens the latch and…
A little green face looks back at him, black eyes half-lidded, vaguely unfocused. The creature mewls pathetically, leans over the edge of the cradle, and proceeds to throw up all over Din’s leg.
"What…"
"Now you’ve upset the little guy." The Mandalorian sighs.
"You sent him rolling around first!" Din argues. The shock of coming face to face with a child has him latching onto other things to give his brain the space to process this.
A child.
"This is the bounty?"
"Yep," the Mandalorian replies simply, crouching in front of them. His voice is hoarse and laced with pain. "So what’s it going to be, Red? Do I have to kill you?"
The child slumps back on the threadbare blanket lining the cradle and looks blearily at the Mandalorian. He extends one weak hand toward him.
Huh.
"Who hired you?" Din asks. Now the hold he has on the cradle is truly on the defensive side, and he wields his blaster with clearer intent, no longer to protect himself but this unexpected creature.
The Mandalorian does not reply.
Din glances at his flaksuit, intrigued. Spots of maroon have appeared along his side, the fabric glistening wet.
The child lets his hand drop down, but he maintains eye contact with the Mandalorian the entire time.
"Who hired you?" the Mandalorian echoes his question.
Din hesitates to answer, uncomfortable with voicing the truth. He accepted the job for the beskar, yes, but he never imagined the fifty year old target would be a toddler.
"Mhm, right, right, a bounty hunter with a conscience," the Mandalorian goes on, standing back up. He grunts and takes off the pressure from his injured leg. Even so, he folds his arms, no longer threatened by Din's presence.
(This realization is strangely off-putting to Din.)
"I’ve got to say I never liked ethics. Everything’s far too complicated if you think about what’s right and what’s wrong. Credits, though? Ehh, that's easy."
"That sounds like something someone who’s been overthinking what’s right and what’s wrong would say," Din counters.
"Hah. You ain't the faintest idea what ethical dilemmas keep me up at night, Red."
Din puts his own blaster away and chooses to focus on the child instead. He rotates the cradle, but the child is shy and hides under the blanket when Din’s helmet comes into sight.
What did the Client call the other man in the chamber? A doctor. Doctor Pershing. And they want this child alive. For what purpose?
"I don’t like this," Din says.
"Don’t hurt his feelings, Mando. What is wrong with you?"
"I don’t like this situation," Din corrects himself. One more clever quip from that Mandalorian and he’ll see the business end of Din’s blaster again.
The child coos sadly.
"Mm, it is not ideal, no," the Mandalorian agrees. He leans forward, intent on picking the child up.
Din grabs his wrist in a vice grip before he has the chance to touch the child.
"I’m not going to do anything," the Mandalorian protests. "He’s scared. You’re not exactly a comforting presence."
Perhaps.
Against his better judgement, Din lets him take the child.
A moment later, plasma erupts from the Mandalorian’s jetpack, and he vanishes from sight.
Din reaches out to grab him, but his fist closes around empty air.
Dank farrik, Din Djarin.
He looks up, embarrassed. His cheeks burn with blood both from irritation and shame for falling for such a simple trick.
The Mandalorian remains hovering several meters above the ground, the child held snug in the crook of his left elbow, forearm securing his place at the Mandalorian’s chest.
"No hard feelings!" the Mandalorian calls down to him. "I don’t trust anyone."
"Are you going to turn him in? To the Empire?" Din yells, distraught. He knocks the cradle away from him and stands, but he doesn’t bother to take out any of his weapons. He missed his opportunity. It’s all up to the Mandalorian now.
"It wouldn’t be my first time," the Mandalorian replies, "though I’ll admit this one might be a new low even for me."
"What are you going to do?"
"What are you going to do?"
"Just answer my question!"
The Mandalorian looks down at the child in his arms, deep in thought.
"I have bacta," Din says. "Your wounds are bleeding."
The Mandalorian’s leg is drenched in blood from his knee to the rim of his boot.
"I have bacta too. I've been fending off the pests vying for this little guy for longer than you knew of his existence."
"Let's talk, Mando to Mando."
"I never said I was Mandalorian," the Mandalorian argues halfheartedly. "You said it. Besides, what is there to talk about? Are you willing to part with half of your reward? How much is it, anyway?"
"A camtono."
"A camtono! Would you give half of it to me? After preaching its value so brazenly?"
Din considers it, but the Mandalorian doesn't give him the chance to think for too long.
"Your camtono of beskar is nothing next to my promised reward."
Din can hardly imagine such a thing to exist, when he knows the hardships his people go through every day to reclaim and preserve their culture. A camtono of beskar would set all their current Foundlings on a good path in life. Does it come down to the life of a child versus the livelihood of many?
If it were Din's life on the line, this would be an easier decision to make. But sealing the deal as it is would give them back something worse than the tainted imperial credits he refused from Karga. Something Din wonders if should refuse.
This is all hypothetical though, as Din is not currently in possession of the bounty. Of the child.
"Do you think your reward is worth the exchange, then?" Din asks.
"Who said I’m going through with the deal?"
"But…"
"Oh, no! I’ve got many tricks up my sleeve, Mando. That poor bastard Gideon simply confirmed he has my ship; I can figure out where it is on my own."
The Mandalorian’s jetpack sputters; he sways in the air, descending in a strange, pendulous manner. Once his feet touch the ground, his shoulders tense up once again. He throws a subtle look to his side, which Din catches despite the distance.
"I know the Empire inside out," he adds confidently, but it does little to salvage his image after sliding downwards like a Foundling with little to no control over their jetpack.
Out of fuel, perhaps.
"Then what are you going to do with the child?" Din asks.
"That's my business."
"I don't trust you with him."
"That's too bad. In case you haven't noticed, I'm the one holding him right now."
"Did they mention the name Pershing to you?" Din tries another angle. "He's some scientist. Doctor. He's the one who needs the little guy."
"A doctor," the Mandalorian repeats flatly.
"I didn't give it much thought before, but seeing the kid…"
"You think they're going to experiment on him?" The Mandalorian holds out the green child in front of his helmet and studies him closely. His hands tremble from the child's weight.
The child places one hand over the Mandalorian's visor.
Din approaches them slowly, making sure to stay in the Mandalorian's line of sight. The potential for an alliance is growing by the second. He can smell it and it's not just the blood stains growing on the man's suit.
"What do you say about a teamup?" Din proposes.
"I work alone," comes the gruff reply, not one second later.
"I work alone too."
The Mandalorian spares him a glance. "What's your angle? Feeling lonely?"
"I'm simply offering you a way to repay me."
"Repay you? What have you done for me?"
"I haven't done it yet, but I am about to very soon," Din replies serenely. A tiny, self-satisfied smile starts to grow on his face, behind the protective layer of beskar and transparisteel.
"What…?"
But the question fades on his lips as the Mandalorian sways on his feet, recognizing the growing weakness in his limbs. Perhaps his body grew too numb for him to notice the pain. Or perhaps he is so used to being battered that he has learned to push through anything the mission throws at him.
Whatever the truth may be, Din watches silently as the Mandalorian gradually crumples to the ground from his plethora of wounds.
With his last reserve of strength, he keeps the child from tipping head-first into the sand.
Din steps to his side, casting them in shadow.
"What do I call you?" he asks.
The Mandalorian laughs incredulously—and quickly winces in pain.
"What? You don't…"
His helmet tips back into the sand and he finally falls unconscious.
Din lifts his eyebrows, just as incredulous. Was he supposed to recognize this man?
Well, they'll have plenty of time to talk about themselves later. For now, he has to drag him to safety and staunch the bleeding.
The child notices his approach and holds out a hand in protest.
Din stops.
"I don't mean him any harm."
The child does not budge.
"I don't mean him any more harm," Din reiterates.
Slowly, the child relaxes his little body. He turns his hand so that his palm faces the ground and reaches toward Din as far as his short limb allows him.
Din reaches back and meets him in the middle.
There it is: progress.