Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The tracking fob in his hand vibrates, eliciting a steady, pinging pulse that stagnates into a continuous beep when it is pointed toward the east, to the tall wroshyr trees that shelter homes beyond the core of the city. The Wookiees meandering around him cast nearly passing gazes, mostly ignoring the beskar-clad bounty hunter in their midst. So long as he wasn’t hunting one of them, there would be no cause for alarm or hostility on either side.

The Wookiee people had already suffered enough by the hands of the Empire- no reason to encite unnecessary violence.

Pocketing the fob for the moment, Din gives a quiet sigh before continuing onward, traversing the seemingly endless walkways that hang between the trees. The core area of the city is clustered with interdependent Wookiee family units and shops and areas still being rebuilt after the Empire’s clutch was relinquished years before. The more quiet area on the city outskirts are a staunch contrast of independent families, with some completely hidden by the canopies of the wroshyr trees; it is honestly common sense that a disgraced bounty hunter would seek refuge in seclusion.

Just the thought of the hunter-turned-bounty is enough to send Din spiraling through memory, to what events led to him landing on Kashyyk, even as he parkours his way through the tree canopies to the city outskirts, following the incessant beeping of the fob.

Din, once the Jetii had disappeared in the elevator while holding his ad , had spared not a glance toward Bo-Katan and her people. He had simply sheltered himself once more behind his beskar’gam and nodded to Cara, before following desperately after Fennec who had called for Fett shortly before the Jetii had arrived. What followed is still a blur to Din, but somehow he ended up on Fett’s ship, and the next thing he knew he was back on Tattooine but in the Hutt’s old palace.

“He’s still your ad ,” Boba stated, kneeling before where Din was curled up, the Darksaber clutched tight in his hands. “Even if Skywalker has him, he’s still a Djarin- that can’t be taken away.”

Din’s helmeted head had glanced up, searching Boba’s gaze, and Din had a feeling the former bounty hunter could sense his tears even beneath the beskar’s protection.

“Fennec told you,” he said, quiet voice barely audible behind his grief.

Boba snorted, but there was no humor in it. “Even if she hadn’t, it’s obvious. You’re a father without his son. I’d be concerned if you weren’t a mess.”

“He was never mine,” Din managed, glaring down at the weapon in his hands. “He’s a jetii . He belongs with his people.”

“Forgive me if I don’t care for your bantha shit excuses, Djarin,” Boba deadpanned, lips twisted in a frown. He looked halfway ready to slap Din through the helmet. “Foundlings, force-sensitive or not, are Mandalorians- regardless of what other culture or species they find solace in. Grogu has been with his people since the day you found him. Maybe he’ll grow up to be this badass Jedi when we’re all dead and gone… but he’ll always be your ad’ika, Din. Nothing, not even Skywalker’s jetii teachings, can change that.”

“Say I believe you,” Din said, raising his helmet so that his T-visor met Boba’s gaze, “I don’t even know how to find him again- where to start, I…”

Boba had just smirked, scars pulling to make the expression more menacing. “Don’t worry about it, vod . I know people who can get me within arms’ reach of Skywalker. Even if I can’t, I’m sure your Marshall friend Dune could help. We’re aliit - not one of us is going to let that kid go.”

Din couldn’t fight the smile under his helmet, memories of a tiny green figure with much-too-large ears who managed to rock his world on its axis in a matter of months. He raised a hand to Boba, who clasped it and helped him to his feet.

“ Aliit ori'shya tal'din ,” Din had recited, brimming with burgeoning hope.

“ Ratiin ,” Boba had replied, a promise in his gaze.

Unlike back on Gideon’s cruiser, the next events were vivid in Din’s mind: Boba gifting him an old Republic Nu-class shuttle that had been used by the Hutts, the bag of too-many credits that had been thrust his way by Fennec, along with a comm link and the comm code for Fett’s Palace.

About a week later, Din had found his way to Nevarro and was welcomed with open arms by Magistrate Karga, who seemed devastated by Grogu’s absence, but after explaining the circumstances, even Greef offered to reach out to some of his contacts if it would help find the Child.

It wasn’t long after that that Greef had enlisted Din’s help in tracking down an old Guild hunter who had gone off-mission on Kashyyk and had disappeared. Much like with Grogu so long before, Greef simply gave him a tracking fob and a general location around one of Kashyyk’s more populated cities before sending him on his way.

“ Haar’chak !”

The fob is still beeping, beckoning him to move further ahead, from Din’s belt, and yet he can do little more than stare at the sight before him. On auto-pilot, a hand reaches down to switch off the fob, but otherwise he can’t move, heart caught in his throat.

His trek through the wroshyr canopies had taken mere minutes, walking past home after home until he reached what seemed to be the end of the civilized trees- and happened upon a sight that chills him to the bone.

A Wookiee family home, disarmingly similar to the others Din has passed, sits in disarray. The door wide open, charred by blaster bolts, while a large Wookiee lays crumpled in its entrance, previously white fur dyed to a sickly rusty color in spurts and bursts. Steps away, close to what seems to be a garden, a pair of Wookiees have been flung on top of each other, black and tan fur blending together. A steadily growing puddle settles beneath them, staining the light wood the color and texture of a thick blend of caf.

But what truly steals Din’s breath is the sight of a small bundle of dark brown fur in the middle of the carnage, head constantly swivelling between the pair of bodies by the garden and the lone corpse in the doorway. A series of warbles and mewls echoes from the apparent baby Wookiee, who toddles amidst the scene on unsteady paws.

Din’s heart clenches, and he feels a distinct ache for Grogu.

The youth stumbles over one of the dead’s legs, and Din moves before he registers the kid’s cries and yelps. He has his hands on the Wookiee, catching them just before they fall, and sweeps them into his arms with experience that comes from cradling Grogu for months. The Wookiee makes an inquiring noise, which turns into squirming and what might be a protest in Shyriwook, when Din begins to walk away from the massacre behind them.

“I know, I know,” Din murmurs, attempting to soothingly run a hand over the child’s back. He can’t feel their fur through his gloves, but can see stains of blood and gore on their paws and it nearly makes him sick, despite everything else he has seen in his life.

The Wookiee squirms once more, and Din shifts his grip on the young child, holding them out a bit. Din doesn’t have a great grasp on Shyriwook, but enough species know of Galactic Basic Sign that he’s willing to give it a shot.

‘Your-name, what?’ Din questions, doing his best one-handed and without facial expressions to aid the kid in understanding his intent.

Regardless, the child watches his hand motions with fascination, but merely whines, their wide eyes full of awe but blank of any understanding.

Din sighs, and shifts the baby again, tucking them closer to his chestplate. To his surprise, the Wookiee gives a small chuff and whine before settling in, resting their furry head against the beskar as if it were the softest pillow in the galaxy.

The motion reminds Din of Grogu and his curious brown eyes, and he can’t help the smile that grows beneath his helmet.

Chapter Text

The only thing on Din’s mind is to take the young Wookiee far away from the carnage that had been made of their family. His Amban rifle thumps against his back as he hurries along, while the beskar spear taps lightly on his helmet every fourth step he takes, eliciting a pleasant ring that has the fur baby in his arms cooing each time.

His grip on the child hasn’t let up since he tucked them up against his chestplate. But the Wookiee seems content to be held, murmuring in what Din guesses is Shyriwook, with tiny claws clacking quietly on the shine of the beskar.

His mind racing, Din has a split second where he considers taking the child to the city he came from: return them to their people, to those who could take care of them, and could actually communicate with the baby. Then Din dips his head, staring at the bundle of fur in his arms, who stares back with a shriek of delight falling from their mouth when they notice his attention. The claws shift from his chestplate to his helmet, clicking and tapping, and the Wookiee’s small noises turn innately inquisitive.

Din can’t help his huff of laughter at the sight of yet another child, with sharp little claws, tapping incessantly on his helmet. The sound through the filter startles a giggle, and the tapping becomes more insistent.

“Sorry, little one,” Din says, amused. He glances around and finds a cluster of branches that would hide the pair quite well. He tucks himself down, leaning away from the Wookiee but keeping a hand on them. “Helmet stays on.”

The Wookiee just grumbles.

The bloodied edges of their fur have become matted, dirt and pieces of miscellaneous bits threaded through, and Din takes a moment to gently comb out the more offending spots, which elicits a purr.

“We’re too far from the city,” Din mutters, working his gloved fingers to fluff out the stickiness of the blood. The Wookiee watches on curiously. “I can take you there after I get what I came here for.” He lifts his gaze, holding the child’s paw as soothingly as he can manage. “Might do some good to give you peace. It’s not likely someone else orphaned you.”

Din straightens up, and settles the youth into the embrace of branches, their dark fur blending in quite well. He backs up, petting their paw when they whine at his absence.

“I’ll be back,” Din promises, digging out the fob from his belt. Flipping it on, the beeping resumes its one note tune louder than before. His target isn’t far away. “You’ll be safe here-- I won’t be gone too long.”

The Wookiee’s whine gets louder, their paw wrapping around his finger in a pleading gesture.

“Promise,” Din whispers, gently tugging his finger out of the child’s grasp. “For now, I’m your cabur , little one. I wouldn’t leave you for too long. I’ve got some business to take care of and I’ll be back right after.”

The child stares at him, and Din gets a sense of unease that their gaze is less looking at him and more through him-- perhaps picking apart the many fragments of his soul. Din can’t discern what exactly the child is looking for, but whatever it is, they seem to find it.

The Wookiee grumbles one last time, squeezes Din’s hand, before settling back into their little alcove of branches, soulful eyes watching him carefully.

Din is barely able to tear himself away, clenching the tracking fob close in his fist. He watches the youth for a few more seconds before stepping away, unholstering his blaster, and turning to head off in the direction of the fob’s beckoning call.

It doesn’t take too long before the fob stops being useful, and Din flips his HUD to infrared in an attempt to pick up any trace where his bounty may have gone. He’s only a ten minute walk or so from where he left the Wookiee orphan, perhaps a thirty minute climb from their massacred family.

Meaning the bounty has to be close. Has to be, because there is no other option.

Din’s gloves creak as he squeezes the grip of his blaster held idly at his side. The infrared HUD lights up in neon-esque hues, mostly bright reds and yellows with the warmth of the area. Cut through the warmth, scattered haphazardly, are clawed prints in deep purples and subtle blues. The prints trail from the pathway stretching before Din and march up the trunk of the nearest wroshyr, leading up into the cluster of branches and leaves alight in swathes of white from the heat of the sun.

Cursing under his breath, Din holsters his blaster and shoulders off his Amban, deftly lifting it to aim into the canopy above him. The rifle’s shots are powerful enough to vaporize organic matter from a distance, but if he’s careful, Din can shoot to injure or draw out the bounty.

Tracing the clawed prints with the scope of the Amban, Din narrows his eyes as the purple stands out starkly among the warmer tones as they climb above him. Everything around him is quiet save for distant echoes of local fauna, and the gentle breeze rattling the leaves above. The sparse movement of the leaves is just enough for Din to locate the static figure, outlined in a deep purple highlighted by white and yellow, laying in wait in a tense crouch.

Silently, Din flicks off his infrared with barely a movement before his finger twitches on the trigger, landing bare inches from the bounty’s silhouette.

A shriek pierces the calm following the sharp ring of the rifle bolt, and Din moves on reflex, rolling to the left and dodging the pair of vibroknifes that whistle through the air in quick succession to lodge themselves in the ground.

Recovering quickly, Din swings his rifle up, tracking where the bounty is. They’re rattling through the canopy, a blur of shadow and a green flight suit that blends well with Kashyyk’s natural environment. Din aims a few feet ahead of where the figure is heading, steadying himself before waiting a moment, then--

Another shriek, this time accompanied by a string of hissing that Din places immediately. Trandoshan, he thinks in mild irritation. Greef couldn’t even give him a head’s up. Biting back a sigh, Din shoulders his rifle and reaches for his blaster.

By the time he looks up again, the Trandoshan is on the ground before him, crouched a few feet away with two more vibroknifes in their grip.

“A Mandalorian,” they hiss, stalking forward with a slimy smirk on their face, “What an honor that Karga would send such an esteemed hunter after me.”

The bounty looks like any other Trandoshan that Din’s encountered save for the deep brown of their scales, a coloration he offhandedly muses must be rare. Clothed in that green flight suit spotted earlier, the bounty is also in possession of what seems to be as many weapons as Din has on himself.

But Din’s focus narrows to the rusty stains adorning parts of the flight suit to a dark brown, the used blaster cartridges missing from their bandolier…

The blood encrusted on their three-clawed hands, marking a recent kill.

Din doesn’t hesitate in shooting, falling into the reflex of battle as the Trandoshan rushes forward. They dance around Din’s every shot, relaxing onto all fours as they pounce. The distance between the two is closing quickly, and Din has barely a moment to move when the Trandoshan is close enough to stand back up and swipe at him with a vibroknife.

The Trandoshan is eliciting a strange mix of laughter and hissing that grates on Din’s very soul as he drops his blaster, throwing up his vambraces to block the next strike. The beskar holds, and the bounty bares their teeth in defiance, pressing down harder to push against Din’s defense.

Din uses their momentum, pulling away and dropping to the side, sending the Trandoshan tumbling forward. It gives Din a scarce moment to catch his breath, just enough time to snatch the Darksaber from his belt as the Trandoshan rises to their feet.

The moment the bounty pulls a new weapon from their back and pounces, Din has the Darksaber lit and raised, parrying the strike from the Trandoshan’s extended vibroblade. For a moment, they look startled, before their reptilian eyes narrow and they pull back from the clash only to relentlessly strike again.

“Not just any Mandalorian, I see,” the Trandoshan purrs, cackling. They lean in, the inverse light from the Darksaber casting odd shadows on their scales. “The disgraced Mando, who gave up his entire clan for a child .”

Din is barely able to keep the growl from rising in his throat, unwilling to give even a sliver of his faceless visage away as he slams his vambrace into the Trandoshan’s face. But something must be telling in his scent, because the Trandoshan simply laughs with the hit, rolling their neck to stare at him. They bare their teeth again in a smile, tongue snaking out for a moment, as if tasting the air.

“Touchy, touchy, oh great Mand’alor ,” they butcher the Mando’a with a hiss. The bounty spins the vibroblade in their hand, taunting with a tilt of their head. “I guess I can’t expect mercy from you after slaughtering those Wookiees.” They raise one bloodied claw. “Natural enemies and all, Mando. No foul there-- well, except for the kid, I guess.”

“ Ne shab’rud’ni , ge’hutunn ,” Din replies, the Darksaber singing in his hand as he stalks forward. The thought of the orphaned Wookiee, eyes full of sorrow, grieving over the bodies of his family, flashes to the forefront of his mind, along with the pure trust the kid had shown in him. The same kid waiting on him nearby, who Din promised peace after his family’s murder.

The Trandoshan shrieks a challenge, meeting Din halfway as their blades clash together again- but Din feints right, and the bounty hisses in outrage. They aren’t quick enough to counter, yellow eyes flashing wide as Din turns and slashes the Darksaber clean through their neck. The Trandoshan’s head flies across the platform while their body drops like a cut puppet, crumbling to the ground. Their vibroblade shuts off in a limp grip.

Din stares down at the body, the Darksaber humming as he slowly relaxes his stance, huffing and panting from exertion and anger. He isn’t sure how long he stands there on uneven legs, halfway to falling over- from what, he isn’t sure of either, but eventually he finds it in him to turn off the Darksaber and clip it to his belt.

A moment later he’s moving to retrieve the bounty’s head, tucking it under one arm until he can find a way to wrap it up. With one last glance at the decapitated Trandoshan, Din shakes his head to rid their words from his head.

“ Iba’shebs’palon ,” Din mutters, turning on his heel to return the way he came.

He has a kid to return to.