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His boots dragged - skurr, skurr - against the ground, growing harder to lift with each new step. He hissed, biting his lip as the charred fabric of his flightsuit scraped against the raw burn on his thigh. How could he have been so stupid —
Din groaned, shaking his head and trying to focus on holding his bounty. He shifted the weight of the bag to his good hand. The other hand throbbed, the bite wound between the web of his thumb and forefinger pulsing with every heartbeat. Careless. You know Klatooinians bite.
He had known it, but he’d gotten sloppy. He’d thought he’d known how to use the Darksaber, too, but look where that had gotten him. The weapon dangled from his belt, taunting him.
He heaved his bounty along, wishing not for the first time that his client had only needed the chain code for confirmation of death. The Klatooinian’s head felt as if it weighed as much as a neutron star, though he knew, faintly, it couldn’t be more than a few kilos. All he had to do was transport it to the other end of the ring station, and then —
What if I’m wrong?
What if they’re not here?
His head swam. He couldn’t afford to think that way, not with these injuries. He had to believe he was close. That he could do this.
He limped into the lift, bracing himself against the wall. He vaguely registered that there was an alien in the lift with him, but no matter; the being wasn’t a threat, and that was all Din needed to know. He trembled with the effort of standing upright as the lift coasted to a stop. Keep it together.
Din pulled in as deep a breath as he could and stepped out into the bar. The job wasn’t done until he’d gotten his information. He barged into his client’s private room with the sack dripping with blood, and he demanded what was owed him, focusing sharply on keeping his voice steady. The client was all small talk and new offers, telling him to take a seat and another job. He didn’t have time for this. He didn’t have strength for this.
The head thumped jarringly against the table. Din was done. He got the information he needed, cut the chatter so that he could limp back to the thankfully empty lift. He slipped inside, and the doors closed.
He sagged against the transparisteel, tried to look at the huge swath of cauterized flesh screaming on his leg. He panted, lowered his hands, attempted to touch --
Fuck, no, no, not an option. His hands shook badly, and he pulled them back, trying hard to catch his breath.
His fist clenched, spasming around the bite. He groaned, screwing his eyes shut. This had to work. Finding the tribe was his only hope.
They’ll help me. That is the Way.
But he remembered a little hand reaching out to him on a dark night on Arvela-7, Grogu’s ears lowering in concentration, the wounds in Greef’s arm knitting back together --
The lift slowed to a stop, and Din staggered out, trying to ignore the sudden ache in his chest. Wish you were here, kid. More than you know. He brushed a hand against the silver ball stowed safely in his belt pouch, wondering if he’d ever be able to drop it into Grogu’s waiting palm again.
But the Armorer’s words reverberated in his head, cutting through flashes of Grogu’s tiny grin, his mischievous looks, the weight of him in Din’s arms. Until it is reunited with its own kind, you are as its father.
Din swallowed.
(What did that make him now?)
He pushed forward, trying to focus. Grogu was safe with the Jedi, and Din needed his people. The tribe would take care of him. He clung to the idea as his helmet’s interface revealed hidden Mando’a in waysigns for those who knew to look. His boots dragged, skurr, skurr, a little closer to aid with every step.
He rounded the next corner. An infrared mythosaur flared back at him, bright and clean despite the blurring edges of his awareness. Hope filled him, desperate and shivering, a fragile thing he hadn’t felt in months.
He leaned heavily against the hatch beneath the mythosaur. His injured leg shook, threatening to buckle beneath him. Please. Please be here.
He didn’t know where else to go.