Archive of Our Own

It starts like this. 

Din Djarin wakes up and tastes blood. 

His vision is blurry through the visor, the pain of a headache radiating all around his skull. He groans, biting his lip as his chest burns with pain. Probably some broken ribs.

He juts forward, leaning against the console of the ship as he tries some buttons, cursing when he realises that the powers probably shot, and he knows for a fact that there’s nothing on board that can fix it. He remembers, distantly, that he intentionally tried to land within the distance of a city.

He struggles to his feet, rising from his chair with aching bones and shuddered breaths, vision doubling when he fully straightens. He leans on the chair while he catches his breath, limping out to the main hull of the ship when he feels confident that he’s not going to immediately pass out.

He nearly trips over his spear on his way out, and he grabs it without a second thought, opening the back of Crestfallen. The ship shudders and moans at the action, and he’s almost half sure that the doors not going to open, but it does, and he makes his way out, ignoring the anxiety he feels over the fact that he can’t engage any security protocols without the power, and closing the door behind him.

The walk is slow. His ribs hurt like a bitch, and every few minutes, a wave of vertigo threatens to wipe him off his feet. His brain is crowded with obnoxious and unhelpful observations of the world around him, probably from a good ol’ concussion. 

After what feels like and very well may be hours of walking, he comes upon the city gates, sliding into the city beside a Merchant who looks at him like he’s grown two heads. He’s probably a sight, a Mandalorian in full armour limping along and barely able to stand.

He trudges on through the city, slipping into the first Inn he finds and collapsing at one of the tables with a pained groan.

“You got credits, Mando, or are you just gonna sit at my table all night and take up space?” A voice asks, and he turns his head upwards to see a female Besalisk staring him down. 

“I have credits,” he manages to say, voice hoarse. “Just…give me a minute.”

“I don’t have a minute. Credits or I’m kicking you out.” He grumbles something intelligible out, before fishing out a pouch of credits and tossing it at her, knowing it’s more than enough for a few nights here.

“Don’t tell anyone I’m here,” he tells her. “And can I get a bottle of Spotchka?”

“Sure thing,” she says as she opens the pouch. She fishes a key out of her belt. “First door on the right, that’s yours.”

He nods and takes the offered key, stumbling over to the hallway and shoving the key into the door. He doesn’t even bother to scan the room, barely managing to get the door closed and his boots and spear off before he falls face-first into the bed and falls asleep.

When he wakes up again, the room is dark, his ribs and head still hurt, and someone is knocking. He shuffles over to the door and opens it to see a staff person holding out a bottle of Spotchka. “You asked for this?” They say.

He eyes it for a moment, before taking it, with a mumbled thanks, before closing the door on their face. There’s a time for manners, but it’s not when he feels like he’s about to vomit.

When was the last time he ate? Actually, what time is it? What day is it? He has no clue how long he’d been out, but it couldn’t have been too long, right? 

Setting down the drink, he walks over to the window, staring out it for a moment before he closes the blinds forcefully, shoving a chair under the door handle to make sure he’s neither seen nor disturbed as he removes his helmet, sucking in the cool air greedily. 

Nausea and bile rise in his throat, and he stumbles into the fresher just fast enough to puke his guts out. When he’s done, he sits on the cool tile floor of the fresher, feeling like he’s just been flayed and laid out in the suns of Tatooine.

Closing his eyes, he finally listens to his body. The pain in his head and the impaired vision are definitely signs of a concussion, along with the blank spots in his memory. His ribs had hurt like nothing else in his puking session, so they were probably at least bruised. But beyond that, his joints and bones didn’t really hurt, but he’s definitely sore all over.

He reaches for his helmet, bringing it close to his eyes so he can inspect it. The visor is undamaged so he can at least see, but the respirators and all other technical functions are basically shot. He groans through his teeth; he hates getting his helmet repaired. 

When he’s confident that he isn’t going to throw up again, he rises to his feet, grabs the Spotchka, and drinks like he’s 18 again, helmet still left on the floor of the Fresher, the T-visor staring at him as he empties the bottle.

•⇷★⇸•

72 hours later, he’s successfully slept off two hangovers, dodged multiple New Republic officers who were poking around the city, and showered. With a nod towards the innkeeper, he finally leaves, a few spare parts in a bag he’s slung across his back and a parting bottle of Spotchka in hand.

As he walks back, he sips from it periodically, trying to think through what his next steps will be. The New Republic definitely knows he’s on this planet now, but if he remembers correctly, his ship had been pretty hidden amongst the trees, and by the time they probably arrived, any smoke from the crash had probably faded.

Something’s wrong, is his first thought when he steps aboard Crestfallen, the ramp sliding shut behind him with a hiss, dropping the bag to the floor. Heart beating in his throat he looks around at the hull, only to see nothing out of place or missing, and absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. 

Carefully, he makes his way to the cockpit, spear in hand, eyes scanning around the space as he takes in the space. There’s glass on the floor, his window is cracked. But beyond that, nothing seems truly out of the ordinary, but he’s almost sure that there hadn’t been glass on the floor when he left.  

Stars, his headache is coming back. At this rate, he’s going to claw off his own head before the ship is ready to take off. With a heavy sigh, he sets his spear down and leaves the cockpit, going down into the hull of his second Razor Crest, wincing as he lifts the hatch that would allow him to commence repairs. 

That might be smoke he’s smelling, he realises as he lowers himself down, but it’s hard to be sure with the helmet still on. He can remove it, he knows, because he’s alone right now, but that crawling unease is still settled low in his gut, and he has no intention of being helmetless when trouble eventually knocks on his door. 

He grunts as he slides the charred door to the electrical panel off, setting it down just behind him. He looks at the wires and freezes. Every single wire except one is severed. He reaches out hesitantly, reaching past the severed wires to find more severed wires. 

He glanced at the label on the one uncut wire. It goes towards his logs and communications, meaning he may still have some chance of someone knowing where he is. 

As far as he can tell, looking at the cuts, these are older. He thinks back to how his power had been janky when he’d first woke up, and a dark thought settles over him. Hm, his mind unhelpfully supplies, that’s not good.

He thinks back to how he’d been awake. If someone had been on his ship long enough to sever the wires, why hadn’t they done something to—the spear. 

He’d tripped over it earlier, but he always kept his spear in his weapons cabinet. He clearly remembers sliding it into its place when he’d boarded the ship with Trika. Someone had taken the spear and put it out. He has to go, has to leave right now.  

A crash. Coming in the direction of the cockpit. 

With a swear, he hoists himself up, rushing over to his weapons cabinet and slamming his fist on the control panel. The door opens with a hiss, and there’s a brief second where he’s just looking at the rack of weapons he kept, but then another hiss, and gas.

And fuck him, his respirators are shot. 

Of course. They’d taken the spear and set it out, meaning they’d been in his cabinet–and hey, wouldn't this be considered larceny? Or the destruction of private property? Whatever this is, it’s illegal, that's for sure. 

Coughing, he stumbles back, grasping blindly for the control panel through the thick, sweet-smelling, gas that was bypassing what few ventilators he had working on his damaged helmet. Finally, after what feels like hours, he manages to shut the cabinet. But the gas is still pouring out through the cracks. Dank farrik.  

Chest heaving, he rushes to the cockpit, barely registering the cracked window and the glass across the floor, the answers to the crash, as he grabs his holopad from a drawer and attempts to turn it on, but whoever had tampered with his weapons and power had done the same to it. Shit, they were good. 

Chest tight, he tries to pull up the ship logs but they’re wiped. He knows for a fact that he didn’t do that, and whoever was smart enough to wipe them definitely kept them somewhere. A data stick. He opens the compartment where he keeps his own, only to find empty space staring back at him. 

Dank farrik. Unease crawls into him. They’d cut his ship out of power, and wired booby traps into it while he’d been unconscious. They were playing with him, extending the time it would take for them to grab them. They let him go into the city and make a fool of himself—

Wait. If they were here before he woke up, that means they’d probably been in the city before him. They’d probably watched as he dodged patrols and drank his feelings, knowing his attempts to lay low were nothing short of hopeless. 

He glances back at the door to the hull, where his half-empty bottle of Spotchka lies forgotten. Is he imagining things, or had the innkeeper been a little insistent that he took the alcohol, and had the drink tasted a little off? He knows this very well could be his tired mind jumping to conclusions but something feels wrong. 

His spear still leans against the wall, and he takes it once more, before sitting back down in his chair, chest tight. With a sigh, he begins to wait. No use trying to outrun what’s coming for him. He just hopes that Trika made it to Mandalore.

The Darksaber grows heavy in his belt. He unhooks it, staring it down for a moment, before opening a more hidden compartment in his dashboard and putting it in there. Whatever’s coming for him cannot be allowed to get their hands on it.

Just as he’s relaxing, just as he’s starting to think that maybe whoever had done all this had been scared off, (or maybe just as the drugs were really taking a hold of him), an explosion shakes the ship. He reaches for his spear, but there’s another explosion and a crescendo of light just outside his window that blinds him.

Blinking back his vision, he tries to focus through the drugs that are holding his mind captive. He forces himself to his feet, leaning on the console control and trying to breathe. That's when he sees them. 

Six New Republic soldiers and an Officer stand outside Crestfallen, weapons drawn and pointed at the cockpit. At him. He straightens, only to hear the distinctive clink of Beskar hitting a blaster.

Ah. There you are. 

“Hands on your head, Mando,” a voice says, “Turn around.” He doesn’t move. The gun presses in on his neck, rather than his pauldron, where it first made contact. He doesn’t even flinch. He’s too tired for this, can’t they tell it’s been a trying few days for him? “Turn around, Mando.”

Biting back a sigh, he turns around to stare down the muzzle of some fifteen blasters of the New Republic soldiers who’d somehow snuck their way onto his ship. How good were those drugs? “Hands up,” The same voice says again, and he could now see it belonged to an Officer in blue and white. “I said, hands up.”

Fine. He does as he’s told, putting his hands up and on his head, staring the Officer down. “You are under arrest–”

“–All this to arrest me?” He says, unthinking as he removes his hands, placing one on his blaster. In an instant, every blaster is cocked at him, fingers on the triggers. He freezes once more, one hand on his holster, the other holding the back of his chair steady. This is ridiculous. And maybe cause for war? He’ll have to check. 

“Put your hands up Mando. Last warning,” With a curled lip, he does as he’s told once more, and the Officer continues, “You are under arrest by the New Republic government. As is code, I will tell you the charges against you once you have turned over your weapons.” All of them? “Dallas, go,” he cocks his head towards Din. One of the soldiers holsters his gun and steps over to him.

He reaches for Din’s blaster, but he pushes him back, triggering the whistling birds. “Tigaanur ni ra ner gun bal gar ash'amur, verd,” he says at first, then, “Touch me or my gun and you die, soldier.”

The soldier looks at his Officer, like a child looking at his mother, who nods at him with a tense look.  He steps back, and Din disengages the whistling birds, nearly smiling as many of the men visibly relax. The officer comes forward and speaks, “You’re going to take off your weapons Mando, including those vambraces of yours–” Dank Farrik “–and hand them over to Dallas here. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.” Slowly, he removes his hands from his head.

“Vambraces first. Then the blaster and spear.” Din rolls his eyes, loosening the straps and removing the vambraces carefully, with the reverence beskar deserves. He unholsters the blaster, and grabs the spear, handing it over to the soldier.

“Careful, soldier,” he says, unable to help himself, “That’s pure beskar. I would handle it carefully if you want to live.”

The Officer steps even closer and cocks the blaster once more, pressing it onto his beskar’gam’s kar’ta Beskar. “Listen here, hotshot. I know you’re one hell of a fighter, and got some of the best armour around, but if you don’t shut your trap, I’m gonna unload this blaster into your heart and see how the beskar holds up. Now,” he says with a sharp nod to the soldier, “The rest of the weapons.” 

Stars, Din hates The New Republic. Can’t they just let a bounty hunter who is totally not shirking his royal duties live his life and find his family without maybe causing another war?

Din sighs, and steps back. He removes his belt and pulls the vibroblades stored in each of his boots out. He hands them all to the rapidly going pale soldier and his box. 

The Officer sends a pointed look towards his legs. Din just stares back at him, and he sighs, “The ammo and your greaves have to go. Can’t have you hiding some weapons in them, especially 'cause we can’t throw you in a metal detector, now can we?” Scattered chuckles. Din just sighs again and pulls the belt holding the ammo off, followed by his leg covers. “And the jetpack.” 

He gives him the most exasperated look he can through his helmet, but removes the jetpack, handing it off to another soldier, seeing as the first one (Dallas, had the officer called him?) was busy handling a box full of weapons and a beskar spear that was noticeably taller than him.

Heh.

Tiny. 

“Dallas, Gigem, retrieve the rest of the weapons aboard,” They both nod, and pull up respirators. Oh, those conniving sons of bitches– “Mandalorian, you are under arrest for murder without a bounty, resisting arrest, helping a prisoner escape, helping a wanted convict escape,” he snarls at the mention of Trika Oguur. 

“Working with the empire after its fall—otherwise known as treason—refusal to submit for questioning, flying without a tracker beacon, possessing multiple illegal and unregistered weapons, and working with the Fett crime syndicate on multiple occasions.” 

He blinks at him. And in the most offended voice possible, “That’s it? ”

“No,” the officer says, with an eye roll for emphasis, “But those are the big ones. And seeing as you’re a Mandalorian in New Republic territory, and Mandalore is just about to join the New Republic, you'll be subject to our punishment any way you spin it. So, you’re going to enjoy a nice New Republic cell until the end of your days. Wonder what your king will feel about this. Wonder what he’ll think of you.”

Well, he’s angry, that’s it. The cowards drugged him, not even facing him until they knew that they had him backed into a corner. They’d cut his wires, entered his home, his yaim, without permission or any welcome. They’d cornered him in his own home, a place that was supposed to be a grounding place for him, a place where the buy’ce could be stripped away, showing the true face. It would take months to be able to feel yaim'la here again.

He also thinks that he deserves none of this and that these men are idiots. That’s what he thinks.

What Bo-Katan Kyrze will think on the other hand…

Din turns his thoughts away from how Bo-Katan will react to this mess he’s gotten himself into, in favour of continuing to stare at the Officer. Multiple reliable sources have told him that it’s kinda scary when he does that, so he continues to do that. The officer does not look scared, unfortunately, and jerks his head towards him, and tells them to put the cuffs on.

He sighs again. A baby-faced soldier comes up to him, and he can all but smell their nervousness as they hold the cuffs out. He stands there for just a moment—let them panic—before reaching his hands out and allowing them to be cuffed with a resounding click. 

For a moment, he’s just standing there, cuffed up and not entirely certain that this isn’t a drug-induced hallucination, but then he feels two strong hands clamp on his arms and yeah, probably not a drug-induced hallucination because wow these guys’ grips are tight. The first thought his eternally unhelpful brain supplies is, Well that’s not nice.

And then it actually registers that this isn’t one of Paz’s friendly (?) manhandles or even Fett’s tight but grounding and understanding touches, this is non-Mandalorian restraining him. As if he hadn’t just told the last person to touch him that he’d pirunir sur'haaise –kill them–just in simpler words. And he’d even provided a translation!

Inconsiderate.

He fights back as best he can, but wow these drugs are good. Din’s made an explicit point of not doing drugs and had literally–once upon a time–gone to battle alongside Fett because he didn’t want spice on Tatooine and people got pissy with him, so this is certainly something new. He doesn’t like it, he decides, when his vision starts doubling and the only reason he doesn’t meet the floor is because of the not very nice grips on his arms.

When he’s off this high, he’ll teach them a thing or two about manhandling Mandalorians…if Kryze doesn’t get to it first. His brain, still being unhelpful and high, conjures up the image of her fury when she learns that The New Republic found her king who’d fucked off to Stars know where (declaring that he had a family to find) when she’d declared him king, arrested him, and drugged him. He almost laughs.

And then, all humour fades away when he hears the officer again, who seems pleased that he’s not going anywhere. “Put him under. Strip all the Beskar except the helmet.”

He thrashes. He fights, but more of these star damned soldiers hold him back even as he yells and yells in very violent Mando’a, “Usen'ye! Ni kelir fucking kyr'amur gar meh gar hiibir ner beskar'gam! Gar hut'uun! Gar’re jare'la– ”

“Anyone know what this loon’s saying?”

Fuck you.

“–Ni'm te Mand’alor gar di'kut! Ner adate kelir kyr'amur gar par ibic!”

“I think he’s calling upon their king or something? They do that right? Oya Mand’alor or something right?”

Fuck you especially. 

“NI CUY’TE MAND’ALOR. BAL BIC’S OYA MANDA. ”

But no one’s listening to him, and soon enough he can barely move, and can only watch as one of them steps forward with a syringe in hand and sinks it into his neck with a way too painful prick. He can barely speak as the drug takes hold of him, but he whispers one last promise, kaden beyond words.

“You’ll regret this.” 

Fuck all of them!

“Oh, I’m sure we will. Sweet dreams, Mando!” 

Oh, fuck you too.

•⇷★⇸•

Waking up from a drug high is something Din has never experienced up until now, and the second he registers the headache, he immediately realises that no drug in the Galaxy could be worth this torture. He also immediately swears to never ever take a single drug ever again.

The crashing force in his head is not made better by the light in the room, which his helmet is valiantly trying to filter, but she’s a little slow going. Unfortunately for Din, that means he spends an uncountable amount of time groaning in pain from the mix of the pounding headache and the obnoxiously bright lights that are so rudely blinding him. 

When his mind pieces itself back together into something resembling coherence, he becomes quickly aware of a few things. One, he is armourless, his helmet being the only piece of Beskar still on him. Two, he has been tightly handcuffed, but the cuffs are untethered. And most importantly, three, he is being watched.

He can just vaguely make out the shapes of a few New Republic officers outside his cell door, but unfortunately, whenever he stares at the door for two long, his vision starts to go double again from the light it produces, rendering him unable to assess them. But they’re watching him, no doubt, hungry for information and curious about him. 

He shifts a bit and they tense, hands inching towards their blasters. He glares as best he can through his visor, anger clawing low in his gut. They’re talking, mouths moving rapidly, eyes darting towards him. They look panicked, nervous and jittery. It makes him smile.

One of them, the head officer from before, steps closer, and the door fades away. There’s a syringe in his hands, and the second he steps into the cell, all rationale leaves Din, giving way to unrestrained and unthinking panic, and he lunges forward, looping his cuffed arms around the son of bitches neck. 

His legs are unsteady, barely able to hold his weight, and the brush of skin against his own is causing his head to split in a thousand directions, but he doesn't lose his way, tightening the noose. The man’s eyes roll and he drops a second later, Din letting him clatter to the floor. He grabs his blaster in an instant, shooting as best he can at the soldiers who return fire. 

He waits for the perfect shot…there. He raises his hands, and the blast aims true, the shackles falling away as he chuckles darkly, taking off before they can get wise and close him in. 

His mind is split, he can barely focus on the battle around him and pulling his punches and not hurting too many people, an unfamiliar fury crawling just beneath his skin, begging to be let out. He grinds his teeth and steals a bigger gun, his aim true even as his vision dips. 

He runs through the halls, legs and body still tired, but he pushes it back and away and out. He shoots everyone he comes across, and he doesn’t have the consciousness to think if he’s killing them or whether he’s just hitting them where it hurts. A blast lands inches away from him, and he feels so light and weightless, but bare and laid out for the world.

He ducks behind a wall after he loses a pack of pursuers, his chest heaving, and he thinks his nose might be bleeding. He can taste the sharp coppery bite of blood on his tongue, the salt of sweat and tears of exertion. He doesn’t know where he is, and for all he knows, they could be circling him now, luring him into a trap. What is he doing?

He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply as he tries to think, trying to replay his run through winding halls. They’re familiar, in some distant memory. He’s been on a ship like this before, maybe one of the freighters that Mandalore has claimed as theirs is like this ship? But the fuzzy memories give him no map.

The lights are so goddamn bright. Glancing around the corner and seeing no one, he darts down the hall, hiding in another alcove, bare fingers tracing the metalwork of the walls. It’s…warm. He must be near the centre if it's this warm, closest to where heat starts on all ships. If he’s in the heart, he’s closest to the most precious cargo.

He glances around the next corner and sees two officers, their eyes darting around and their fingers on their blaster’s triggers. They seem to be guarding a door, and Din knows that something precious has to lie behind them. With a heavy sigh, he hoists his blaster and shoots two quick shots at the closer officer; the first one through the shoulders and the second through his wrist, destroying his wrist comm.

The other cries out in surprise, firing off a stream of lucky shots. Din ducks, but not quite fast enough, and a blaster bolt hits his left shoulder. It takes everything in him to throw the pain out, as he hoists his own blaster up and shoots the man, who is speaking into his comm, “–under attack! I repeat, the arm–” he doesn’t get to finish his sentence before his comm is destroyed. 

They both howl, their cries of pain turning furious as he draws around the corner, putting his finger up in the universal sign to shush in mocking. He opens the door, and steps in, shooting the controls out from behind him.

He laughs in disbelief when he sees what he’s stumbled upon. The armoury gleams in the softer lights, and his laugh turns joyous when he sees a locked box, and the words on the side: PRISONER WEAPONS. And there, just on the wall, is his beloved Spear. He can’t see the Amban, but the spear was the first weapon he learned.

His left arm is useless. More people are coming, no doubt spurred on before Din could cut contact. The door will only stop them for so long. He’s in the corner now, and they’ve made him a dog, barking and snapping at all who come near, eyes wild and alight with an unhinged madness. But he refuses to not give these men a fight, refuses to submit to an arrest conducted in the shadows.

He’s been arrested once, picked up like some common thug. But he is no longer that drunk and lonely boy, and he’s furious and drugged, and all he wants to do is fight. He doesn’t care if he goes down or if they recapture him because at least this time he will have gone fighting, blood on his spear and war drums in his heart. 

Pounding at the door stirs him from his thoughts. He grips his spear tightly, the metal warming beneath his ungloved hands, the calloused skin gently rubbing the smooth metal for comfort. Beskar, the iron of Mandalore, in his hands. The treasure of his people, the birthright of all children of Mandalore. Something that belongs to his people and his people alone. 

The door breaks down. Blaster fire erupts, but he charges forward, unwilling to be pinned down, ignoring the few lucky bolts that graze him and the agony that erupts. His spear cuts and mars, the Beskar singing as it cuts through the air, slick with blood. 

Someone tackles him. He elbows them off and sends his spear into their knee. He barely registers their scream before more people pile on, barely pushed back by his spear. He fights as best he can, even as his spear is ripped out of his hands, (Beskar in the hands of an aruetti, a heinous, blasphemous sight), even as the blood gushing from his nose starts pouring past the latches of his helmet.

He feels that familiar prick and he screams in fury, the hands that bind him and manhandle him growing tighter, laughter echoing around him. The corners of his vision begin to fade into darkness, and a resolute refusal to submit is all that pulls him on as they throw him around, his screams still pouring out, his limbs still trying to fight back as they grow heavier with each passing second. 

He’s succumbing, he realises with a keen, his body unable to fight the drugs they’ve poured into him, unfamiliar with the high and the bliss that's trying to spread across him, cradle him into unconsciousness.

He thinks of Trika and prays once again to whoever is listening that she made it to Mandalore, that someone will hear her story and come before his sins catch up to him. 

He’s almost under the water. A strange sight catches his eyes, and the fight in him finally burns out as he meets a pair of black eyes belonging to a tall and drawn Human, wearing a crisp Officer uniform. He watches from a few feet away as Din’s legs finally give out, a pleased smile on his lips as Din’s screams finally die, as his body falls away. 

His vision swims, head rolling forward listlessly as it goes completely black. 

•⇷★⇸•

When he blinks awake again, he’s in a similar but different cell, his hands cuffed in front of him on a table, and a man is sitting across from him. His body is bandaged and aching with pain so terrible that he almost groans, and he can feel the dried blood on his face, uncleaned.

He stares at him for a long moment as his vision shudders into clarity and the pounding in his head lessens to a dull thud. He bites back the groan that presses against his teeth as he straightens himself up to a more upright seating position.

“Good to see you awake, Mandalorian,” the man across from him says. It’s the same man from before, that unfamiliar officer with the black eyes. He’s got a New Republic Officers uniform on him, the medals of a war hero glimmering on his chest. It’s somewhat impressive, even to a backwater trotter like Din, but they don’t tell him anything about this man.

However, the two black epaulettes on his shoulders, unseen before now, tell him everything he needs to know. An interrogator, probably one of the best around if that fine pressed uniform is anything to go by. The only person who will maybe know how to slip into a Mandalorian’s carefully crafted façade and crack it until it shatters. Unease rolls through his body as he fully sits in his chair, staring at the man.

He doesn’t seem surprised or even unnerved by his prisoner's silence. “I must apologise for the rather…uncouth way we took you in. I can assure you that it was simply a reaction to your own talents, and purely precautionary. I don’t doubt that you could have wiped my men out with minimal effort, but you must understand that was not an outcome any of us would have liked.”

“I mean, we saw it earlier, didn’t we? You make quite a story. A drugged Mandalorian goes on a rampage of violence, fighting and screaming to the end. I have seen many battles…friend. And none of them had a soldier who went down with so much bitter opposition. I rue the fact we are on separate sides…”

He stays silent, and the man continues. “You have quite the rap sheet, here, Mando. And reports tell me you were one of the best Bounty Hunters the guild has ever seen until you suddenly left the guild about a year ago. But that’s not very uncommon for many Mandalorians in the Galaxy. All over, Mandalorians have been packing up their lives and returning to Mandalore. You were on the early side, but clearly part of a larger trend.”

He thinks of Sundari, newly rebuilt, glimmering in the morning light. He remembers his coronation, the sight of thousands of Mandalorians watching him as raised the Darksaber to the sky, and the resounding cry of Oya Manda! and how it echoed across the city, burning deep within his people.

“But I am not here to talk to you about the current state of Mandalorians in the galaxy,” his pleasant smile falls a bit. “I am here to discuss the crimes you have committed in allegiance to your…creed? I am here to know the root of the stories that are painted in your crimes.”

He tilts his head a bit. “Yes, your creed. Multiple sources cite you invoking it in multiple unrelated instances. Most especially a collection of murders, the carry of your weapons, and your involvement with the Fett crime syndicate on Tattooine. From what I know of Mandalorians I can understand the weapons you carry, and I understand as a bounty hunter, you most certainly wouldn’t want people being able to track you through them, but those murders were without a bounty. I’ll remind you that is a major offence in these parts.”'

“But my sources tell me something curious. You’re quite merciful to those who aren’t bounties. You put your own life in harm's way to save the life of a Lieutenant of The New Republic Correctional Corps. Yet here on my rap sheet, I have eye witness accounts of you stabbing an innocent Trandoshan merchant repeatedly. There wasn’t a single bounty on him. A contradiction in your story, but I have a suspicion that the truth will reveal no contradiction.”

He leans in closer, and Din fights every urge to pull away. “Why?”

He knows he should remain silent, and answer none of the questions that come from this man. But he knows what this man is talking about, the memory and the fury burning hot under his skin. So he speaks, rather softly, “Beskar.”

The interrogator leans back, a pleasant smile on his face as Din continues, fury making his words tight. “He was hunting Mandalorians and stripping them of Beskar.”

The other man nods, “You’re a man of honour, my friend. I can respect that. My folks called me Aneurin, after an old God of honour or something. But you can call me Lieutenant Dey. Pleasure to meet you, friend. For that is what I wish I could be to you. You are a walking legend, a memory of the High Republic.”

“I am an Interrogator, as you have probably realised, friend. My epaulettes speak for themselves in that regard, but they do not tell you about me. I approach interrogations as a search for all aspects of the story. Even villains can be sympathetic when all the story has been told. I seek to know your story, know who you are.”

He leans back again, “You know when they contacted me to ask if I could spearhead the interrogation and the investigation I was hesitant, to say the least. My daughter is still young and I don’t want to be too far from her, you see. But then they told me they’d brought in a tried and true Mandalorian, and I had to.”

“They tell so many stories about you all. About what you do, and who you are. All the way here, I was reading everything I could find about your people, but there’s so little now after the Empire wiped it all. Growing up, Mandos were the stuff of legends. Relics of a bygone era. And as I said, here you are, the manifestation of those stories.”

His eyes darken a bit at Din, who has not moved an inch. “I thought they were heroes as a kid. But I read what your people did, the people your bounty hunters have helped. You yourself have worked with the empire and Boba Fett, the empire's personal lapdog, without remorse. You’re no hero. Sure, you’ve got honour, but honour means nothing anymore, you know? Not when there are laws that need to be upheld. Earlier, I spoke of a sympathy I cannot carry anymore. Not when this is the real world. I want to know what led you on this dark path, friend.”

“If you are intending to slight me, to rile me up,” Din says softly, “Insulting me is not the way to go. I don’t care that you don’t think I’m a hero because I do what I had to do when times get rough or because I honour my brothers, fallen or not.”

Dey stands up, folding his hands behind his back as he looks down at Din. “You’re really something, ain’t you? Something really special? I wonder what you’re really like, who you really are, without that armour of yours. Now, I kept that helmet on out of the kindness of my own heart, but know that I can change my mind at any moment, so let’s say you answer my questions from here on out. Let’s start simple: what’s your name, my friend?”

Brown eyes. He scoffs a bit to himself at the memory, the wild light in Mayfield's eyes. On the lieutenant's belt, a com beeps red, an urgent message coming through. The man doesn’t even pay it an inch of mind, but something is crawling in the back of Din's mind. 

Someone will figure out he’s gone soon enough. Whether by Trika or the New Republic organising it, or if he’s lucky, Shand or Fett will notice he's off the wanted register after undoubtedly being on it. And if these sons of bitches are lucky, they’ll be the ones to find them. Fennec’s got her things, but she doesn’t play with her food. 

He tilts his head a bit, unable to bite back his smile. Dey's eyebrows are arched as he awaits an answer, but Din’s real casual now. “Who do you think I am? Look to your precious stories and tell me what you think I am, and then I will tell you the truth.”

His brow furrows, the confident mask slipping just a bit. He glanced back for a second, gnawing at his bottom lip with his teeth in contemplation. Din can see the moment he resigns himself with a sigh and asks, “What do you mean?”

“You’re a smart man who's wondering who I really am. Surely you’ve got some sort of theory about me? About who or what I am, so, tell me, who do you think I am?”

Dey’s got the why am I going along with this face on him. “Well, you’re a human male, blood tests confirmed. You’re a good fighter and by all reports, are quite soft-spoken. But if I had to fathom a guess beyond what I know to be fact, it would be something like this.” He sets his hands on the table.

“You’ve got some of the purest Beskar I’ve ever seen, and the amount on you makes me think you’re probably pretty high up in Mando society. The fact that you left the guild tells me you probably got a better offer somewhere else. So here’s what I think: you’re that Mando king's personal attack dog and the king pays you with weapons and good Beskar. You’re high up in the ranks, aren’t you, Mando?”

“You could say something like that,” he agrees. “Not bad, Lieutenant.”

“What’s your name?”

“Don’t have one.”

He slams his hands on the table, and Din barely flinches, smile growing wider as Dey’s friendly mask starts to bleed away, as those eyes become steel that longs to be washed in blood. “Everybody’s got a name, Mando.”

“That’s my name; Mando. Don’t have any other name that matters.” Din’ika, his mind throws around, remembering how it sounds on Trika’s lips, remembering how Fett says Djarin like it’s a badge of honour. 

“Then what do your friends like Boba Fett call you, hm?”

“Mando, most of the time.” Come here, Djarin. You’re not escaping the festivities.  

“Wouldn’t calling another Mandalorian, Mando, be a bit weird?”

Din tilts his head, “Who said Boba Fett is a Mandalorian?”

“He wears the armour of one, no?”

“To honour his father who was a Mandalorian. Fett cares nothing for the tenets of Mandalorian life. He may wear the armour and speak our language, but he swears his loyalty to no one but himself,” Din shrugs. “He’s never pretended to be a Mandalorian.”

Dey snorts his comm beeping again. He continues to ignore it as he circles Din. “Fine, no name then. Where are you from, Mando? Mandalore I assume?”

He thinks of Aq Vetina. He thinks of Nevarro and the endless sprawl of tunnels underneath people's feet. He thinks of the gold-washed memories that have been clawing for acknowledgement for the past few weeks. “Yeah,” he says, something tight in his chest, “Something like that.”

“It must have been hard, living through the great purge. I bet it’s relieving, seeing your people come home.” He closes his eyes, so grateful for his helmet as he pushes his few memories of the Great Purge away. 

“Of course,” he agrees. “The songs they sing of those dark years put all other stories to shame. The pain still lingers, and our home is still scarred. Why wouldn’t I carry the pain of my people being wiped out of life, the pain of the planet that I am the son of being desecrated?”

Sundari, as he first saw it. Destroyed. A ruin. A titan brought to her knees, a memory that he whispered more than anything to see restored, a memory that is just now stepping out of the fog of her destruction. A titan whose heart will always carry the scars of her journey, scars that will never heal. 

Dey sits on the edge of the table looking down at Din, who continues to stare straight ahead. “We almost turned you over to your king, Mando. Had her comm link right in the palm of my hand, but I think she can wait her turn to deal out punishment. What do you think she’s going to do?”

“Really?” Din drawls. The guy’s a good liar, but he knows damn well that he’s done none of that because the Mand’alor is sitting right across from him and he doesn’t even know it. Te Mand’alor joruur at jurir mhi bal vi kelir shekemir te Mand’alor ga'amur!

Wait. “She ?”

Dey looks amused, “You’re really not that high up, are you? Bo-Katan Kryze is the King of Mandalore.”

Oh. Oh. 

Din bursts into laughter. He’s almost hyperventilating behind his helmet, tears in his eyes as he presses back into his chair and howls with laughter, Dey looking on with a face that is rapidly losing its haughty gleam. “Dear Ka’ra you’re stupid!”

“Excuse me?”

Din is about to reply, and tell the man of the massive error he’s just made, when an officer steps to the door and speaks, “Sir, there’s Mandalorians here. I’ve been calling you for the past ten minutes.”

Dey finally looks down at his belt, where his comm is still beeping red. Din tilts his head at it. With a heavy sigh and a furious look at Din, he turns on his heel and leaves the interrogation room, not once looking back at the prisoner he keeps. The other officer glances at him for a long moment before following, leaving nothing more than two guards behind. 

•⇷★⇸•

An interlude:

Since Din was first found by Kyra and Trika at the tender age of seven or so, he’s lived his life in accordance with six rules. The resol’nare is burned into his bones, has formed his DNA, and has dictated every decision he’s made since then.  He is a Mandalorian, and that means that he follows.

The first five rules are understood by many people, even aruetiise, understand. They see Mandalorians wear the armour of their people and they hear them speak Mando’a. They see the children they raise under the creed, and they hear stories of Mandlarians dying for their clans and breaking their backs to provide for them. They have seen them in action.

Rule six is different. It is every Mandalorian’s sacred duty, every child of Mandalore’s vow, that they will follow the Mand’alor, the sole ruler, to battle, and to death. The call of the Mand’alor cannot be ignored, no cause set forth by the one lord can be allowed to fail without bloodshed. Even in the convert on Nevarro, the hopeful few that still existed would whisper about their belief that one day a true Mand’alor would rise and sound the horn of war once more. 

There hasn’t been a true Mand’alor in far too long. The mask is lost. Darjetti and corrupted men have carried the King’s sabre, the children of Mandalore have received no peace in the stars beyond. They walked on into a desecrated and divided culture. 

There is one now. The Mask is still lost and will be for a very long time, but the sabre remains, held high into the sky, the black expanse of its blade glimmering in the reflection of his beskar. Din Djarin, son of Mandalore, child of the dead, has rebirthed himself anew in the Living Waters and made an oath to his planet and his people, Ni cuy' te adate. Ner ga'amur cuyir te adate. Ni vaabir meg Ni vaabir par te adate. Te adate cuyir ni.

In a thousand years, there will still be a Mand’alor, and the blood of Mandalore will live on, even when his own call has faded into the stars, leaving nothing but the echoes that come with death. There will always be children of Mandalore, even when he is dust in the sands. 

But now, he is a young king, and he has the loyalty and love of his people. They come for him, in his captivity, chasing the stars for their king and the man they’ve sworn all fealty to. Through the eternal night of space, owls fly. Through their bodies, the resol’nare burns bright and hot, a torch through the fog, a path in the underbrush.

Gar cuyir ner Alor bal Mand’alor, bal ni kelir shekemir gar till te kyr be ca'nara.  

•⇷★⇸•

There’s one universal truth about Beskar and that is that Beskar shines under light. No matter the amount of paint, no matter the brightness of the light, Beskar will reflect all light that comes in contact with it, giving the metal its signature shine. 

That is the first thing that tells him they’re approaching. The walls of his prison are shiny as well, the lights so bright that he catches a glimpse of the glare, the light bouncing around. There’s also the fact that he can hear Dey’s nervous ramble, something that causes him to tilt his head in curiosity. 

“...I understand that you likely have some desire to doll out your own punishments, but this is a prisoner of The New Republic and you boarded this ship without prior approval. I mean no disrespect, of course, your Majesty, but you have created a rather tense political situation here.”

They’re at the door. Dey is standing there, his smooth façade slowly melting against the T-visor-stares of five armed to the teeth and fully kitted out Mandalorian Warriors. Bo-Katan Kryze herself is at the front of the group, her helmet on and her body language not letting anything slip. The eyes on her helmet stare the Interrogator down. 

It’s always been quite funny to Din, the way the best of the best will fall apart in the presence of a Mandalorian. He’s seen some of the best hunters in the Galaxy grow nervous under the gaze of Fett’s black visor staring them down, remembers how they almost always give away their nervousness and glance at him when he lurks in the shadows of the Throne Room of Boba Fett. 

Lieutenant Aneurin Dey is a soldier turned interrogator. His eyes are dark and steady, his questions precise and chilling, his tone the type that slips under your skin and makes your insides crawl. And yet here he is, sweaty and pale…like he’s done something wrong. Like the presence of these Mandalorian threatens something, somehow.

Din sits up a bit, making a mental note of the unorthodoxy of the past few days. Drugging. Ambush. Destruction of private property. Allowing their target to run around in their sights, luring him into a trap and possibly using innocent civilians to drug him. He could chalk it up to careful awareness of the legends of Mandalorians, but there is something fundamentally wrong here. He was at a disadvantage, so why the fuck didn’t they take the damn bait?

“This is a diplomatic situation, Lieutenant,” Kryze snarls, pressing close to him. “Just not in the way you think. A little birdie just told me that you are operating without orders and that not a single member of the New Republic Government–who has proper authority–sanctioned you here.”

“I am here at the request of the Senator of M—”

“I don’t care what Senator sent you here, because they certainly don’t have the proper authority to allow the drugging, kidnapping, assault, and interrogation of a King. That power lies solely in the Chancellor, not some Senator. Unhand the Mand’alor now, or I make an example of you to the enemies of Mandalore.”

Silence reigns. Dey has gone very, very pale, his dark eyes glancing between Bo-Katan Kryze, the woman he, and likely his ill-informed senator, thought to be the ruler of Mandalore and the real ruler of Mandalore. The one he’s stripped of his armour and dignity and has cuffed to a table like a common criminal. He stares at Din for a long moment, who raises his hands as best he can and gives a little wave.

“Yes, of course, I am so deeply sorry–”

Her blaster meets the bottom of his chin. “I don’t care.” She jerks her head back. “Give the keys to us, and get out of here before I decide that it’s time for target practice.” Dey, a soldier who has undoubtedly seen the dredges of the war, a head interrogator for the New Republic, is still a man. He nods quickly and rushes off before Kryze could change her mind, throwing the keys behind him. 

The doors open in an instant, the cuffs off just as quick. To Din’s surprise, Paz is at his side in an instant, throwing his arm over his shoulder and hosting him up. Vertigo rushes over Din, whatever last traces of the drugs that they’ve been pumping into him making themself known. But Koska slips in just as fast, and he limps along, strung between his vod and Koska.

“You okay? ” Paz whispers to him in soft Mando’a.

He nods, “They drugged me good. Still working through the remains. I’ll be fine, don’t worry. ”

He hears Koska snort, whispering conspiratorially between Paz and Din, “I’m more worried about what Bo’s gonna do to the sorry sons of bitches who kidnapped you. ”

“I wasn't really kidnapped, I was arrested. There’s a difference. ”

“You have diplomatic immunity, so yea, it’s kidnapping. ”

“I do? ”

“If you three are done whispering like school girls, could you please take Din to the ship so we can get going?” Kryze calls from in front of them.

Paz nods smartly, “Yep, right away.”

She looks at Koska, who agrees with him, but Din is more focused on other things, “I assume you are going to retrieve my weapons and armour? Or are you just going to leave me in nothing but my buy’ce and kute? ”

Kryze nods. “Axe and your mother went to grab them while we grabbed you. We have another patrol getting your ship at least functional enough to get to the freighter. Once they’re done and you’re on board, we’ll be out of here.”

“My mother is here? ” He shrugs off Koska and Paz and slightly limps up to Kryze, who just tilts her head. “She’s injured, why is she here? Did she not make it to Mandalore?”

“She did make it, but right as she was getting better, the information came by. She insisted on coming along,” Kryze tells him with a comforting hand on his shoulder. “She’s fine, and she’s excited to see you.” 

Something tugs at the back of his mind, something that he’s desperate to learn, pieces he still needs to put together, but he’s too goddamn exhausted to ask, so he just nods, smiling a bit when Paz chimes in, “And have you tried to argue with her before? You literally cannot tell her to do anything she doesn’t want to do.”

He turns to stare at him, “Yes, Paz, I am. I was indeed raised by her for just over a decade.” Paz laughs, and it makes Din remember that decade, back before he was the only Beroya, when the creed still felt right and he, Paz, and Asa were still young and fully naïve, before Trika and Kyra left, before Asa became the Armourer and was burdened with a truth that she didn’t have the heart to acknowledge. 

When he thinks back to those years, the memories comes in catches and flashes. Lit by fire and washed in gold he remembers everyone being, remembers the warmth of youth and companionship and having a family. He remembers he and Paz before they grew old and bitter and separated before they burned the bridges that they're just now rebuilding with oaths of loyalty and undying fealty. 

The memories are covered in a blanket of innocence, or as much that can exist in childhood under The Watch. But no matter what anyone else says about his upbringing, the past his covert comes from, he’s never going to be able to see these memories as anything other than perfect and pure and something he would go to the ends of the Galaxy to return to. 

The people of his memories are almost all gone, having walked on. Every morning he wakes up and whispers, Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum, their names held in reverence, prayers to the council of Kings in the stars, reverence for the promise of the Manda. People die in his arms and he remembers the sound of Kyra telling him that when Mando’ade died they were Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.

•⇷★⇸•

It ends like this.

The lights of the freighter are not gold. There is no fire, and the medicine Trika rubs against the scrapes around his wrists is uncomfortably cold. The world is grey and all that’s left of his family is Trika, tired and carrying a weight he knows she isn’t ready to unravel.

But her hands are warm, her voice is richer than any metal, and when he looks behind her, he sees her buy’ce, freshly painted and shining like it’s fresh out of the forge. She combs back a few stray hairs when she finishes, her brows drawn together as she looks at him.

“How long?” He finally asks, the tugging that’s been bothering him since Kryze first mentioned her forming into a question, the long spans of time he isn’t aware of needing to be answered.

“Seventeen days,” his heart sinks. It isn’t ridiculous, out of all possibility, and he has begun to realise that he must have been out for a while after the crash, the adrenaline blinding him to his hunger and his body's basic needs falling away with every sip of Spotchka. It makes sense. Mandalorians are fast, but to find a New Republic ship holding a high-profile prisoner takes time and care, even with information. Seventeen days, his mind repeats.

It’s been four months since his coronation, and if he had to guess, in less than two months, he’s going to sign himself into a Republic that desires to cage the wild shereshoy of his people, quell the fires that burn hot and bright.

He looks out at the stars as they bleed by, the weight he’s been carrying finally settling comfortably in his stomach. People know who he is now, and Dey is a talker. He likes telling stories, and this is one he won’t be able to pass up; a Mandalorian in pure unpainted beskar is the ruler of them all. A criminal presides over the most elite race of warriors the Galaxy has ever known. A killer is the leader of a people whose religion mandates bloodshed. He is the Lord who has a fey light in his eyes. 

He is the brother, friend, and ally to Boba Fett, son of Jango Fett, son of Mandalore, the man who gave way to the most elite army in centuries. People say if you look into the shadows of the Daimyo’s throne room, you will find him lurking there, like an attack dog itching to be let off his leash. 

The King of Mandalore is a warrior straight out of the legends of the Galaxy, carrying a sword that whispers to Manda’yaim’s enemies in the dark and a spear of pure Beskar gifted by a Jetti, and who fears no corner of the Galaxy. 

It’s a good story. Dey’s going to spread it far and wide. And with those stories, people will remember what was once fact, they will remember who The Mandalorian people are and what they come from. Din is not a pacifist like Satine Kryze once was but he will not rule with a violence born from terror. He will rule with a firm hand and the violence of Mandalorians will not be for glory, but for the good of the people, and for the hope that the blood of Mandalore will survive.  

Din’s counting on it.