Chapter Text
Jon’s face was sticky with blood.
Hands were under his arms, dragging him through drab, grey halls. His leg bumped against a corner, and he bites down on his cheek as pain shoots up into his chest.
His mouth ached. He’d bitten into his bottom lip the worst. The copper in his mouth was a strong taste-but he thinks most of it had dripped down from his nose.
Automatic doors hiss open, and Jon is thrown to his knees. He barely manages to keep himself upright, catching himself on his palms.
A scoff comes from above him, and he lifts his head just enough to see. He was surrounded by the same black and blue armor as he’s been in the entirety of his… stay, with the group. But one sat meer feet in front of him, sprawled on a throne.
The Mandalorian locks eyes with him through Jon’s bangs, a sneer burnt onto his face.
The man leans forward, grasping Jon’s chin and forcing his head all the way up.
“Jetti.”
Jon bares his teeth at him. The man snarls back, maintaining his grip as he begins to speak, “Do you know who I am?”
Not responding he simply glares back. Clearly taking this as an invitation to stroke his ego, the Mandalorian continues to speak in his oddly grating voice, “I am Tor Vizsla, Alor of Kyr’tsad, Mand’alor.”
Ah. Death Watch. Explains quite a bit, actually-he’d been assuming this was a off-shoot group. He’d known it couldn’t be the Haat’ade, considering the Alor of their faction's attitude towards Jedi. Generally sympathetic, that is.
Death Watch, however, made considerably more sense. They had the resources that a smaller group of radicals would not. They also were very much looking for an alliance with The Empire, and clearing out the last of the Jedi would give them some serious brownie points.
And to be blunt, they also hated force users. With a passion.
His head is shaken, and he wearily lifts his eyes to look at Vizsla once again. “Are you even listening, Jetti? I am going to execute you.”
Jon stares back at him. Expression staying carefully blank, he allows his utter apathy at the concept to leak through.
Letting himself drift, his eyes focused on something behind Vizsla. It was a saber, propped up on the arm of the throne. Part of him wonders distantly if maybe the kyber would be willing to have a conversation-the hilt itself is clearly ancient.
Falling deeper, he tries to tug on the force. The collar around his throat burns. Behind his eyes aches.
The hand on his chin tightened and he was abruptly being thrown to the side, hitting the ground with a cut-off yelp of pain. “Did you di’kut’s give him brain damage?! You’ve had him for nearly 2 months now and you haven’t even managed to get any information!”
Jon curled in on himself, trying to tuck his head close to his chest. Before he could, however, his upper arm is grabbed and he’s hauled to his feet.
A sigh. Jon’s other arm is grabbed. “Take him to the transport ship.”
The cell is cold, the metal is hard, and Jon cannot grasp the force. He cannot sense the force. The ship rattles from hyperspeed.
His hands are cuffed infront of him which makes moving somewhat easier. The collar sits snuggly around his throat, and his head aches. It felt a bit like an icepick was being drove through his skull. The force is not there. It does not comfort him, he cannot feel Fay or Knol or Nico or Tae.
They aren’t there.
He tries to grab at it again, his cheek pressed into the stone below him.
The muscle to touch the force is not there, and he clenches his eyes closed. He can withstand this. He’s fine. It’s okay. The Dark Woman taught him to resist force suppression.
He’s fine.
“I… I am here. I am… present. I am alive. The.. force flows through me. I am one, I am connected… I am..” His breath hitches.
Attempting to continue, he only finds himself able to get two words in before his breath gets stuck in his chest, and he stuffs his sleeve into his mouth, biting down hard.
Whatever happens, he refuses to cry. He refuses to give his captors that.
He breathes. He tries to grasp for Fay, for an anchor-and like it has been, nothing reaches back. The bond slips out of his fingers, and he exhales sharply into the fabric of his sleeve.
Then, a wailing siren comes from the other side of the bars. Jon just groans as the noise and flashing lights sends a jolt of pain through his head. Letting his head thud down, he tucks his eyes into his elbow.
The ship had been basically rattling itself to pieces during the jump to hyperspace. It was falling to pieces when Jon had been moved into it. Perhaps a panel fell off the side.
Then the ship bucks, and he’s yanked to the side, nearly hitting the wall.
The rattle of hyperspeed cuts off with it, and Jon pulls himself upright. With the siren drilling a hole into his brain, he carefully shuffles into the corner of the cell.
The ship hitches again, but this time only Jon’s head jerks forwards. Carefully, he braces himself in a small ball.
Metal hits metal as a few Kyr’tsad run past him, presumably towards the cockpit.
He inhales.
The ship shakes.
He exhales.
The collar around his throat seems to tighten.
The blast doors slide open, and there’s a beep as his cell door is opened. “Get up, Jetti.”
Jon lifts his head. The silhouette of a Mandalorian greets him, the red lights flashing behind them. He sets his head back down.
A snarl of anger and a hand grabs his arm, hauling him to his feet. Jon slumps, letting the kyr’tsad soldier take his full weight. He’s dragged somewhat carelessly, the cuffs digging into his skin.
He’s hauled into the cargo bay, a wide open space. There aren’t many materials, and he only sees about 7 kyr’tsad. An airlock is visible, and a window reveals a large ship pulling in to engage.
The hand on his arm tosses him forward, and he hits the floor before being pulled upwards against the chest of the Mando. A blaster is tucked under his chin. “Don’t move."
A ship locks into the airlock. There’s the hiss of decompression. The doors begin to open. A mist drifts out.
Through the shadows and fog, steps a mandalorian in bright, neon blue armor. “ Jatne vod, tionjor gar keburr adol araniik veeray? ” 1 The newcomer looks up from their pad. They stare at the blue and grey armored mandalorians. They make eye contact with Jon through their visor. The fog in Jon’s head thickens.
The cold muzzle of the blaster is digging into his chin. He’s pretty sure the kyr’tsad soldier holding him is using a hutt perfume, the one Nico cries over having to wear while undercover.
A second mando in orange sticks his head through the airlock door, “Yo, di’kut-”
Silence falls once again. The arm around Jon tightens, and he bites his lip as pain shoots up from his bruised ribs. “Garoor kaysh kovid bechaaji meh gar shaadlar. Tayil’bac?” 2
Neon raises their hands slowly, and Orange just stares in shock before also raising his. Distantly, Jon recognizes him briefly tapping something on his vambrace. When the kyr’tsad don’t say anything he has to hold back a sigh of relief. Looks like nobody is getting shot.
..Yet.
He’s not particularly optimistic about the next couple of hours.
The metal armor digging into his stomach jolts, and he wheezes slightly as he is abruptly yanked to the side, tossed rather carelessly into the arms of another mando. Within seconds he has a new, not-as-warm blaster muzzle pressing to the side of his head.
He watches as Blue’s helmet is torn off, and reveals a middle-aged zabrak. They snarl at the kyr’tsad, and the helmet of Orange is not removed when Blue snaps at the fingers of the soldier who attempts to take their companions. The light shines on their sharp teeth.
The blaster under his chin is adjusted as the soldier holding him gets a fistfull of his hair. Jon wonders how large of a threat they think he is. He can’t even access the force.
Yknow, even if he’s a jedi, he’s currently probably looks a bit like a drowned rat. It's been a month since he’s properly eaten. Longer since the last shower. He is pitiful. He is a bargain bin jedi.
Knol did pick him off the street like a stray cat.
His mental wanderings are interrupted as he’s shoved to his knees next to the two new mandos. Distantly, he’s aware of the fact that there’s still dried blood on his face. Force, they never bother to clean it off-and he’s shoved enough to directly collide with Orange
They are both steadied by Blue, and Jon mutters quietly to both of them, “Metiv.” 3
One of the soldiers laughs, and most start walking towards the airlock. Presumably to loot the newcomers ship. Three stay behind to wave their guns around menacingly.
Blue looks at him carefully, and leans forward slightly. “You speak Mando’a? Or Republic Basic?”
Jon licks his lips, forcing his knowledge of Basic to the surface. “Uh-Basic. Bits and pieces of Mando’a.” It has been months since he last needed to speak Basic. It had been awhile since he’d last needed to hide his accent, so it leached through.
Solemnly, Blue nodded. “I’m fluent in Basic. Fortunately. This would be much more difficult if not.”
Orange shuffles slightly, turning his head towards Blue and asking a question in fast-paced mando’a. Blue nods, and turns to Jon. “How long have they had you?”
Uh.
“Uh.”
Yikes. They're both staring at him. Blue looks confused. Uh. The blood in his hair itches uncomfortably. The longer this takes the more concern starts to grow on Blue’s face. Kriff. Orange’s visor stares at him with judgment in the dark, reflective surface.
“..What’s the date?”
Orange turns his head to Blue. Blue shrugs. Orange responds, in sloppy Basic. “Third month, 34th day. Centaxday.”
Jon stares. He. Hm. Man, Knol was going to kick his ass for missing Fay’s… He can’t remember how old she’s turning. It’s something ridiculous. Either way he missed Fay’s birthday.
Knol’s gonna kill him.
Laughter from his right jars him slightly, and he realized he’d said that out loud. Blue shuffles on their knees slightly, and-Orange speaks up, cutting off whatever the zabrak was about to say. “I am Daer. My ori’vod, Tevan. Tion gar gai?”
Names to put to the faces. He can grasp the question with the context. “Jon.”
A grin from Blu-Tevan. “Well met, Jon.”
There’s a brief silence. The kyr’tsad soldiers are all clearly on comms, and Jon turns his head towards Tevan.
“..What does ori’vod mean?”