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Chapter Text

CHAPTER 1 | War.

War was not glory. There was no fortune among the dead that littered the smolder battlefield. She took no pleasure in the bloodshed — in the icy grip of death as it closed in upon the hundreds of soldiers huddled behind the feeble barricades erected on the opposite side of the battlefield. It was a horrible, merciless necessity. Nothing more, nothing less.

Her lightsabers were heavy in her hands, the hilts slick with blood. The blade, a deep, calming orange reminiscent of the Courscanti sunset, cast an ominous glow upon the smoke and dust choking the air. All around her, the pained cries of soldiers — good men and women risking their lives to stop the advancing Mandalorian invaders — echoed above the roaring of the battle overhead. They were dying, their presence in the Force fading faster than she could grasp, the list of casualties growing longer by the minute.

Questions encircled her thoughts, each as heavy and devastating as the bombs striking the blood-soaked earth. The stench of burnt flesh and ozone clung to the air. She tasted it on her tongue, a weighty acrid taste that set her mouth alight with every breath she drew. The pungency of war. Of violence. Of death.

Tel fought to prevent it — to put an end to the carnage and the hallow ache that blossomed within her chest with every world that fell to the Mandalorian conquest. The Jedi Council refused the Republic's plead for aid. Were they right to do so? Had he made the right decision when she defied their greater wisdom and left to join the war? How many of these deaths were her fault?

"General Agarwin! We can't take much more of this! If we don't retreat soon, they'll overwhelm us!"

Tel couldn't place a name with the voice. She struggled to hear it above the din of battle — the screams, the explosions, the thunderous drone of ships overhead. Somewhere off to her right, a thermal detonator exploded, soldiers crying out in anguish as their presence faded beyond her awareness. More dead. Even more dying.

She released a sharp huff through her nose. They had limited options. Until Revan and Malak dealt with the fleet overhead and lessened the heat of the cannon fire, it would be impossible to get a ship off the ground. Under Revan's command, the Republic forces fought the Mandalorians to a standstill, but when the bombers arrived and unleashed torrents of proton torpedoes, the front lines descended into chaos. The bombardment showed no signs of letting up. It was almost as if the Mandalorians intended to destroy the entire planet to prevent another Republic victory.

Tel knew they would. Long before the start of the war, while the Republic turned a blind eye to their movement and the Jedi ignored the devastation, the Mandalorians wrought havoc on the Outer Rim. They razed and raided worlds, captured and enslaved, and slaughtered without care. The Mandalorians sought victory at any cost; if it meant destroying planets and sacrificing millions of innocent beings to achieve it, they would do so without hesitation.

Belligerent brutes. Murderers and marauders, the lot of them, she thought.

"Fall back!" she barked. "Lure them into the caves. We can't do a blasted thing until Revan's fighters take out those bombers, but we can funnel them through the entrance and pick them off."

A full retreat was not an option. With every able ship focused on the battle above and the continued barrage, the present forces had no means of evacuating her division. She had no choice but to stand and fight — pray like hell Revan's plans worked. They rarely failed, but even she was not infallible.

Though many believed otherwise, she was still human. There were matters that lay even beyond her power, outcomes she couldn't change, variables she couldn't manipulate. She couldn't win every battle; and some had to be lost if the Republic hoped to win the war. Tel hoped this wasn't one of them.

As her troops braved the continued bombardment and fled into the nearby cave system, she remained at the front lines, lightsabers still heavy in her hand. Blaster fire streaked past, blurs of muted red against the smoke. A pair of frag grenades landed at her feet, the tiny red lights blinking rapidly. She could hear the sound in her head, a series of short, staccato beeps growing faster by the second, as she waved her hand and sent them into the Mandalorian front lines. A moment later, they detonated.

Once the last of the soldiers abandoned the barricades, she turned on her heels and followed suit. Regardless of how she felt about the matter — the war, the death, the bloody carnage — there was a time and place to dwell on such matters. It was not in the middle of battle, where her mere presence had too great of an impact. She was a Jedi, a Knight of the Order, a symbol of peace, a leader; a beacon of hope in an otherwise dismal war with no end in sight. If she faltered, so would the soldiers.

As she wove through the battlefield, dodging bodies, missiles, and blaster fire alike, she repeated the Code and forced all other thoughts aside.

There is no emotion, there is peace.

A sudden, blinding pain swept over her. A strangled cry tore from her lips as her knees buckled. In the distance, there was an echo, a violent tremor in the Force; a chorus of hundreds of screaming voices that fell silent a moment later. She knew that feeling well. She felt it during the early days of the war, when Revan's plans to defy the Council were little more than whispers among the Padawans and the fear of war held the galaxy in a vice grip. It was death of a catastrophic scale, a sudden, gaping wound in the Force that resonated with the final moments of hundreds, if not thousands, of lives.

It stole her breath away, a twisting knife buried deep between her rips. The world dimmed, the battle a distant, ringing hum in her hears. Time slowed, each second an eternity in passing. It was blinding — the fear, the death, the rumbling shock wave of a nuclear bomb devastating an entire civilization in a matter of seconds. Someone called her name, the voice tinny and distorted as if spoken through a modulator. The commlink on her wrist flashed, the telltale beeping lost beneath the clamor of war. Holding her arm closer to her ear, she stumbled to her feet and ducked behind a downed starfighter as another round of proton missiles erupted around her.

"Tel, get your men and get out of there! We're retreating! Head for the evac, now!"

"Revan? What...?"

Revan's response came in interment pieces. "City destroyed... lost two ships... Tel, answer me! Blaster... jamming comms... I can't..."

Her voice dissolved in a shower of static.

The note of panic in Revan's voice set her stomach in a frenzy. She was calm, poised, and graceful as a Jedi should be, a once stunning example the Masters looked upon with pride; steadfast and unbothered even before the greatest of threats. Something far more significant than another city lost rattled her.

That was not a good sign.

With the dismantlement of the front lines, the Mandalorian ground forces pushed forward. She called upon the Force for aid and hurried across the battlefield, issuing the retreat order to anyone within earshot. Panic overwhelmed her senses as the soldiers scrambled, the passing of the order lost beneath a sudden round of blaster fire. A group of heavily armored Mandalorians, armed with vibroblades and repeating cannons, quickly overtook the retreating soldiers.

"We won't make it to the ship!" the panicked cry of a soldier broke above the calamity.

With a deft flick of a lightsaber, a low whine and a flash of orange, she deflected several of the bolts. One struck a Mandalorian woman in the crevice between her neck and helmet. She stumbled, the life slipping from her body before she hit the ground. Another stuck a larger man in the helmet. Though it bounced harmlessly off the beskar, it disrupted his focus, sending the multitude shots from his repeating blaster wide.

"If you have time to panic, you have time to run," she snapped. "Get moving, solider. None of you are to die on me, understand?"

The soldier's response disappeared beneath the thundering explosion of another round of proton missiles. Lowering her lightsabers, she drew in a deep, calming breath and turned her focus inward. She felt a tugging deep in her core as a sudden wealth of power spread through her like a rush of water across a sandy shore. It shot through her, from her chest to her arm, then pooled in the tips of her fingers. She raised her hand to the sky, and with a deep, deliberate exhale, allowed the power to flow outward.

Like an invisible blast, the Force rippled across the battlefield and slammed into the advancing Mandalorians. A chorus of startled cries and a string of angry Mando'a rose from the group as the front of the line careened backwards. The sound of falling weapons and the clanking of beskar offered a momentary respite from the constant drone of blaster fire.

Turning on her heels, she hurried after the retreating Republic soldiers. The evac ship was in sight, a hazy silhouette behind a smoky screen of dust and debris.

Another bout of blinding pain crashed over her, only this time it was not a sudden rent in the force, but a searing heat that slammed into her without warning. The ground disappeared, a sense of weightlessness taking over and then, with enough force to drive the air from her lungs, she hit the ground. Her temple slammed into something solid, a sharpened edge biting into her skin. Dark spots danced across her blurred vision. A sharp, grating ring echoed in her ears. Her awareness dimmed, the Force muffled and distorted, as distant and muted as the battle raging around her.

Was this how it happened? Was she fated to be a casualty of war? Another victim of the senseless slaughter? When she agreed to defy the Council's wishes and followed Revan to war, she knew she'd meet her end sooner than most; sooner, she found, came far more quickly than she would've liked.

As darkness crept across her vision, the final line of the Code drifted through her fading consciousness, a fragmented thought lost among the growing haze in her mind.

There is no death, there is the Force.

Then there was nothing.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 2 | Detour.

The Razor Crest was quickly becoming more trouble than it was worth.

Din sighed, and for the hundredth time that hour, glanced at the console to investigate yet another warning alarm blaring in his ears. The sound had become all too frequent these days; it seemed every time he breathed, one problem or another required his immediate attention. If it wasn’t a false alarm triggered by the karked wiring from his hasty repairs a few hours prior, the shields weren’t operating properly or the proximity alarm tripped over every space rock that flew past.

All systems were operational (but certainly not running at peak efficiency — they never were). No leaks, missing parts, or external damage.

Low fuel.

He cursed, then turned to the navcomputer. The nearest inhabited planet, a remote moon by the name of Scol, which orbited the fourth planet in the Antir system, was several hours away. By his estimates, the Crest had just enough fuel in the tanks to make the jump, though he’d have to make the landing running on fumes.

Din weighed his options, though he knew he had none. The longer he lingered in the sector, the more time his pursuers had to catch up. They’d inevitably find him adrift in space if he didn’t refuel. He’d rather they find him planet side, despite the hassle, than a sitting mynock, though neither was preferable. He’d much rather make straight for Nevarro and save himself both the trouble and the credits.

With another curse, he set the ship on course for Scol. The moment the Crest entered hyperspace, and he was certain the navcomputer hadn’t short-circuited since he last used it, he slipped out of the pilot’s chair and hurried down the ladder which led to the hold. He landed on a loose floor panel; the metal creaked as it shifted beneath his weight, and he made a mental note to be more selective about future mechanics. The last nerf-herder to touch the ship caused more damage than he had repaired.

Halfway through the ship’s interior, a small bundle of green and brown peaked out from behind a stack of crates, his wide, brown eyes alight with curiosity. His large, pointed ears twitched — a slight, downward motion Din had learned was more of a question than an attempt to hear — and shuffled into the walkway. Scattered crumbs from a ration bar littered his tiny green face.

“You were supposed to be asleep,” the Mandalorian chided as he leaned down and lifted the Child into his arms.

The Child cooed, the sound halfway between apologetic and indignant.

Din didn’t understand a word of it; he never did. Still, the Child was skilled enough at conveying the general tone of his thoughts and it was all too easy to replace the alien babbling with something akin to a complaint or a refusal to cooperate. The Child never listened.

“Well,” Din said as he set the Child in his pram, “might as well go back to sleep. It’s going to be another long, boring ride.”

With the Child safely tucked away inside the pram and moved to an out of the way corner, the Din busied himself with the ship, fixing the botched repairs and other minor issues the mechanic failed to address. If he weren’t in a hurry, desperate to stay ahead of the hunters clamoring after the Child, he’d turn the ship around and demand his credits back. A pack of blindfolded Jawas armed with half a hydrospanner and a toothpick could’ve done a better job.

Din preferred to work in solitude, but with the recent acquisition of the Child and the growing need for constant repairs, he could use an extra set of hands aboard the ship. Mechanics were a credit a dozen, especially in the Outer Rim, but a good and trustworthy one would be difficult to find. The few he considered refused the offer.

What he truly needed was a caretaker — someone who could look after the Child when his endeavor to return him to his kind inevitably pulled him into jobs and situations far too dangerous for a Foundling. That would be far more difficult to find; there were only a handful of people he’d trust with the Child’s life and they had no desire to accompany him either. Din was more than capable of managing on his own — he’d done well enough so far — though the help wouldn’t be unappreciated.

Two hours into repairing the wiring, the sound of the pram opening pulled a sigh from him. He heard the Child approach, the shuffle of his robes amplified by the relative silence of the hold. A weight settled against his leg, and when he craned his neck to peer out of the wall panel, he found the Child leaning against his thigh, ears drooping as his eyes fluttered closed.

Din chuckled.

Several months ago, if anyone told him he’d be gallivanting through space, dodging bounty hunters and Imperial remnants, with a Foundling at his side, he wouldn’t have believed them. While raising the next generation was a duty demanded of all Mandalorians, Din never quite imagined the responsibility would fall solely on his shoulders. It took a village to raise a child, as they said, and the members of the covert were equally responsible for the upbringing of any Foundlings under their care. No one Mandalorian raised him, and he’d assumed it would be the same for every other Foundling.

But the covert was gone, dead or scattered across the galaxy, and this child — his child — was not a typical Foundling. There would come a day when the Child left his care, possibly for good. Din tried not to dwell on that matter; the longer he spent hunting down an elusive order of alleged sorcerers, the more he found he welcomed the diversions. They were annoying and rather costly, but they forestalled the dreaded day of the Child’s departure, if only just.

If it meant he had one more day with the little womprat, he’d gladly spend hours fixing the infuriating mess of bungled cables courtesy of a third-rate mechanic.

•·················•·················•

By the time the proximity alarm sounded and the ship pulled out of hyperspace, Din was certain the last mechanic robbed him — and not only of his credits. Several weapons were missing from the storage cabinet and there was a crate of explosives that had mysteriously vanished since he last checked the stores. He cursed his luck, then cursed again.

Just as he leaned down to scoop up the Child, the Child bolted upright, ears perked and eyes wide. A frown tugged at Din’s lips. The Child didn’t startle easily; loud noises, dicey landings, and even the constant barrage of cannon-fire didn’t rattle him (in fact, he seemed to enjoy the wild banking and turning of the ship, his little arms raised as if he were on an amusement park ride). Yet, he sat up with such an urgency, his eyes wide as saucers, that Din hesitated.

The Child had an uncanny knack for sensing danger before it approached and Din learned to heed the signs. The look on his face, however, wasn’t one of concern, but verging on bewilderment. He blinked, almost as if he weren’t entirely aware of his surroundings, then slowly turned to look at the cockpit ladder.

“We dropped out of hyperspace,” Din said as he pulled the Child into his arms.

The Child said nothing; he merely stared at the ladder, his face now scrunched with concentration.

Din ascended the ladder and set the Child in his seat behind the pilot’s chair, safely buckled for what he hoped would be an easy landing. As expected, the last dregs of vapor kept the ship running, the fuel gage red and blinking with urgency. He disengaged the autopilot and guided the ship towards the spaceport.

From orbit, Scol appeared a swirling ball of gloomy green and off white. Halfway into their descent, a haze, so thick he could hardly see past it, turned the atmosphere yellow. It lasted for half a mile before the fog gave way to an unimpressive expanse of drab brown pocked with expanses of black water. A swamp planet.

Lovely.

The last time he set foot in a swamp, it took days to scrub the mud from his armor and weeks to remove the stench of rotted detritus and stagnate water from his flight suit. He still caught a whiff of it now and then.

As he guided the ship into the open docking bay (which was less of a bay and more of a clearing walled off with a rickety wooden fence), Din reviewed his game plan. Refuel the ship, locate a mechanic worth the price they demanded, and replenish the ever dwindling stores need to keep the ship running and the Child fed. He might have to take on a job or two to cover the costs if this backwater rock had decent work. He doubted it. The spaceport was hardly large enough to count as a port.

The ship barely touched down before the last of the fumes evaporated and the engines ceased completely.

Better here than in orbit, he thought as he unbuckled the Child and descended into the hold.

With a horrendous groan and a burst of fetid swamp air, the loading ramp clattered to the ground. From the surface, the port looked far worse. Gnarled roots and thorny weeds grew through the massive, meandering cracks in the duracrete landing pad. A thin veil of slim and mud squelched beneath his boots as he stepped off the ramp and into the sticky humidity that choked most swampy worlds.

“I’m surprised she still flies.”

Din’s hand immediately flew to his weapon as a greasy, heavy set man ambled towards him. Oil stains dotted his work jumper. A belt bearing a wide-array of tools hung low on his waist. With critical eyes, he appraised the ship, the corner of his lips twitching every so often. 

“I hope you didn’t pay for those repairs.”

“How much for your best mechanic to work on it and refuel it?” Din asked, a touch of irritation seeping into his words.

The man snorted, his dark eyes wandering over the exterior of the ship. “From what I see now? About fifty thousand credits and four days, give or take. Throw in another fifteen thousand for the fuel. ”

Din released a sharp breath. “Sixty-five thousand? Are you insane?”

The mechanic shrugged. “Fuel’s not cheap these days, especially ‘round here. Nor are the parts. If it’s not salvaged, it has to be imported, and that isn’t cheap either.”

Din supposed he had a point; the galactic economy had collapsed following the destruction of the Empire, and the New Republic cared more for the Core Worlds than the Outer Rim territories. Five thousand credits barely covered the cost of fuel in most places, but fifteen thousand was absurd.

He didn’t have a choice, however; without fuel, the ship wasn’t leaving the spaceport. 

“That’s a baseline, just from looking at it,” the mechanic said. “Might be more, depending on how much work she needs.”

“The forget the repairs and refuel her,” Din bit out. “There any work around here?”

“Try the bounty office in the cantina. Not that’ll do you much good; you won’t find much there. All local. All small. We don’t normally get those big intergalactic bounties out here and when we do, Shaldi’s men get them first.”

“Shaldi?”

The mechanic pulled a face halfway between amusement and disapproval. “Likens herself to a magistrate, though she’s nothing but wanna-be crime lord. You know how Hutts are, I’m sure. Couldn’t make it anywhere else, so she came to this rock and we’ve been stuck with her ever since. If there’s any work to be found, she’ll have it.”

The Mandalorian nodded, slipped the Child into his sling, and exited the space port.

•·················•·················•

Scol was neither a populous nor advanced planet. Scoltown, as the only settlement was called, was a maze of circular mud-brick huts connected by a series of winding dirt roads and shoddy wooden bridges stretched over shallow streams and patches of dense wetland. Plumes of white smoke billowed from the tops of the huts. Discarded oil canisters burned in the streets, casting an ominous orange glow upon the ever present haze.

In some ways, it reminded him of the lower levels of Nar Shaddaa, only it was the weight of the planet’s stench bearing down upon him and not miles of towering highrises. It catered to the same beings; the poor and the nefarious. Their gazes lingered on him as he passed, their eyes greedy and their fingers twitching against their weapons.

He knew he stood out like a bantha in Courscant; his armor was both a means of protection and a magnet for trouble. Beskar fetched a hefty price on the black markets and the pride of defeating a Mandalorian was too much for some to resist. Fortunately, the people of Scol had more sense than most and though they followed his every move, they stayed their hands.

Halfway to the cantina, which loomed on the horizon, the Child stirred. He squirmed in the sling, babbling with assumed agitation. Din placed a hand on his head to soothe him, but to no avail. The Child continued his wordless mumbling and tugged, hard, on the strap of his carrier, his other hand pointed off into the swamp.

“No frogs,” Din said. “I’ll get you something in the cantina.”

The Child made a noise that clearly conveyed his disapproval, but Din ignored his furthered protest; they’d be traipsing through the swamp soon enough, if there was a job to be had.

The cantina, which lay a half-mile from the spaceport, was easy to locate. As the second largest building in the city, a cobbled-together mess of warped durasteel and hardened mud, it towered above the surrounding huts. Throngs of beings loitered about the main entrance, huddled around the burning cannisters, nursing drinks and talking amongst themselves. Loud, albeit muffled, music blared inside the cantina as colored lights danced behind the tinted windows set high into the wall. The stench of smoke and stale alcohol nearly overpowered the rotting vegetation and putrid mud in the nearby pond.

The cantina doors slid open with a hiss. With one hand on his blaster and the other curled around the sling, the Child half hidden beneath his cloak, he stepped into the main entryway. The music thrummed deep in his chest, his armor rattling beneath the force of the heavy bass. A group of Nikto occupied the long table immediately to the left of the entrance, cards and credits splayed across the surface. Near the entrance into the main room, a pair of scantily dressed Twi’leks whispered amongst themselves, craning to peer through the hall every so often.

A circular bar, tended by a heavy set Besalisk, took up most of the central room. Several smaller rooms branched off the main one, and in the far corner behind the bar, Din spotted a set of mud-brick stairs leading to an upper level. Aliens cluttered the tables scattered around the open area surrounding the bar. The cantina oozed nefarious intent; the sort of air he felt only in the worst places in the galaxy.

Din sauntered to the bar, ignoring the quizzical and wary looks from the patrons as he passed, and leaned against the counter. The alien to his right, a twitchy Rodian, inched to the other side of his stool, its large, pupil-less eye firmly rooted on the counter. The Nikto to his left eyed his armor with an appraising eye, but wisely remained seated.

“Something tells me you’re not here for a drink,” the bartender said as he waddled past with a platter of drinks in each of his four hands.

“I’m looking for work,” Din said. The Child shifted in the sling, his tiny hands pushing on the sides, as if to lift himself from his carrier. “And a bowl of bone broth.”

“Bounty office is through the door on the right, but I’d tread carefully if I were you,” the bartender said. He set the trays on the counter, where a young human waitress waited to retrieve them, and shuffled back to the center of the bar with a clay bowl in one of his hands. “Shaldi’s hasn’t been in the best of moods lately, not that she ever is.”

“And why’s that?”

The bartender set the bowl aide and leaned against the counter, two of his arms propped against his bulging chin. “Some big, time-sensitive bounty came in last week. No one’s been able to collect on it. Even Shaldi’s best can’t get it done. From what I hear, the employer’s not too happy about it.”

“Any idea who issued it?”

“Not a clue. Shaldi isn’t saying, and anyone who’s taken the job hasn’t come back,” he said. “If you ask me, I think it’s a load of bantha poodoo. There’s nothing on this backwater rock except grass, bog mud, and hutt slime. Although I’ve heard a couple of rumors lately.”

“Something out there, after all?”

The bartender snorted as he picked up the bowl and filled it with broth. “Nothing worth getting into, I’ve heard. Aside from a rogue Nikto gang, there’s been reports from Shadli’s scouts of a strange beast prowling the swamp. Nasty thing, they say. Might be what’s killing all the hunters.”

“That’s not the job, I assume?”

"No one knows what the job is, except Shaldi’s hunters, and they’re not saying much,” the bartender said, sliding the filled bowl towards the Child, who hauled himself into Din’s lap, hands reaching for the counter. “Whatever it is, Shaldi’s so desperate she might let someone else have a shot at it, if for no other reason than to spare herself anymore losses.”

With a curt nod, Din passed the bowl to the Child. He ate it in seconds, guzzling it down as if he hadn’t eaten a quarter of the rations an hour out from Scol. A tiny burp followed by a bubbling giggle signaled that he’d finished.

The Child satisfied, and ten credits lighter, Din made for the bounty office.

It was larger than the main room, nearly twice its size, but far more barren. A handful of hunters loitered near the door, their armor muddy and torn. Each sported an array of fresh bacta patches. They glared as he passed, their hands twitching over their weapons. The Mandalorian ignored them and continued on.

In the back of the room, atop a dais surrounded by a swath of deep satin curtains, was Shaldi. She looked like every other Hutt he’d come across over the years; bulbous, with short gangly arms and large, cat-like eyes that gleamed with a near predatory light. On the ground beside her stood a half-rusted protocol droid. 

“The great and generous Shaldi welcomes you, Mandalorian,” the droid intoned. Its voice warbled, rapidly shifting in pitch. “She has eagerly awaited your arrival, as your services are desperately needed.”

“So I’ve heard,” the Mandalorian stated. “What’s the job?”

The hutt spoke, her voice deep and gravelly. Din understood Huttese, but allowed the droid to translate; it was likely programed with the details of the job and spoke far more quickly than the slow, crawling drawl of the hutts. He could do without the fanfare and lengthy prattling, however.

“The Great Shaldi appreciates your urgency, Mandalorian,” the droid translated. “A being of great importance is currently in the possession of a local gang, who have proven to be most uncooperative. Both employers demand the bounty is to be recovered, alive and unharmed, before the next planetary rotation. This is not negotiable. If the bounty is terminated or damaged beyond repair, the terms of the agreement will be voided and you will not receive payment.”

Din hesitated. “Both?”

“That is correct,” the droid affirmed. “Two anonymous sources issued the bounty with the same restrictions and offering the same reward — five hundred and fifty thousand Republic credits — one standard week ago. The great and illustrious Shaldi has been instructed to issue one quarter of the reward for upon the successful acquisition of the bounty. The remaining three quarters will be rewarded upon the successful delivery to either of the employers.”

Behind his helmet, the Mandalorian frowned. Dual bounties were rare, but not unheard of. He dealt with a few in the past, most often from collectors or bickering factions within larger organizations. Identical rewards, however, weren’t common; most double bounties offered differing payouts to entice bounty hunters to deliver the quarry to the highest bidder. He’d seen it thousands of times in matters concerning informants or turncoats; one group offered a reward for the capture of an agent, while the opposing group issued a bounty of a higher payout for their demise. Unless neither employer was aware of a second bounty, he couldn’t fathom why the reward remained the same.

Two different employers, a substantially high reward, time-sensitivity, and strict conditions of retrieval, raised too many questions. This bounty posed great risk, or great importance; in his experience, both came hand-in-hand. 

“What’s the quarry?”

The droid turned to Shaldi, the horrendous squeal of its ill-maintained bearings echoing through the room. The Mandalorian suspected the droid was not aware of that information, or not permitted to impart it without the direct consent of its master. He supposed it made sense; he hadn’t voiced his agreement to take the job.

The hutt nodded.

“The quarry is a woman,” the droid said. “A human-Twi’lek hybrid who appears to be in her late twenties, possibly early thirties. Notable features include pale skin and teal hair. She was last reported in the custody of a gang of Nikto located fifteen klicks due west of the city, held within suspended animation. Latest reports indicate that she is alive and stable. No other information exists at this moment.”

Unease pitted in his stomach.

“Any other conditions?”

“The quarry is not to be frozen in carbonite, as to confirm her identity upon retrieval,” the droid warbled. “Non-lethal methods of restraint are permitted so long as the quarry remains intact. She may be sedated if necessary, however the magnificent Shaldi prefers the quarry conscious upon delivery to present proof to the employers that she is alive. Information regarding the further transfer of the bounty and the reward will ensue once the quarry has been recovered.”

Din considered his options. The deviation from the normal procedures and excessive reward were not good signs. The last time he took an unorthodox bounty, he ended up the caretaker of a tiny green child with unusual powers and hounded by Imperial remnants. It may not be worth the inevitable complications.

But he needed the credits. Two hundred and twenty thousand credits would easily cover the cost of fuel and repairs to the Crest, as well as any miscellaneous supplies he required in the meantime. He could afford to hire an onboard mechanic. Maybe even a few much needed upgrades to the Razor Crest’s systems as well. He could certainly use a newer hyperdrive.

Despite the tiny voice in the back of his mind insisting he was biting off more than he could chew, Din made his decision.

“I’ll have her here by nightfall tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 3 | Awakening.

Two minutes into the job, Din wanted to quit.

The swamp clung to his boots, pulling him further into the muck with each step. His armor protected him from most things, but even pure beskar faltered before the might of a thousand biting flies. They struck at every junction; his wrists and the back of his neck crawling and itching. At his side, the Child swatted at the swarms, his face twisted with irritation.

“You were the one who demanded we come this way,” Din reminded him.

The Child responded with a string of wordless curses punctuated with a sharp huff.

Din wasn’t sure what had him so worked up. As soon as they left the cantina, his demands to venture into the swamp increased. Twice he tried to climb out of the sling, and each time Din put him back, he grew more agitated. Then, in an unprecedented display of indignation, the Child smacked him in the side and yanked on the sling once more.

He relented. The child was stubborn, but never had he been so determined. Din learned, after weeks of caring for the Foundling, that if he didn’t comply with his demands, the Child would slip the sling and wander off towards whatever captured his attention.

“It better not be a frog,” he chided.

The Child threw him a half-hearted glare — another of several firsts for the day — and turned his attention back to the swamp.

The direction the Child so incessantly insisted upon was also the direction in which he’d find his quarry. It could be a coincidence, but the niggling in his gut implied otherwise. The Child had been acting strange since they emerged from hyperspace.

The further from Scoltown he went, the worse the swamp became. The trees grew thicker and the underbrush more dense. Solid ground became a blessing and with each step, he sank deeper into the mud. Water seeped into his boots. His flight suit clung to his body like a second skin.

Din considered himself to be a patient man. In his years as a bounty hunter, he spent many a night in uncomfortable places, biding his time for the perfect moment to strike. The unforgiving heat of Tattooine’s twin suns, the trails of Alvara-7 and its near-impassable terrain, the bubbling lava fields of Nevarro — they were unpleasant on the best of days and he never openly complained, but there was nothing he hated more than a karking swamp.

Three hours later, when the first signs of dusk turned the sky a peculiar shade of orange, he stumbled up a sudden incline and into a wide clearing. A twisted mass of mossy trees rimmed the edges of the what he could only describe as a massacre. The shredded remains of bodies, some recent and others half rotted, lay buried within the sludge. Tracks of all kinds surrounded them; large, clawed footprints nearly obscured by a mess of humanoid tracks that shot off in every direction, doubled back, and fanned out towards the edge of the clearing once more.

A quick scan with his visor found they were old hours, if not days old; too faded for the sensors to register. Whatever creature caused the carnage was nowhere to be seen.

Yet something about the clearing seemed off. An unnatural chill clung to the air, and it seemed with each passing minute, the air grew colder still. The stench of death leaked through his respirator, heavy and acrid on his tongue. It made his skin crawl.

The Child shrank into the sling, his ears drawn low against his head; a soft, fearful coo pulled from his lips.

Din moved quickly. He crossed the clearing in several easy strides, his grip tight on his blaster. For perhaps the first time that day, the feeling of muck and water in his boots was a welcome one.

•·················•·················•

It was just before nightfall when the Nikto compound came into sight. Perched on the edge of a shallow swath of flooded wetland, it stood a shadow against the dark. A raggedy curtain of vines and spindly moss obscured most of the compound from view. It was the lights, dimmed by the grimy windows, which illuminated the interior that gave away its position.

Annoying as the trip was, he couldn’t have arrived at a better time. The veil of night gave him ample cover with which to scout the perimeter. The compound had two access points; a small door in the back and a much larger one, presumably a garage door, at the front. Narrow, elongated windows, which seemed designed to allow for light rather than sight, sat high on the walls. Rather than guns, the Nikto relied on the natural terrain for defense. The dense clusters of thorny brambles which encircled the compound served as a feeble, though effective, barrier.

There were three sentries; two in front of the garage and one at the back entrance. Whether it was overconfidence or too much faith in their meager defenses, Din couldn’t say. Either way, it made his job much easier.

He plucked his knife from its sheath at his thigh, positioned himself directly in front of the rear guard, and let it fly. The blade sank into the side of the guard’s neck, silencing him before he could utter a sound. With a strangled, throaty gurgle, the unsuspecting Nikto crumpled to the ground.

Careful as not to make a sound, Din hurried to the body. As he leaned down to recover his knife, he spotted a rectangular object protruding from the front of the Nikto’s flight jacket. A keycard, he realized, upon further inspection.

Din turned it over in his hand and glanced at the access panel.

“Let’s hope nobody’s home.”

The Child huffed as if to say, “You know better than that.”

After double and triple checking his weapons, Din slid the keycard into the narrow slot at the base of the panel. The light at the top shifted from red to green, and with a quiet hiss, the door slid open. The sight beyond gave him pause. Rather than a hall, a circular hole, which plunged into darkness, greeted him. A series of rusted rungs set into the back wall offered the only means forward.

He descended slowly; the rungs creaking beneath his weight. His gaze flickering between the darkness beneath and the open door above. Tunnels, especially narrow vertical ones, were not ideal places to linger, but the lacking stability of the footholds insisted upon caution. His jetpack would be of little use here unless he wanted to alert the whole compound to his presence.

The rungs became increasingly more unstable, slick with a thick layer of slime and wobbling in their holds. At some point, the walls shifted from packed mud to rusted grating. The stench of the swamp gave way to something far more unpleasant but indiscernible.

Finally, after what felt like an eon, the end was in sight. Din hurried the last few feet but stopped short of the tunnel’s mouth as the sound of muffled chatter reached his ears. Nikto — two of them on either side of the entrance, he suspected.

Without warning, the rung clutched in his hand gave. The sudden lack of support threw his balance off entirely. His foot slipped off its perch and, before he could activate his jetpack to lessen the blow, he dropped.

The fall was short but no less painful. His rear landed first and the sudden stop sent his head snapping backwards. The back of his helmet slammed into the top of the jetpack and the force of the impact sent the air fleeing from his lungs in a sharp rasp. His vision swam before his eyes.

When it cleared, he found two startled Nikto peering down at him.

•·················•·················•

Dying was strange.

The Jedi believed that upon their death, those who embraced the Light became one with the Force. Tel did not. She teetered on the fringes, her consciousness growing and waning like the ebb and flow of the tides; her mind hounded by intermittent bouts of awareness among a gaping void. She was weightless, formless; a smoldering ember of sentience, struggling to remain within the darkness that threatened to smother it. 

Was this how she was to spend the rest of eternity? A mere flicker of dimming awareness left to question the choices that led her to that moment? Was it punishment for defying the Council? For abandoning the Code and taking up arms against a force of evil that threatened to bring the galaxy to its knees?

Lost, alone and adrift.

With every passing instance, she slipped further and further from reach as she fell back into the cold, unwelcoming embrace of oblivion. It was like a fitful sleep, an endless night of tossing and turning, drifting off only to snap awake again moments later. Each time, a piece of herself vanished, time slowly chipping away at her very being. Before long, she’d forgotten what led her to her compromised state.

Tel found the less she thought, the easier it was to drift into nothingness; into the soul-reaching peace she hadn’t quite found in life, even among the tranquility of the Jedi Temple. There, in the darkness, there was no war. There was no violence. No judgment. No fear.

It was quiet. Calm. Serene.

You’re not dead, you dramatic dolt.

The thought, spoken in a voice as familiar as it was foreign, broke through the haze in her consciousness. It ignited a spark deep within her core, a sudden, burning awakening of something so profound it stole the air from her lungs. She jolted, as if waking from a terrible dream. A dull, muffled thud echoed through the darkness; a tinny, delicate crackle followed suit. 

Then she was gasping, sputtering and hacking as mouthfuls of cool, bitter liquid spilled from her lips. Her lungs ached, burning with every breath. Tiny pin-points of white-hot agony erupted along her arms and legs. Sharpened edges dug into her skin, each point of contact bringing a sudden burst of physical sensation so overwhelming it left her head spinning.

Tel remained there for a moment, feeling very much like a fish out of water, as her lungs expelled the last of the liquid. After nearly an eternity, her coughing ceased. With a low, pained groan, she opened her eyes and tried to sit up. Her arms floundered. Her joints throbbed in protest. 

It took several tries, her limbs refusing to cooperate, before Tel pulled herself upright and into something akin to a sitting position.

A small, dimly lit room packed with mountains of crates and plasteel containers swam before her blurry eyes. The air was warm and humid, dusty and laden with the stench of mildew and kolto. In the nearest corner stood a rusted protocol droid half covered with a threadbare blanket and a thick layer of dust.

Standing was a long and tedious process. By the time she hauled herself onto the nearest crate, she was breathless, her chest heaving as she drank in greedy mouthfuls of air. Force, she hated the feeling of emerging from a kolto tank. It left her slimy and sticky and, depending on the tank, unable to breathe properly for several moments as her lungs worked to expel the last of the oxygen-rich liquid.

Lifting her trembling arms, she inspected her wounds. Rivulets of crimson trickled down her skin, the embedded shards of glass gleaming in the muted light that bled from a grimy lamp embedded in the ceiling. Her legs fared no better. With as much care as she could manage, she pulled them free and discarded the pieces in a small, bloody pile behind the crate.

The lingering veil of kolto worked quickly to numb the pain.

She gave herself another moment to catch her breath before she stumbled to her feet and began plundering through the handful of nearby containers. There were only three within reach. The rest lay buried beneath stacks too large and too heavy to move, or were locked or rusted shut. What she could access contained nothing of use; heaps of spare parts, decorative dishes and dishware, threadbare bolts of faded cloth, and other odds and ends she couldn’t identify.

One crate, turned on its side and engulfed by a mountain of droid parts, contained several sets of old and worn clothes. She lifted an old shirt to inspect it, only for it to fall to pieces in her hands. What remained intact was unappealing: a faded pair of cargo pants, a set of deteriorating but usable leather boots one size too large, a stringy dancer’s top that left little to the imagination, and a heavy flight jacket, which reeked of mold, falling apart at the seams. 

With the remaining pieces of somewhat salvageable cloth, she wiped the blood from her limbs and slipped into the clothes. They were stiff, the fabric scratchy and uncomfortable against her skin, and reeked of something she couldn’t quite place (though she was certain it was nothing alive). It was not her first choice of outfit — she would’ve rather suffered the humiliation of the dancer’s dress, had the back not fallen off the moment she touched it — but it was better than running about in the nude.

It was then she realized something very important was missing. She whirled, her body screaming in protest, a hand frantically patting at her hips as her gaze searched the lone, shattered kolto tank. Nothing remained inside but several gallons of clear liquid trickling through the crack remains of the glass container. Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, she took a deep, deliberate breath and willed the panicked fluttering of her heart to slow.

There is no emotion, there is peace.

As if a sudden fog cleared from her mind, the memories rushed back. The last thing she recalled was a battlefield — the stench of burnt flesh and ozone, the horrific sounds of a bombardment, her men screaming in terror as they fled for the evac ship. One moment, a blast of unbearable heat overtook her, the sound of a detonating proton missile resounding in her ears, and in the next she stumbled out of the shattered kolto tank, naked, in a dismal storeroom.

Her gaze drifted to the panel connected to the tank and her heart sank. The black screen stared back, silent in its mockery, as a small plume of smoke, accompanied by the sound of sparking wires, rose from the back of the controls. She had no means of accessing the tank’s console. 

“Kriff.”

Once more, her gaze swept the room. There was no computer terminal to be found, only more boxes and containers piled as high as the ceiling allowed. A lone tank. No terminal. No technician.

Not a Republic safe house then, she concluded.

Tel heard rumors of such set-ups during the rare moments of downtime between battles, when she sat with her men in their stations and listened to the idle chatter circulating through the ranks. The Senate elected to establish a series of well-hidden bunkers to ensure the safety of recovering Jedi and Republic officers. They feared the less honorable Mandalorian sects might strike their Jedi allies and upper ranks while they were weak and defenseless. Only the upper echelons of the military knew of their locations; even many of the Jedi didn’t know where to find them.

That was not the case here. No medical technician would place her inside a glass tank, fully exposed to wondering eyes. The Senate would’ve built proper medical stations, tended by at least one droid and technician and perhaps even a Jedi trained in the art of healing. They would never throw a kolto tank in an unattended storeroom and leave it at that.

There was another explanation, but without the information from the panel or a connected computer terminal, she had no means of verifying her suspicions.

She shoved the myriad of question prodding at the back of her mind aside and directed her focus to the immediate situation. She was stuck in a dusty and dank storeroom in an undisclosed location, unarmed and significantly weakened, with no idea of how she arrived. Her only means of information short-circuited, leaving her with nothing but the crumbling clothes on her back and her wits, which weren’t quite all there.

It wasn’t an ideal situation.

It was simple enough to sort her priorities: located a weapon, preferably her lightsabers, establish her location, and leave the finer details for later. Answers, she found, came in their own time. Until then, she’d focus on what she could control. Everything else would fall into place along the way, the Force willing.

Locating a weapon proved difficult. Beyond a few warped durasteel rods that she suspected were once part of a ship’s steering column, there was little else of use. If there were weapons stashed in the storeroom, she couldn’t reach them. Sighing, she plucked the least damaged rod from the small collection near a second rusted protocol droid shoved into a darkened corner and held it in her hand, testing the weight. It was awkward, unrefined and unbalanced, but sturdy enough to render a few unlucky souls unconscious if need be.

A horrendous screeching, the sound of straining gears and grinding metal, filled the room. The door, hidden in a small alcove on the far side of the room near the window, slid open with a halting hiss. Cursing, she ducked behind the nearest mountain of crates; the rod clutched tightly in her hand.

Two people, swathed in tattered brown clothes that obscured any defining features and armed with heavy assault rifles, stepped into the room. They paused just inside the door; their heads turned towards the shattered tank in the far corner. An unspoken agreement passed between them and, with the barest of nods, they began searching the room.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 4 | Encounter.

Tel swallowed a curse and retreated behind the nearest stack of crates. The newcomers reeked of ill-intent. Something vile and sinister lurked beneath the cautious animosity radiating from them in near tangible waves. It crawled along her skin — a warning she’d long since learned to heed.

There were only two, and neither seemed overtly capable, but as she closed her eyes and extended her awareness outward, she found there were far more lingering in the vicinity; at least twenty within her immediate reach and possibly more just beyond. She wasn’t as alone as she initially thought, and that didn’t bode well for her.

Her concentration dissolved in a shower of mental static as a wave of exhaustion slammed into her. She stumbled as the strength slipped from her body. A dull ache blossomed behind her temples, growing sharper and more pronounced with each throbbing pulse. The Force seemed more distant than ever, a far-off echo she couldn’t quite hear, the barest whisper of wind across a plain of alarming stillness.

“They said the tank was functional.”

The strange, warbling voice — an alien language that sounded as foreign as it did familiar — jolted her from her thoughts. She pressed further against the crates, a hand clamped over her mouth to stifle her laboring breathing. Panic set in as the gravity of the situation bore down on her. It was worse than she first assumed; she could manage without a proper weapon, but without the Force...

There is no emotion, there is peace.

She forced her breathing to calm once more and shoved her fears aside, allowing for more rational thought to take hold. The Force hadn’t abandoned her; she felt it as clear as rain not seconds before. Whatever happened, it was temporary. It had to be.

“It was,” the second alien said, his voice far too close for comfort. “Looks like the control panel short circuited.”

“Not surprised. That thing is ancient.”

“How did she break the glass?”

“It doesn’t matter. Find her before she escapes. If we don’t and the boss loses the bounty, we’re dead.”

She remained silent, listening to their footsteps drift closer, then farther away as they scoured the room. Slowly, despite her sudden exhaustion and the heaviness of her limbs, she crept towards a pile of dirty plasteel containers nearer to the exit. It was an arduous task, but before too long, she slipped through the door, leaving her captors to their futile endeavor.

The sound of blaster fire split the air, a sudden chorus of pistols, heavy rifles, and repeating cannons drifting down the hall. She froze, her gaze frantically searching for somewhere to hide, but to no avail. The hall beyond the storeroom offered nothing but smooth, albeit rusted paneling and a rickety, grated floor. The commotion drew the attention of her captors and she barely had time to wedge herself against the wall next to the door before they barreled past, blasters raised.

If they so much as turned their heads, they’d see her.

She hefted the rod and swung. The end connected with the one closest to her, a swift and decisive strike to the back of the neck that sent it crumbling to the ground. Before the second noticed, she wrenched the blaster from the hands of its fallen comrade and fired. 

The first shot grazed her target’s shoulder, but the second shot flew wide, her aim thrown off by the recoil. She cursed. She should’ve known better; a Jedi she might be, but she’d had a blaster in her hands long before she thought of taking up a lightsaber. It had been her first weapon, and one she trained with even after joining the Order despite her Master’s grievances.

Yet, she’d underestimated the recoil and overestimated her strength — a rookie mistake.

A brilliant red bolt streaked past her face, so close she felt the heat of the supercharged plasma against her skin, and slammed into the wall beside her. Two more followed in rapid succession, both missing by a hair’s breadth. A third struck her left shoulder. Hissing, she flung her good arm out and seized upon the flow of the Force.

The alien slammed into the adjacent wall with a shallow crack, then slumped to the floor, limp and unmoving.

This time, when the exhaustion hit, she stumbled. The ache between her eye turned blinding, and her left knee gave out. She drew in a shaking breath, tears prickling in the corner of her eyes, as she struggled to find her connection to the Force — to will the pain to fade.

Stars, what was wrong with her?

Tel knew the consequences of exertion; she suffered them rather frequently during the initial year of her training, but the pain was never so debilitating. Her head ached and her eyes swam after hours of study, but it was never an all-encompassing burst of searing agony, as if someone had driven a spike through her skull.

Her captors must’ve put a sedative in her tank. Tel heard there were several designed specifically for Jedi, and many with unpleasant side effects. The Sith favored them.

The pain faded to a more manageable level, and she cracked an eye open.

The sounds of battle had faded, leaving only a few intermittent shots to break the eerie silence that smothered the hall. She recognized the pattern — a single shot, a long period of silence, and another shot. The Republic adopted a similar habit in the earlier days of the war. One too many times, a half-dead Mandalorian who wasn’t quite ready to accept defeat — or tolerate the insult of mercy from a Jedi — caught the soldiers off guard.

Lips pursed, she turned to look back at the two aliens lying at the storeroom’s door. The blaster sat heavy in her hand, but it wasn’t the heaviness of exhaustion, nor the weight of an unfamiliar weapon; it was the burden of a violent battle, the chore of holding another being’s life on the brink of cessation. It was times like this where the intricacies of the Jedi Code became too blurred for her liking.

The Jedi did not kill the defenseless, regardless of their crimes. Mercy and forgiveness were among the most basic tenants of the Order — virtues instilled upon the younglings long before they were old enough to understand that the galaxy did not revolve around them, but the Force, which they served. All life was sacred.  

Pretty, idealistic words, but Tel learned long ago idealism did not hold up in reality. Those were the beliefs of false prophets, altruistic peacekeepers who’d failed in their self-proclaimed duties, and the idealism of a reclusive religious sect so disconnected from the galaxy that they could not truly understand a thing about it. Reality did not adhere to lofty ideals and scrupulous morals. 

If left alive, those two could interfere with her escape and continue their reign of terror. They were horrendous beings, shrouded in darkness and debauchery, their intentions self-serving and impure. An innocent, and far less capable individual may become their next target. 

The Jedi in her begged she spare them, for they posed no threat in their current state. The General in her demanded swift and decisive action — to eliminate them while she had an opportunity as to ensure they would not become a future problem. Both were valid points and, not for the first time, Tel lamented her indecision.

She didn’t have the chance to decide.

A heavy thud rose from the door behind her. She could hardly sense anything beyond the door, her connection to the Force flaring and fading like a faulty comm. There was someone there, of that, she was certain, but she could sense nothing else. She didn’t have time to dwell on it.

The door slid open with a soft hiss. A flash of metal caught her eye, and despite herself, she recoiled. Her finger flew to the trigger as a fresh jolt of panic shot through her. As the door opened fully, she found her fears confirmed.

The Mandalorian towered over her, a wall of beskar steel and weapons. A bleak visor stared down at her, and though her awareness teetered on the fringes of deafening silence, the tension in his stance and the barrel of the blaster pointed at her chest conveyed enough. Surrender was the only option.

Tel dropped the blaster.

The weapon tumbled to the floor with a loud clatter. The Mandalorian’s helmet tilted, a small, near imperceptible movement visible only through the subtle shift of light reflecting off the visor. After a moment, she extended her foot forward and kicked the blaster towards him; a silent, though reluctant, surrender.

“You’re smarter than you look, or incredibly stupid.”

The sound of his voice, sharp and modulated, set her blood ablaze. There wasn’t a sound she hated more. It was all too easy to replace the voice with another faceless suit of bloody armor and a tone laced with vicious mockery. She could picture the blaster in his hand aimed at her head, the lightsaber of a slain Jedi clutched in his other, as if it were a trophy on display. 

She forced the surge of anger that rose within her into submission, burying it deep in the back of her mind as she’d always done. Rage would not serve her well here. There was a time and a place for it, preferably once she recovered her lightsabers and her connection to the Force stabilized.

“Smart enough to know when I’m out matched,” she said at length.

A pause. “You’re not with them.”

It was more a statement than a question, the answer obvious. She swallowed the sarcastic reply bouncing on the tip of her tongue and simply shook her head. She would be wise to bide her time and continue to project an air of defenselessness. This Mandalorian may still adhere to the notions of honor if he did not perceive her as a threat and did not know who, or what, she was. 

Tel had little faith in that.

During the war, she encountered her fair share of Mandalorians who swore to uphold honor and fight with dignity, yet slaughtered thousands of defenseless or innocent beings for no other cause than to sate their own bloodlust. The atrocities committed on Cathar were a stunning example of their hypocrisy. The ones who had not succumbed to their base desires for needless bloodshed and still understood the difference between an honorable battle and a senseless, animalistic slaughter were in short supply.

Only an insecure fool believed there was honor to be found in crushing a bug beneath their boot.

Anger prickled against her awareness, a slight stirring — hardly more than a distant murmur — in the space behind her. Just as suddenly, the Mandalorian shifted the position of his blaster and fired. Through the reflection in the visor, she saw the bolt strike the alien in the forehead. A second shot caught the other, who had just stumbled to its feet, in the chest. She did not flinch as the bolts breezed past her, close enough to leave a hint of warmth along her skin. 

Then, she sensed it — a distant but incessant calling of the Force. A high-pitched coo pulled her attention downward. At her feet stood a young, green-skinned child swathed in a bundle of dreary brown robes — Jedi robes, from the looks of them. The Child stared up at her with curious brown eyes, his long, pointed ears twitching. Curiosity drifted off of him like a summer’s breeze, a gentle touch against the fringes of her mind.

Tel ignored the shift in the Mandalorian’s stance as he aimed the blaster at her once more. She crouched, her lips pressed into a thin line, and studied the Child. His species had always been a mystery to her; though it seemed there was always one of his kind in the Temple during any era of the Order, they remained an enigma. Even the Jedi Archives, which was the most extensive collection of knowledge in Known Space, had little to say on the subject.

The Child shifted closer, his tiny three-fingered hand outstretched towards her. The moment his hand touched hers, a gentle current shot through her. Something pulled deep within her, like the tightening of a tethered thread; it was not a strong pull, but a gentle tug.

She narrowed her eyes as she glanced up at the Mandalorian. He radiated caution and mistrust, but beneath it, she caught the stirrings of worry, the sort one expected from a parent. The Child held no such reservations; he was an open book, full of reckless curiosity and renewed interest. His mind brushed against hers once more, far more insistent than before, and Tel threw up the walls she built throughout her training. The Child scrunched his little green nose in response, a spark of defiance lighting his eyes.

He must have sensed her warning, as he didn’t press further, though he continued to prod around her superficial awareness. The Child’s demeanor shifted, his curiousness replaced with an overwhelming sense of longing, punctuated by a strong undercurrent of elation resulting from a sense of familiarity. Tel’s gut twisted with pity; the Child, if she understood correctly, hadn’t seen another Jedi in some time.

She remembered feeling a similar way when she first arrived at the Jedi Temple, as if she finally understood that her connection to the Force was not an anomaly to be reviled, but a natural phenomenon, and there were more people like her in the galaxy than she was lead to believe.

Before Tel could dwell on the implications of a Mandalorian in the company of a Force-sensitive child, and a trained child in the absence of their Master, the Child held up his arms, a pleading sort of look in his eyes. Without thinking, Tel reached out and lifted him into her arms. The Child squealed, a soft but happy chirp, and wrapped his tiny hand around her finger once more. 

“Yours, I presume?” Tel asked. She shifted the Child so that he rested on her hip. “Rather trusting, isn’t he?”

“Too much for his own good,” the Mandalorian ground out. He slowly lowered his blaster, though his stance did not relax. “I’ve been tasked with returning him his own kind. To the Jedi.”

Tel frowned. Jedi younglings, typically, remained within the Temple until the Gathering. Only under special circumstances, and in the company of fully trained Jedi, could they leave the safety of the Temple’s sacred halls before they passed their Trials and ascended to the rank of Padawan. An unescorted youngling meant his escort likely perished, though she thought it odd that the Mandalorian had to look for the Jedi (assuming his claims were true). The Child was young and exceptionally strong in the Force; surely the Jedi would’ve sent someone to find him.

“Have you tried Coruscant? The-“

A sudden upsurge of staggering fear brought her words to an abrupt halt. A myriad of images danced across her mind; the Jedi Temple aflame, men in white armor firing at Jedi, dead younglings littering the floors of their training halls, ships swarming the skies of Coruscant. Memories of a terrible battle.

The Child let out a soft whine of discontent and shifted in her arms.

“On second thought,” she said, eying the Child with growing concern. “That was probably the first place you looked.”

“It wasn’t,” the Mandalorian admitted. He reached out and snatched the Child from her arms. It settled immediately, though his fear lingered. “You know something?”

Tel chose her words carefully. “I know that there was a Jedi Temple on Coruscant, but everyone knew that.”

There were dozens of hidden enclaves scattered about the galaxy as well, but Tel kept mum. The Jedi closely guarded their locations; even the Republic, which the Jedi served, was unaware of their locations. It would be unwise to bring a Mandalorian to one — if she could set foot on a Jedi world without a swarm of Jedi Masters prepared to apprehend her. The moment she left for war, the Council issued a warrant for her arrest. While the Republic largely ignored it, those loyal to the Order, and in agreement with the Council’s decision to remain neutral, would not.

Force forbid she set food on Dantooine again. Master Vrook would have her head on a platter if she dared come within a parsec of him; he’d made that all too clear when their paths last crossed before the massacre of the Cathar. Her old Master was not pleased with her decision, and if the Jedi hadn’t sanctioned their intervention after the fact, he’d have advocated for her immediate removal from the Order.

Whatever the Mandalorian said in response fell on deaf ears. Tel’s focus shifted back to the images; the interior of the Temple in the Child’s memories differed from the one she knew, yet it was undoubtedly Coruscant that she’d seen. It was unsettling and roused more questions in need of answers.

As far as she knew, the Mandalorians hadn’t attacked Coruscant. They directed their aggression toward the Outer Rim territories and slowly encroached inward, but the core worlds remained untouched by their assault. She and Revan had made sure of that.

Those questions could wait. Escaping the Mandalorian without instigating a fight, if such a thing was possible, and discovering her location took precedence over the unsettling memories (and she’s certain that’s what they were). Whatever happened, she was certain she’d hear about it once she returned to the fleet and regrouped with her soldiers; if any of them survived the bombardment.

She stepped past the Mandalorian, but before she could take more than a couple of steps, a gloved hand clamped around her arm. 

“I asked you what you were doing here if you weren’t with the Nikto.”

“I wondered that myself but—”

The second she felt the disturbance, she moved. Tel sprang forward and threw her entire weight into the Mandalorian. The source of the disturbance, a supercharged plasma bolt fired from further beyond the doors, struck her in the shoulder as they tumbled to the floor. With a pained hiss, Tel snatched the Child into her arms and rolled off of the Mandalorian, diving behind the narrow protrusion between the door and the wall.

More rounds whizzed past as the Mandalorian stumbled to his feet. One struck him in the pauldron and harmlessly bounced off the beskar. The rest flew wide, striking the walls on either side of the hall. 

Tel extended her hand towards her discarded blaster, then thought better of it. Without her lightsaber, the Force was her only weapon, the only means she had of defending herself against the Mandalorian if necessary. It was a trump card she’d be unwise to reveal so early.

If what she’d seen in the Child’s memories held true, to reveal herself as a Jedi would not bode well for her. Something happened, that much was clear; the Child would not be in the care of a Mandalorian, endeavoring to return him to the Order otherwise. 

Yet, a sinking weight in her gut and an alarming stirring within the Force suggested she may not have a choice.

Chapter Text

CHAPER 5 | Pinned.

They had to retreat.

With the Child tucked beneath her arm, Tel abandoned the meager safety of the door and bolted back down the hall, snatching her blaster from the floor as she went. The steady rhythm of plasma pinging off the Mandalorian’s armor trailed after her and, upon sparing a brief glance over her shoulder, she found him following her — covering for her. While the need for aid — from a damned Mandalorian no less — was a devastating blow to her pride, she shelved her reservations for the sake of the youngling.

She ducked into the storeroom and waited by the access panel.

Against her better judgment, the moment the Mandalorian passed the threshold in a shower of sparking beskar, she shut and locked the door. The blaster fire ceased and silence reigned once more. The door wouldn’t hold forever, though; it was a shoddy thing, and nowhere near as durable as a blast door. After a few seconds of silent debate, Tel engaged the locking mechanism.

“Well, this is an eventful morning,” she groaned. “I have several questions, but before that, what in the name of the Force were you thinking bringing a Child into this place?”

“He’s seen worse,” the Mandalorian clipped as he retreated further into the room, his head shifting from side to side, as if surveying his surroundings.

“That doesn’t make it any less dangerous,” Tel chided. “In fact, I’d say that worsens the matter. Clearly, this is a habit of yours. If I hadn’t acted, that first shot would’ve hit him.”

Tel knew it wasn’t her place to question how one raised their child, but there were things she could not tolerate, and the willful endangerment of a youngling was rather high on the list.

In the early days of her Jedi training, Tel learned to discern the location and trajectory of a blaster shot. She later honed that skill to the utmost precision during the war; it had saved her life, and the lives of many of her soldiers, in countless battles. With the angle of the shot, and where she detected the bolt once it came within range of passive awareness, she knew it would not strike the Child directly, but hit close enough to cause harm. The Mandalorian had his armor, but the Child had nothing but a flimsy sling and a swath of robes between him and a bolt that, if not for her timing, would’ve torn her shoulder to shreds. 

The Mandalorian paused, his gloved hand hovering over a half-opened crate. Then, without a word, he turned and strode towards her. The Child reached for him, and despite her better judgment, allowed him to take the Child into his arms. Regardless of what she thought, it was clear the Child trusted him; she wasn’t so heartless to rob him of an obvious source of comfort, though the mere sight of a Force-sensitive child in the hands of a Mandalorian filled her with anxiety.

The Mandalorians saw the Jedi as a hunter saw a wraid; a beast to be slain and taken as a trophy. An enemy fought for the sport and the glory gained in their otherwise needless death. They challenged the Jedi for the thrill of facing an opponent believed to be beyond anyone’s capabilities — to prove that they could best the Jedi and their cheating sorcery — and toted their sacred weapons about as if they were nothing more than pretty pieces of scrap pulled from a junk heap.

“Thank you,” the Mandalorian said, startling her from her thoughts.

Tel made a vague sound of begrudging acknowledgement and turned to look at the door. “Don’t thank me just yet. We still have to get out of here, and, from the looks of things, it won’t be an easy escape.”

“Looked like a group of bounty hunters,” the Mandalorian said. “They must’ve followed me out of the city.”

She pursed her lips. “Is that what you are? A bounty hunter?”

His silence was answer enough.

“How many?” she asked.

While she was loath to trust a bounty hunter, let alone a Mandalorian, she had little choice in the matter. Neither of them were getting out without cooperating and the abject lack of threatening or restraint — a highly unusual approach for his line of work — suggested death was not a provision of her alleged bounty. Still, no bounty hunter worth their credits would allow their quarry to walk freely without some form of restraint. They certainly wouldn’t allow them a weapon.

He must be a rookie — or an idiot. Both went hand in hand.

“Seven,” the Mandalorian said. “They don’t look like rookies, either.”

Tel raised a brow. “You can’t handle seven bounty hunters on your own?”

With the slew of blaster fire, she expected far more. If there were only seven, at least two had repeating blasters or, Force forbid, a mounted cannon. Still, seven bounty hunters shouldn’t be much trouble for a Mandalorian; he’d already made it this far on his own, if the earlier commotion was anything to go by.

“I can handle them just fine,” the said, irritation seeping through the modulator of his helmet. “You are the issue.”

She opened her mouth to question him, but a series of short, heavy thuds rose from the door, stopping her short.

“I know you’re in there, Mandalorian. Hand over the bounty, and we might just let you live.”

The threat, spoken in Ryl, the language of the Twi’leks, nearly pulled a snort from her. Offering a Mandalorian an ultimatum that hinged on the promise of violence never ended well for the other party. Mandalorians did not negotiate with words, but with fists and blasters. She didn’t need to know him personally to know his response would be much of the same — a firm and resounding “no” punctuated with no shortage of blaster fire.

The Mandalorian scoffed. “I’ll take my chances.”

Tel leaned back against the wall and worried at her knuckle. Negotiations were off the table — anyone foolish enough to barter lives with a Mandalorian was too stupid to reason with. Violence would be the only answer, and while Tel was not as opposed to it as many Jedi would be, she would rather avoid unnecessary conflict. The Mandalorian exposed the Child to enough of it already.

A swift and decisive offense would be their best bet, one preferably executed behind the cover of a smokescreen — or a diversion. Tel preferred the latter; distraction proved more effective than basic concealment. A skilled combatant could easily predict positions, even if obscured, but there was no compensation for confusion. Diversions, however, were far more difficult to create without prior planning.

There was, of course, the age-old bait-and-switch tactic, which she’d always found as amusing as it was effective.

“Can the Child use the Force?”

Though she couldn’t see his face, his stance conveyed his confusion, or perhaps apprehension, towards her question. “The magic hand thing?”

Tel bit back a snort of derision. This Mandalorian either hit his head one too many times and suffered irreparable brain damage, or he was utterly clueless. She’d never met a Mandalorian who wasn’t aware of the Force, nor one who didn’t jump at the opportunity to impart their unwarranted criticisms on the matter. If not for the signet boldly displayed on his pauldron, which denoted he’d achieved a feat worthy of recognition from his clan, she’d think he’d sworn to the Creed earlier that day.

“It’s a yes or no question, Mandalorian,” she clipped, though his answer confirmed her suspicions. She pushed away from the door to crouch before the Child, who sat atop a large, dented crate, a greasy bearing clutched in his hand. “I have a plan for getting out of here, little one, and I think I could use your help with it.”

•·················•·················•

Assisting with the training of the younglings in the years leading up to the Mandalorian Wars taught many valuable tricks for dealing with children. They were not serious creatures, but open and curious, though easily distracted from matters not engaging enough to keep their limited attention. The best way to keep them focused on their task, she’d learned, was to turn everything into a game.

“Remember what I said?” Tel asked, adjusting hold on the Child. “When the bad guys get too close to finding us, you move something on the other side of the room to confuse them?”

The Child craned his neck to look up at her, his large brown eyes shining with mischievous mirth. He understood the situation, albeit vaguely, though as far as he was concerned, they were merely playing a game of hide-and-seek. That seemed to be the only part of her explanation he’d taken an interest in. Whether he’d do as she asked was another matter entirely.

Not that it mattered in the grand scheme of things. Tel could manage without his cooperation. She merely needed a quick and easy cover to deter any suspicions the Mandalorian might have.

“I don’t like this idea,” the Mandalorian grumbled from his position on the other side of the room.

“We’re going to have to face them eventually, and better on our terms than theirs,” Tel quipped. “Though if you’d like to endanger your child once more, you’re free to rush the door, guns blazing.”

She felt the heated weight of the Mandalorian’s glare boring into the side of her head, which she pointedly ignored as she turned to survey the room a final time. It’d taken sometime, but The Mandalorian begrudgingly repositioned the bulk of the containers into a winding maze. Among the containers, Tel hid several small bundles loaded with loose parts and dishware, which she or the Child would use to draw the bounty hunters’ attention.

Depending on how many came through, it would be a matter of picking them off one by one or slipping out the door and locking them all inside.

“They’ve been oddly patient,” Tel noted as she retreated behind the nearby maze wall. “I’d have thought they’d blast the door down by now.”

“They need you alive,” the Mandalorian said after a moment. “And unharmed.”

That certainly explained why they continued their ceaseless pounding and failed negotiations rather than make their move. Tucking away that crucial piece of information, Tel turned her attention to the Child.

“Alright, little one, time to start the game.”

Rather than wait for the Child to respond, Tel reached out with the Force. She kept her sphere of influence limited, stretching it only as far as needed. Her connection wavered, the oscillations of energy rising from the panel fading for a moment, before it stabilized, weak but present.

The lock disengaged and, with a shreiking hiss, the door slid open.

Two bounty hunters — a Twi’lek and a Rodian — entered the room first. They hesitated at the door, their eyes sweeping the room with cautious scrutiny. Tel adjusted her grip on her blaster and retreated fully behind the maze wall.

“I don’t see them,” the Twi’lek called.

“Then look for them!” another Twi’lek, the one who issued the initial ultimatum, snapped. “There’s no other exit from that room, according to the schematics.”

The hunters shared a glance and split. The Rodian shuffled off towards the Mandalorian while the Twi’lek hefted his blaster — a sleek but heavy rifle — wandered towards her. In her arms, the Child shifted and stretched his tiny hand outward.

Tel expected him to target the rattler two rows over. Instead, the wall beside the Twi’lek, who she could see through the narrow gaps in the crates, trembled. She jerked her knee upward to break his concentration before the entire wall collapsed, but to no avail. The middle crate flew free of its position, slamming into the Twi’lek, and the wall burst asunder.

The storeroom descended into chaos.

The wall directly behind her gave way as the crate collided with it. The Child released a startled squeal as a weight slammed into Tel’s back and sent her tumbling forward. Her blaster sprang free of her hand and skid across the floor, far out of reach. Containers crashed to the ground, the corner of one narrowly missing the side of her head. One struck her in the back, pinning her legs beneath its weight.

Perhaps allowing the Child free rein in a maze of oversized building blocks wasn’t the best idea after all.

A curse — harsh and modulated — rose from the other side of the room. Blaster fire, followed by the sharp ding of beskar, echoed in her ears. Closer still was the sound of labored breathing. The Twi’lek, who landed a few feet away from her, stumbled to his feet. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, blood smearing across his cheek.

“You’re lucky I don’t get paid if you die,” he spat.

“You don’t get paid if you die either,” Tel pointed out. “Is my bounty worth dying to a Mandalorian?”

“There’s seven of us and one of him,” the Twi’lek hissed. “I’ll take my chances on those odds.”

Well, no one could say she didn’t try.

“How unfortunate for you that there’s two of us.”

Tel reached out with the Force and pulled her blaster to her. The Twi’lek startled, his eyes wide with shock, or perhaps fear, as the blaster shot across the floor, seemingly unprompted, and into her hand. As the bounty hunter fumbled with his own blaster, Tel raised hers and fired.

The bolt caught him in the center of the forehead, and he crumpled to the floor.

With another use of the Force, Tel lifted the crate just enough for her to pull herself free. Her lower back ached, twinging in protest as she stumbled to her feet. It wasn’t the worst injury she suffered — she found herself trapped beneath everything from falling rocks to downed starships during the war — but it hurt just enough to put a limp in her step.

“On second thought,” she grumbled. “Leave the Force to me.”

The Child cooed, soft and apologetic.

With the plan foiled mere minutes into its execution, Tel abandoned caution. She stashed the Child in the far corner of the room with a firm “Stay put” and hurried into the crumbling maze. The rest of the bounty hunters had joined the fray, three of them now inside the room while the other two provided cover fire from the hall.

The crates on this side of the room remained mostly intact. Through the gaps, she caught the gleam of beskar and flashes of ominous red as plasma bolts streaked past him. They had him cornered, the wall of the room at his right and behind, and the crates, which shielded him from most of the onslaught to his left. Tel would have to be quick.

They might want her alive, but there was no guarantee that they wouldn’t change their tune once it became apparent they were losing the fight.

Tel peered out from behind the cartes. Of the three inside the room, two remained in front of the door while the third pushed towards the Mandalorian. He would have to deal with that one on his own.

She fired twice. The first shot caught the hunter on the left completely unwares. The plasma bolt bit into his neck, tearing through the skin. Her second shot missed the hunter on the right by a hair’s breath and slammed harmlessly into the wall beside him. She adjusted her aim and fired again. He ducked beneath the bolt and rushed for her.

Her shoddy connection to the Force hindered her predictive capabilities greatly, but Tel had enough training in matters of combat to spot his first move before he made it. The hunter, a tall and burly Trandoshan, swung at her with its left claw.

Tel did not shy away from the blow. Rather, she went under his arm and stepped straight into its path — a move the hunter hadn’t expected. As the Trandoshan backpedaled to avoid slamming into her, his large, panicked eye flickering to her hand as if expecting to find a knife at its throat, she wedged her blaster beneath its chin and fired.

The shot ripped through his skull. His head snapped back, a gaping hole seared through his jaw. As he fell, a sudden detonation — a plasma grenade from the sound of it — rose from the hall.

The ensuing silence rang in her ears. It lasted for but a few moments before an irritated huff escaped the Mandalorian’s modulator.

“I told you that plan wouldn’t work.”

“It would’ve worked fine if it had gone the way I’d intended,” she shot back. “I wasn’t expecting the Child to fling a crate at me. Regardless of how it happened, we’ve dealt with them and that was the intention.”

“I thought the intention was to avoid a firefight.”

“It’s over. We’re alive and mostly unscathed,” she bit out. “That’s all that matters for the moment. Now, unless you want to repeat your earlier mistake and stand around debating until the next group of bounty hunters arrived, I suggest we get moving.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 6 | Ambush.

Tel had never been one for looting corpses, but necessity demanded unpleasantries. The bounty hunters’ effects were of little use to them now, but far too valuable to ignore. She would be a fool to pass on the opportunity to trade her rags for armor — even if there was something disturbingly morbid about wearing a dead man’s combat suit.

The Mandalorian didn’t share her reservations. He plundered through their pockets, pilfering their credits and their equipment. The Twi’liek, whom Tel assumed was the leader of the group, carried on him a strange circular disk.

“Bounty puck,” The Mandalorian said, as if sensing her question.

He pressed his thumb against the button at the front and a holographic portrait of her materialized above it. The quality left much to be desired, the image so grainy and distorted she could barely make out the details of her face. Still, she recognized the shot; it was the same one the Republic had taken of her when she first joined the war effort. The accompanying text confirmed her suspicions.

Tel Agarwin. Human/Twi’lek Hybrid. Wanted Alive and unharmed.

“That’s an oddly specific condition,” she noted. “I thought most didn’t care if the bounty came in dead or alive.”

The Mandalorian switched off the puck and slipped it into a pouch on his belt. “It’s not unheard of. Depends on who wants you and for what reason.”

She supposed that made sense. The Jedi would want her alive to make an example out of her — to remind others of what happens when one defies the will of the Council. They’d strip her of her rank and send her to the Service Corps if they didn’t expel her from the Order entirely, though it would be nothing more than a formality for appearance’s sake. They’d already exiled any Jedi who defied their wishes and followed Revan to war.

Yet, she doubted the bounty was their doing. They would never leave an internal matter in the hands of a third party — not after the Republic blatantly ignored the arrest warrants they issued for the rebellious Jedi. The Council barely allowed the Republic any jurisdiction over them despite their symbiotic relationship as it was.

Master Vrook would never allow a bounty hunter the privilege of forcing her to stand trial. He’d rather do that himself.

“And who is it that wants me?” she asked.

“A Hutt.”

Without another word, the Mandalorian scooped the Child into his arms and stepped into the hall.

With the immediate danger past, Tel took a moment to study their surroundings. The hall appeared to be less of a hall and more of a tunnel; the walls rounded and lined with thick, rusted pipes. Every ten feet, a heavy grate set in the floor, the sound of rushing water bubbling from beneath. Overhead, the lights flickered.

At the end of the hallway stood a door, which lead to a small circular room. Crates in various states of disrepair sat piled high along the walls. Among them lay the bodies of several aliens, all bearing the same style of clothes and characteristics as the two who stumbled into the storeroom when he first awoke.

There were three more doors set into the far wall. The one to her left, which lay open, led to what appeared to be an access hatch. A rickety ladder, the rungs rusted and hung at odd angles and several missing, tread upward into a circular opening in the ceiling.

Tel peered up into the hatch and cursed. With the Force, she could reach the opening, but the tunnel was just a touch too wide for her to climb without the ladder. Perhaps if her legs were a little longer, it wouldn’t be an issue.

The middle door led to a smaller storage room overflowing with junked droids and spare parts.

It was the door to the right that offered a potential means of escape. The Mandalorian slipped a pass card into the slot at the base of the panel, and with a horrendous screech, the doors slid open. The sight beyond gave her pause.

“This looks like an old sewer system,” Tel noted.

A catwalk, suspended several feet above a shallow channel filled not with water but with sludge, followed the length of what appeared to be a wide tunnel. The path sloped steadily upward, rising to one landing before continuing next. Narrower pathways branched off the main passage, creating a tiered system barely visible through the dense fog that clung to the air.

“The Nikto must’ve taken over a part of it as their base,” the Mandalorian agreed. He paused, his head swiveling from side to side, then added, “They’re not alone. Something else is down here.”

There were many creatures and sentient beings who dwelt beneath a planet’s surface. The nefarious sort, who preferred to conduct their business in the sheltered privacy of sewage systems, used many a thing to guard their strongholds. She once stumbled across a young rancor while chasing a slaver through the sewers beneath Taris.

Tel hummed. “Humanoid?”

“No.”

“Lovely.”

She adjusted her grip on her blaster as they continued on. The corridors offered little variation, each one much of the same. Each turn left her wondering if the Mandalorian knew where he was going, or if they were wandering aimlessly — perhaps even in a circle.

Sewers, she’d found, were most often empty but not entirely abandoned. Like any other piece of infrastructure, they required maintenance and personnel to continue functioning. Said personnel would need a means of navigating the system. If they could find a maintenance room with a working terminal, they might find a schematic of the complex.

After several more twists and turns, and just when Tel was absolutely certain they’d passed the same hall three times, the Mandalorian came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the passageway. He turned towards the offshoot to their left, head angled downward as if studying the floor. His hand crept towards his blaster.

Curious, Tel reached out with the Force. Her connection wavered, intermittent bouts of expanded awareness punctuated by vast seas of alarming silence. Then, as if an ember suddenly caught aflame, it stabilized. She felt the Mandalorian and the Child ahead of her. Beyond them, just off to the left and further above, she noted several more presences.

They weren’t alone.

A dull ache formed behind her eyes and the ringing absence of the Force returned. Unease pitted in her stomach. She could attribute her staggering connection with the Force to whatever sedatives the Nikto had used, but they should’ve worn off by now. Perhaps the injury that landed her in the tank to being with was to blame; she had hit her head, if she remembered correctly. It would explain the headaches.

She didn’t dare consider the alternative.

“There’s something behind that door,” the Mandalorian said.

And above, she wanted to add, but that would raise too many questions. Instead, she said, “Then we keep moving and keep an eye behind us. There’s no sense in picking unnecessary fights.”

“I agree.”

The voice, deep and laced with malice, came from behind them. Tel whirled, raising her blaster. Another Twi’lek, this one accompanied by a four-eyed Aqualish and a twitchy Zabrak, blocked the hall. Above, she caught the barrel of a sniper rifle peaking through a grate in the ceiling.

The Twi’lek motioned towards her with his blaster. “Fighting is far too risky, isn’t it? So why don’t we settle this peacefully, eh?”

Another bounty hunter, then. Just how many had come after her?

“The only peaceful solution is for you to turn around and walk away,” Tel clipped.

“You’re outnumbered,” The Aqualish said. “You won’t win this fight.”

Tel, who was as full of derision as she was snark, snorted. “Bold of you to assume a handful of third-rate bounty hunters, who have to resort to letting someone else to the hard work, would stand a chance against a Mandalorian and a Republic Officer.”

The Twi’lek chuckled. “Well, it’s as I like to say: work smarter, not harder.”

“Well, you certainly need to work on the smarter aspect,” she said. “You might have us outnumbered, but outmatched is another matter entirely.”

“You Republic types never learn,” the Zabrak scoffed. “Forget talking. I say we just stun her and kill the Mandalorian. That beskar’s worth a fortune on the black market. ‘Bout as much as Shaldi’s offering to bring her in.”

Behind her, the Mandalorian scoffed.

“Credits mean nothing if you’re dead,” Tel said. “Is it really worth it?”

“For the price on your head?” the Twi’lek asked. “I’ll take my chances.”

Tel sighed. She should’ve known trying to reason with them — in their own language, of course — wouldn’t work. They were stupid enough to think they stood a better chance against a Mandalorian in full beskar than a group of Nikto. There were stumps on Kashyyyk with more intelligence.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Tel fired her blaster.

The passage descended into chaos. Her shot caught the Twi’lek in the arm and sent him stumbling just as the Zabrak flung himself at her. Before she could react, a hand seized her by the collar of her suit and yanked her to the side. The Zabrak barreled past her — straight into the barrel of the Mandalorian’s blaster.

Blaster fire ricochetted off the passage’s walls. She ducked beneath one as it whizzed past her head, close enough to singe her hair. Another struck the Mandalorian in the back of the helmet.

“Don’t use live rounds, you idiots!” the Twi’lek snapped, his voice barely discernible above the noise. “She dies, we don’t get paid!”

Again, the Mandalorian hauled her out of the way of a stray bolt.

Tel cursed. They needed cover, and fast.

The tunnel, however, provided nothing of the sort. With the overhead ventilation system occupied, they had nowhere to run — not without risking another confrontation in much closer quarters. The nearest offshoot was a quarter mile ahead of them, their path blocked by another pair of bounty hunters who, judging from the opened grate in the ceiling, had dropped from above.

A stray bolt pinged off the wall to her right in a shower of sparks, accompanied by the stench of scorched metal. Then she saw them — a set of rungs, so covered in gunk they nearly blended in with the passage’s wall. Directly above the ladder, hidden in the shadows of the ceiling, was an old access hatch.

Force willing, the hatch led to an alternative exit. If not, the hollow around the hatch would at least provide her with some cover. She’d take what she could get at the moment.

Ducking beneath another stray bolt, she pulled the Child — who sat curled up in his sling with his ears pressed flat against his head — into her arms. Without wasting another second, she bolted across the passage. She took the rungs two at a time, ignoring the way they creaked and bent beneath her weight. A stunning shot hit the wall beside her head. Another struck just beneath her feet.

The access hatch, a circular disk which appeared to retract into the walls, was barely large enough for a single person to fit through. An old, rusted panel hung from the wall just below it. Tel hit the large button in the center.

Nothing happened.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker of movement near the base of the ladder. Tel drew her blaster and fired. The bolt found its mark, striking the bounty hunter — the Zabrak from the sound of it — in the foot. She fired again, catching him in the shin as stumbled out of sight.

Then she shot the panel.

With a horrendous groan, and a shower of rust, the hatch spun open. Tel hauled herself through the opening and into what appeared to be a small maintenance room. An array of old tools lay atop a crumbling workbench. In the far corner of the room sat what she’d been hoping for — a computer terminal.

It wasn’t an exit, but it was just as good as one.

Adjusting her hold on the Child, Tel peered at the screen. Cracked and caked with grime, she could hardly read the words displayed upon the panel. For Tel, who’d never had a particular affinity for computers, it was an unfortunate complication.

“Schematics,” she muttered as she pressed the box in the top corner — which she hoped would lead to a menu. The screen blackened, then flickered back to life, jittery and distorted. “I need schematics.”

Squinting, Tel peered at the options. Pressure indicator. Valve shut off. Sewage Reroute. None of it was what she needed. The final option, however, caught her eye — open floors.

Curious, Tel selected that option. A map of that portion of the sewers appeared on the screen, each section of the main walkway divided into equal parts and numbered. It appeared to be a trash disposal system — one meant to be used in the event of debris accumulation after a potential tunnel flood, if she’d read the accompanying warning correctly.

The thought of opening all the floors briefly crossed her mind, yet the incessant voice in the back of her mind — damned her conscious — chased that thought away. While she’d much rather throw all the bounty hunters into the sludge and be on her way, the Mandalorian was an unfortunate necessity. She likely wouldn’t be able to fight through another group of bounty hunters on her own. There was no guarantee more wouldn’t come looking.

Dealing with the Mandalorian would come later, perhaps once they escaped the sewers, and she had a better understanding of their location.

Tel scanned the map, noting the numbers on the panel and their approximate location to the maintenance room. There were two right below her — the hatch positioned directly between them. She pursed her lips.

Going back down to check on the Mandalorian’s location was too risky. The sound of the battle had waned, but not faded; the blaster fire continued uninterrupted. If she went back down the ladder, the bounty hunters would have far too many chances to take out her legs before she reached the bottom.

A loud beep and the ear-splitting screech of grinding metal pulled her from her musings. The Child had his hands on the screen, his head cocked with childish intrigue. He’d activated not one, but both of the floors.

Tel bit back a sigh. She should’ve expected it. Children had little impulse control to speak of, especially where buttons were concerned.

Ah, well. If the Mandalorian went down with them, it wasn’t her fault.

As quickly as it began, the screeching ceased. Rather than blaster fire, muffled curses in a variety of languages, and the splashing of water, rose from the tunnel beneath. Tel activated the floors once more, closing them, and started down the ladder.

“What was that?” The Mandalorian demanded when she reached the bottom.

“A solution that worked as intended,” Tel breezed.

“Were you trying to drop me into that mess?”

Tel shrugged. “I was actually looking for the system’s schematics, at least until little one started pressing buttons.”

The sigh that filtered through his modulator was not one of frustration, but exasperation. “He… does that.”

“Well,” Tel said as she set the Child on the ground, “now that those idiots are drowning in sewage, I’m going back up for the schematics. Unless you want to try and squeeze in there?”

“And give you the chance to run?”

She raised a brow. “Not worried about me dropping you in?”

“Not with the kid down here.”

The surety — and accuracy — of his response startled her, though she supposed he’d given him ample reason to suspect as much. Perhaps that would explain the stunning lack of effort on his part to restrain her. Any other bounty hunter would’ve put her in binders long before now. They certainly never would’ve allowed her to arm herself, regardless of the situation.

She could only assume it was gratitude for saving the Child — Mandalorian’s honor. A rarity among his kind, she’d found.

“If you insist.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 7 | Cornered.

Tel had been absolutely certain they were beneath a city. The sewer system was extensive, almost as large as the labyrinth of tunnels that wove beneath the city-planet of Taris — comparable even to Courscant’s network. It sprawled across the screen of a datapad liberated from one of the bounty hunters, a swath of criss-crossing tunnels and passages that she suspected covered at least a two-thirds of the planet.

Yet, when they emerged from a working exit after nearly two hours of trekking through the system, she found her assumption wasn’t quite accurate. Rather than the underbelly of a towering city scape, a copse of large moss-covered trees surrounded by scraggy, thorny bushes greeted them. A swamp.

A kriffing swamp.

During her time with the Jedi, and later during the war, Tel visited countless words. She’d seen the endless seas of Manaan, the smog-choked city of Nar Shaddaa — worlds of dense forests and craggy mountains and lava plains. She would rather suffer the untamed and unforgiving jungles of Dxun, with its deadly fauna, stifling humidity, and droves of Mandalorian warriors, than trudge through a fetid mud pit.

At least on Dxun, if she stepped on a land mine, she wouldn’t be knee deep in a pile of feces. Most of the time.

Mud clung to her boots, seeping through the worn leather and squished between her toes. Bugs buzzed in her ears. The constant, high-pitched whine was a ceaseless source of irritation that only helped to intensify the lingering ache behind her temples.

The planet was alive. The Force echoed around her, ever-present like the distant drone of a ship’s engine. It was an incessant nagging grating on her awareness, which grew more pronounced as her senses returned. It was a slow process, hindered by her limited, albeit strengthening, connection to the Force and the unrelenting throbbing behind her temples. If only she could find a few moments of peace so that she could purge the last of the sedatives from her body.

Not far ahead of her, the Mandalorian picked his way through the mud and stagnate waters. She wasn’t sure what to make of him.He exuded the typical air of a Mandalorian; proud and reserved, but with the promise of violence lurking just beneath the surface. Yet, there almost seemed to be a touch of awkward naivety. Beyond that, there was a strange source of naivety and awkwardness, as if he wasn’t quiet as well-versed in the general goings-on of the galaxy as one would expect.

Still, at the very least, he had to know what planet they were on.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“A swamp.”

“Oh, really? I thought we were frolicking through the hills of Alderaan,” she drawled. “I meant planet-wise.”

“Scir.”

Tel frowned. She’d never heard of it.

Silence stretched between them as they trudged on. The ground began to rise and fall; the water shifting between ankle and waist deep without warning. Small islands, hardly more than a spit of hard sludge speckled with scraggy grass, offered a momentary respite from the muck. Massive trees with twisted trunks towered high overhead, their dense canopies, from which hung boughs of stringy moss, obscured much of the sky. Only a few slivers of golden light spilled through the leaves, casting a dull glow upon the thick haze that smothered the surface.

Tel worried at her lip. She didn’t recognize the planet, and that was concerning. The Republic likely recovered her from the battlefield, though, if that were the case, she should’ve woken up in a medical facility, if not aboard her cruiser. How had she gotten into a sewer’s storeroom?

And what did a Hutt want with her? Had they issued it? Tel had certainly upset a few in her lifetime, but not enough to warrant a bounty. The Jedi — and the Republic — preferred not to step on their tails. Slimy as they were, they often had a wealth of information for the right price.

Perhaps that was what this was all about. The bounty might not have originated from the Jedi, but there were warrants for her arrest floating about. The Council issued them shortly after she left for the war and the Republic largely ignored them. Perhaps the Hutt issued the bounty with the intentions of negotiating some kind of agreement with the Order. Even if the Council’s reluctant sanction of their intervention forced them to retract the warrants, they’d never ignore the chance to put her on trial for her defiance.

The thought set her blood simmering.

The Order paraded its mantel of defenders, labeling themselves as the peacekeepers of the galaxy, yet when asked to defend the peace, they fell silent. They shrank from their duties in favor of debating the Code; they protected their own rather than aid the billions of innocents left defenseless against the atrocities of war and condemned anyone who dared defy them. The Jedi preached of selflessness and sacrifice, but when the time came to make those sacrifices, they locked themselves away in their enclaves.

Tel had never seen the Order for what it claimed to be, but the war only highlighted it. They were nothing but a group of religious zealots who only kept to their word when it benefitted them most. They weaponized their connection to the Force, not as a physical manifestation like the Sith, but as a tool with which to build the pedestals that sat upon. As far as they were concerned, with their elevated wisdom and inane righteousness, they were the ultimate authority on all matters — especially those concerning the Force.

To hell with the Order and the Jedi. If they sought her repentance for her crimes — for taking up arms to defend those who could not defend themselves, as their very principles demanded — she would demand they answer for theirs in return. Their inaction allowed the war to continue far longer than it should have. They possessed the means and capability to stop it before it spread too far, and they remained idle.

The Jedi were every bit as responsible for the worlds devastated in the war as the Mandalorians who set them ablaze.

A presence brushed against her mind, an inquisitive but hesitant prodding on the fringes of her awareness. Tel shut her anger down, locking it tight behind a barrier of serene calm. In her silent tirade, she’d forgotten about the Child and his open, curious mind. It was unwise and irresponsible to expose him to such emotions.

He was young — too young to understand emotions were not the root of the issue, as the Jedi would claim. To feel was to live; it was what set them apart from automations. The problem lay in the mishandling of feeling, the wrong application of expression, and the weaponisation of emotion that paved the way to a dangerous fall. They were not droids; they could not simply cease to feel at the press of a button or with the wipe of a memory core.

And apathy was the very opposite of compassion.

“There’s something here. Looks like the same tracks from the sewers.”

The Mandalorian’s voice pulled her from her musings. He stopped just in front of her — a second later and she’d have run straight into his back — his head angled downward as he peered at a disturbance in the mud. It looked to be a footprint, a rather large, clawed one.

She’d seen one of them before.

Then she noticed it — the bone-numbing chill that clung to the air. It prickled at her skin, gooseflesh rising along her arms. It wasn’t the chill of a breezy humid night, too hot one moment and too cold the next; there was no wind, the trees still and silent. It was the sort of cold born of darkness not attributed to the canopy above, or the dense haze of smog that smothered the planet, but something far greater and far more sinister.

She felt the same bone-numbing chill on Dxun.

The swamp looked rather withered in this area as well. Rather than murky brown, the trees took on a nearly lifeless gray, their trunks gnarled and the bark peeling to reveal the rot beneath. The canopy overhead was no longer one of thick leaves, but a jagged web of scraggy branches, flecked with the occasional dying leaf. Even the water seemed darker — almost black in some places.

The Child noticed as well. He’d retreated into the sling, only the very tips of his ears visible above the edge. Tel could feel his apprehension.

“Which way to the tracks lead?” she asked. If her suspicions were correct, she and the Child — especially the Child — needed to move on, and quickly.

“To the left,” the Mandalorian said, turning towards her. “Then back this way. They look fresh.”

Which means it turned around, she thought.

Tel released a slow, deliberate breath. “You need to run.”

“What?”

“I recognize those tracks,” she said. “If they’re what I think they are, and I’m almost certain they are, the Child is in more danger than you realize.”

“I can handle it,” the Mandalorian huffed. “It’s probably an overgrown lizard. Swamps are full of them.”

Tel grit her teeth. It was going to raise too many questions, but the Child’s safety was far more important than her own secrecy. The Mandalorian hadn’t a clue what they were dealing with.

“This isn’t a ploy to cover my escape, Mandalorian. I know what it is, and I know what it hunts,” she bit out. “The Child—”

Something slammed into her from behind, a sudden burst of force that tore the air from her lungs and sent her sprawling into the mud. A shrill squeal rose from the Child, a blood-chilling cry of panic that grated on her ears and slammed against her consciousness with the force of a proton missile.

Not a moment later, Tel sensed the encroaching darkness behind her — the unnatural cold of the Dark Side bearing down upon her senses. Fear seized her heart in a vice grip, her blood freezing in her veins. She encountered that feeling only once before as a Padawan during a recovery mission, a creature so dangerous, so deadly, that even Master Vrook refused to engage it for fear of their lives.

The Mandalorian whirled. The Child struggled in his sling, his large, brown eyes wide with terror and his long pointed ears pulled back flat against his head as his three-fingered hand clawed at the strap. He sensed it, and even if he didn’t know what lurked in the brush behind them, he knew to fear it.

To his credit, the Mandalorian was on guard, a hand on his blaster as his helmeted gaze swept the surrounding area to locate the source of the Child’s sudden distress. Tel slowly pushed herself to her feet, swallowing the bile burning the back of her throat. Her hands shook at her sides.

Not good. This was not good at all.

“Take the Child and run,” Tel ordered, pouring every ounce of authority into her voice as she could. She felt the beast behind her, lingering just out of sight, waiting. “Get him as far away from here as you can. Run, and do not stop.”

No sooner than the words left her lips, the beast burst from the brush with a terrible, blood-curdling cry. The Force slammed into her once more and sent her sliding through, roots and rocks and thorns tearing into her skin. Her back slammed into the twisted trunk of a nearby tree, blinding agony erupting along her side. A coppery taste washed over her tongue.

Blood.

Cursing, Tel staggered to her feet. The beast, a horrendous, hulking biped with a mouth full of wicked sharp teeth protected by large, poisonous tusks on either side, ambled towards her, malicious intent brimming within its small, beady eyes. Anxiety clawed at her chest. She was hopelessly outmatched.

Terentaktek were Jedi hunters; twisted mutant creatures, derived from the vile alchemy of the Sith, that craved the flesh and blood of the Force-sensitive. Their natural resistance to the Force, coupled with the excessively potent venom in their claws or tusks, made them a difficult opponent even for a Jedi Master.

She’d encountered one once before during the exploration of an ancient Sith Temple. It was afterwards that Master Vrook described the horrors of the Great Hunt and the dangers they posed. The Jedi avoided them, for even teams of Masters fell prey to their hunger.

But avoiding it wasn’t a luxury she possessed; she was the only thing standing between it and the Child.

The terentatek charged.

Tel scrambled aside as it brought its massive claws down upon her. Her foot caught on something — a rock buried in the muck, or perhaps a gnarled root — and she tumbled straight into the mud. Just above her, the terentaktek’s claws tore into the trunk of the tree, rending the bark and wood asunder.

She sensed the second strike before it came. The terentaktek reared back and raised its claws high above its head. Tel dove between its legs, narrowly avoiding the brunt of the attack. The tips of its claws raked through her armor — a ghost of a touch on her skin that was far too close for comfort. If it so much as grazed her, she was dead — if she wasn’t already.

Another blast of the Force sent her skidding across the water.

This kriffing thing is actually going to kill me, she thought.

A shot sounded off to her right. The energy bolt struck the terentaktek in the head, drawing a furious cry from its ghastly maw. Another it in the side, but to no avail. Its hide was too thick to penetrate.

The shots did, however, draw its attention long enough for her to stagger to her feet —

Only for her to trip a second later, as her foot caught on something else buried within the mud. 

She hit the ground hard, another bolt of white-hot agony arcing through her side. With a pained hiss, she rolled over and froze. The muddy, shredded face of a Nikto filled her blurred vision. Something cold and metallic brushed against her hand, and as she closed her fingers around it instinctively, praying like hell to the Force it was a knife or a vibroblade, she noted the curvature of its surface. 

A grenade. 

Tel wrenched it free of the belt and turned it over in her hands, the makings of a plan forming in her mind. It would be suicide, but it was better than nothing. She was as good as dead anyway.

The blaster fire continued, each shot bouncing off the beast’s skin, a harmless but persistent irritancy that kept its focus away from her. A useful distraction, but a foolish one. It wouldn’t be long before the terentaktek discovered the source of the blaster fire, nor the Child undoubtedly with his negligent guardian.

As if the galaxy meant to prove her correct, the terentatek turned its head skyward, zeroing in on The Mandalorian. Tel scrambled to her feet as the beast raised its arm. The Mandalorian’s next shot flew wide, striking a distant tree beyond the edge of the watery clearing. A terrified squeal followed suit, punctuated by a heavy thud and the clank of beskar. 

“Damned Mandalorians,” Tel hissed. She called upon the Force, fighting past the pain and fatigue until she found the bubbling spring deep within her, and bolted.

The momentary burst of speed allowed her to clear the distance between her and the terentatek in seconds. She leapt onto its back just as it crouched low for its next charge. With a skill and grace gained only through years of extensive training, and bolstered by the Force, she climbed around the massive spikes. The beast reared, another bone-chilling cry tearing from its throat as it bucked and shook its back.

Tel buried her feet between the gaps in its spikes and waited. She felt the opening in the Force, a flicker of weakness, a tiny chink in an otherwise impenetrable armor. It would last for ten seconds when the beast threw its head backwards to snap at her. She would need to move fast.

The beast shook itself again and the edges of its spines dug into her side. Tel swallowed the pained shriek bubbling within her throat and readied the grenade. The creature stilled for a second and she moved.

As it threw its head back, mouth wide open with an infuriated roar, Tel used the force to propel herself over its head. Its teeth narrowly missed her leg, grazing her boot, and as she flipped over, she flung the grenade into its mouth.

It clanged against its teeth, then the steady beep of the active detonator disappearing deep within its gullet. 

Tel hit the ground sliding, her feet barely stable in the slick mud, and dove into the brush. She rolled, slamming into the Mandalorian’s shin as he stumbled to his feet and came to a stop as he nearly collapsed on top of her. All the while, the grenade continued to count down, the silence between each muffled beep shorter than the next.

With a final cry, the terentatek exploded in a shower of smoldering flesh and sickly blood. 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 8 | AGREEMENT.

Tel laughed.

It wasn’t joyous laughter, but relief; the sort of laugh that came from surviving the impossible. One of disbelief. She should be dead. Greater Jedi than her fell to the terentaktek by the hundreds, yet, by some gracious twist of the Force, she not only survived — she defeated it.

Master Vrook would be beside himself if he’d witnessed her recklessness, cursing her and her heritage all the while. What was it he’d said that day in the ruins? That she would never possess the capabilities of killing one, even with the aid of a Jedi Master?

The satisfaction of proving him wrong was enough to dull the pain, but only for the moment. No sooner than her laughter subsided, it returned in full force, now accompanied by a blinding headache that threatened to split her skull in two. She overexerted herself again.

Still, she forced herself to her feet and took stock of her injuries. As far as she could tell, beyond the ache in her spine and the blaster wound from a few hours earlier, her back was mostly unscathed. There were a few minor cuts and scrapes on her hands and face, but the worst injury was on her side.

Blood stained the muted tan of her ruined combat suit, but the wound didn’t seem especially large nor overly concerning; the spine missed her organs. It stung, and it needed a thorough cleaning, but she’d survive. She’d endured far worse during the war.

“You’re insane,” the Mandalorian said, disbelief coloring his tone. 

“Maybe so, but I’m alive, and that’s good enough for me,” she wheezed.

A soft, tired coo rose from the Mandalorian’s side, and Tel immediately turned her attention to the Child. He sat slouched in the sling, his eyes heavy and his ears drooping with exhaustion. She knew that look; she’d seen it many times among the younglings. It wasn’t a physical exhaustion, but the aftereffects of a psychological burden. The Child likely tried to aid her with the Force, only to find it ineffective. 

Tel didn’t blame him; if she hadn’t had the benefit of encountering a terentatek in the company of a Master who knew the Force was of no use against the creature, she would’ve done the same. 

“What was that creature?”

She turned to the Mandalorian, her eyes narrowed and lips pursed in thought. Until she knew for certain he wasn’t like most Mandalorians she’d encountered, revealing her abilities was too much of a risk. He might not care that the Child possessed the Force, but he was a child — and Mandalorians had a particular fondness for children.

Most of them, anyway.

She, however, was not a child; she was a Jedi Knight — a Republic General responsible for several key Mandalorian loses in the war. Most Mandalorians would challenge her on the spot, if for no other reason than for bragging rights. To them, killing a Jedi was a feat worthy of commemoration.

Still, if there were, Force forbid, any more terentaktek lurking in the vicinity, the Child — and by proxy, the Mandalorian — needed to know not to engage it. They should’ve run as it was. Her bounty, whatever the price, wasn’t comparable to the Child’s life. 

“There called terentaktek,” she said, choosing her words with care. “They hunt those with a strong connection to the Force, so I’ve been told.”

“Are you a Jedi?”

The question caught her completely off guard, though in hindsight, her response had hinted more than she would’ve liked, but what surprised her most was the genuine curiosity in his question and the utter lack of aggression. There was no hostility, no animosity, only a tiny sliver of something that dangerously treaded towards hope. 

“No. I am, however, from Telos IV. The Jedi frequently dumped their failures there. My… father was a Jedi, once. And I knew several others.”

It wasn’t a complete lie; her father was a Jedi youngling before the Order deemed him unfit for further training and sent him to the agricultural fields of his homeworld, but she was not born on Telos IV.

“Then you would know where to find the Jedi?”

Her own distorted memory Child’s memories once again flashed before her eyes. If Coruscant had indeed fallen, the Jedi would not be there. It would mean the Republic lost the war, and the Jedi retreated into isolation — if any survived. She refused to believe that, not with Revan at the helm of the Republic’s fleets.

How could he not know where they were? Everyone in the galaxy knew the Jedi Order based its operations on Courscant. it was the first place a planetary government looked when seeking to enlist their aid. The Jedi did not hide their presence, nor did they leave the galaxy questioning their existence; the Order was rather involved with galactic politics, often called upon as mediators and adjudicators.

Tel had been a part of many of those missions, settling disputes between planetary factions or serving as a negotiator to stem political tensions between systems. In the middle of a massive intergalactic struggle, no Mandalorian would ask where to find the Jedi; they would know, if they were not on Coruscant, at least one would be on the nearest battlefield.   

Just how long had she been in that tank for?

“If they are not on Coruscant,” Tel said, swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, “I can’t tell you where they are. My homeworld, for obvious reasons, didn’t have a good relationship with the Jedi.”

Telos IV, from her understanding, had a working relationship with the Jedi Order, but there was no shortage of resentment among its inhabitants. Many of them, especially those removed from the Order, resented being taken from their families, only to be cast aside. Her father had been one of them.

She could almost hear the gears turning in his head as he took in that information. It wasn’t unreasonable to assume she was likely the closest thing to a lead he’d come across in his apparent endeavor to reunite the Child with the Jedi. If they weren’t on Courscant, however, she truly hadn’t a clue where else to direct him. The Jedi had many secret enclaves scattered throughout the galaxy, but she was only privy to one and it wasn’t an option. Master Vrook would strangle her (in his head, at least, though she could never be too certain with him), if she sent a Mandalorian to the Dantooine enclave.

That was assuming the Jedi were still there.

“That’s all I can say on that matter,” she said at length. “If they’re not on Courscant, I can’t help you. Even if I could, I wouldn’t be able to. Not with this bounty on my head.”

The ease with which he replied startled her. “I’m not handing you over.”

“What?”

“I was told to liberate you from the Nikto and bring you to Shaldi the Hutt alive and… unharmed,” the Mandalorian said, throwing a pointed look at her side. “But I’m letting the Hutt have you.”

“Why?”

A long silence preceded his response, and Tel sensed conflict stirring within him. “You saved me and the kid.”

“Technically, yes,” Tel said, “though, considering your reckless distraction gave me the chance to kill the terentaktek, I suppose I owe you my life as well.”

The words burned her tongue, but as much as she despised it, they were true. If not for the Mandalorian’s aptly timed distraction, the terentatek would’ve killed her. If not for her quick thinking and daring stunt, it would’ve killed him and the Child as well. That wasn’t counting the sewer incidents.

“Which puts us at an impasse,” she continued. “If you don’t hand me over, that means you don’t get paid and my bounty is still up for grabs.”

“I think I know how to deal with that,” the Mandalorian said. “A way I can still collect the payment without handing your over.”

Tel frowned. Was that possible? Wouldn’t that void the terms of whatever contract he agreed to?

The Mandalorian, as if sensing her confusion (or seeing it, she amended), tilted his head, the waning sunlight reflecting off his muddy armor, and said, “I agreed to bring you to the Hutt alive. Never said I would turn you over.”

“Alive and unharmed,” she pointed out.

“I didn’t harm you.”

He wasn’t wrong. The Mandalorian never even touched her, save to pull her out of the way of a few blaster shots. Every injury she had came from someone, or something else: the glass from the tank, the bounty hunters’ blasters, the terentaktek. The Hutt wouldn’t be able to prove she was uninjured before the Mandalorian found her. For all it knew, he could’ve found her wandering the swamp.

A false surrender of her bounty favored her as well; if the Hutt wasn’t the source, it would know who issued it. The Mandalorian got paid, and she got an answer. It seemed like an ideal agreement. There was, however, still the matter of the active bounty. Even if the Mandalorian swindled the Hutt out of its credits, there’s still be other bounty hunters coming after her.

Though she supposed that wasn’t his problem. Not turning her in would satisfy the debt he owed her — he wasn’t obligated to do anything more after the fact. She could call in the other two incidents he owed her for, but she’d rather not be stuck with him. The sooner she got off-world, the sooner she could focus on finding more answer.

•·················•·················•

This was the strangest job he’d taken by far, and Din had taken many unusual jobs.

It took a few short minutes to clear the Nikto’s hideout. They had no security to speak of, their patrols negligent and their defenses dismal. Not only did they allow their prisoner to escape confinement, they allowed her to arm herself. It almost felt wrong to kill such a pitiful group, but what they lacked in sense, they made up for in numbers; even with their miserable aim and cheap blasters, at least one of their shots would strike, eventually.

Unless the hunters on this backwater planet were blind, deaf, and lame, Din could not understand how none of them succeeded. On Arvala-7, the hunters had ample excuses; a well-fortified and well-defended outpost reachable only through near impassible terrain. He’d needed the cooperation of a local and a damned bounty droid to break through their defenses.

Here, there was no excuse. The Niktos’ compound stood out like a sore thumb, an old sewage weigh station with no vantage points, loose patrols, nothing but a swamp of smelly water between it and the front door. The only viable threat he encountered so far, beyond the bounty hunters looking to swipe his quarry, was the strange, spiked creature Tel left splattered across the mud some klicks back. 

The beast was unlike anything he’d seen, with its massive claws, tusks as thick as his arms, and teeth so sharp he could see the fine, serrated points from a distance. The myriad of spikes behind its head and along the upper part of its back promised to skewer anyone who dared get too close. His rifle couldn’t penetrate its skin. Worst of all, it possessed the same sorcery as the Child, able to sling its prey around with the flick of its arm.

There was a time when the thought of running would’ve filled him with shame. He was a Mandalorian — a warrior. Warriors did not flee from a fight or shrink from a challenge. But, the moment he saw the creature and what it could do — the moment heard the utter terror in the Child’s cry — he damn near turned on his heels and bolted.

Din had long since come to terms with the fact that he was no longer just a warrior. The days of galvanizing across the galaxy, concerned with no one but himself and his covert, were but a distant memory. He was a father now, perhaps in name only, but a father regardless, and his child’s safety took precedence over his pride.

Yet he couldn’t leave Tel to face that creature alone. She knew what it was, knew that she was no match for it, and still put herself in its sights for the sake of a child that wasn’t her responsibility. If not for her insane stunt (and sheer stupidity, he’d argue), none of them would’ve made it out alive.

Even among the members of his covert, he’d find it difficult to find anyone with the tenacity and insanity to hurl themselves onto a beast that had so thoroughly bested them not moments before, unarmed and barely armored, and shove a live grenade down its throat.

If that was not a feat worthy of respect, then he didn’t know what was.

It left Din with more questions than answers. He didn’t miss the implications behind her explanation of the beast’s favored prey, nor how it pursued her with relentless insistence. Yet, the beast hadn’t even looked in his direction until he forced it to.

Initially, he assumed it was because Tel was the weakest link. Her every movement oozed with lethargy, one that only seemed to grow more pronounced as time went on. She hid it well enough with her flippant remarks, but he could see it in her eyes; that half-there haze, as if she was coming off the effects of a sedative.

It was half the reason he didn’t bother with binders at first, though the situation didn’t allow for that consideration. Beyond that, there was no need: she was cooperative, and he assumed, rightfully so, her immediate concern for the Child would prevent her from trying anything.

And she was the closest lead to the Jedi he'd found yet. Though she claimed she wasn’t a one (and given what transpired less than an hour prior, it was a claim he was hesitant to believe), she knew of people connected to them. Until he could locate the next nearest covert, or someone else with more information, she was his best bet to locating the Child’s kind.

First, he had to sort this business with her bounty.

Before long, the swamp gave way to the winding maze of mud huts and dirt streets that composed the planet’s only settlement. In the light of the setting sun, which cast a pale purple glow upon the hazy sky, fires flared to life in the oil canisters that lined the streets. The smell of cooked meat and steamed vegetables took to the air, mingling with the stench of burning oil. 

Din slowed, falling in step beside her, and silently observed her. She perked up the moment the buildings came into sight, her pale green eyes, still hazy with exhaustion, surveying her surroundings. It wasn’t for the sake of observation. There was a methodical approach to the way she scanned every back alley and side street, her gaze flickering towards the roofs every so often. Her left hand twitched at her hip, her fingers ghosting over the handle of the blaster holstered to her thigh. 

It was apparent from the way she handled a blaster, and her quick thinking, that she was no stranger to combat. She was likely a Republic soldier, if not an officer. She carried that same militaristic flare that Cara did, though one more benefitting of a commander rather than a footsoldier.

“Any idea why you have a bounty on your head?”

“No.” Her gaze then drifted to the Child, a frown pulling at her lips. “Where’d you get the kid?”

There was something in her tone that set him on edge, a sharpened undercurrent bordering on accusation. He saw it in her eyes, narrowed at the corners, as she continued to study the Child. It was not with concern, now, but with scrutiny, as if he were a piece of a puzzle she couldn’t quite fit into place.

“I found him,” was all he offered.

She redirected her gaze to the streets once more and said, “I thought the Mandalorians hated the Jedi.”

Again, there was a sharpened edge to her voice, but it was not the undercurrent of allegation. It was a cold, stinging bite, much like that of a blade. It was more than a simple statement.

He could neither confirm nor deny the claim. Until acquiring the Child, he had never heard of the Jedi or their sorcery, and he could not speak for the other clans or coverts. The Armorer claimed they were an ancient enemy, but whether that held true in recent years remained to be seen. Likely not. He would’ve heard of them by now.

His quarry fell silent once again as they ventured further into the city. Several turns and one side alley later, the heavy pulse of a bass echoed from within the cantina, carrying across the otherwise quiet night. From the corner of his visor, he caught the grimace that flickered across her face and the hand that rose to press against her temple. She’d done that several since he found her.

Ignoring the stares and murmurs from the cantina’s patrons, Din ushered her through the main room and into the bounty office. There were more hunters than earlier that morning gathered within the corners and loitering about along the sides of the room. He felt their gazes bore into the back of his helmet as they passed.

Shaldi remained atop her dais. Two men decked in heavy durasteel armor stood on either side of her, armed with heavy automatic blaster rifles. The Child suddenly stirred, a nervous coo rising from the sling at his side.

Just as he opened his mouth to address Shaldi, his quarry seized her blaster from her hip and fired.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 9 | COMPLICATIONS.

Din noticed several things at that moment.

The twitchy Rodian he’d seen at the bar the night before stood stock still, his large eyes bulging. A thin trail of smoke rose from the small hole seared into the center of his forehead. The acrid stench of burnt flesh filled the air.

A glint of metal brought his attention downward. The tip of a knife, clutched in the unmoving hand of the Rodian, hovered mere inches from his chin, almost level with the base of his helmet. A moment later, and Din might have found that same knife wedged into the back of his neck.

Finally, he realized the bounty office was far more crowded than during his first visit. Rather than a handful of pitiful looking hunters, nearly two dozen of them, all armed and armored, stood scattered about the room. Several of them lifted their blasters, the barrels pointed not at him, but at Tel, who knelt next to the Rodian’s body, her brows drawn, as she reached into the pocket of its flight suit.

“You are brave, Mandalorian, to allow your quarry a weapon,” the Hutt’s booming voice called from the other side of the room. “Or stupid.”

Perhaps, but he’d been fairly confident she wouldn’t be a problem. She was smarter than his average bounty, well aware she didn’t stand a chance against him. It made his job easier; he didn’t have to split his attention between fending off their assailants while trying to keep her out of harm’s way — or keep her from running off.

If only all of his jobs were this easy.

“You’re rather nonchalant, considering one of your men just attempted to attack us,” Tel said.

She stood, turning something over in her hands. It gleamed beneath the dim lighting illuminating the bounty office. A pin, he realized upon closer inspection. The lines which extended from the darkened circle in the middle matched the yellowed pattern on Shaldi’s back.

The Hutt narrowed her eyes, the corners of her wide mouth turned downward. “Twitch was not fond of Mandalorians.”

Tel hummed, unconvinced.

Shaldi threw her one last narrowed look, then turned her attention back to him and said, “She was supposed to be unharmed.”

Without missing a beat, Din replied, “You can thank the Nikto for that.”

The Hutt raised a dubious brow. “She was in a sealed tank.”

“Not when I found her.”

If he had to guess, she’d likely gotten out of the tank moments before he stumbled into her. Though, how he couldn’t say; he’d merely seen the shattered remains of the tank when the first group of bounty hunters forced them into the storage room. Either the tank malfunctioned, or the Nikto broke the glass to remove her — possibly to move her before he or another bounty hunter could find her.

Unless she somehow escaped on her own.

“And the tears in her armor?” A hunter — a Trandoshan lurking near the door — asked.

“Looks like Ziche’s,” another, this time an Aquilish, chimed in. “Didn’t look like that when he left. He never came back, either.”

Din grit his teeth. He hadn’t accounted for this, though it confirmed his suspicions that the bounty hunters were Shaldi’s men who’d moved to intercept him. He’d had his doubts about the bounties, but it was becoming apparent the Hutt was up to something.

Hutts always were.

There had to be a way around this; a loophole or discrepancy in the agreement. The Hutt said unharmed, but the droid, if he remembered correctly, hadn’t been as specific. Hutts were prone to falsities, whether by omission or outright lies. Droids, unless programed otherwise, were not.

“The droid said she had to be conscious and intact,” Din argued. “Which she is.”

The rusted protocol droid at Shaldi’s side sprang to life with a shuddering whirl. “That is correct. The quarry is conscious, and the damage appears to be minimal and repairable. This is acceptable.”

The Hutt, albeit reluctantly, conceded the point with a lazy wave of her stubby arm.

“Now, about the bounties,” he said.

“The first bounty comes from a man named Sharan Cardenn, a collector of curios,” the Hutt replied. “Not sure what he wants with a Twi’lek mutt, but I don’t ask questions.”

Beside him, Tel scoffed.

“And the second?”

“Remains anonymous. I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to,” Shaldi drawled. “That bounty, however, has changed. The source confirmed it shortly after you left. Same terms, double reward.”

“Which one came first?”

“The anonymous source,” the Hutt said.

Din considered the information. He still doubted the validity of the dual bounty, even more so now that the claims from the previous day weren’t adding up. The droid said both sources were anonymous, yet they suddenly had a name for one. Either something had truly changed since he left, or the Hutt fabricated the whole ordeal to make the bounty more appealing.

The latter seemed more plausible. From what he’d seen when he first arrived, Shaldi’s men likely failed to recover the quarry on multiple occasions. They were desperate to meet the time constraint. Shaldi sent him to deal with the most difficult part so that her men could swoop in at the last second and collect on the bounty.

It made sense from a business standpoint; she’d get to keep the reward for herself if she were the one to turn Tel over to the employer.

“If I were to deliver her to the anonymous source, where would the drop-off be?”

“A third party on Ord Mantell will handle the transfer of the remaining two-thirds of the reward, and the offloading of the bounty to the proper employer.”

That gave him pause. Once Black Sun territory, Ord Mantell had become an Imperial deepdock during the Empire’s reign. Whether the Imperial remnants remained in control of the world remained to be seen, but he wasn’t taking his chances — not when the Empire was still after the kid.

“My ship is under repair,” Din said. “I leave in four days.”

“My men will deliver the reward to you shortly,” the Hutt replied. “Your quarry will stay with me until you are ready to leave.”

That was the final nail in the proverbial coffin. Double bounties, same drop off, and the Hutt wanted to keep her? Her intentions were all too clear now.

“She stays with me until I get my payment,” he said. Then, without another word, he turned on his heels and stalked out of the bounty cantina.

Tel hesitated for a moment, then hurried after him, jogging to catch up.

As the sun sank further beneath the horizon and night descended upon the planet, the shadows drew longer. The bustle of the port gave way to a tense quiet, broken only by the distant pulsing of the cantina’s bass and the chattering of creatures within the swamp. Various beings crowded around the canister fires, tattered shawls and jackets pulled tight against their chests to ward off the chill that now clung to the air. Their gazes seemed to follow them as they passed.

“We’re being watched,” Tel said, some time later.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“We need to leave as soon as possible. The Hutt’s up to something,” she continued. “And I have a feeling I’m not the only one she wants.”

Curious, he asked, “What gave you that idea?”

“You heard the Zabrak,” she said. “Your beskar’s worth almost as much as my bounty. Wouldn’t surprise me if she sent them to kill you for it. She’d get the full reward for handing me over, as well as a bonus for selling the armor.”

That made sense, he supposed. It wouldn’t be the first time someone targeted him for the potential profit his armor promised. As the armorer said, as a Mandalorian, he was both the hunter and the prey.

“As interesting as a theory as that is, if that were the case, why didn’t they ambush us when they had the chance?”

“They did. In the sewers,” Tel reminded him. “And I’ll bet the Rodian as another attempt at that,” she continued as she pulled something from the pocket of her suit. “Swiped this off of him as well.”

A stealth generator, he realized. It was a rather archaic and unreliable piece of technology that, despite several attempts at a revival, rarely saw use. They were notoriously sensitive, the camouflaging field prone to collapsing with the slightest disturbance. Nor were they prefect; they relied too heavily on skill and discretion, as the field didn’t conceal the user entirely. The only thing they were good for was bypassing sensors and scanners.

To get as close as he had, Din could only assume the Rodian was more skilled than most.

“How’d you know he was there?”

Tel hesitated. Then she slipped the belt back into her pocket and shrugged. “I saw him switch it on. That’s irrelevant, though. The Hutt’s men likely knew they wouldn’t win that fight, even with their numbers after ten of them — and a gang of Nikto, apparently — already failed.”

That was a justifiable explanation, he’d admit. Hutts were as smart as they were slimy; his armor may fetch a hefty price in the right circles, but Tel’s bounty was higher still. No Hutt would risk a guaranteed profit for a lower payout — especially if the bounty had truly doubled.

Shaldi had over a million credits within reach if the increase was legitimate, and perhaps more if she realized the kid had an outstanding bounty as well.

Din sighed. He knew accepting the job was a bad idea, but what choice did he have? It was the only one Shaldi had, and without fuel, at the very least, the Razor Crest wouldn’t be going anywhere. Waiting for another job wasn’t an option; the longer he remained in one place, the more chances he gave his pursuers. Until he returned the Child to the Jedi, he had to keep on the move.

As they drew closer to the spaceport, Din noted the steady increase in the number of eyes on them. They seemed to come from every direction, peering at them from sidestreets and rooftops alike. More than once, he caught Tel throw a narrow-eyed glance over her shoulder, as if she expected to find someone on their heels.

The bounty office wouldn’t be an ideal place for an ambush, but an open street was another matter. Yet, no one made a move. The streets remained silent, albeit eerily so, and within a few minutes, they arrived at their destination.

As the largest building in the city (and Din would hardly call Scir’s winding maze of pitiful mud huts a city), the spaceport dominated the western horizon. Despite its size, it was, like everything else on that backwater planet, hardly noteworthy. The port housed only two docking bays, one of which was occupied when he first arrived.

More unpleasant news awaited him in the hangar. Though mostly intact, the Crest was nowhere near space worthy. The hyper drive sat on the ground beneath the hull, surrounded by a mess of tools and wires, and the left engine lay in pieces. It would take several hours to put it back together, assuming the interior remained untouched.

As far as he could tell, it was. As Din climbed the boarding ramp, he noted nothing out of the ordinary. The panels remained firmly in place, the crates and lockers sealed shut. Everything was as he left it that morning.

Except for the bleak, silver case perched atop the rations’ crate. A single peek inside confirmed his suspicions; Shaldi’s men had delivered the credits. He bit back a curse.

He was never one to lie — it wasn’t a trait favored by his clan. Mandalorians prided themselves not only in their martial prowess, but their code of honor. He’d told the hutt Tel would stay with him until he got his payment.

Then again, he’d never specified which payment.

Din weighed his options. They had no choice but to stay the night, at the very least. Even if he put the ship back together, they’d still have to wait until morning to refuel. The stores needed restocking as well — there were barely enough rations to last until they reached Nevarro, especially now that there was a third person aboard, though briefly.

As that thought crossed his mind, he opened the medical cabinet (which was less of a cabinet and more of a cubby at the base of the weapons locker) and sighed. There was hardly anything inside — a roll of bandages and a single bacta shot. It would have to do until morning.

Sighing, Din tossed the syringe to Tel. She caught it, turning it over in her hands. Her brows creased as she eyed the contents.

“What is it?”

“For your injuries,” he said, as he pulled the Child from his sling and set him atop the bunk next to the locker. “Stay here and watch the kid.”

“And where are you going?” she asked. She pulled the cap off the needle and squinted at it — inspecting it.

“Contacting someone,” he called over his shoulder as he started up the ladder.

Once inside the relative quiet of the cockpit, Din tossed himself into the pilot’s chair and released yet another sigh. In hindsight, he hadn’t thought this through at all. The decision not to turn her over to the hutt was one of gratitude, but he hadn’t stopped to consider what came after. He was no more certain of what to do now than before.

She had a connection to the Jedi, however slight, that might prove invaluable in his endeavor to return the Child to the Jedi. He could benefit from having someone to look after the kid when he couldn’t. Her bounty, however, would only complicate matters. The last thing he needed was yet another reason to have every bounty hunter in the galaxy on his tail.

He was barely keeping ahead of them as it was.

Pushing that thought aside, Din sat up and reached for the communications array on the ship’s main console. He could worry about what to do with Tel later — none of it mattered until they could get off-world, and there were more pressing concerns at hand. He had to sort out the mess with the bounties first.

And if there was anyone who’d know about them, or at least know how to look into the matter, it was Greef Karga.

•·················•·················•

Since the war began, Tel learned to appreciate the smaller things in life — that which she previously took for granted: a warm shower and clean clothes.

Such luxuries were difficult to find in those days. If she wasn’t on the battlefield fighting alongside her men for days, sometimes even weeks, she found herself inside a briefing room for hours at a time, discussing battle plans and relief missions with the Jedi who’d joined the cause. The war did not bring a halt to their duties as Jedi; they were still bound by the Code to assist the innocents of the galaxy and the worlds facing humanitarian crises resulting from the war.

There were many of those — species fleeing extinction, millions of refugees displaced across the galaxy, planets crippled by the cost of the war and the hampered flow of trade. It seemed for every world they liberated, another fifteen fell into disarray. The Republic barely had enough supplies to keep their military and their people afloat.

And all because of the Mandalorians, who viewed those who did not follow the resol’nare as dar’manda worthy of slaughter.

Tel patted her hair dry with the stiff but clean towel hung from the rack beside the shower and sighed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a real shower. The sonic showers aboard the battle cruisers offered a brief respite, but they could not wash away the stench of sweat or the grime embedded into her skin from days of constant battle and traipsing through the wilderness of seemingly every planet in Known Space.

She was more than grateful to be clean — free of the stench of the swamp and the bloody armor. The new outfit, folded on the counter beside the sink, was a blessing if she’d ever seen one, as was the open medkit perched atop it. The injection the Mandalorian had given her stunted the pain, but it wasn’t enough.

He’d told her not to leave the ship before he disappeared into the cockpit, but Tel refused to spend the rest of the night breathing in the putrid stench of mud and detritus. More than that, her wounds needed a thorough cleaning, lest she risk infection. She could, theoretically, heal herself with the Force, but between her weakened connection and the questions it would raise, the old-fashioned way would have to do.

And the Mandalorian had nothing in the way of supplies.

As it was, the medkit, which she bought with a few credits swiped from the reward for her bounty, barely had enough to cover her needs. It took two shots — bacta, whatever that was — to numb the pain enough for her to spend the next thirty minutes suturing the gash in her side. It was wide, spanning the length of her side, and just deep enough that a bandage wouldn’t suffice.

Uncomfortable, but necessary; she certainly had no intentions of getting in another kolto tank.

Ignoring the twinge in her side, she threw her hair into a sloppy bun and tugged on her clothes.

Tel threw her hair into a sloppy bun and tugged on her clothes. They were simple: plain and unassuming — comfortable, albeit foreign. It’d been years since she last wore anything with as much vibrancy as the pale gold of her new flight jacket — since she last suffered the struggle of choosing colors that didn’t clash with the bright teal of her hair. It almost felt wrong, somehow, to break the staunch traditionality of the Order.

She caught her reflection in the small mirror hung above the skin and frowned. She looked neither like a Jedi nor a soldier. No, with her padded flight jacket, plain white undershirt, and the belt slung around her waist, she looked more like the average spacer.

Tossing her old clothes and the damp towel into the laundry receptacle set into the wall beside the shower, Tel exited the refresher — and walked straight into the barrel of a blaster.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 10 | AMBUSH

Jedi, contrary to popular belief, were not infallible. Their heightened awareness allowed for a greater sense of their surroundings, but like many things concerning the Force, it was a learned skill, and one subject to as much interference as any scanner. Large numbers of living creatures, a noisy planetary presence, or any combination of such could hinder a Jedi’s ability to sense approaching danger.

Sometimes, however, it was as simple as a lack of attention.

The barrel of the blaster dug into her sternum, cold and biting through the thin fabric of her shirt. A clawed, scaled finger twitched over the trigger. That finger connected to an equally scaled hand, and from there to an bulging arm. A single glance upward confirmed her suspicions. The Trandoshan from the bounty office stared down at her, his slitted eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

“Not very smart, are you?” he asked.

Tel glanced at the blaster. “I would hope that’s set to stun, otherwise, I’d have to ask you the same question.”

“Do as you're told and you won’t have to find out,” the Trandoshan said, pushing the barrel further into her chest.

Tel pursed her lips. Despite their understanding of her bounty’s stipulations, Shaldi’s men had so far proved to be both stupid and reckless. One wrong move, and she may well end up with a hole seared through her chest.

She peered past the Trandoshan, searching the room beyond the refresher for anything that might offer a means of escape — a distraction. With the lack of information her bounty provided, and Tel could assume none of the bounty hunters were aware of what she was. They wouldn’t know to expect anything unusual.

The bartender, after some persuasion of the monetary sort, had allowed her to use one of the vacant inn room above the cantina. Tel would hardly call it a room, however; it was bleak and without fanfare, containing only the barest necessities. A single bed, tilted at an angle almost too precarious to sleep on, jutted from the western wall, the stained sheets stretched neatly over the thin mattress. Across the room, nestled in the corner next to the door, was a small locker to hold belongings. There was hardly more than a foot of space to navigate through the room.

The bedsheet wouldn’t be loud enough nor obvious enough to draw his attention, at least not in the way she needed. The footlocker could work, assuming the proprietor hadn’t bolted it to the floor. Too much noise would draw too much attention from the rest of the cantina’s patrons — and if she ended up ripping a hole in the roof, she risked exposing herself.

Her being a Jedi was the only advantage she had at the moment.

Then she spotted the window — a thin and miserable sliver of green-tinted glass which was hardly wide enough for her to fit through — set into the wall above the bed. Shattering the glass would provide the distraction she needed, and without the potential for discovery. A glass window was far more easy to break than bolts and welded durasteel.

She would have to be quick about it. Trandoshans were renowned hunters, skilled and difficult to kill. Tel had one shot; anything more and it would turn into more of a fight than she was prepared for. Even with the Force to aid her, the Trandoshan had the advantage of size, and the narrow confines of the room would work against her just as much as it would him.

Mind made, Tel raised her hands in false surrender. She then seized upon her connection to the Force and set her sights on the window. A series of thin, glowing cracks appeared across the glass, a jagged network of fractures invisible to the naked eye. From there, it was a matter of applying pressure through the Force.

The window shattered.

Startled, the Trandoshan spun on his heels, a sputtering curse pulling from his lips. Tel waited no time. She wrenched her blaster from her holster, planted the barrel against the back of his neck, and fired. The bolt tore through the scales, ripping through his neck with enough force to throw his head backwards.

No sooner than the body hit the floor, she bolted for the door. The upper floor of the cantina was small, hardly larger than the main room, and hardly wide enough for two people to walk side by side. She hurried around the corner, only to stop short as two more bounty hunters — an Aqualish and a Quarren — burst from the passage leading to the lower floor.

Should’ve kriffing stabbed him, she thought.

A stunning ring struck the wall beside her head, and she backpedaled, cursing. The upper floor only had one exit; the hall continued in the other direction for only a few more feet before it came to an abrupt halt. With every other door locked, she had no choice but to retreat into the room.

Perhaps it was for the best; barreling straight into a cantina overrun with bounty hunters would be nothing short of suicide.

Another shot struck the floor, mere inches from her feet, as she flung herself through the door and slammed her hand over the activation panel. With a shuddering hiss, the door promptly shut, the lock clicking into place. It wouldn’t stop them, but it would slow them down long enough to cover her escape.

She crossed the room in two easy strides. The bed creaked beneath her, dipping precariously, as she reached for the base of the window. It would be a tight fit, and the glass would tear through her clothes, but a few torn threads were far more preferable to whatever awaited her once Shaldi got her hands on her.

A thud rose from the door as she hauled herself up the wall and swung her leg through the opening. Her foot found purchase on a narrow ledge just beneath the window. Glass tore into her pants, raking across her skin as she tucked her chin against her chest and pulled the rest of her body through.

A muffled blaster shot rose from the hall, and a moment later, the door slid open. Tel turned, the heels of her feet dangling precariously over the edge of the narrow ledge, and reached for a divot in the crumbling mud brick that created the exterior wall. The rough surface of the brick dug into the pads of her fingers as she climbed higher, up and over the protrusion and onto the steep, sloping domed roof.

From there, she could see most of the city. It sprawled below her, a winding maze of darkened shadows which stretched between intermittent bouts of glowing orange. Far on the eastern horizon, the first signs of coming dawn painted the horizon in deep purple.

Tel hummed. It couldn’t have been longer than two hours since she left the Mandalorian’s ship — though she would admit she might have taken a much longer shower than necessary. Perhaps this planet’s rotations passed quickly; a local day and night cycle may only be a few hours long.

Half a city, which was overrun with bounty hunters (and likely others looking to cash in on her bounty), lay between her and the Mandalorian’s ship. With dawn approaching, she had a narrow window of opportunity to make her escape. The stealth generator she pilfered from the Rodian would help in that endeavor, but if she didn’t make it back before morning arrived, she’d lose one of the few advantages she had. As it was, she would have to keep to the streets. The cloaking field wouldn’t hold under the burden of leaping from one rooftop to the next.

She slid down the other side of the domed roof then, using for the Force to mitigate the impact, leapt into the street below, landing with hardly a sound. Beyond the wall, the cantina buzzed with frenzied panic. The bounty rest of the bounty hunters were likely aware she’d escaped through the window. It wouldn’t be long before they spilled into the streets in search of her.

Tel switched the generator on, feeling the oscillations of the energy within the Force as the field enveloped her. Where she once would’ve ignored such a minor effect, it now brought her a sense of comfort. Since the shower, her connection with the Force seemed to stabilize considerably, though it was still far weaker than she remembered. It once called to her, a constant buzz in the back of her mind — one as clear and vivid as her surroundings. Now, it felt much like an echo, though less distant, lurking just within reach, but never any closer.

The persistent headache had waned as well, though she couldn’t discard the possibility that the bacta shots helped in that regard. While the ache remained, it was little more than a than that — a dull twinge behind her temples rather than a relentless pounding against her skull. Present, but not debilitating.

She released a breath, slow and deliberate, and crept towards the back of a nearby house.

A winding maze of mud huts perched atop small islands of dried silt connected by feeble wooden bridges, the city offered few viable routes with which to bypass the main roads. The murky water between the rises would expose her location; the stealth field might dampen sounds, but it would not hide the stirrings caused by her presence.

She kept to the buildings when possible, using walls, crates, and laundry lines — anything she could find — to keep out of sight. At the edge of the first island, she stopped short. A pair of bounty hunters of the human variety stood guard at the nearby bridge, one on either end. On the roof of a house on the far side of the crossing, she spotted a third peering through their rifle’s scope.

There was no way around them. If she crossed through the water, the sniper would spot her. The bridge was out of the question. If she set even one foot on it, the motion of the bridge, if not the creaking of the ropes, would alert the two on guard. She’d rather not have to sprint back to the ship. With it in pieces and nowhere near ready to fly, she’d only run herself into an inescapable corner.

She’d have to find a different path to the port.

Just as she turned, intent on slinking back towards the cantina, a hand seized her by the back of her jacket. With a sharp tug, her assailant hauled her through the flimsy curtain blocking the back entrance of the hut. The heel of her foot caught on something — a wicker basket, from the looks of it — and she stumbled.

“I told you to stay on the ship.”

The Mandalorian’s voice, hardly more than a whispered hiss through the modulator, filled her ears.

“The ship didn’t have a shower,” Tel said. “Never mind that. How did you find me?”

He jerked his head towards the door. “Footprints in the mud.”

Ah. She’d forgotten about that.

“Every bounty hunter in the city’s looking for you,” he said. “What did you do?”

“I told you, I took a shower,” she reiterated.

Perhaps leaving the ship wasn’t the brightest idea given the circumstances, but she hadn’t a clue how long it would be before she had another chance to clean her wounds. She couldn’t — and wouldn’t — leave them unattended. It was an old habit, one she’d developed early in her childhood, long before she knew the Force, and one she refused to let go of.

The Force allowed her to heal most injuries, but that was no excuse; the worse they were, the harder it was.

“And that shower involved killing one of the bounty hunters?”

Tel rolled her eyes. “He pointed a blaster at me. What was I supposed to do? Let him take me to the Hutt?”

The Mandalorian released a sharp huff through his modulator and shook his head, though he said nothing else on the matter. Instead, he said, “The ship’s almost ready.”

That gave her pause. “You put the hyperdrive back in? And fixed the engine?”

“The mechanic’s working on it.”

“Right now?”

“He was persuaded.”

She suspected threatened would be a more apt description. No mechanic would work on their off-hours without an incentive, and Mandalorians often resorted to violence rather than diplomacy. In fact, she would argue that violence was the definition of Mandalorian diplomacy. They’d sooner throw punches and fire blasters than talk things over.

As her grandmother would say: nothing settled a dispute faster than a few hits to the dome.

“Well, if you made it past those idiots, then getting out of here shouldn’t be as difficult as I thought it would be,” she said after a moment. “We—”

A thunderous boom split the air. The ground shook beneath her. Not a moment later, a crack came from above. Tel hit the floor just as the wooden beam holding the thatched roof together gave way, burying them both beneath a mess of dried grass.

More explosions sounded in the distance. Dozens of voices cried out in horror. Then she felt it — that gaping void within the Force, the sudden ceasing of several lives all at once.

She’d grown familiar with it during the war, but that familiarity never made it any easier. Their deaths tore through the Force with all the subtlety of a blaster shot. In that fleeting moment, she felt their pain — their overwhelming terror — before the eerie silence set in and they passed beyond her senses. She felt it as if it were her own, deep within her chest; a pain so sudden and intense it stole her breath.

Tel didn’t have time to recover. The Mandalorian hauled her to her feet and shoved her towards an opening in the roof. What lay beyond reminded her too much of a war zone.

The city was in shambles. The smoldering remains of huts lay scattered across the streets, now choked with beings fleeing for their lives. Tel clamored over the wreckage, the burn in her side returning as she struggled to keep pace with the Mandalorian. Bolts of brilliant green rained down from the sky, striking everything in their path.

Strange ships soared overhead, their engines screaming as they whipped past. They were odd, sleek and black, with flat, vertical wings connected to a narrow section that bulged in the middle. Small and compact, they appeared to be built for speed more than anything else.

She hadn’t a clue who they belonged to — they weren’t Republic, nor were they Mandalorian — but there was something disturbingly militaristic about their simplistic designs.

“What the hell are those?” she asked

From the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of green and the house across the street exploded in a shower of debris. Tel ducked, narrowly avoiding a large chunk of brick as it sailed past her head. Smaller pieces pinged off the Mandalorian’s armor.

“TIE Fighters.”

“That is maddeningly unhelpful. What the hell is a TIE Fighter?”

A bolt struck the ground behind them, the heat of the blast warming her back. 

“You don’t know what a TIE Fighter is?”

“In case you haven’t figured out, I have absolutely no idea what is going on right now.”

Hell, she didn’t even know where she was. Not more than a few hours ago, she’d woken up inside of a tank in the storage room of a sewer system. She hadn’t a clue how she’d gotten there. The situation only deteriorated from there — the Mandalorian, the bounty and the bounty hunters, and now this.

None of it made sense.

“The things firing at us.”

“Now you’re just being a wiseass,” she hissed. “You-“

The Mandalorian slammed into her side. Her temple caught the side of his pauldron as he leaned into her, roughly shoving her to the ground. A wave of heat washed over her, an all too familiar burn that roused memories of a different battlefield. They lingered only for a second, brought to a grinding halt by a sharp pain at the base of her skull and a familiar darkness creeping over her eyes.

The last thing she heard was her own voice, distant and tinny in her ears. 

“Damn it, not again.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 11| BREAK.

Tel was certain the Force was trying to kill her, but hadn’t quite determined how to succeed.

She woke with a start, a violent tremor rippling through the surrounding space. The floor beneath her shuddered, a horrible metallic groan echoing in her ears. Then the ground tilted, a sudden, steep pitch downward, and she tumbled sideways. She hit the ground hard, her breath momentarily stilling in her chest, and slid.

With shaking hands, she seized the first thing her fingers could find and stumbled to her feet. Another tremor rattled in her bones. She held firm to her perch, feet braced against the floor despite the pain building in her side.

Revan always said she was a magnet for trouble, but this was ridiculous.

A cursory glance at her surroundings put the situation into perspective. She was in the cargo hold of the Mandalorian’s ship. Crates, boxes, and plasteel containers cluttered the main area, firmly held in place by netting bolted to the floor panels. They rocked in their births, the netting straining beneath the weight. Across the way, a single bed sat hidden in a small alcove, the sliding door stuck ajar. A small, empty hammock swung wildly above it. 

Tel pushed off the wall, which she belatedly realized was a weapons’ locker, and staggered through the hold. The ship jerked again, a motion she recognized as a steep decline, before rocketing upwards. A left bank followed suit.

Don’t roll, she thought, seizing a nearby net as the ship banked once more, this time to the right.

Across from the bunk, and set into another small but circular alcove, was the ladder the Mandalorian had used earlier that evening. It led to the cockpit, she assumed, and hopefully a seat with a strap. She’d rather not end up on the ceiling. She might actually strangle the Mandalorian, Jedi Code be damned.

She clamored up the rungs, the continued rocking of the ship throwing her into the wall several times before she finally emerged into the cockpit. Bolts of green streaked past the viewport. Far below, the swamp passed in a muted blur of murky brown and sickly green, broken only by the occasional patch of water.

Two seats sat on either side of the cockpit entrance. The Child sat in one, his tiny hands raised high into the air as they sped through the planet’s lower atmosphere. A giggle bubbled from his lips as the ship turned into a sharp dive. Tel, who wasn’t at all prepared for the sudden maneuver, surged forward and slammed into the back of the pilot’s chair, drawing another fit of laughter from the Child.

“At leas someone’s having fun,” she grumbled. 

Once the ship straightened again, she staggered into the seat opposite the Child, a hand searching for the safety straps. “Stars, you fly like you’ve spent the night drinking Tarisian ale by the keg.”

“Just sit down and shut up,” the Mandalorian hissed. 

“I will gladly sit down. As for shutting up, you’re asking for too much,” she said as she fumbled with the straps. “Any reason they’re chasing us? Those can’t be Shaldi’s. The Hutt can’t even afford a working droid.”

“They’re after you or the kid,” the Mandalorian bit out, “and I’d hedge my bets on you.”

“I’m flattered you think I’m worth the trouble.”

“You’re not.”

She rolled her eyes, and after another moment of fumbling, clipped the straps into place. “And you’re hardly worth the trouble of nearly getting mauled by a terentatek.”

“I’m not the one who got us into this mess.”

“You’re the one who tried to run off with a bounty,” she reminded him. “I was doing just fine until you showed up.”

The ship jerked hard to the right, a sharp quirk of the yolk, and Tel snorted. It wasn’t an evasive maneuver, but a futile attempt to knock her off her feet. She used to do the same thing to Master Vrook when he got on her nerves.

“Maybe you should let me fly,” she said, unable to stop the jab before it left her lips. “Clearly, you need help.”

No response.

“Do you at least have a gun turret?”

“No.”

“You are, by far, one of the worst bounty hunters I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.”

From the corner of her eyes, she saw his grip tighten on the controls. A frustrated huff filtered through the helmet’s modulator, adding a sharpened edge to the sound. She couldn’t help the satisfied smile that touched her lips. If he hadn’t fallen for such an obvious ploy, they wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with.

An indigent push against the fringes of her mind drew her attention to the Child. He stared at her, a small crease between his wrinkled brows. Something akin to a disapproving pout twisted his lips.

Good job, Agarwin. Now you’re being scolded by a child.

Tel heaved a sigh and closed her eyes. She knew she was being unnecessarily petty — that her behavior was thoroughly unbefitting of a Jedi. Patience never came easily to her, nor did biting her tongue. It’d been a problem long before the Order took her in, and one that, despite years of training, Master Vrook could never remedy.

The situation was not helping matters.

As a Jedi and a Republic General, Tel had grown accustomed to order. The Jedi and the Republic had a clear hierarchy — protocols to be followed, executives and leaders to defer to. When she encountered a problem beyond her capabilities, she knew who to turn to. If she were on her own, she took command and worked through the complication in whatever manner she saw fit.

That did not apply here. She was stumbling blind, utterly clueless to anything more than the immediate conditions, which seemed to deteriorate by the minute. To make matters worse, she was indebted to a Mandalorian (of all kriffing things), who flew by the seat of his pants. Rather literally, it seemed.

She’d bet every credit of her bounty he hadn’t a clue what he was doing either.

If there was one thing Tel hated, it was not knowing what to do. She had it all worked out until the Mandalorian came along and threw the proverbial hydrospanner into the works. Tel would admit that without his aid, she’d likely still be planet-side, but she knew this begrudging alliance wouldn’t last.

It’s just until the next planet, she told herself.

As soon as they landed on a planet with a spaceport, she’d be on her way. Perhaps to Courscant. While Tel had no intentions of returning to the Jedi and their stifling temple, the Republic would welcome her with open arms. Then, she could reorient herself, and, if possible, sort out the matter with her bounty — assuming the Republic didn’t send her back to the front lines.

Until then, she needed to get her temper under control; waiting until the next planet would be irrelevant if she goaded the Mandalorian into throwing her out of the nearest airlock.

Drawing in a deep, deliberate breath, Tel settled further into her seat. With a practiced ease that came from years of training, she turned the galaxy out and retreated into the depths of her consciousness.

There is no emotion, there is peace.

She repeated the first line of the Code, a silent mantra, as she sank further into her meditation and began the all too familiar process of clearing the clutter within her mind. Find the source of her frustration. Acknowledge it. Cram it into the overflowing box in the back of her mind where she shoved everything else the Jedi didn’t approve of. Leave it there and pretend as if it didn’t exist — she had no need for it.

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

In.

Out.

Her first Master, a kind and patient Twi’lek who oversaw the early stages of her training before Master Vrook took her as his padawan, claimed the forced responded differently to each individual. Some Jedi described their experiences as momentarily becoming one with the Force. They retreated into the mystical energy that surrounded all life in the galaxy and dove deep beyond the physical world.

For Tel, it was much like sleeping — a deep disconnection from the physical world and everything beyond, where she existed with in the quiet and welcoming embrace of total solitude. She sank into it, allowing her thoughts to dissipate, her worries vanishing amid the soul-piercing peace of her trance.

She lost track of time. Minutes, or perhaps hours later, a modulated voice, though muted as if coming from a great distance, broke through the blissful silence. Tel pushed it back, forcing it from her thoughts before she could dwell on it for too long. Yet, it persisted — a dull babbling in the back of her mind that became too pronounced to ignore.

Just when she thought she’d lose her focus, a sudden, calming warmth spread over her. Her side twitched, and for a moment, she swore she could feel the skin knitting back together. The pain in her shoulder dissipated.

 “I told you to leave her alone,” the Mandalorian said.

Her concentration slipped as a gloved hand brushed against her arm. Slowly, she emerged from her meditation, allowing the blissful serenity to fall away in sheets rather than shatter in its entirety. It was much like waking from a peaceful slumber, a steady rise to awareness that left her with a sense of soul-deep calm, but energized enough to tangle with a boma.  

She blinked, and the cockpit of the ship came into focus. Weak sunlight spilled through the viewport, casting patches of warmth across her lap. Beside her, balanced precariously on the arm of the chair with the Mandalorian’s hand to keep him steady, the Child stared up at her with his large, brown eyes.

“I told you not to wake her up,” the Mandalorian chided. He lifted the Child off the chair and set him on the floor beside it.

Tel didn’t bother to correct him — it was better to let him think she’d slept. Instead, she stood and stretched, her joints popping as her muscles unwound themselves. She felt better than she had in hours, the aches and pains gone. The Child had healed her wounds.

If the Mandalorian thought anything of it, or noticed, he said nothing on the matter.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“The other side of the planet,” the Mandalorian replied. 

Tel swallowed an irritated sigh. She’d had enough of the swamp, the mud and putrid stench, to last her a lifetime. “I see.”

“The ship barely made it this far,” he said. “The mechanic put the engine back together, but it got hit again. Not only that, the hyperdrive’s still disconnected.”

“And I assume we’re stranded here until it’s fixed.”

It was a redundant question, she knew; unless the planet had a moon with a settlement, they wouldn’t be leaving without a working hyperdrive.

“Seems that way,” the Mandalorian affirmed. He lifted the Child into his arms, then turned to peer at the controls. “Most systems are down.”

Tel pinched the bridge of her nose. “Lovely.”

She wouldn’t be one bit surprised if Shaldi ordered the mechanic to sabotage the ship to prevent them from leaving. Between her bounty and the armor, the Hutt had a fortune sitting in her lap. No Hutt worth their slime would pass on a profit margin that large.

Without another word, the Mandalorian descended the ladder and disappeared into the cargo hold.

Sighing, Tel followed. The ship wasn’t particularly large — it was certainly smaller than the battle cruisers she commanded — but spacious enough to accommodate several people at once. The stench of burnt wires and scorched metal sat heavy in the air; it sat thick on her tongue — an unpleasant smell that reminded her of past battles of the war.

The Child sat on the edge of the bunk, bouncing a small, silver ball in his hands. He stopped as she approached, head tilted with curiosity. A string of warbling gibberish that only he understood tumbled from his lips.

“Thank you, little one,” she whispered.

The Child cooed and waved the ball at her. Then he released it, allowing it to hover in front of him for a few short seconds before pushing it towards her. Tel raised her hand in response, allowing the ball to stop just before it touched her palm. A smile touched her lips. She used to play similar games with the younglings to teach them to control their abilities while keeping them entertained.

Working with children, she found, was both tedious and rewarding. They required a level of creativity and patience that even most Jedi struggled to balance. Discipline and control were not an inherent trait for most; it was a skill, like any other, that had to be learned through extensive and persistent practice. For children, it was a difficult process, as their limited attention spans and penchant for emotional outbursts did not allow for long hours of meditation and repetitive practice.

Even Tel, who learned of the Force and how to wield it through her father’s drunken tirades, had to learn patience and control.

A bitter taste filled her mouth. The day her brothers left her on the steps of the temple, the Council told her that if her father had stayed silent, she would’ve forgotten the Force in time. Children, with their infinitely open minds, often used the Force without thought — some in more obvious ways. As they grew older, and their awareness expanded beyond themselves, their connection to the Force often waned.

It was through her father’s constant reminders, and her insatiable curiosity to understand the strange powers gifted to her by the Force — to understand why her father despised her so — that she’d never forgotten. Her ability to use the Force in a limited capacity without proper training was the only reason the Jedi accepted her despite her age, as the thought of a self-taught Force user left the Council deeply concerned. She was strong in the Force, exponentially so, and they feared the lack of guidance would lead her down an unfortunate path — a one-way trip into the hands of the Sith, and one aided by her difficult upbringing and cultural heritage.

A heavy thud in the far corner pulled her from her musings. Tel snatched the ball out of the air and handed it back to the Child as the Mandalorian emerged from behind a stack of crates, a box overflowing with tools in his arms.

“I hope you have an extra hydrospanner,” she said. “Things’ll go much faster if I’m not lazing about like a bum.”

The Mandalorian seized one off the top of the pile and threw it at her feet. “It’s your fault we’re in this mess.”

All attempts at civility went out the window with that remark.

“Let’s get something straight, Mandalorian; I didn’t ask for your help,” she snapped. “You were the one who took the job and decided not to follow through with it. You were the one who tried to swindle a Hutt out of her credits, not me.”

“And if you’d have stayed on the ship—”

“If I’d stayed on the ship, we’d still be sitting there — or dead — because you’d have taken your sweet time motivating the mechanic,” she countered. “You honestly thought you’d get out of there before Shadli made a move, didn’t you?”

His silence, and the irritation roiling off of him, was answer enough.

Rolling her eyes, Tel turned on her heels and marched to the sparking panel. It was the easiest to fix; she only needed to correct a small part of the circuit board and replace the wires. The rest was much more complicated.

She worked on many ships in her years. Her brothers taught her the basics. Then, when the Jedi sent her to Dantooine, she found she preferred the familiarity of a ship’s hull to the boundless plains beyond the enclave’s walls. Master Vrook disapproved of her new found pastime; he preferred for her to remain within the main halls of the enclave — to study and meditate and practice along with her fellow Padawans. The enclave hired mechanics and employed droids to service the ships that frequented the planet; they were not the concerns of a Padawan, as far as he was concerned. 

Tel, however, had never believed in relying on droids for every minor inconvenience. Droids broke. They malfunctioned. They were convenient, but ultimately unreliable. To rely on such things was to limit herself. Just as her brothers insisted they wouldn’t always be around, she wouldn’t always have a droid to compensate for her lack of skill.

•·················•·················•

By the time the sun sunk behind the horizon, she’d gotten most systems back online, as well as corrected other issues she’d encountered along the way. The door on the weapons locker, which refused to remain closed, had been driving her nuts throughout the better part of the day. The bunk door now closed fully, rather than sit half open. She’d also re-secured several of the netting that had come loose during their escape.

Grease and oil covered her hands and face, staining her new clothes with darkened splotches, as she plopped down on a plasteel container with a rations bar she’d swiped from the stores. The Child toddled around the hold with his silver ball in hand, cooing and babbling to himself. He seemed happy enough, though he wouldn’t call a ship an ideal home.

He should be around those close to his own mental age (for if he was the same as Master Vander, the child was far older than he looked), and in the care of those who understood him and his powers. His age and willingness to use the Force were a concerning combination. She hadn’t a doubt that, if the situation called for it, the Child might resort to more dangerous displays of his power.

Yet, she suspected the Mandalorian’s quest was a futile one. There was a bond between them, a strong one at that. She had a limited understanding of them, as it was never a subject that interested her, but she knew they often formed slowly, built up from years of mutual trust and constant companionship. Stronger bonds, and those formed after shorter time periods, were rare, and often dangerous. They were but one of the many reasons the Order discouraged attachment.

The Jedi may not take him back, fearing the implications of the bond and the Child’s indisputable attachment to the Mandalorian. They nearly rejected her for the same reason; she’d been too attached to her brothers, too distraught in their absence.

Too old.

Too angry.

Tel tore off another piece of the rations bar. She knew better than to believe the Jedi trained her out of the goodness of their hearts; they only admitted her because they feared the repercussions. She’d lived with that knowledge, and the trouble it brought her, since. If they took the Child back, it would be for that same reason, and she wouldn’t wish that upon him.

There was nothing good to be said about being seen as a problem — a disaster waiting to happen.

The hiss of the air locks disengaging shattered the relative quiet that had fallen over the ship. With another hiss, the exit hatch fell open, allowing the rapidly fading sunlight to spill into the hold. The Mandalorian ascended the ramp. Mud and grime covered his armor, turning the once glossy beskar a muted brown.

“Hyperdrive’s fixed,” he grunted as he stalked past and tossed his hydrospanner into a pile of tools tucked inside a nearby crate. “The engine should hold until we reach Tatooine.”

Tel frowned. “Tatooine? Why Tatooine?”

“I’m done taking chances with mechanics.”

Tatooine would be the last place she’d go for a decent mechanic. The good ones made their living in the Core Worlds or in Republic shipyards. In her experience, most independent mechanics, especially those in the Outer Rim territories, were overconfident in their abilities and, after a quick credit. Many were all too willing to create more problems while they were at it.

As the Mandalorian made for the ladder leading to the cockpit, Tel finished the last of her rations bar and scooped the Child into her arms.

“Are we not going to Ord Mantell? I still would like to know who issued the bounty.”

“It’s Imperial,” came his reply from the top of the ladder.

She paused, one hand hovering over the rungs. There were, to her knowledge, no empires within Known Space; only the Republic, the Mandalorian controlled sectors, and thousands of independent words scattered between. The Hutts believed they ruled an empire, but they had little more than a shoddy collection of backwater planets under their jurisdiction, and many of their kind operated on Republic controlled planets, where trade and credits flowed more readily.

Once at the top of the ladder, she set the Child down, then asked, “Imperial?”

The Mandalorian had taken his seat behind the controls, the engines now roaring to life. “The Empire that ruled the galaxy for the past twenty years?”

“Right,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as wobbly as it felt. “That Empire.”

As she sank into the seat behind him, her knees suddenly weak, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was horribly wrong.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 12 | CRASH.

This was not Tatooine.

Tel stared at the planet looming beyond the viewport, her lips pressed into a firm line. Though the Jedi rarely ventured to the furthest reaches of the Outer Rim, she’d visited the desert planet enough to know what it looked like from space. The swirling orb of dense clouds that lay before them was not Tatooine.

A glance at the navcomputer confirmed her suspicions; Palix V, the fifth planet of the Palix System located deep within the Unknown Regions, possessed no spaceports. No population density. Beyond the name, the system, and the coordinates on the galactic map, the navcomputer offered nothing else.

It was a computer error; she was sure. The Mandalorian input the proper coordinates; she watched him run the calculations, and she’d recognized the hyperspace lanes their route took. The navcomputer even tracked their location throughout the trip, marking every jump along the way. It was when they reemerged into real space and Palix V appeared before them that the data changed.

A glitch in the system, or the mechanic sliced the programing, she assumed. With what transpired on the last planet — Scir, the computer said — and the nefarious intentions she sensed from Shaldi, intentional tampering seemed the most likely cause. How the mechanic achieved it, she couldn’t say; computers had never been her forte, but she knew it was possible. Her technicians once employed such tactics to force an entire Mandalorian fleet into an unexpected confrontation with her capital ships.

According to them, it wasn’t difficult to accomplish with the right programing.

A loud bang echoed through the cockpit as the Mandalorian slammed his fist down on the navcomputer. The Child jolted, his eyes snapping open in alarm. He was nervous — agitated — his emotions mirroring those of his guardian.

“You startled the Child,” Tel clipped. She placed a comforting hand on the Child’s wrinkled green head and continued, “Calm down. Your anger is upsetting him.”

“Your nagging is upsetting me,” the Mandalorian bit out. 

Tel bit back her retort, forcing her rising irritation into submission, and pulled the Child into her arms. The Mandalorian didn’t have a clue what he was dealing with. He knew nothing of the Jedi — of the Force and the complications that came with it. He likely believed the Child was as any other child, though with the ability to move objects with his mind.

“Children naturally mirror the moods of their caretakers,” she said. “Children like him, especially so. His connection to the Force has heightened his awareness to not only his surroundings, but the people he interacts with. He can literally feel your emotions.”

In hindsight, it was rather hypocritical of her to lecture him on the matter, as she hadn’t quite kept her own emotions under control. The Child, however, did not have a connection to her — at least not one that she was aware of. Her emotions wouldn’t affect him as much as the Mandalorian’s would.

“For someone who claims they're not a Jedi, you know a lot about them,” the Mandalorian said, his tone accusing.

“I already told you why that is,” she reminded him. “When you spend most of your life surrounded by the Jedi and their kind, you pick up a thing or two.”

She might have exaggerated the matter, and she certainly twisted aspects of it, but it he had no intentions of revealing exactly why she knew what she did. Much of her early life involved listening to her father’s tirades of the Jedi and the Force and with no shortage of displays of its power. They were most often directed at her — a flying bottle here, a flung chair there. He’d once thrown her into a wall when she unintentionally stopped a boot before it hit her in the head.

His deep-seated loathing of the Jedi had extended to her once her Force-sensitivity revealed itself. To him, she was a living reminder of the Jedi and what they’d done, and he hated her for it. She couldn’t remember a day where his anger — his rage — wasn’t bearing down on her in some form, be it a physical manifestation of the Force, or simply from his presence within the vicinity.

“It would be wise to land,” she advised, forcing the conversation away from unpleasant matters. “At least until we get the navcomputer sorted. We might not be so lucky next time.”

A malfunctioning navcomputer posed significant dangers to space travel. Though they were fortunate enough to emerge in orbit of the planet, their next jump may send them straight into the heart of a star. Tel was not keen on testing that theory. 

The Mandalorian heaved a frustrated sigh in response and directed the ship towards the surface.

It was a mistake.

Tel felt the disturbance the moment the ship penetrated the planet’s atmosphere; a powerful oscillation of energy that settled over the ship. The lights flickered. The engine sputtered once, then failed.

“I’ve got nothing,” The Mandalorian said. There was a note of panic in his tone that betrayed the relative calm of his demeanor. “Every system’s down. Even the life support.”

Her grip on the chair tightened as her feet lifted off the ground, a sense of weightlessness similar to the anti-gravity of space settling over her. She noticed the warmth next, the searing heat of a too-fast entry that encompassed the entire ship. They were falling from near orbit. 

“Dank farrik,” the Mandalorian hissed, hurriedly pressing at several buttons on the console. “The backup power isn’t kicking in.”

“I stand corrected,” Tel muttered. “Maybe we should’ve just stayed in orbit.”

As the ground drew closer, the surface of the planet came into focus. Rather than the grey rock she initially assumed, the scattered remains of thousands of ships and space stations littered the planet’s surface. The piles stretched for klicks in every direction, rising and falling like mountains meandering across the landscape. Without power, they couldn’t steer the ship to avoid the larger clusters. If the impact of the crash didn’t kill them, the wreckage would tear the ship apart.

“Still no power.”

“We’re still in the disruptor field.”

“I figured that!”

They wouldn’t make it. When — if — the backup power kicked in, they’d be too close to the surface. The Mandalorian, despite her earlier complaints, was one of the better pilots she’d seen, but there were situations even the best of pilots couldn’t avoid. Plummeting from orbit in a powerless ship was one of those situations.

The Mandalorian seemed to realize that. He bolted out of his seat and shoved her towards the ladder, the order unspoken but received. Adjusting her grip on the Child, Tel jumped down the hatch and landed on her feet with ease. The moment the Mandalorian landed behind her, he pushed her again, this time towards the exit hatch.

As if by the will of the Force, the backup power kicked in.

The door opened with a burst of heat and wind. The Child recoiled, crying out as he curled further into her chest to shield his face. Below, the surface zipped past in a blur of twisted scrap. 

“Hang on!” the Mandalorian said, his voice nearly drowned beneath the wind as he pulled her against him.

Then he jumped. The wind roared in her ears as they fell, a sickening sense of weightlessness settling in her stomach. Her free hand clung to his chest plate, her fingers buried beneath the edge of the beskar as she hung on for dear life. The ship continued its downward spiral, quickly becoming a distant fireball trailing through the sky before it disappeared from sight. 

The ground drew closer, and with the rapid approach came the realization that there were far more ships below, these smaller than the battle cruisers and warships visible from the atmosphere. Very few remained intact. It was not a good sign.

A sudden jolt shook her from her thoughts as the sound of a jetpack roared in her ears. They were rising now, though unsteadily. It lasted for but a few seconds. Then, with another jolt, they were sinking.

She realized then that there were two possibilities; either the disruptor field had interfered with the jetpack as well, or the Mandalorian struggled to compensate for her added weight. Neither sat well with her.

Tel cursed. She’d rather not reveal herself, but at the rate they were falling, they’d hit the ground before the Mandalorian got control of the situation. If they landed wrong, they’d either die on impact or find themselves skewered among the wreckage. Without the burden of her extra weight, the Mandalorian may regain enough control to land him and the Child safely.

If not, she’d have to catch them.

“Let go!”

She sensed the hesitation, felt it in the way his grip slacked for a brief second before it tightened again. “Are you insane?! You’ll never survive that fall.”

“Damn it, Mandalorian, just do as I say before you get the three of us killed!” she barked. “Trust me, I can take care of myself!”

He let go.

She counted the distance as she fell, the Force ready and waiting for her to release it at the right moment. When the nearest ship, the warped remnants of a gunship, came within range, she extended her arms. The Force responded, pushing her backwards just enough to disrupt her momentum. She allowed gravity to take care of the rest.

The impact wasn’t painful, but enough to leave her winded. She laid there for a moment as she caught her breath. The Mandalorian landed beside her, the Child now tucked safely inside his sling, and extended a gloved hand towards her. Tel grabbed him by the wrist and allowed him to help her to her feet. Her body ached, her knees stinging from the impact, but she was otherwise unharmed. 

“How did you—“

“We better go check on the ship,” Tel said, stopping the question before he could finish it. “I doubt it survived, but it’d be wise to be sure before anything else. We might not be alone on this planet.”

Without waiting for a response, she released hi arm and started towards the ship. The Mandalorian trailed after her, radiating silent suspicion. She pretended not to notice.

The ship crashed only a few klicks from where they landed, but the twisted expanse of wreckage set their pace slow. Up close, the surface was a deadly labyrinth of debris. Dismantled space stations and warships loomed in the distance, darkened shadows against the horizon. Transport shuttles lay crammed inside cruisers, star fighters upended and twisted around gunships. Tel picked her way across the wreckage with practiced ease.

“Most of these ships are pre-Empire,” the Mandalorian muttered.

Some of them bore some resemblance to Republic ships, such as the small Hammerhead peaking up from behind a larger shuttle, but most were unfamiliar. From a cursory glance, she could see that most were military grade, though there were a fair few civilian transports and cargo freighters thrown into the mix. Who they belonged to, she couldn’t say. Many, however, bore signs of damage consistent with what she’d expect from a conflict, not a crash landing.

“Looks like a dumping ground,” she said. “Like a planetary junkyard.”

Before long, the crash site came into view. Black smoke billowed from what appeared to be the starboard engine. As they drew closer, the smell of rocket fuel and burnt rubber took to the air. Yet, by the grace of the Force, the ship remained mostly intact.

Upon further inspection, the extent of the damage became more apparent. The door to the hold had torn off; it lay several feet away, balanced precariously atop the droid port of an old starfighter. Several of the exterior panels had come loose, warped and bent at odd angles. A massive crack, off of which a myriad of smaller fractures branched, ran through the front of the cockpit’s viewport. The left gun was bent in half.

“It could be worse,” Tel said. “At least it’s mostly in one piece.”

The Mandalorian disappeared into the hold, a muttered string of curses filtering through his modulator. 

She followed, surveying the damage. The interior remained mostly untouched, save for a few loose floor panels and some sparking wires. A handful of crates lay on their sides; they’d come free of their restraints, the netting torn. And the damned weapons’ locker broke again, the door hanging by a single warped hinge.

“This is going to take days to fix,” the Mandalorian said.

“Not as if we won’t have the time for it,” Tel muttered. She pushed aside a crate and leaned down to inspect a leaking pipe exposed by a missing floor panel. “Won’t do us any good unless we can find and disable the disruptor field.”

“And where,” the Mandalorian asked, his voice dripping with frustration, “are we supposed to find that?”

Tel shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

The source could be anywhere — perhaps even buried deep within the wreckage — though she would assume a disruptor field large enough to blanket a planet would be located somewhere large enough to house the generator, and likely near a sustainable energy source. She couldn’t say for sure, however; she only encountered a planetary-wide disruptor field once before during the war. It caught several of her ships by surprise before Revan and her ground forces disabled it.

“Stay down here and watch the hold,” the Mandalorian said, setting the Child on the floor. “And don’t let him wander off.”

Tel bit back the retort threatening to leave her lips at yet another order and plopped down on a plasteel container near the door. The moment he disappeared up the ladder, she allowed her head to fall into her hands. She’d been in her fair share of crashes, but this one was by far the worst.

The ship might be intact, and they may have survived the plummet from near-orbit, but that seemed to be all they had to say for themselves. None of it made sense — truly. An Empire, which did not exist in her memory, allegedly placed a bounty on her head — a bounty with ultimately led to them being stranded on a junk planet with limited stores and no viable means of escape.

Beyond that, since the revelation of the supposed Empire, Tel couldn’t stem the anxiety pitting deep within her chest. The Mandalorian’s claims and the Child’s memories hinted at something far greater than she could wrap her mind around. This was no longer about waking up in a swamp with a bounty on her head; something was terribly amiss, and her circumstances were but a small part of it.

For twenty years, this supposed Empire ruled the galaxy, but what of the Jedi? What of the Mandalorians? What of the war? Surely that couldn’t be correct; it would mean she’d been inside that take for at least twenty years, if not more.

Perhaps they were simply in a different part of the galaxy. The Unknown Regions were vast and widely unexplored. Few within the Republic knew what lay beyond Known Space. That had to be it — that would explain why the Mandalorian knew nothing of the Jedi; why she’d heard nothing of the state of the war.

Tel breathed in, slow and controlled. The Force did nothing without reason — there was a greater purpose to their presence here, one beyond her narrow sighted view. The Jedi did not believe in coincidences, as true instances if such were rare. All was as the Force willed it.

The Force meant for her to find her way to this planet, and while she trusted in the Force, she couldn’t dispel her lingering doubts. Whatever it had in store for her wouldn’t be pleasant. She was sure of that.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 13 | SCAVENGERS.

Tel woke with her stomach in knots.

She sat up, a hand reaching for her blaster. The emergency lights bathed the hold in a soft red glow, accentuating the darkened corners of the ship and drawing the shadows long. An unsettling quiet, broken only by the Mandalorian’s slow, even breathing filtering through his modulator and the occasional shuffling of the Child as he turned over in his hammock, rang in her ears. Compared to the noisy buzz of the last planet, the eerie silence within the Force was jarring. There wasn’t much life here.

Yet, the Force nagged at her — an incessant prodding that she simply couldn’t ignore.

With careful, measured steps, she made her way through the ship, searching every nook and cranny — the refresher, the weapons locker, the cockpit. There were no signs of tampering or evidence of another’s presence, nor did she sense anyone in the immediate vicinity. Yet, the feeling persisted, growing more pronounced with each passing minute.

Through years of practice and learned observation, Tel could detect most sources of imminent danger or interest — a blaster shot fired from an unseen enemy, a ship emerging from hyperspace, or a person of significance — but there remained many instances, such as this, where the source wasn’t obvious. The Force offered nothing more than a vague nudge; enough of a warning for her to be on guard.

Blaster raised, Tel crept towards the makeshift door erected over the missing exit hatch and peered through the gap in the side. The light of the full twin moons cast the wreckage in a silvery glow, illuminating the twisted scraps enough to see the surrounding area with limited clarity. Stars reflected in the shattered viewports of starfighters, gleaming within the purple tinted clouds of a nearby nebula that spread across the darkened sky. Far in the distance, the ghostly outline of ships loomed above the horizon.

Tel threw a glance at the Mandalorian. He remained asleep, sprawled out on the bunk in full armor. She understood the desire to be prepared at a moment’s notice, but sleeping with the helmet on wouldn’t do him any favors. Her neck ached just thinking about it.

There was no use in waking him, not until she was sure there was a cause for concern — one more apparent than a vague feeling of apprehension.

She pushed the door aside and stepped off the ship. A strong gust of wind tore across the planet’s surface, carrying with it a chill that delved past the flimsy fabric of her clothes. It sang as it passed through the wreckage, a strange whining whistle that grated on her ears. Metal groaned and shifted beneath her feet as she inched across a large wing precariously balanced on the nose of a transport cruiser. From there, she climbed on top of a downed gunship and clamored over the carbon scored laser cannon and onto the ships’ cockpit.

With the Force, she reached out into her surroundings. Nothing but a few scattered creatures loitered within the vicinity — mall and buried deep within the wreckage. Beyond that, silence.

Then she hard it; several soft, rapid beeps beneath her.

She had less than a second to react. Instinctively, she seized upon the Force once more, willing it to surround her in a protective, albeit invisible, shield as the charges detonated. The barrier absorbed much of the blast, but the fourth charge, which detonated directly beneath her, shattered it.

The viewport followed suit, and she fell, slamming into the headrest of the pilot’s seat. From there, she tumbled to the floor, rolling through the shattered glass until she collided with the airlock. Around her, the ship continued to shake as more charges detonated. 

The silence that followed rang in her ears. It lasted for only a few seconds before the muffled sound of blaster fire, interlaced with periodic explosions of smoke grenades and flashbangs, began. Flashes of red danced across the remains of the viewpoint, momentarily dousing the cockpit in an ominous red glow. 

“Why is it everywhere I go, someone’s trying to shoot me or blow me up?" she asked as she climbed to her feet and retrieved her blaster from the floor. “I should’ve stayed in that karking tank.”

Ignoring the twinge of protest in her back, she climbed onto the pilot’s seat and leapt through the gaping hole in the viewport. She pressed against the hull of another downed cruiser, energy bolts whizzing past her head, and cursed again. The surrounding wreckage had shifted, the once clear path between her and the Mandalorian’s ship now gone. It appeared intentional; the charges moved the pile enough to prevent an easy escape without causing significant damage to the ship. Whoever placed them had demolitions experience.

Judging from the number of shots and the trajectories, there’s at least six, she thought. 

Despite the situation, she couldn’t help but feel a welcome sense of familiarity. This, she knew. She knew her way around a fire fight as well as she knew her way around her lightsaber.

Tel flourished in the heat of battle, when the odds were against her and the situation deteriorating by the second. It was as if she came alive, the adrenaline singing in her veins bringing the world into stark focus. She could see and think more clearly. 

In battle, there was a goal — something to be achieved, whether it was as noble as the ending of a horrendous war or as simple as survival. 

Six combatants, at least one demolitions expert. All of them have the advantage of higher ground. So they think.

Many considered higher ground an insurmountable advantage, and though they were often correct, the surroundings played a considerable role in the validity of that belief. Her assailants weren’t standing on solid ground or a sturdy structure, but atop a precariously balanced array of damaged ships that, with the proper leverage and distribution of force, could collapse beneath them. Their perceived advantage was an unwitting disadvantage against anyone who knew anything about weak points.

And Tel specialized in finding and exploiting weaknesses.

Tel drew in a deep, deliberate breath and turned her focus inward. The world dimmed around her, her surroundings transitioning from a darkened junkyard to an assemblage of interlocking fractures spread across her vision. Her gaze swept the piles above her in search of a weakness — a point where the fractures converged. Just as her concentration waned, her connection to the Force, though stronger, still nowhere near what it had once been, she found it: several fuel canisters spilling from the cargo hold of a crushed freighter a few dozen feet above her. 

Setting them off would be easy; avoiding the consequences would be the difficult part.

The earlier explosions unbalanced the surrounding area; she didn’t need the Force to see the instability. The Mandalorian’s ship sat on the edge of a gaping hole, one that had been visible until the charges cleared the debris above it. From her position, she couldn’t tell how deep it extended, or which ships bore the weight of the pile. If she set them off from her position, she may not reach the ship before the whole mess collapsed.

As if the Force meant to once again test her ability to evade almost certain death, a bolt streaked past her head. The fuel canisters exploded in a brilliant blast of colors, the resulting boom echoing deep within her bones. Heat washed over her. Even the air turned molten, each breath burning in her lungs.

She vaulted off the gunship and into the wreckage. Behind her, the explosions continued as the remaining canisters spread across the area ignited. Then, all at once, the pile shifted. Ships tumbled from the top as the lower levels began sliding. The hole widened as it collapsed in on itself. She could barely stay ahead of it, each ship falling not seconds after she leapt to the next.  

Even with her training, finding a path was no easy feat. She ducked beneath a falling starfighter, only for a warped shuttle wing to miss her by a hair’s breadth. Bits of scrap and stray parts pelted her from above. Beneath, the ships trembled.

As she drew closer to the Mandalorian’s ship, the ground became more stable. The source of that stability quickly became apparent. Beneath the twisted mess of metal and glass sat a massive cruiser, a single truster large enough to dwarf most vessels in the vicinity. By the grace of the Force, the ship had crashed on top of it. 

The moment she was within range, she dove into the ship, rolling to a stop just before she collided with the far wall. 

“Next time, wait until I’m out of the way before you start an avalanche,” Tel snapped, hauling herself to her feet.

“You made it back,” the Mandalorian shot back. “The hell were you doing out there, anyway?”

Tel forced her leg to remain planted on the floor despite the unyielding urge to kick him into the hole. The bolt that set the canisters ablaze had come from the direction of the ship and. Unless he was as blind as a mynock, he had to have known she was there.

That, or he was a terrible shot.

“I heard something,” she said at length.

“The—”

Another round of blaster fire cut him short. Tel retreated further into the hip as several bolts streaked past and struck the wall behind her. Their assailant pushed forward, their accuracy improved with their proximity. The shots came from both sides, but not the middle.

“They’re flanking,” she said.

“I figured that! I can see the giant, gaping hole in the ground!”

“Ah, so your eyes work after all,” he jeered. “Now, if you could hit our mark, that’d be great.”

“If you actually shot back, that’d be even better.”

With a snort of derision, Tel peered around the door. Her gaze swept across the wreckage until she found the closest target; a hooded head peaking out from behind the hull of a smaller ship. She fired. The bolt found its mark, striking dead center in what she assumed was their forehead. 

“I was sparing your pride, Mandalorian. Wouldn’t want you looking like a fool.”

“Just shut up and keep shooting,” he bit out.

Tempting as it was to continue the wisecracks, she obliged.

A fresh round of smoke grenades obscured the area surrounding the door, and though lessened, their attackers maintained their frontal assault. Shots pinged off the hull of the ship, the odd few slipping through the gaps in the makeshift door. One struck the Mandalorian in the leg — a lucky shot that found the narrow gap between his beskar plating.

Tel bit the inside of her cheek. Their attackers had them cornered, their only exit blocked by a ceaseless stream of blaster fire. With the smokescreen, their exact locations were difficult to determine without the aid of the Force. She could call out their positions and direct the Mandalorian’s retaliation, but that would raise questions.

Their only other option was to retreat through the cockpit and hope more hadn’t encroached from behind. The six on the rise may not be the only ones. No sooner than those thoughts crossed her mind, a loud thud rose from above.

“We’re surrounded,” Tel spat. “Go deal with the ones outside. I’ll handle the rest.”

The Mandalorian hesitated.

“Damn it, go before you lose your cover,” she barked. “You’re the one wearing armor and I’m better off in close quarters, anyway! Get behind them and take them out with the rifle.”

With a curse, which she was certain he meant for her rather than the situation at hand, the Mandalorian slipped through the opening in the hatch and disappeared into the smokescreen. Tel holstered her blaster, and reached for her knife, which he’d taken from the Rodian. Then she activated the stealth generator and crept towards the entrance to the cockpit.

There were three of them, judging from the footsteps above. As they drew nearer to the ladder, she adjusted her grip on the knife. Picking them off one by one would be the most logical way to handle the matter. There was only one entrance to the hold, and it was too narrow for them to descend all at once. It would have to be with the knife as well — firing into the cockpit was too risky. The less damage the ship’s interior sustained, the less they had to fix later.

The first began down the ladder. A human, from the looks of it — lanky, and dressed in patchwork armor. The array of weapons hung from his belt suggested he was much more than a scavenger. A pirate, perhaps, or something equally unsavory.

The moment his feet hit the floor, she moved. Using the Force to aid her, Tel hurled herself at him, catching him by surprise. She slammed her hand over his mouth, silencing his startled shout. He struggled against her, bucking wildly as she wrapped her legs around his midsection, ankles locked, and raised the knife.

The blade tore through his throat, and his muffled protests dissipated into a fit of gurgling.

She barely had time to release his body and dodge a blaster shot before the second of the three — a much larger, and better armored, weequay — clamored down the ladder. He wasted no time in initiating his assault, swiping at her with the butt of his blaster. Tel ducked beneath it, only to realize her blunder too late. No sooner than she moved, the weequay drew his second blaster and fired.

The bolt hit her in the thigh, a glancing blow.

He lunged. Cursing, Tel stumbled aside, but the weequay was faster than his size suggested. He caught her by the shoulder of her flight jacket and flung her into the ship’s wall. She hit with enough force to dent the paneling, a hollow, aching gap taking root within her chest. Her knife tumbled from her hand.

The weequay’s hand moved from her jacket to her throat, his gloved fingers digging into the side of her neck as he forced her further against the wall. He tightened his grip, a wicked grin splitting his lips as a strangled gag pulled from her throat. Tears blurred the corner of her eyes.

She had to do something, and quickly. Tel was not the delusional sort. Her size may have had its advantages, but in a direct confrontation with an opponent much larger and physically stronger than she was, it depended upon the circumstances. As long as she could outmaneuver her opponents, she had the upper hand. It was when she lost the advantage of speed and maneuverability that things took a turn for the worst.

There would be no overpowering him, and she knew better than to try. No amount of thrashing would loosen his grip. She’d accomplish nothing but waste precious time.

Tel reached for the knife, forcing her growing panic into submission. It shook once — a near imperceptible tremble as she struggled to maintain her concentration. She pushed harder, willing — no, demanding — that the Force respond.

The knife shot off the floor and into her hand. The weequay startled, his eyes wide with confusion. His other hand fumbled for his blaster, but to no avail.

She drove the knife straight into his temple.

The moment she felt his grip slack, Tel raised her legs, planting them firmly against his chest, and shoved. His hand tore away from her throat, and she had but a second to draw in a much needed breath before she hit the floor.

The relief lasted for but a second. A startled cry from the Child drew her attention to the bunk. The third assailant, an older man dressed in a combat suit fraying at the seams, held the Child in his arms. Fear shone in the Child’s eyes as he looked between her and the blaster pressed against the side of his head.

“Toss the blaster, now,” the man ordered, his voice trembling. “Or I shoot the kid.”

Though her head spun, and she still felt as if she couldn’t quite get enough air into her lungs, Tel pulled her blaster from its holster and flung it on the floor.

“Kick it. Now.”

She obliged.

“I saw what you did,” the man said. There was a note of hysteria in his voice, one matched by the frantic movements of his eyes as looked at her, then at the blaster. “That blaster so much as twitches, and the kid’s dead.”

She caught a flicker of light behind him — a metallic gleam just beyond the door of the ship. A Mandalorian visor.

“Put the kid down,” Tel said. The words grated on her throat, her voice — harsh and choked — foreign in her ears.

The man turned the blaster on her. “I know what you are! Your Jedi Mind Tricks won’t work on me!”

It wasn’t a trick, but he seemed convinced otherwise. She supposed it was for the best — as long as he feared retaliation from her, she could keep his attention, and his blaster, away from the Child.

And away from the muzzle of the rifle peaking through the gap in the door.

“That’s unfortunate, then. You might have survived this.”

The shot rang in her ears. It caught him square in the chest, a smoldering hole where his heart had been. He staggered backwards, his eyes bulging with shock, then collapsed in a lifeless heap.

Chapter Text

The Mandalorian hadn’t returned alone.

The scrapper shifted on his feet, his hands wrung together, knuckles white. Unlike the three who sneaked into the ship, he wasn’t at all armored, merely dressed in fraying, oil-stained rags that vaguely resembled civilian clothing. The belt slung around his waist wasn’t full of weapons, but an array of simple scavenging tools.

His gaze danced nervously between the bodies littering the floor. 

To say the hull was a mess was an understatement. There was blood everywhere; strewn across the walls and the ceiling, and pooling on the floor beneath the man with the slit throat. It was a stark reminder of why Tel preferred not to use such methods, and why she favored lightsabers and blasters over more conventional weaponry.

During the war, there were times she had to resort to other methods of combat — from swords and spears seized from her enemies in the heat of battle, to knives used in stealth operations. Tel had long since grown accustomed to feeling blood on her hands. Being accustomed to it, however, made it no less unpleasant.

Tel stood, wobbling on her feet, and wiped her hands on her pants. “I assume you spared the scav for a reason?”

“He says there’s a settlement nearby,” the Mandalorian said as he leaned down and pulled the Child into his arms. “Says he can take us there.”

She raised a brow. “And you trust him?”

“You have any better ideas?”

She didn’t, but she let her silence speak for itself.

“I said I could take you to the pirates’ outpost,” the man corrected. He shifted on his feet once more, his knee bouncing.

“Why would we want to go to their outpost?” Tel asked.

“Because you won’t get to the settlement otherwise,” he said. He paused, and after a vague wave from the Mandalorian, continued, “Three standard months ago, my wife ran into a scrapper from the main settlement. Left her to a map that led to it and said we’d be much better off there than where we were.”

Tel hummed. “I assume the pirates have the map now?”

The man shook his head. “Not quite. Beyond the main settlement, there are dozens of smaller hovels scattered across the planet, but most of them get ransacked by raiders and pirates, like the ones that attacked you. That’s what happened to us; they raided the settlement and took us — my wife and daughter and myself — hostage.”

“So your wife has it. We rescue your family, and you’ll give us the map?” The Mandalorian asked.

“My wife has it, but not the physical copy,” the man aid. “She was a treasure hunter. It’s an old habit of hers. You rescue my family, and she can lead you there.”

Tentatively, Tel reached out with the Force. She sensed fear in abundance, but not deception. He was likely telling the truth, or what he believed to be true.

 The Jedi, contrary to what many believed, had limitations; they were not as all knowing as so many believed. It was merely that their heightened awareness and penchant for shrewdness made fooling them difficult, but it was not impossible. A potential trap, however, was not her main concern. Pirates, she’d found, were often territorial and, for all their pilfering and pillaging, they didn’t take well to those who intended to steal from them. 

One mistake — and infiltration missions rarely went off without a hitch — and they might find themselves hopelessly outnumbered.

Yet, as much as she opposed the idea on principle (as they were not at all prepared for such a task), she knew they had little choice. They couldn’t remain on the ship. Between the potential for another attack, and the dismal state of the Mandalorian’s stores, they’d be sitting mynocks.

Civilization meant information, as well. With no knowledge, and with no direction, aimlessly wandering about would be tantamount to suicide. Until they could locate the source of the disruptor field and disable it, relying on the locals was the best course of action. Perhaps someone in the main settlement could point them in the right direction.

They’d have food and water, if nothing else.

“Not like we have a choice,” the Mandalorian said, arriving at the same conclusion. He leaned down to pick up the Child, who remained on the floor, watching the conversation with curious eyes. “How far is it?”

“The outpost is fifteen klicks northwest of here,” the man said. “But the path’s difficult, even with a speeder bike.”

“You got any?” the Mandalorian asked.

“If you didn’t destroy them in the avalanche, there should be a couple back on the rise,” the man said. “But they won’t help as much as you’d think. You practically have to be a podracer to get any decent time out of them.”

Tel was fairly certain she could manage it. If she could fly at top speed through an ever-changing asteroid field, steering a bike, which moved much slower, through a stationary scrap heap shouldn’t be too difficult. She’d always had good reflexes, even for a Jedi.

“The wreckage isn’t the only problem,” he continued. “You gotta worry about what’s beneath it. Balsks, or derani, as the locals call them, for one. They don’t eat flesh, but they’re highly territorial. Not too fond of the sound of running engines.”

“We’ll deal with it if we have to,” the Mandalorian said. After a cursory once over, he set the Child down and turned to her. “Watch the kid.”

With that, he and the scrapper disappeared into the wreckage.

Sighing, Tel leaned down and lifted the Child into her arms. He stared up at her, his large ears twitching. Though he said nothing (at least nothing she understood), she sensed his anxiety — his concern.

“That had to be horribly unpleasant,” she said, smoothing the crease between his eyes. 

The Child calmed, a soft coo pulling from his lips.

Tel wasn’t sure what to make of him. He was every bit as curious and mischievous as an ordinary child, but abnormally calm, even for a Jedi Youngling. It was a strange dichotomy and one that suggested he’d had some measure of prior training. Perhaps several years, if her suspicions regarding his species were correct.

It begged the question of how he came under the Mandalorian’s care. Most Younglings remained within the temple or their respective enclaves until they achieved the rank of Padawan and began their personalized training under the purview of a single Master. Those who’d found themselves away from the Order before then likely weren’t there by choice.

More than that, Tel didn’t quite know how to feel about his caretaker. Once, the sight of a Force-sensitive child under the purview of a Mandalorian would’ve filled her with anxiety. The Mandalorians, despite their barbaric ways, held children in high regards. Most children, that was.

The Mandalorians had rather disparaging views on the Force, regarding it as nothing but sorcery — dishonorable trickery. It was but one of the many reasons the Mandalorians reviled the Jedi and any other who possessed such powers. Many, she’d found, took their disapproval of the Force too far.. 

This Mandalorian, however, seemed wholly unconcerned with the Child’s ability and perhaps even her own. Tel was no fool; she’d never been good at lying, at least not in this sense. She could spin a tale rather easily, but matching her behavior with her words was another matter entirely. The Mandalorian would have to be brain dead not to suspect a thing.

It put her in a precarious position. He might not care about her ability to wield the Force, but she hadn’t a clue how he’d react to an admission. At the moment, she couldn’t afford to lose the only ally (begrudging or otherwise) that she had.  

Technically, she rationalized, Ive only lied once, and that’s not something I have control over.

With the current intergalactic political climate, the Jedi were adamant her origins remained unknown. They insisted she denounce her heritage, and that her official records reflect as much. It was their one and only condition before they accepted her for training.

With no other choice, she agreed. From that moment on, she became Tel Agarwin, a Telosian native who came into the Order late, though at the recommendation of the Service Corps. They had wiped any other trace of her existence from the Republic records (not that there was much beyond the security footage of her arrival on Courscant) and falsified the required documentation to support that claim. The Jedi forbade speaking of it.

Only the Jedi Council, her family, and Revan knew the truth. Tel preferred it that way. It meant fewer questions and unpleasant conversations.

The sound of approaching engines, which was less of a drone and more of a strange knocking, pulled her from her thoughts. They returned with two bikes: shoddy, rusted, and built of mismatched parts. Not ideal, but Tel would not look a gift bantha in the mouth.

Tel stepped off the ship and picked her way across the wreckage. “The scav-”

“Jak,” the scavenger said. “My name’s Jak. I… probably should’ve mentioned that before now.”

“Jak takes the lead and I ride with the Mandalorian,” Tel continued. “And I’m steering.”

“No—” The Mandalorian protested, but she held up her hand. 

“It’s not up for debate,” she said. “While I don’t think he’s lying, I’d rather have Jak where I can see him. You, Mandalorian, are the one with the long ranged weapon and the jetpack.”

“She has a point,” Jak said. “There’s more than one group of raiders in these parts.”

“I’ve done this before. It’s less of a hassle this way,” she sighed. “I’m short enough that you can shoot over my head, and if you have to get off the bike, I won’t have to scramble for the controls.”

She kept her main concern to herself. Though she sensed no deception from Jak, there was no guarantee it would last. Family situations, especially hostage matters, were tricky. At any point, Jak might turn on them, either of his own accord or through coercion. She would rather not put herself in a position where he could use her as leverage.

The best way to deal with complications was to prevent them before they arose.

After a moment of silent debate, the Mandalorian relented. Tel passed the Child to him, then climbed onto the bike. It dipped beneath her weight, the engines momentarily straining.

“Hope you can steer better than you can shoot.”

Tel shifted her arm as to elbow him in the side, but thought better of it. Damn beskar.

“Better hope we don’t have to find out,” she said instead.

•·················•·················•

Din would agree the path was indeed difficult. 

The twisted wreckage created a deadly labyrinth of tunnels and half-hidden pathways that even the best of racers would find difficult to navigate at anything more than a casual speed. Jak’s route took them through the gutted hulls of old shuttles and engine thrusters, over clusters of escape pods, and beneath precarious archways held aloft by bent wings and bowing steel frames. Every so often, they passed a pile of wreckage with a clear tunnel bored through, as if something had burrowed straight through the metal.

Before long, the tangled menagerie of ships gave way to something of a narrow gorge, which offered the first glimpse of the planet’s true surface. Steep cliffs of dusky purple rock towered overhead, reaching high into the heavens. A river, one that seemed to contain more rocket fuel than water, cut through the base of the gorge. The surface shone iridescent as they hurried along the bank.

They followed the river for several miles, then Jak took a sudden left turn and plunged into a darkened cavern hidden behind a bend in the cliffs. Tel followed suit, handling the turn with an alarming grace. The winding cave system posed no more difficulty for her than the wreckage had. She wove through the mess of stalagmites and rock formations, taking corner after corner with an ease that suggested she was more than accustomed to navigating treacherous terrain. 

Din, if he didn’t know better, would’ve thought she knew where she was going.

It begged the question of who, or what, she was. Tel carried herself with an of authority benefitting an officer. With an Imperial bounty on her head, he had to wonder if she was one — an Imperial turncoat, perhaps. She certainly had the attitude of an Imp. Though, he amended, she exhibited a recklessness that defied the rigid and calculating nature of the Empire. A Rebellion leader seemed more apt.

Or, maybe, she was neither.

The pirate seemed convinced she was a Jedi, and though he hadn’t a clue what a Jedi was, beyond what the Armorer had told him, Din would agree. She was too quick to change the subject when he breached it, and the hesitation that preceded her responses suggested she wasn’t being truthful — at least, not entirely.

That wasn’t considering he’d witnessed during their descent towards the planet’s surface.

He didn’t have time to consider the matter further.

All at once, the darkness of the cave dissipated, and they were, once more, beneath the star-strewn sky. Far in the distance, the first light of dawn spread across the horizon. Din noted the time. This planet had a relatively short rotation. The night had only lasted for approximately eight hours.

Thirty minutes later, Jak stopped before a wall of large freighters and powered off the bike.

“This is as far as we can go. Any closer and they’ll hear us,” he said. “The outpost’s in the valley just on the other side.”

Din hunkered down behind the hull of a rent freighter and hefted his rifle into his arms. He swept the scope across the ramshackle collection of repurposed escape pods and hulls. Smoke rose from fires burning inside dented crates and smashed plasteel containers. Several dozen pirates wandered about the encampment, armed to the teeth with salvaged weaponry. Some carried blasters and rifles. Others had repeating cannons strapped to their backs. Mounted guns, as well as numerous sensors, spanned the perimeter of the encampment.

They were both well armed and well defended.

“There’s a lot of them,” he muttered. 

“How many?” Tel asked.

“Too many.”

A hand, small and feminine, appeared in his peripheral vision, and he passed the rifle to her. She lifted it, holding it in a way that suggested she had more than a rudimentary understanding of it, and peered down the scope. A small frown tugged at her lips.

“This won’t be easy.”

Din weighed their options. He didn’t trust Jak, though he had delivered on his promise to bring them to the outpost. For what purpose, however, remained to be seen. It could be a trap — a means of sparing his life while luring them into the outpost where the pirates had them outnumbered and outgunned.

“We’re never going to sneak past those cannons,” Tel said as she set the rifle aside. “Not without the right equipment.”

“Then how are we supposed to get in?” Din asked. “We can’t just walk through the front gate.”

Tel chewed on her lower lip for a moment, then said, “We can, if we do it properly. They’re expecting Jak. We have two options: he can bring us in as hostages or recruits.”

Jak pursed his lips. “They might take the Mandalorian, but they don’t keep prisoners unless they have a use. The only reason my family’s still alive is because my wife threatened to kill herself if they hurt me or our daughter. They lose her, they lose the map.”

“Then take the Mandalorian. That should cause enough of a stir to distract them. I can use the stealth generator to bypass the cannons,” she countered. “Or, better yet, let me go alone. The outpost’s defenses are good, but I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Because leaving you alone last time worked out so well,” Din muttered.

“That was a completely different situation,” Tel shot back. “This is the most logical method. At least if I can’t pull it off, you have a contingency. If we all go, and we’re found, it will turn into a fight we’re not equipped to handle. One that will not only endanger the kid, but Jak’s family as well.”

He couldn’t argue with her logic, but he could argue competence. An infiltration was their best bet, but after her stunt on Scir, and after what happened on the ship a few hours prior, Din wasn’t sure she could pull it off. She knew her way around a fight, but not as well as she assumed.

“She has a point,” Jak said, though he sounded uncertain. “If we all get caught, they’ll know we’re up to something, but if it’s just her, they might not think much of it of it.”

“Well, I guess it’s decided then,” Tel said.

“Hang on a minute,” Din said.

Tel paid him no mind. She checked her belt, then her blaster, and stood. “Mandalorian, stay here and watch the encampment. If I’m not back by nightfall, then you can try the contingency plan.”

“I said wait-“

Before he could finish, she disappeared over the side of the ship.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 15 | Infiltration.

Din released a frustrated sigh.

Tel proved to be more of a thorn in his side with each day that passed. He expected little from her at first; small, slender, and she hardly posed a threat. She was intelligent and quick-witted — he’d give that — but he realized it was more of a curse than a blessing.

And to think he thought she was cooperative.

He should’ve known better than to judge on appearance alone; the Child hardly seemed a threat to anything beyond the odd frog, but he’d seen what power lay behind those not-so-innocent brown eyes. Tel, as he learned, was just as deceptive. She was no slouch with a blaster. Her keen awareness of her surrounding suggested any presumptions of naivety were just that — presumptions perpetuated by her youthful, almost delicate appearance.

If not for Shaldi’s droid’s estimation of her age, he’d have thought the Hutt sent him after someone’s brattish daughter.

That may well still be the case.

“She’s an odd one,” Jak muttered.

Din grunted in agreement. One moment she was calm and diplomatic — there weren’t many in the Outer Rim who would give bounty hunters a chance to save themselves, most would shoot first and ask questions later — and in the next she was a sparking fire, slinging barbs and sarcastic quips as if they were weapons. The latter seemed solely directed towards him; she was far less abrasive with the Child, and even Jak, despite the circumstances.

“You think she’ll get them out?” Jak asked, uncertain.

“She thinks she can,” Din replied.

“You sure it’s a good idea to let her go alone? She doesn’t...,” Jak paused, as if searching for the right words. His gaze flickered across the hazy outline of the outpost in the distance, his fingers twitching at his side. “I don’t think she’d last long if something went wrong.”

Did he think it was a good idea for her to go alone? No. Could she handle it? He couldn’t say. The few instances of combat he’d witnessed since their paths crossed weren’t enough for him to offer any certainty on the matter. She wasn’t unaccustomed to combat (in some regards), nor was she as delicate as her appearance suggested — she could take a beating, if nothing else — but she seemed more prone to causing problems than fixing them.

They’d have gotten off Scir in time if she hadn’t run off.

The sling at his side shifted as the Child pulled himself free and reached for the side of the ship. Din pulled him into his arms despite the Child’s indignant huff. When he reached for the rifle, as if he too wanted to look through the scope, Din pushed his hand aside.

“What is that?” Jak asked, peering at the Child, perplexed.

“A womprat.”

“So that’s what they look like?”

“I guess.”

Din turned slightly, peering at Jake from the corner of his eyes, and asked the question that had been pestering him since they arrived. “What is this place? The planet, I mean.”

“I don’t know, really,” Jak said. He shifted, turning so that he faced the outpost fully. “The locals say this used to be a penal junk planet. An old one. Some say there are ships from as far back as the Mandalorian Wars buried at the bottom of the piles.”

“The Mandalorian Wars?”

He must’ve meant the Mandalorian Civil War. It wasn’t a subject often discussed among the covert, though he knew that some of the older members fought in it. It was that way for most things; the Armorer mentioned tales of older battles, of the glory attained by the clans, but never spoke of the details. To dwell on the past would hinder them as they moved forward.

Survival, not war, was their priority now.

Jak shrugged. “That’s what they say. I doubt it, though; those ships would be thousands of years old by now. Wouldn’t be anything but piles of rust, if that. I tried to tell my wife that, but she just wouldn’t listen.”

“Thousands of years?”

Jak threw him a dubious look. “You don’t know about the Mandalorian Wars? You are a Mandalorian, right?”

“I am,” he said, “but I haven’t heard of this war, it seems.”

“I can’t tell you much — my wife knows far more about it than I do — but it was a massive, galactic-wide conflict between the Mandalorians and the Old Republic. I mean the old Old Republic. Not the new Old Republic, as confusing as that sounds,” he said. “Lasted for sixteen years, I believe. The Republic won.”

Din snorted. Given the Republic’s recent track record, Din doubted that. It was the Republic’s loss that allowed the Empire to assume control of the galaxy and, in the wake of yet another war waged by the scattered fragments of the Old Republic, the New Republic floundered. The Empire’s presence lingered, and it seemed to grow more prominent as the days passed. They were emerging from the shadows, their warlords still in power and their troopers plentiful.

Gideon proved that.

“They say it was ultimately the Jedi who secured their victory. That without them, the Republic was failing,” Jak continued. “My wife heard rumors of the ships buried here. She thought, maybe, she’d find something in there — the lightsaber of a Jedi, or some other relic — that she could sell for a hefty price to a collector.”

“That could take years,” Din said.

“That’s what I told her, but she insisted. Said that something like a lightsaber would fetch enough credits to make it worth it,” Jak sighed. “She met a Jedi once, when she was a child. So she claims, anyway. I think she met a fraud. Someone playing on the old myths.”

“You don’t believe the Jedi exist?”

Jak shrugged. “I think it’s a load of bantha dung. The sort of tales your parents tell you so you feel better about the galaxy. The kind that gets you thinking there are noble space wizards out there who fight for the weak and defenseless. But, well, if there are, I’ve never seen one.”

Ending the conversation there, Din lifted his rifle once more and surveyed the outpost. Little changed since his last observation; the pirates continued to idle about, their numbers growing as dawn lit the horizon. Now, with more light, Din could see that their defenses weren’t as great as he assumed. The turrets had seen better days. Their sensors flickered, as if struggling to remain functional.

If Tel had waited another half-hour, they could’ve come up with some way to use that knowledge to their advantage.

As that thought crossed his mind, a flicker of movement near the bottom of the scope drew his attention towards the edge of the ring of ships that composed the exterior wall. Din watched as Tel scrambled up the side of a large Corellian freighter. He’d never thought climbing could be graceful, but she scaled the freighter, jumping from one foothold to the next with such an ease he almost couldn’t believe his eyes. It seemed unnatural, almost.

The last jump, especially. By his estimations, there were at least ten feet between her and an open access hatch above her, yet she cleared the distance with no trouble at all, landing on the edge of the opening — with her feet. He’d have needed his jetpack to clear that gap.

She lingered there for a moment, peering down at the ground beneath her, then disappeared into the hull.

•·················•·················•

Sneaking into the outpost was easy. Once she bypassed the sensors and began her ascent, it was a matter of remaining beyond the patrols’ sights. That hadn’t been an issue either. She’d noticed their lack of attention during her approach — a mistake she was rather familiar with. Much like the Republic soldiers she’d dealt with during the war, they placed too much faith in their security measures and their intimidation tactics. Not one of them bothered to look anywhere but in front of them.

The outpost looked well-defended from a distance, but upon closer inspection, Tel realized it was anything but. She heard the straining of the turrets long before she approached — the clanking in their gears and the grinding of their shafts as they struggled to make even a full sweep. Compared to a Mandalorian encampment, the pirates’ outpost was nothing, if not pitiful.

That was until she reached the interior. The outpost, from what he could see, contained three rings: the exterior walls, which were built from a mismash of old ships and fortifications made from durasteel panels bolted to support beams, a central area which was mostly open, and the absolute chaos of the space between.

Tel clung to the shadows, following the external wall as much as possible. Through the gaps between the inner and outer wall, she spotted the pirates, many of races she didn’t recognize, scattered about the interior area. They paid her no mind, most toiling away at weapons and droids (the models of which she’d never seen before) while others loaded crates of what appeared to be munitions onto several bedraggled speeders.

A lot of munitions.

Too many, in fact.

Tel pursed her lips. One crate alone contained enough grenades to level a street — and that crate was one of dozens. Grenades weren’t the only things they had in abundance: she spotted trunks piled with blasters: rifles, pistols, and even a few cannons, plasteel containers overflowing with what appeared to be mines, and a case of what she assumed were medkits. The stockpiling wasn’t so concerning — she would suspect on a planet like Palix V, resources were a scarce commodity — but the movement of those resources was.

They were preparing, and Tel had a sneaking suspicion she knew what for.

With a renewed sense of urgency, she pushed further into the outpost. A collection of rickety boarding ramps and severed starfighter wings created a makeshift walkway, which wobbled beneath her feet. Overhead, train cars and stripped shuttle hulls, balanced precariously atop warped steel supports, created a muddled mess of criss-crossing archways which bridged the gap between the two rings at the higher levels. Smaller paths constructed from escape pods and gutted thrusters branched off the main walkway, some blocked by towering stacks of crates and others by flickering force fields.

It occurred to her then that she should’ve asked Jak where the pirates were holding his family. Force knew how long it would take to search the entire outpost.

The walkway beneath her shuddered and Tel ducked into a gap in the wall, one hardly wide enough to accommodate her. She pressed as far in as she could, her hand hover over the switch on her belt. The clanking continued, disjointed yet rhythmic. Footsteps.

Moments later, a pair of pirates — an Aqualish and a scraggly looking human — thundered past, arguing amongst themselves in a language she couldn’t quite understand. From there, it devolved into a shouting match, and further still. The Aqualish pushed the human, who then swung in retaliation. As the fight progressed into a fit of flailing limbs and brandished knives, Tel switched her stealth generator on once more, allowing the commotion to cover the sound of her escape.

She ventured further into the outpost, past more pirates tinkering with mechanics and more crates loaded onto speeders. She checked every path she could access, peering into bunk rooms and storage rooms alike, but to no avail. There were no prisoners to be found, just rickety cots and piles of scrap metal and junk parts.

Just when she decided that, perhaps, she should head back and ask Jak for the general location of the outpost’s prison, she rounded a corner and stumbled into the dismal remains of a ship’s cellblock. Windowed blast doors, the transparisteel cloudy and steeped in grime, lined the walls on either side of the hall. Only two pirates — human and draped in a patchwork mess of armor — stood guard, one on at either end of the block.

She retreated around the corner; her back pressed to the wall and closed her eyes. Her awareness expanded, the Force reaching outward, seeking. Beyond the two guards, sensed four more presences in the immediate vicinity; they were in a cell somewhere in the middle.

And one, she noted, was far stronger than the rest.

Opening her eyes, Tel peered around the corner once more. She would need to take out both guards before they could raise the alarm. The distance between them, however, left her with few options. A blaster was too loud. Her knife, even if aided by the Force, would never fly far enough to reach the second guard.

The old-fashioned way it is, she thought.

She plucked her vibroknife from her boot. Careful as not to make a sound, she crept across the hall and towards the nearest of the two guards. He slouched against the wall, his back facing her and his arms folded across his chest. His head bobbed — once, then twice — before settling.

Tel clamped a hand over his mouth and hauled him back into the hallway. The pirate startled, a string of muffled curses rising from his lips as he struggled against her. An elbow struck her in the side. His heel caught her in the shin.

She lifted her knee and slammed it into the junction between his legs. The pirate stiffened, every muscle in his body taunt and rigid. His hands flew to his crotch as his knees gave out, and Tel released her hold on him. The moment he hit the floor, she drove the heel of her boot into the back of his head.

The pirate slumped forward, unconscious.

Tel then peered around the corner at the second guard. He maintained his position at the other end of the hall, oblivious to her presence. Switching her stealth generator on once more, she pushed further into the cellblock. She had one shot at this; if she missed, he’d sound the alarm.

As soon as the guard was within range, Tel flung the knife. It hit lower than she’d intended, striking just below the jugular, but it was enough. The guard stumbled, a hand reaching for his throat as his knees gave out and he collapsed into a lifeless heap.

With one more sweep of the hall to ensure there weren’t any other pirates in the vicinity, she set to locating Jak’s family.

After peaking into three of the cells, she found them — a middle-aged woman and three children huddled in the corner. The woman looked the worst out of them, ghastly pale and thin as a rail, her skin blotched which bruises and her hair matted with dried blood. The children — two girls and a boy — fared better, though only just.

As she opened the door, which retracted into the wall with the horrific screech of grinding metal, the woman startled. The children scrambled into the corner as the woman moved to shield them from sight. Tel held up her hands.

“You’re… not with them,” the woman said a moment later, her brows raised with surprise. “How did you—”

“That’s not important right now,” Tel said. “We need to go. Now. Before the others notice. Your husband’s waiting for you.”

Something flashed in the woman’s eyes — surprise, and perhaps relief — then her expression hardened. She shook her head. “It won’t do us any good. We won’t make it to the main settlement in time.”

“Well, that confirms my suspicions,” Tel sighed.

The woman frowned, the dirt on her skin emphasizing the lines of her face. “You… know what they’re planning?”

“Let’s just say I’m familiar with the concept of stockpiling and preparation,” she affirmed. “Which is all the more reason to get you out of here. They’re distracted. You might not have another chance.”

The woman shook her head again, but it was the boy who spoke.

“Miss Arla’s right. It won’t do us any good. They know where the settlement is—”

“Because you told them,” one of the girls hissed.

The woman — Arla — held up her hand to quiet them. “Even if we left and made for the settlement, it wouldn’t matter. We’d be no better off there than we are here.”

Tel pursed her lips. Jak mentioned the pirates didn’t take prisoners, at least, not ones they didn’t have a use for. If they attacked the settlement — and Tel was absolutely certain that was their intention — it truly wouldn’t matter whether they stayed or fled. The pirates would kill once they found what they were looking for.

“There’s really no other choice?” Tel asked.

“Not unless you’ve an idea of how to stop them,” Arla affirmed.

“I still say we blow it up,” the boy grumbled. “Did you see how many grenades they have?”

Tel snorted. “That’s not a bad idea, actually. This place doesn’t seem that stable. A few charges in the right place should bring the whole outpost down on top of them.”

“And us,” Arla argued. “We won’t be able to get past the cannons. They might look like hell, but they work. I don’t know how you managed it.”

“The cannons aren’t a concern. If they work, they’re connected to a system. Once it goes offline, they may as well be decorations,” Tel said. “We take them down and you four can escape while I place the charges.”

“I’ve got two months of ‘hospitality’ to repay these bastards for,” Arla hissed. “I’ll take down the guns. While the kids escape, we’ll plant the charges.”

Chapter Text

It took nearly twenty minutes to prepare. While Arla made for the nearby storeroom, where she knew the pirates kept a crate of charges, Tel paced the halls of the cell block, studying the structure. Perhaps at one point she’d have called it sturdy, but decades of bearing the weight of the above ships left the main supports weakened. It wouldn’t take more than a handful of charges to compromise the limited stability of the beams.

Arla’s return was swift, as was her departure. She lingered long enough to drop off the charges, a large backpack, and the accompanying remote before she disappeared into the bowls of the compound once more, this time in search of the turrets’ controls. Tel peered into the crate and smiled; there were more than enough inside.

“Miss Tel? Do I have to go with them?” The boy — Dash, his name was — asked. He pulled a charge from the crate and stared up at her, his blue eyes fulled of pleading.

Tel bit back a sigh. She knew that look; she’d seen it a thousand times at the enclave. “Yes. There’s a very real possibility this may take a turn for the worst, and I am not having children in the middle of a fight if it breaks out.”

“I can shoot!” Dash insisted.

“Yeah, but you can’t hit anything,” his sister, Vera, muttered.

“I can too! Come on! We’ve been in that cell for a week! I want to do something! Besides, running’s for cowards and I’m not a coward!”

This time, Tel did sigh. Children weren’t easy to work with, and the older they were, the harder they were to handle. Dash, if she had to guess, was still too young to fully comprehend the danger they were in, but old enough not to care. A simple no would not suffice.

As she pulled her blaster from her holster, she couched before him. “Everyone wants to do something, but sometimes you have to do what you need to do, not what you want to do.”

Dash scrunched his nose. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means there’s no guarantee the pirates won’t come after you once you leave the compound,” she said as she held out the blaster. “Someone has to keep the girls safe. That’s a little more important than blowing up a few old ships, isn’t it?“

Dash, though reluctantly, took the blaster.

“In the meantime,” Tel said as she stood, “I suppose you could help me plant the charges, but only on the condition that once the turrets go down, you and the girls leave without argument.”

“Deal!” he said almost too quickly.

Under normal circumstances, Tel would not let a child help her, as demolitions required both precision and a keen understanding of both the structure’s foundation and the surrounding area. The compound, however, was not a stable construction, but a haphazard array of ships piled atop one and another. Precision was unnecessary. Once the ships on the bottom gave out, gravity would take care of the rest. By the time the charges detonated, they would be far enough away to avoid the fallout from the collapse.

No sooner than she placed the final charge in the cell block, a violent tremor rippled through the compound. The overhead lights, which hardly offered an illumination as it was, switched off and the cellblock fell into darkness. Eerie silence rang in her ears, but it lasted for only a moment before another explosive rumble rose from overhead.

“What was that?!” Vera asked. Though Tel couldn’t see her, she felt her hand curl into the lower edge of her jacket.

“The turrets are down, I’d assume, given the lack of emergency lights,” Tel said. “Arla must’ve taken out the power generator.”

It wouldn’t have been her first choice. Though the lack of power prevented the pirates from restoring the turrets, the explosion drew too much attention. If the pirates weren’t aware of their escape, they would be soon enough.

“Time to go, kids. You’ll have to navigate the dark as best you can; any light will draw attention,” Tel instructed. “Once you’re out of the compound, stay low and stay out of sight. Head west. Arla’s husband and my… acquaintance are waiting behind the highest rise.”

Three hesitant agreements rose from the darkness, followed swiftly by the sound of retreating footsteps.

Once certain the children were well on their way, Tel exited the cell block, placing charges as she went. She targeted the areas that appeared weakest — where supports struggled to hold the weight overhead or where several ships converged over one point. For good measure, she buried a few charges within the floor where the gaps in the wreckage allowed.

From the central ring rose a constant drone of panicked shouts and spat curses. Though she couldn’t understand much of it, as the varying languages blurred together into a chaotic mess, the urgency with which they spoke suggested they knew something was amiss. Between the gaps in the walls, Tel watched as the pirates scrambled to secure their weapons and disperse throughout the compound.

Pulling her vibroknife into her hand, Tel picked up the pace. One by one, the charges stashed in her bag dwindled until there were only three left. She had reached the opposite end of the compound now, the front entrance mere feet away. Placing the final charges there would be tricky; there were at least four guards, two posted on either side of the entrance. Unlike during her first approach, they were alert, their gazes sweeping the surrounding area.

Perhaps she could distract them; there was enough wreckage lying around that, with a subtle use of the Force, she could divert their attention just long enough to complete her objective. Tossing a small piece of scrap should do the trick.

As she lifted her hand to do so, a movement in the scrap pile beside her stopped her short. Then, without warning, a small bi-pedal creature, which vaguely resembled an under developed frog, bounded into the walkway. It looked at her, its large, round eyes brimming with curiosity, before it released a series of squawking trills and disappeared into another scrap pile.

Not a moment later, the sound of a blaster charging filled her ears. The two interior guards turned to her, their weapons raised. They were human — middle-aged men who looked better suited for the front lines of a battlefield than sentry duty in a pirate hideout. Wicked grins turned their lips.

Damn that gizka.

“Got ourselves a thief, it seems,” the one closest to her said.

“Not a bright one, either,” the other agreed.

Tel adjusted her grip on her knife and weighed her options. She could run — scale the walls and escape into the wastes — or fight. Neither were ideal. Drawing them out of the compound would put the children in danger, but within the compound, the pirates would outnumber her in no time. Once the fight started, more would come running.

Tel was not incompetent by any means, but she knew better than to take her chances with a hoard of pirates unarmored and armed with nothing but a shoddy vibroknife. Even armored and in possession of her lightsabers, she’d be hesitant; there were simply too many. The charges also complicated the matter. One stray bolt or grenade could bring the entire compound down on her head.

She did the only thing she could do.

Calling upon the Force, Tel wrenched the blaster from the hands of the nearest guard. The men barely had time to react, their faces just beginning to show their confusion, before she opened fire. Both bolts found their marks, striking them right between the eyes.

Then, with a speed and grace further aided by the Force, Tel leapt onto the lowest ship of the wall and squeezed into the first opening she could find. As the chaos inside the compound redoubled, she squeezed through the narrow maze of hulls until she reached the topmost ship.

Her commlink chimmed.

“Last charge placed,” Arla said, her voice grainy and riddled with static.

“I’m three short,” Tel admitted. “Got caught by the guards at the front.”

“It’ll have to do. Had three on my tail as well, but I lost them outside the compound.”

“Then I’ll see you at the rendezvous.”

No sooner than Tel cut the transmission, something stirred at the fringes of her awareness. A moment later, the subtle buzz of a vibroknife, accompanied by the creak of metal, reached her ears.

No sooner than Tel cut the transmission, something stirred on the fringes of her awareness. There were two beings in the immediate vicinity — one behind her and one beneath her. As if to confirm her suspicions, the subtle buzz of a vibroknife, accompanied by the soft creak of metal, reached her ears.

She had less than a second to move.

The trembling blade of the vibroknife tore through the thin fabric of her shirt and bit into her skin — a shallow, glancing blow. Tel seized the arm attached to the blade. She yanked her assailant forward and drove her knee into its midsection.

An energy bolt streaked past her head. Another, which seemed to originate from much lower in the wall, struck the freighter beneath her feet. Gripping her assailant by the collar of his combat suit, she hauled him in front of her just in time for the third shot.

It slammed into his neck, his body jerking violently beneath the force of the impact. Three more followed in rapid succession, each finding their mark. The stench of singed fabric and burnt flesh filled her nose.

With what strength she had (and she’d never had much to begin with), she shoved the smoldering corpse of her assailant over the edge of the ship and bolted for the opposite side of the wall. She leapt onto the hull beneath, and from there dropped onto the next available perch. Energy bolts rained down on her from above, and she ducked into a gap between two freighters, cursing.

Not for the first time since she woke, she desperately wished for her lightsabers.

But they were gone — likely never to be seen again — and she had no choice but to rely on more unconventional means until she could find the parts to build their replacements.

Tel’s hand dove into the pocket of her flight jacket, her fingers curling around the remote. She’d hoped to be further away from the compound when the charges detonated, as she had no way of knowing how far the fallout might spread, but desperate times called for desperate measures. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d sent a compound up in flames sooner than intended.

Steeling herself for the inevitable mad dash across the wreckage, Tel activated the charges.

•·················•·················•

Din considered himself a patient man. It was a requirement of his profession; he’d spent many hours hidden in the most uncomfortable of positions, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. He’d long since learned to pass the time, either by revising his strategy or getting some much needed rest.

This time, Din could do neither. He kept the sight of his rifle trained on the compound, his brows furrowed beneath his helmet. Tel hadn’t breathed a word of a plan before she bolted off, and he hadn’t seen her since she disappeared over the walls of the compound. That was nearly two hours ago.

The only sign of progress came from the plumes of smoke rising from the west side of the compound.

Din couldn’t tell if that was a good sign. In the moments following the explosion, the compound sprang to life. His vantage point offered only a small glimpse of what he assumed was the central courtyard, but what he could see roused concern. The pirates were alert and on guard, scrambling about in a panic.

It was five minutes after that Din heard something move in the wreckage behind them.

He spun about, his rifle raised — only to find three children climbing the rise.

“Well, that’s—”

“Daddy!”

A young girl with matted blonde hair shoved past the other two children and scrambled up the rise, her grime-covered face streaked with tears. She all but flung herself at Jak, her trembling hands fisted in his patchwork tunic.

“Minae? What…? Where’s your mother?”

“Miss Arla’s coming,” a boy, carrying what appeared to be Tel’s pistol, said. “I saw her a few minutes ago. She had a couple scavs on her tail but I think she lost them. Should be here any minute now.”

“And Tel?” Din asked.

The boy shrugged. “Don’t know. We left soon as the generator blew. She might’ve gone out the back of the compound.”

Din turned to face the outpost once more. For a moment, he thought he heard blaster fire. Before he could lift his rifle, however, a thunderous explosion rippled through the wreckage. The ships along the back side burst into a brilliant ball of iridescent fire. Debris rocketed into the air as another round of explosions rose from deeper within the compound. The larger ships toppled. Blackened smoke rose into the sky, the cloud building rapidly.

“Was…that supposed to happen?” Jak asked.

“Yep!” the boy chirped. “I helped plant the charges!”

Din frowned. “Charges?”

“Mom refused to leave until she took care of the pirates,” Minae said. “Said there was no point in going to the main outpost if they were just going to raid it.”

“So we blew it up!” The boy said.

“Mom found a box of charges and she and Miss Tel planted them all over the compound,” Minea affirmed. “At least, that was their plan.”

“Then we can at least assume Tel made it out before they detonated,” Jak said, his voice tight with uncertainty. “Maybe she and Arla got turned around in the wreckage? It looks the same after a while.”

Peering through the scope once more, Din searched the surrounding wreckage. He started began near the compound, searching the toppled walls for a hint of movement. Upon seeing nothing among the haze of smoke that quickly enveloped the outpost, he shifted his focus closer to the rise.

There was no sight of them.

Just as Din readjusted the scope to check once more, a hand appeared at the edge of the hull they’d gathered on. Another followed suit, and as he lowered his rifle, Tel hauled herself over the edge of the freighter. Jak’s wife joined her not a second later.

“Arla! Thank the stars!” Jak cried. He, along with his daughter, hurried to pull her further into the ship.

Din frowned. Dark bruises lay buried beneath the grime and dried blood streaked across Arla’s face. If he squinted, he could see the fading shape of a hand around her throat. She looked as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks.

Tel, though not nearly as ragged, fared no better. She looked as if she’d been through hell and back, her hair ratty and her clothes stained with patches of fresh blood. The front of her shirt had torn, the edges straight but signed, exposing the patchwork of teal and ivory visible around the fringes of the wound that spanned her stomach. It wasn’t deep, merely a glancing blow. Part of her flight jacket ripped along the side, the mesh underlay visible and blackened with carbon scoring. A superficial burn covered her right cheek.

“What happened?” Din demanded.

“I sneaked in, complications ensued, and blew up the base,” Tel shrugged, her left shoulder barely rising while her right seemed unaffected. “Would’ve been a perfect in-and-out, if it weren’t for the fact the pirates were planning an attack on the settlement.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

Tel gave him an odd look, one he couldn’t quite place, then rolled her eyes. “I get that you Mandalorians,” he caught the slight pause before she named his people, the hint of venom dripping from her tone, “think you’re the only thing in the galaxy that’s remotely competent, but you’re not.”

As if sensing the tension rising between them, Arla said, “They weren’t planning a raid, but an all out assault. They had just about everything you could want; salvaged Imperial walkers, working TIE fighters, and enough guns and munitions to stock an armory for the next five rotations. We had to do something. Blowing it up was my idea.”

Tel stood, rubbing her shoulder. “Under different circumstances, I would’ve avoided dusting the compound. Had I the men and the resources, I’d have taken as much of their equipment as I could and had the rest destroyed or disabled. The settlement likely could’ve used it.”

Arla studied her for a moment, her hazel eyes narrowed. “I thought you had that military flare about you. Were you a soldier? Or a rebel?”

Tel said nothing for a long moment, a far-off look in her eyes. “I suppose you could say I was both.” As quickly as the look appeared, it vanished, and she added, “While it was fun blowing the outpost to space, there’s a chance it didn’t kill all the pirates. We’d be wise to get moving before the survivors regroup and come after us.”

Without waiting for a confirmation from the others, she turned on her heels and started down the rise.

Chapter Text

Din had been to every corner of the known galaxy but Palixtown was unlike anything he’d ever seen.

The harsh sun beat down upon the endless sea of wreckage, the cloudless sky offering no respite from the building heat or the blinding glare of the sunlight reflecting off the viewports. Sweat pooled beneath his armor, his hands slick inside his gloves and the fabric of his fight suit chaffing in the worst places. The shadows cast by the tatters of fabric stretched over the mishmash boarding ramps hadn’t quite reached the path. It would be another hour before the sun sank far enough for them to.

If not for the makeshift huts crammed between the gaps in the haphazard array of repurposed hulls, he’d have thought they were on Tatooine.

Threadbare clothes hung from old electrical wires stretched between cockpits and bent wings. Gardens in plasteel containers and crates sat outside old shuttles and escape pots that had become homes. Raised gardens made of plasteel containers and crates sat outside that’d become homes. Dated moisture vaporators rose from the tops of larger ships and solar panels lined nearly every roof.

Shortly after they passed through the main entrance, Jak and his family disappeared among the maze of ships in search of a medic. Arla had several wounds, some of which showed signs of infection, and Tel insisted they seek help as soon as possible. From there, the siblings took the lead. As they made their way further into the settlement, the children pointed out areas of interest: the library contained within the hold of an old cargo freighter; one of several small clinics situated inside the remains of an Old Republic medical carrier; and a large community garden space next to something that resembled a park.

“You’ve certainly adapted to life here,” Tel noted, her gaze lingering on a small group of children sliding through a massive tube that spilled over the top of one ship and into a small padded area. “That’s an interesting use for a fuel line...”

“Not like we have a choice,” the boy said. “Most who come here don’t survive the landing. You’ve met the ones that usually do.”

“The old coots think we’re all cursed,” his sister quipped. During the trek between the outpost and the settlement, she’d latched onto Tel, her small dirty hand tucked firmly inside hers. “The Jedi says we’re just trapped.”

Tel’s steps faltered. She turned to the girl, her lips pressed into a thin line and a brow raised. “Jedi?”

“Tren’s crazy.” The boy kicked a roll of loose wire off the path and shook his head. “He actually thinks he can move things with his mind and he’s always talking about this stupid energy field called ‘the Force’. Says it makes him a Jedi, whatever that is. Dad thinks he hit his head too hard when his ship crashed.”

“He’s not lying,” his sister huffed. “Dash doesn’t believe it, but I think he’s just mad that he has to get off his lazy butt and clean his room. He can’t just shove everything under his bed with the wave of his hand.”

“People don’t move things with their minds, Vera.” Dash crossed his arms over his chest, his cheeks puffed with indigence. “You saw one crate move one time and latched onto that dumb story. And you wonder why Dad doesn’t let you talk to him.”

True or not, Vera’s claims were worth investigating, but before Din could ask after the alleged Jedi, Tel beat him to it.

“Any idea where I could find this Jedi?”

“I told you, lady, he’s not a Jedi. He’s just some nut job who thinks he’s some kind of space wizard,” Dash groaned, throwing his hands into the air. “Please don’t ask Dad about it either. We’ll get in trouble. We’re not supposed to talk about the psycho hermit. Oh, and, uh, don’t tell them how you met us? We’re not allowed outside of the settlement and we weren’t gone long enough for them to notice. I hope.”

“We were gone for almost two days,” Vera said.

“I told them we were spending the night at Ban’s.” Dash turned to look at Tel over his shoulder. “Seriously, if our parents ask, we saw you in the hills and went out to see if you needed help. We were never at the outpost and we never mentioned a Jedi.”

Tel chuckled. “Alright, alright, I won’t say anything. Pity, though, I’ve always wanted to meet a space wizard.”

The rest of the trip through the settlement passed in a blur. The children continued their idle chatter and Tel indulged them with practiced ease and immeasurable patience. Maybe she was a mother herself, or, at the very least, dealt with them frequently enough. It would certainly explain her penchant for nagging, especially when it concerned the Child. 

Before long, they entered the thruster of an old star destroyer. A myriad of small stalls crafted from metal panels and supply containers lined either side of the massive tunnel. People bartered spare parts for ration packs, pieces of cloth, and an array of things Din would never consider paying for. One stall held several containers of colorful root vegetables and leafy plants. Several rusted, malfunctioning droids stood around another. 

“This is the market,” Vera explained. “Some of the off-worlders say people use credits everywhere else, but we don’t have those here. We trade whatever we have. Sometimes the scavs come in with good hauls, but that probably won’t happen for a while.”

“You trade junk?” The moment the words left Din’s lips, he cringed. It may be junk to him, but to them, it was their livelihoods.

The disruptor field stranded them on an inhospitable rock and they had to make do with what they had in order to survive. After decades, or perhaps centuries, they adapted. What choice did they have? There were no trade ships bringing goods from every corner of the galaxy. No travelers to bring their credits. Nothing to export.

“One man’s trash, as my father says,” Vera said, not the slightest bit insulted. “Everything has a use if you’re smart enough to find one. Everyone has a job, too. Dad’ll find you two one, too. You won’t be leaving here.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Tel said. “Interesting as this place is, we don’t plan on lingering.”

Din pursed his lips. While the thought of staying in one place for too long didn’t sit well with him, Palix possessed something no other planet had; the disruptor field. Anyone who tried to pursue them would find their ship plummeting from the sky in a fiery blaze, stranded and unable to leave or call for reinforcements. The number of hunters on their tail might have dwindled, but the Empire continued their relentless endeavor to recover the Child. With the recent acquisition of yet another undelivered Imperial bounty, they would likely redouble their efforts. 

The Empire wanted Tel, and they were desperate enough to send a squadron of TIE fighters to devastate a city to prevent her escape.

The more he thought about it, the less sense it made. Tel insisted she wasn’t a Jedi, yet she knew more about them than anyone he’d encountered so far. She claimed her father and her homeworld were the source of that knowledge, yet a beast that preyed on those with the same abilities as the Child targeted her. It was all hearsay, yet he had witnessed her hovering above a ship with no apparent source of propulsion.

She was lying, Din knew, but he let her keep her secrets. She was stubborn and prideful, but for all her preening and posturing, she was exceptionally clumsy. There was a time where he’d press the matter and demand the obvious truth, with his blaster serving as additional motivation, but he’d grown since them. He knew better than to poke the mynock’s nest; with how she interacted with nearly every other being they encountered, he could safely say she tolerated him.

In the barest sense of the word, at that.

If he prodded, she’d resist. Tel was wary of him, but not fearful. Intimidation would accomplish nothing but igniting her volatile temper. People like her were best left to their own devices; she’d reveal the truth in time, whether by accident or her own violation and no sooner. 

But the Jedi were the least of his concerns with her; he wanted to know how a woman who claimed to be from Known Space hadn’t a clue what the Empire was.

“Dad says that before my grandpa took over, things weren’t going well,” Vera said, her voice pulling him from his thoughts. She’d climbed onto Tel’s back, her legs dangling around her sides as she pointed to the faded paintings spread across the walls of the thruster. “Palixtown used to be run by this big ugly slug and his goonies, but grandpa showed up and kicked them out! See those paintings? That’s him!”

The images depicted a man in Mandalorian armor. Orange paint colored his pauldrons and his boots, the brown poncho draped over his shoulders torn and tattered. One painting depicted him shooting a green skinned Hutt in the head. Another showed him throwing a group of shady looking hunters into piles of refuse. 

“Dad said he was a warrior.” Vera turned and pointed at Din. “One of his kind. He called him a Mandalorian, but the actual word for it. Mando… Manda…ade?”

“Mando’ade,” Tel corrected. 

“Yeah, that.” Vera said. “What’s that actually mean? Dad just said that’s the correct term for Mandalorians.”

“It means ‘Children of Mandalore’.” Tel said.

Many things about Tel struck him as odd, but that was, by far, the most surprising. He’d never heard an aruetii speak Mando’a and never with such accuracy. The Tribe did not speak their language in the presence of outsiders; they spoke it only within the safety of the walls of their sewers. If the children were truly the descendent of a Mandalorian, it seemed reasonable enough they would know some.

He hadn’t expected the same of Tel — and he certainly hadn’t expected her to speak with an accent reminiscent of those he heard on Concordia.

“You can speak Mandalorian?” Dash asked. “Can you teach me? I’ve always wanted to learn, but Dad doesn’t know much. Grandpa never got the chance to teach him.”

“I can speak many languages, but you’d be better off asking the Mandalorian, if he’s willing,” Tel said and Din caught that odd note to her voice — the same one that appeared whenever she spoke of the Mandalorians. “My Mando’a is…rusty.”

Dash shrugged. “Still better than Dad’s I’d bet. He keeps telling Mom she’s ‘mesh’ or something.”

Tel laughed. “Mesh’la?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Dash said, waving her off. “Anyway, Grandpa said he fought in some war back on his home word, then ended up here and couldn’t leave. Said he wasn’t taking orders from a slug, so he kicked his ass and took over instead. You should see the armor. We still have it and it looks cooler in person. Dad says maybe someday I can have it, but I’m too small for it right now.”

“Yeah, so is Dad,” Vera snorted. “You’ll never be big enough.”

Dash reached over and punched his sister in the thigh. 

As they exited the thruster and entered the armory of the cruiser, the conversation drifted towards the expansive display of weaponry stashed inside. Tel continued to walk with them, Dash’s arm looped through hers as he pointed excitedly to the various guns lining the walls, calling out their names and specifications. Vera chimed in every so often with off-hand comments, voicing her distaste for the blasters and her preference for the Zygerrian energy bow mounted on the wall next to a locker overflowing with grenades. 

“Vera can’t shoot the bow,” her brother teased. “Her noodle arms can’t handle it.”

“I’m learning! I just have to build up strength. That’s what Dad says, anyway,” Vera shot back. “Besides, you can’t shoot a blaster very well either! You don’t practice.”

“Yeah, well, Dad says I have talent, so I don’t need practice.”

An undignified snort escaped Tel’s nose as she shook her head. “Children often think that. In their eagerness to display their talents and prove their capabilities, they often forget one important thing: talent, without practice, is talent wasted.”

Dash groaned. “Ugh, you sound like Dad. He’s always on me about practice. I’m better than half the people in this settlement. They’re the ones who need practice.”

“Skill and experience will outweigh natural talent in any fight,” Tel chided. You may be better than a handful of casual practitioners, but you will not best a seasoned soldier or a trained sharpshooter without polishing your own skill. That arrogance of yours will get you killed someday.”

She wasn’t wrong. When he was younger, hyped up on youthful delusions of invincibility and far too confident in his training, he learned that lesson the hard way. There was always someone better, and perceived competence did not negate the necessity of training. Even now, with years of experience under his belt, he still practiced when possible. Perfection was a myth; there was always something to improve upon.

“Ew, now you sound like Tren.”

Tel snorted again, then turned to look at him over her shoulder. Her gaze lingered on him for a moment, a brow raised, as if she expected him to input his opinion on the matter. When he remained silent, she gave a self-satisfied huff and looked to the Child nestled snuggly in his sling, staring at the pictures with wide, curious eyes.

“What is that thing, anyway?” Dash asked, craning his neck around to peer at the Child. “A pet? It’s kind of ugly.”

“You’re ugly.” Vera turned to look over her shoulder, her face brightening as her gaze found the Child’s. “I think it’s adorable. Look at its ears! They’re so big and floppy!”

“It’s a child,” Tel chuckled.

“Is it yours?” Vera asked.

“Of course it’s not hers,” Dash huffed. “Miss Tel is too pretty to make something like... that. Besides, look at her! She’s not old enough to have a baby. How old are you, anyway? Like, eighteen?”

Irritation flashed across her features. “Anyone ever tell you it’s not polite to ask a woman her age?”

“At least he didn’t say fifty,” Vera muttered. “Did that to a lady last week and got the back of her hand and an earful from Mom.”

“It’s a Foundling,” Din cut in. “It’s mine.”

Dash tilted his head to the side, his nose wrinkled. “It’s still ugly.”

Tel rolled her eyes, a fond smile touching her lips, and muttered, “Children.”

They passed through several more rooms packed with supplies — ration bars, dehydrated food packs, massive canisters of water, and crates overflowing with vaporator mushrooms — and stopped inside an old briefing room. They’d shortened the central table, the ends hacked off to create more space in the otherwise cramped room. More containers, stacked as high as the ceiling allowed, filled the rest of the space.

An older man dressed in a mismatched ensemble of imperial rags and what appeared to be pieces of Mandalorian armor stood over a flickering holotable, which displayed a map of the settlement. A woman in a fraying combat suit sat crouched behind him, plundering through a container of spare parts, muttering to herself. A rusted droid shuffled around the opposite corner, repeating a series of alien words he couldn’t understand.

“Hi Dad!” Vera slipped off Tel’s back and hurried across the room, stopping just beside her father. “We found a Mandalorian and a nice lady!”

“That’s nice, dear,” the children’s mother said, not sparing Vera and glance. “Damn it, where did I put that hydrospanner again?”

Their father glanced up from the hologram and froze. “Vera, Dash, what did I tell you about talking to strangers?”

“Uh, not to do it?” Dash said, shuffling on his feet.

Vera climbed on top of a small crate and leaned against the holotable. “They’re nice, though! Saw them outside the walls this morning and it looked like they were coming from the ship that crashed the other night.”

Their father folded his arms over his chest, “What did I tell you about going after downed ships?”

Dash groaned.

“That they’re dangerous because they can explode,” Vera said innocently. “We didn’t go after the ship, though. I just told you we saw them outside the compound. You never listen!”

Their father ran a hand down his face. “You’re lucky they weren’t up to anything. What would you have done if they were pirates? Or worse.”

“Uh…run?” Dash offered.

Their father shook took his head. “We don’t have enough space for people these days. We’re barely getting by as it is. I told you to let the sentries deal with the wanders for a reason.”

“We’re not planning on staying,” Din said. “Here, or on the planet.”

“That’s unfortunate for you then. No one leaves this planet. Ever.”

“I gathered as much when we flew into the disruptor field,” Tel said. “I already planned to tackle that problem. We have no intentions of staying here longer than necessary.”

“You and everyone else,” the children’s father huffed. “Don’t think you’re the first to show up with delusions of escape. If it could be done, it would’ve been.”

Din bit back a frustrated sigh. There had to be a way. Just because it hadn’t been done, that didn’t mean it wasn’t possible.

“Do you at least know where it is?” Tel pressed. “I think you’ll find the Mandalorian and I are more than capable of handling ourselves.”

“It’s in a stone temple three-hundred klicks to the west of the settlement,” the mother said. “Finding it isn’t the issue. It’s getting inside. There are no doors or windows. Can’t blast the walls down either. We’ve tried.”

“Miria-“

“What? If they want to run off on a suicide mission, let them. That’s two fewer mouths for us to feed.” Miria threw a handful of droid parts aside and leaned further into the crate. “We’re struggling, Jado. We can’t afford to take in any more survivors. Either they die or they succeed. I see this as an absolute win.”

Jado shook his head. “You’ll have to excuse my wife. She’s been prickly lately, though she is right.”

“Like we said, we’re not planning to intrude for long,” Tel assured him. “The sooner we get that shied down, the quicker we can leave. The more you cooperate, the quicker it will do.”

Jado, though clearly reluctant, sighed. “If you insist on trying the impossible, I would suggest you at least wait a couple more weeks for the derani breeding season to end. They swarm the western hills this time of year. If you head out now, those beasts will tear you to shreds before you make it five klicks beyond the warding markers.”

“That’s too long,” Tel said. “We just need a few provisions and a map, and we’ll be on our way. We have a ship we can stay in.”

“One likely overrun with scavengers,” Jado countered. “It’s also nearing nightfall, and we seal the settlement after dark. You’re far better off staying within the settlement until you’re ready to leave.”

Tel turned to Din, irritation twisting her features. Din shared the sentiment; he rather get this matter sorted as quickly as possible. They had days’ worth of repairs ahead of them if they were to get the Razor Crest space-worthy again, and it hinged on whether they could disable the disruptor field.

“If nothing else, it’d be wise to stay the night,” Jado pressed. “The denari are most active after sunset.

With a resigned sigh, Din said, “Fine. We’ll stay the night.”

Chapter Text

Tel was elbows deep in a speeder engine when the Mandalorian found her the following afternoon. After a lengthy conversation with Vera regarding the state of the settlement, she couldn’t find it in herself to sit idle while others struggled. Vera sent her to Rorwaa, an old Wookie who earned his keep by repairing speeders and bikes for those who ventured beyond the settlement for to scavenge the wreckage.

She discovered, rather quickly, that she liked Rorwaa. He directed her to a handful of speeders near the edge of the docking bay that he’d claimed as his own and left her with instructions to have them running by dusk. He didn’t hover over her, offering unsolicited advice and unwanted criticism every few seconds, as Master Vrook would. Tel had always worked best on her own.

“I wondered where you’d gone,” she said as the Mandalorian approached. “For a moment, I thought you’d left me here.”

As he had on Scir, the moment the sun peaked over the horizon, he ordered her to stay put and watch the Child. He disappeared without a word of where he was going, and she hadn’t seen him since. Tel didn’t care enough to look. She put up with him out of necessity, and though he proved honorable so far, she still didn’t like him.

He was a Mandalorian, and no matter how civil he pretended to be, that wouldn’t change.

“The thought crossed my mind,” the Mandalorian jeered, though there was no real malice behind his words. “Dash cornered me and begged for help with target practice.”

Tel hummed. “Maybe there’s hope for him yet.”

A pause. 

“Why are you fixing speeders?”

Tel wrenched a bolt loose and opened the panel concealing the speeder’s fuel line. “Because these people are extending hospitality towards us despite struggling to take care of themselves. Since they won’t take credits, I thought I’d repay them some other way.”

Another pause.

“Where’s the kid?”

“With Vera in the library. Apparently, they have a small collection of children’s books written by the residents.” Tel tightened the bolt that connected the fuel line to the tank and slipped the cover back over it. “She thought he might want to read a few — or have her read them to him. I thought it might do him some good to be around other children. Something tells me he doesn’t get that chance often.”

When the Mandalorian said nothing more, she poked her head out from beneath the speeder and gave him a significant look. “You could help instead of, you know, standing there hovering over me.”

“I’m not hovering.”

“You’re not doing anything constructive, either,” Tel noted as she slipped back under the speeder. “Get cracking, Mandalorian. Rorwaa wants these done before dusk and there’s two more than need to be done.”

She knew she’d hit a nerve when she heard the irritated huff filter through his modulator.

“You’re not in charge here,” The Mandalorian bit out. “Stop ordering me around.”

Tel rolled her eyes and tightened the last bolt to the fuel panel before she shimmied out from beneath the speeder. She stood, her back aching from hours of lying on the hard metal floor, and skirted around to the engines. They were the last things she needed to fix before the speeder was ready for Rorwaa’s inspection. 

“Then stop ordering me around.” She shoved the hydrospanner into the screw that held the exhaust port vent in place, perhaps with too much force. “I am not your glorified babysitter, nor will I sit around and watch your child while you run off doing Force knows what. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you here?”

She glared at him from beneath the engine. “You tell me, burc’ya. Why am I here? I don’t recall asking for your help.”

“You—”

An angry roar from Rorwaa brought the conversation to a halt. 

“Quit bickering and get to work,” he growled. “Or get out of my garage.”

“This conversation isn’t over,” The Mandalorian hissed. 

“I think it is,” Tel clipped.

She ignored the heated look she knew he’d given her beneath the helmet and resumed her work on the engines. It was a minor issue — a clog in the exhaust port caused the engines to seize — and an easy, albeit disgusting, thing to remedy. No one wanted to stick their hand inside a pile of sludge.

“You’re quite good at this.” Rorwaa stooped to observe her handiwork as she removed the last of the blockage and wiped the interior of the port clean with a tattered rag. “And quick.”

“I had good teachers.” Tel stood and wiped her dirty hands on her pants, swearing the grease and fuel along her thighs. “My brothers taught me to fix just about anything, computers aside. I can handle the wiring, but don’t ask me to run diagnostics, fix a corruption error, or slice a system.”

“So much for asking you to fix my ship’s navcomputer,” Rorwaa said. He made a sound Tel could only assume was a sigh. 

“I thought ships didn’t work here.”

“They work planet side,” Rorwaa corrected. “The field doesn’t cover the whole planet, just the atmosphere. That’s why bikes and generators work on the surface.”

“It disrupts electrical fields just enough to force ships down?” Din asked from behind a nearby speeder.

Tel raised a brow, mildly impressed. Few had the ability or the patience to learn Shyriiwook. The Mandalorian seemed to have no trouble at all understanding Rorwaa.

“Yes.” He shuffled around the side of the speeder and leaned down to peer inside the exhaust port. “We don’t know who put it there or why, but it’s been there for as long as I can remember and long before I arrived.”

Tel hummed. “How long is that, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Nearly three hundred years now.”

She winced. Wookies had elongated lifespans, some living well past four hundred years. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be trapped on a junkyard planet, separated from his own kind and the beautiful wroshyr forests of Kashyyyk for so long.

“How’d you end up here?” she asked. “Somehow, I doubt it was intentional.”

“Slavers,” Rorwaa growled with such ferocity the Mandalorian startled. “Slavers captured myself and several of my kind. I don’t know how we ended up here, but I survived the crash while the others did not.”

A bolt of white-hot anger shot through her. Despite the Republic’s efforts to curb the slave trade both within and beyond their borders, it flourished on the black markets, perpetuated by the Exchange and others of their ilk. The Council sent her and Master Vrook on many a mission to liberate those caught in the horrific net of trafficking, many of them Wookies and Twi’leks who fell into the hands of Hutts and crime lords. 

Her mother was once a slave, her brothers claimed. Their grandmother liberated her and her uncle from the clutches of a Hutt when they were children and raised them as her own. Whether it was true, Tel couldn’t say. She barely remembered her mother; she’d died when she was still young, killed in battle while defending her from a would-be kidnapper. Her father, in his deep-seated hatred for the Jedi, blamed the Order, but Tel never placed much faith in his drunken rants. 

Tel knew the Jedi; she’d lived under their doctrine for years. The Jedi did not kill without reason; if her mother didn’t instigate a confrontation or give the Jedi ample cause to end her life, they would spare her. They’d never have come looking for her. She didn’t fit their criteria.

The Sith, however, had no qualms of who they took as their apprentices and would not have hesitated to kill her mother.

Many didn’t understand the difference, ignorant of the distinction between the two. They believed anyone who carried a lightsaber and wielded the Force was a Jedi. Tel blamed colloquialism. Under the umbrella term, Sith did count as Fallen Jedi, but there was a layer of nuance often overlooked.

Both were religious cults that operated under specific doctrines, but they were not the same. The Sith were bound by personal gain and ambition, while the Jedi self-righteous nobility. They were two sides of the same coin, similar opposites, but a Sith was no more a Jedi than a Jedi was a Sith.

Her father would know the difference, but his hatred and his grief clouded his judgment.

“But I am free now,“ Rorwaa continued. “That’s all that matters. Though I would like to see my people again, some day.”

“If all goes well, that day may come sooner than you think,” Tel assured him. “I will get that field down if I have to tear the tempe apart brick by brick.”

“Hopefully, if all goes well, that day may be sooner than you think,” Tel assured him. “I will get that field down if I have to tear the temple apart brick by brick.”

“I wish you luck in that task. You’ll need it.”

With that, Rorwaa shuffled off to the far side of the garage to continue working on a larger speeder in poor disrepair. 

•·················•·················•

Evening brought a much needed break from hours in the garage.

It wasn’t her intention to stay another night, but Vera and Dash had been adamant they remain until the end of the breeding season. They supported their incessant nagging with many gruesome stories of untimely deaths. Tel suspected their concern was but a small portion of their reasons; the children wanted them to stay for their own benefit.

Vera had become rather attached to the Child, and Dash spent much f the evening following the Mandalorian, pestering him with questions after finding him in Rorwaa’s garage. It was only after their mother came to collect him for their evening meal that the Mandalorian had a moment to breathe.

Tel prodded at the gizka steak cooking in on a sheet of scrap positioned above the open flame of a welder. They were a prefect source of food for the people of Palix; they reproduced quickly, ensuring their population never waned. It was catching them that proved difficult. To keep the settlement from being overrun and torn to shreds, the people let them roam beyond their borders; the maze of smashed ships and crushed hulls provided ample places to hide from the eyes of hunters.

At least she knew what the Mandalorian had used to help Dash practice. He’d flung the dead gizka on the crate she’d been using as a table with a triumphant smile, bragging all the while about how he shot it with a pistol from half a klick away. Tel almost believed him, until she noticed the single blaster hole in the side of its head, a perfect shot straight through its brain.

Either Dash had grabbed the wrong gizka (the Mandalorian mentioned they’d shot several throughout the day) or he’d tried to pull a fast one on her. 

“You don’t strike me as the type to know how to cook.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the Mandalorian, who sat propped up in the corner of the gutted transport shuttle Jado allotted to them. The Child sat perched in his lap, a holobook clutched in his tiny green hands. It was a picture book, one of the several he’d shown an interest in, Vera had said when she finally returned the Child to them.

The shuttle was long but narrow. A thin curtain of warped sheet metal separated her sleeping area from the rest of the ship, and another curtain on the far side marked off the Mandalorians. In the space between, Tel arranged a few empty crates to act as makeshift chairs and a table. If the children got their way, and the Mandalorian’s patience didn’t wear out sooner, they’d be there for the better part of a month before they even considered making for the temple.

It wasn’t much, and it certainly wasn’t comfortable, but it worked.

She just wished she’d thought about the consequences of putting her area right by the refresher door sooner.

“Some things you just need to learn,” she said, realizing she hadn’t yet responded.

Learning to cook was a requirement of her culture, but an absolute must growing up. Her father was hardly home — when he was, he was raging drunk and well beyond any capacity to function properly. Her brothers were a menace in the kitchen. The last time either of them cooked, they nearly killed the four of them with food poisoning. Tel took matters into her own hands after that. Someone had to feed them, and the Force knew their father wouldn’t.

“Have you checked on the ship?” Tel asked after a few moments of awkward silence. She turned the steak over in the pan and snatched the small bag of root vegetables from the crate-table behind her. 

“Not yet.”

She bit back a sigh. Leaving a ship full of supplies and weapons untended in the middle of a scrapyard overrun with scavengers wasn’t the brightest idea. The credits, however, were her main concern; they’d need them once they escaped.

“Any idea when we’re planning to make the trip to the temple?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow morning. You’re—“

“If you tell me to stay and watch the kid, I’m going to hurl a gizka steak at you.” Tel dumped the vegetables into the pan along with the steak and stirred them with a bent fork. “I’m going with you and that is not up for debate.”

“You’re not coming.”

Tel slammed her fork down and turned to him, her lips curled with fury. “I do not need your permission, nor was I asking for it. I’m going and that’s final.”

A tense silence settled between them. Tel turned back to their dinner, prodding at the vegetables with more force than necessary. At some point, the Child slipped from the Mandalorian’s lap and climbed onto the crate beside her. He eyed the steak, a hungry gurgle rising from his stomach. The Child glanced between her and the sheet, then reached for a vegetable chunk near the edge.

“Patience, little one,” Tel said, pushing his hand aside. “It’s not done yet.”

The Child babbled, his indigence clear, and reached for it again, his eyes narrowed with concentration. The pan shook. Tel pushed his hand aside much more firmly — not enough to hurt him, but enough to disrupt his focus — and pinned him with a stern glare.

“I said no.”

The Child looked up at her, his ears flat against his head. 

“The Force is not to be used for such trivia things. Besides, the pan’s hot. You’ll hurt both of us with your impatience.”

The Child babbled an apology and sat down, though his gaze remained on the stake, drool pooling at the corners of his lips.

Once the steak finished, Tel split it and tossed the pieces onto a pair of dented cafeteria trays. Part of her wanted to keep the steak for herself, for no other reason than spite, but years of Jedi training superseded her flaring temper. Petty jabs and heated remarks were one thing; depriving someone of food was another matter entirely.

That didn’t stop her from taking most of the vegetables, however.

Tel gathered her tray, and the Child, and made for her sleeping area. Just as she reached the curtain that separated it from the rest of the shuttle, the Mandalorian called after her.

“We’re leaving at first light.”

She threw him a stale look over her shoulder. “It’s three hundred klicks to the temple. If you want to walk the whole way, be my guest. I’m waiting until Rorwaa’s awake and asking to borrow a speeder.”

The Mandalorian scoffed, and Tel shoved a piece of orange root vegetable into her mouth to temper her satisfied smirk.

Chapter Text

Far beyond the fringes of the settlement, the landscape changed. The sea of wreckage gave way to a shattered cityscape. Empty husks of massive spires, between which hung splintered sections of walkways, reached towards the cloudless skies. They breezed past the remains of an apartment complex and sped through an old cantina.Far in the distance, a massive structure reminiscent of a senate building dominated the skyline.

A dreaded weight pitted in her gut. Though nature moved to reclaim the city — thick, scraggly vines and grassy weeds crawled along what remained of the buildings — Tel had witnessed many a city reduced to such a state during the war. She’d seen planets utterly decimated by the brute force of the Mandalorians and their nuclear weapons.

Something similar took pace here; she could see the evidence among the warped durasteel frames, the extensive carbon scoring that blackened the fragmented walls and walkways, and the glittering sea of glass that stretched before them. People lived here once; millions of innocent people whose lives took a sudden disastrous turn. Even now, she could feel the echo of it lingering in the Force; the haunting terror that lurked just beneath the unnatural stillness of what remained.

It was scenes like this that served as a reminder of why she pushed forward, even when she feared she’d lose sight of herself in the carnage and chaos of the war. She fought to prevent this — to protect those who could not protect themselves when the Republic failed in their duties and the Jedi refused to answer the cal of the missions begging for aid. Tel took up arms against the Mandalorians not for the thrill of battle or the glory of war, as the Council believed, but for a much greater purpose.

For something the Jedi should, but did not, understand.

As they sped further into the heart of the city, the terrain grew more dangerous. The buildings and walkways became a treacherous maze of narrow passes, harrowing valleys, and perilous caverns that proved difficult to navigate even with the aid of the Force. Rorwaa’s speeder needed work. The repulsor lifts functioned in limited capacity; if she elevated the speeder more than a few feet from the ground, they sputtered and stalled. She had no choice but to go through the buildings rather than take the empty skylanes.

“It looked like a bomb went off here,” The Mandalorian said. It was the first time he’d spoken since their argument the night before.

“Multiple.” Tel guided the speeder through the wide hall of another apartment complex, then down a series of interconnected walkways that led into the adjacent building. “Looks like an orbital bombardment.”

“You can tell?”

She pointed to the nearest durasteel frame. “The location of the carbon scoring, which remains consistent with what we’ve passed, suggests the weapon responsible came from above. The way the debris fell, as well as the extent of the damage, lends itself to a high-attitude aerial assault. Most likely laser cannons. I don’t see missile shells.”

“Were you—” he started, then paused. “You don’t know what the Empire is.”

“Beyond what little you’ve told me, no.”

She almost elaborated, but to do so would open the door to questions — questions she could not answer, and questions that would tread too close to unraveling the flimsy web of lives she’d spun. She was having a difficult enough time staying consistent.

“Just because you’re quick to lie doesn’t mean you’re good at it,” Revan once said.

Though it grated on her nerves, she knew it was true. Tel could spin a tale so outlandish people could only accept it as truth, but that was as far as it went. She was too honest — too open. Matching her actions with her lies was never easy for her. Especially when it concerned the Force.

Unless the Mandalorian was truly a blundering idiot, he’d caught on.

As naïve as he seemed (for what bounty hunter would trust their quarry with a weapon), he wasn’t completely daft. He’d seen what she’d done when they crashed onto the planet. She didn’t doubt he’d hear the scavenger’s ravings of Jedi mind tricks before he shot him.

The more rational part of her argued that there was no point in hiding the truth any longer. He was aware of the Child’s Force-sensitivity and was unbothered by it. The Child had no qualms about using the Force in front of him, either. It seemed apparent then that Jedi or not, the Mandalorian wouldn’t care.

How he would handle learning she’d lied, blatantly, would be another matter entirely.

It’s a moot point, she told herself. As soon as they disabled the disruptor shield and repaired the ship, she’d have him dump her on the nearest inhabited planet and. The Mandalorian had no intention of claiming her bounty, and the reason eluded her. She didn’t buy the honor bit. There was another reason he refused to deliver her to Ord Mantell, and one she suspected had to do with the child in his care.

But that was none of her business. Once they escaped Palix, the Mandalorian and his admittedly adorable child would be but a distant memory — a mere stepping stone in her path forward. She’d find her own passage to Ord Mantell and uncover the source and reason behind her bounty. Once she settled that, she could worry about the rest.

First, she had to get off this skug hole.

Before long, the city gave way to a wide plain of bleak grey rock. Sporadic patches of twiggy bushes and leafless trees blurred past as she steered the speeder towards the small blip on the holomap Jado had given them before they departed. That blip marked the edge of a deep ravine within which they’d find the alleged temple.

They were roughly fifty klicks east of it now. 

“How much—”

She had less than a second of warning — a sudden and inexplicable urge to yank back on the speeder controls — before the ground erupted in front of them. A massive jaw lined with serrated teeth as big as her head clamped onto the front of the speeder. In an instant, they were airborne, tumbling head over heals as they soared over the beast.

Tel hit the ground, hard. Loose stones and jagged rocks dug into her skin. Pain flared in her stomach as the wound she’d received the other day ripped open.

She staggered to her feet, hissing, as the Mandalorian touched down beside her. The creature — a hulking, lizard-like monstrosity with scales that gleamed like polished steel beneath the sun — yanked its head aside. A horrendous groan rose from the speeder as it ripped the front free and swallowed it in one gulp. The remaining portion disappeared not a second later, dragged into the hole the beast had emerged from.

Ringing silence settled over the stony plain. Neither of them spoke, both too stunned by what had transpired. Then, just as the silence bordered on uncomfortable, the Mandalorian sighed. “Great.”

“It could be worse. We could be…” She meant to say dead, but when she turned to look at the Mandalorian, she pursed her lips. “Covered from head to toe in metal…”

The grown beneath them rumbled. Tel felt the vibrations through her legs, as if something were crawling along her bones. Cracks appeared in the barren rock, and Tel hardly had time to yell “Up!” before the ground broke asunder.

The Mandalorian shot into the air as the creature emerged with a horrible shuttering cry. It snapped at him, its teeth narrowly missing his calf. Tel winced.

By most reckonings, beskar was impervious; it could stand a direct strike, even from a lightsaber. It was not, however, invulnerable. Everything, no matter how impenetrable it seemed, had a weakness. A strong enough force, or a Jedi well-versed in Shatterpoint, could break even pure beskar.

Annoying as the Mandalorian was, Tel wasn’t too keen on discovering whether beskar would hold against the bite force of a balsk.

The balsk released another cry as a sudden burst of electricity arched along its scales and dispersed along the ground. Tel bit back a curse. The path the electricity took was far too coordinated for her liking.

It lunged for the Mandalorian again, pulling free of the rock, and for the first time in many years, Tel hesitated. The balsk was massive; easily three times as long as the speeder and twice as wide. Five wicked claws adorned each of its four legs. The mere sight of the vicious spikes protruding from its tail was enough to turn her stomach. They were as long as she was tall and as thick as her leg.

One hit, and she’d be dead — shredded.

Another electrical charge coursed over its scales. The beast spun, its tail lashing behind it. Tel dove to the side, narrowly avoiding the spikes as they cleaved into the rock beside her.

“Can you not do that?!” she shrieked at the Mandalorian hovering several feet above her. “That’s clearly not working, you di’kut!”

 “What did you just call me!?” the Mandalorian demanded, diving beneath a sweep of its massive claws. 

“You know exactly what I said!” The balsk spun once more and, again, Tel ducked beneath its tail. “Don’t shoot the giant lizard immune to electricity with electricity. What the hell is wrong with you?!”

He dodged another flailing claw. “Then what do you want me to do?”

Several ideas came to mind, most falling within the lines of keeping his mouth shut. Though it’d only been days since Scir and the blissful silence between his short, uninterested remarks, it felt like an eternity. Tel much preferred the disinterest. The less she heard from the modulator, the better.

“I don’t know. Blow it up!”

“Is that your solution to everything?!”

“Hasn’t failed me yet.” Tel fumbled with her belt, her fingers closing around one of the three thermal detonators she’d snatched from the pirates’ outpost.

Blowing it up was easy. How to get them into its mouth without losing a limb was another matter entirely. The balsk was much larger and more agile than the terentaktek. She couldn’t get away from it, nor could she get close enough to slip past it. Every time she tried, its tail inevitably found her again.

Damn it all. If she hadn’t lied, there might be more she could do. If she had her lightsabers, she’d slip beneath the beast and ram her blades through its belly. A blatant use of the Force would open the door to an argument she was in no mood to have. She couldn’t blame it on the kid this time.

Her only choices were to climb onto its back, as she had with the terentaktek, or let the Mandalorian make the throw.

The Mandalorian will have to make the throw, she thought. It was too much of a risk otherwise. He had the advantage of height and armor.

Just as Tel plucked the first of the grenades from her belt, the beast leaped into the air. Its claws raked across the Mandalorian’s helmet, the beskar unaffected, but the damage was done. The Mandalorian hit the ground, hard, and skid to a halt some feet away, limp and unmoving.

Thank the Force, she thought.

Drawing in a deep breath, Tel let her eyes fall closed. She extended her hand, willing the Force to bend around the beast’s body. For a moment, she held it there.

But only for that moment.

The balsk struggled against her, squirming as if to throw off the invisible chains that bound it. Tel responded with further force, her arm shaking with effort. Already she could feel the exhaustion creep in; she hadn’t used the Force aside from a few fleeting instances since she woke.

Still, she held firm. The balsk tossed its head, but she refused to relent. If she could hold it just long enough for the Mandalorian to wake—

A sudden, violent weight against her back shattered her concentration. In an instant, she was airborne again, pure fire burning through her chest as the air shot from her lungs with a painful wheeze. The ground greeted her back, and a strangled cry broke free of her throat.

Before she could regain her bearings, a hand curled around her forearm and hauled her up. Another hand floundered at her waist, a hint of leather brushing against the skin exposed by the tears in her shirt. She felt the weight of her belt lessen, and it was enough to clear the haze of agony from her mind.

She leaned against the Mandalorian, her knees unsteady and her chest burning with every breath. The balsk stood before them, hunched low in preparation. Its body shuddered with the terrible growl bubbling in its throat.

From the corner of her eyes, she saw the Mandalorian activate the detonators.

As the balsk opened its mouth, the Mandalorian tossed the grenades. One ricocheted off its teeth and tumbled to the ground. The second hit its nose and shot into the air. The third found its mark and landed precariously on its forked tongue.

“You… have the worst aim… I’ve ever seen.” Fighting through the pain arching through her side, Tel wrenched her blaster free of its holster.

She fired.

The first shot flew wide, sailing harmlessly over the beast. Her second bounced off its nose.

“And you said my aim was bad.”

She grit her teeth and adjusted her aim. With a horrendous roar, the balsk lunged. Using what bit of strength she had left, Tel called upon the Force once more to guide her shot.

The bolt struck the beast in the eye. It rared back, screaming with fury, and Tel barely caught sight of the detonator as it rolled over its tongue and into the back of its throat. Then she shoved the Mandalorian, sending them both to the ground.

With a resounding boom, the detonators exploded. A burst of heat slammed into her and she ducked, an arm braced over her eyes to block the spray of shrapnel and bones. The ground shook a second later.

When she lifted her head, she found the balsk splayed across the stone, silvery blood oozing from the shattered stump of its neck.

“What was that about my aim?” Tel pushed off him, shoving the arm still lingering at her hip aside. 

“You missed twice.”

“I killed it.”

She holstered her blaster while her freehand prodded at her back and sides. No open wounds. By the grace of the Force, the spikes had missed her, but its tail had done enough damage. She likely had a broken rib or two, and there’d be more bruises than skin in a few hours.

“I killed it,” she hissed. She holstered her blaster while her free hand prodded at her back and sides. No broken bones, no open wounds. There’d be nasty bruises in some places within a few hours, but she was otherwise unharmed. 

“I threw the grenades.”

She turned back to him, her lips set into a scowl. “You missed twice.”

With a long-suffering sigh, she glanced towards the distant ravine. They would’ve reached their destination within the hour had they not lost the speeder. By her estimations, it would be nightfall before they reached it, if their injuries didn’t slow them.

The Mandalorian wasn’t much better off than she was. He slouched, favoring his right leg, and held his left arm to his chest. Labored breathing filtered through the modulator, and she was certain there’d be a nasty knot on his head soon enough. Helmets were as much a detriment as they were a saving grace.

She cursed. This was not ideal. They had no food or water. The supplies she’d packed in preparation were inside the speeder. Now, they were lodged deep inside the gut of the beast. Tel never considered herself squeamish, but the thought of eating rations coated in stomach acid sent a disgusted shiver down her spine.

“Can this day get any worse?” she grumbled.

“We could be dead,” the Mandalorian pointed out.

“The day’s not over yet.”

Chapter Text

By the time they arrived at the ravine, Tel was ready to collapse. Her body ached, the bruises she suspected would come turning her already marbled skin a sickly blue. Breathing hurt, but a quick and discreet use of Force Heal stemmed the pain enough for her to move. She’d have done more if she could, but her failed attempt to restrain the beast left her weaker than she liked.

Her connection to the Force was not as strong as it once was.

Before she woke in the tank, she could’ve stopped that beast in its tracks; she’d stopped far larger and more resistant creatures in the past. That knowledge rest uneasy in her chest. Was it a matter of disuse — a side effect of potential decades of dormancy inside the tank? Or had she not fully recovered from what she suspected was a forced coma? Perhaps it was a sign of a larger, more unsettling problem.

She didn’t have time to dwell on it further.

“It’s deep,” The Mandalorian grunted, and for the first time in her life, she was glad to hear his modulated voice. “Dark. Water at the bottom. Vines on the wall.”

“The path?” Tel asked as she adjusted the tattered remains of her shirt to cover the few bruises she had healed. 

“Clear for about a klick, then it disappears into the rock.”

Tel peered over the ledge. Thick grey vines, oozing a slimy green substance, crawled along the dusky purple rock. Life teamed within the myriad of caves and caverns that pocked the walls on either side of the ravine; the agitated shutter of dozens of larger lifeforms grated on her awareness.

“Problem is, there’s no way to get to it,” the Mandalorian continued. “Looks like the part near the top’s collapsed.”

“You have a jetpack, and I can jump.”

Before the Mandalorian could protest, Tel positioned herself above the part of the opening directly above the visible path and dropped. The air whipped past, her vision momentarily obscured by a curtain of teal. Her feet hit the ground, and with the aid of the Force to lessen the impact, she rolled to the side and stopped at the base of the ravine’s wall. A moment later, the Mandalorian landed beside her.

“Are you always this reckless?”

Tel waved him off and started down the path. “Recklessness implies that I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” came the Mandalorian’s doubtful reply.

“Most of the time.”

Silence reigned once more as they made their way further into the rift. The path, though sturdy, was narrow — a gentle, ridged incline that suggested it may have been a staircase once. Deeper into the ravine, it became more perilous. Large sections of rock had broken loose or fallen free. The vines became thicker as the sunlight waned, and the green ooze that seeped from their leathery shells turned luminescent, casting a muted green glow across the rock.

Shuttering growls and shrill cries echoed off the stone, but the inhabitants remained hidden. As they passed a rather large cave, she caught sight of a spindly leg within her periphery and scowled. Kinrath. A shudder tore through her as the memory of the dark, web-laden caves of Dantooine flashed through her mind. 

“The path ends up ahead, and it doesn’t look like it picks up again.”

Tel chewed on her lower lip. The next stable portion of the path lay nearly two hundred feet below. She could make the jump, but with her limited connection to the Force and her injuries, she’d rather not risk it. They had yet to locate the temple and disable the disruptor field. It would be wise to save what little strength she had.

“We’ll have to climb do—”

A strange, low whistle drifted on the breeze, and Tel felt something spark within her. Frowning, she turned to peer at the bleak walls. Beyond the steady presence of the Mandalorian and the distant buzz of life deeper in the crevice, she sensed nothing of consequence in the immediate area.

“What is it?”

“I thought I heard something.”

Again, the whistle drifted past. It was sharper this time, albeit quiet — two notes of vastly different frequencies layered atop one and another. An ache blossomed in her chest as bittersweet nostalgia swelled within her. It wasn’t a whistle, but the low, sorrowful hum of a flute. 

Tel remembered little of her mother. She’d seen pictures of them together — her mother holding her in her arms, her smiling lips pressed to her pudgy baby cheeks, Tel’s tiny hand wrapped around her mother’s lekku as the other reached for the recording device — but she did had those moments themselves. What memories she had were intangible fragmented glimpses that surfaced at night — a flash of a smile, a garble of familiar words, and the sound of a lilting melody.

Her brothers once said that on nights when she fussed too much and the typical methods of soothing a child didn’t work, their mother would sit beside her pram and play until she finally drifted off to sleep. Perhaps it was a fanciful notion, but Tel always found that when the Force called to her, it sounded quite like that same flute.  

“You don’t hear that?”

From the corner of her eyes, she caught the glare of the weakened sunlight reflect off the dark visor of the Mandalorian’s helmet as he cocked his head, listening. “I hear mynocks.”

Tel breathed deep, focusing on the sound as it resonated around her. She fell into it as one fell into water, immersed in the refreshing feel of it against her skin as it washed over her, gentle as the rush of water along a seashore. There, she felt as she hadn’t in years; safe, warm - secure.

When she opened her eyes, she found herself before a narrow cave entrance. Something tugged deep within her core — a gentle pull of begging adherence — and without thinking, she stepped inside. Rough-hewn walls stretched on either side for several feet before plunging into near darkness.

“Where are you doing?”

She felt more than she heard the Mandalorian fall into step beside her, his visor angled to peer down at her as she pushed past a thick curtain of luminescent moss. Rather than answer, she strode deeper into the tunnel with renewed purpose. With each step, the pull grew more insistent and before she realized it, she was running — ducking beneath, forming stalactites and leaping over loose boulders cluttering the path.

All at once, the tunnel opened into a massive cavern.

Thousands of crystalline structures lined the walls, bathing the cavern in a soft white light. The air was alive, thrumming with the Force, amplified tenfold by the glittering crystals that crept up from the greyed rock. Boughs of iridescent moss hung from the ceiling in sweeping curves dripping with spindly, glowing tendrils. Thick green vines meandered along the skinny stalagmites dangling overhead. Light reflected off the fragments scattered across the ground, turning the cave’s floor into a sparking sea.

The sight stole her breath away.

In some ways, it reminded her of Ilum — of the fateful day Master Vrook begrudgingly accompanied her the Crystal Caves to find the most integral part of her lightsaber. She still remembered the shook that took hold of his face the moment she returned with a crystal of her own. The pride she’d felt in that moment overshadowed the niggling doubt that had been eating away at her throughout the journey there.

Master Vrook was a purist — a staunch perfectionist who followed the doctrines of the Order and the Jedi Code to the letter. As he perceived them, that was. Tel had not come to the Jedi as a young child, as she should have, but arrived on the steps of their temple well past the acceptable age. She was not a clean slate, but a troubled child with perceptions that conflicted with the ideals of the Order and emotional connections he Vrook deemed too dangerous.

A liability, he’d called her. He’d hoped the Force would turn her away that day, as it had her father.

He’d hoped for the same during her Trails, only to once again recognize that the Force cared little for his desires. He’d barred her from participating in the Trails, citing that she was not ready for them, only for the Force to prove otherwise. Vrook protested it — as he did every decision the council made regarding her — but there was little he could do about it. Most of the Council agreed, and against his wishes, Knighted her.

She was barely eighteen then.

He’d nearly lost his temper when he learned the Council assigned her a Padawan not a few months later — a promising but troubled youngling that Master Vander hoped would help her settle her own temper.

Then the war arrived, and Tel followed Revan to battle. Vrook found them on Kathar in a last ditch effort to talk some sense into Revan and her followers. Instead, he found himself on the losing side of a heated argument. Rather than strip them all of their ranks as he wanted (after they refused to return to Courscant), the Council, albeit begrudgingly, sanctioned Revan’s intervention.

Tel refused to dwell on the words spoken that day; Vrook tested the very fringes of her patience.

“A crystal cave?” the Mandalorian asked, startling her from her thoughts. “You were chasing crystals?”

Tel swallowed her snarky reply. The Mandalorian didn’t understand the significance of his discovery; he couldn’t. The Force didn’t speak to her as it did to him. He couldn’t hear its call — feel its pull. To him, the cavern was little more than a hole in the wall filled with shiny rocks.

To Tel, it was a reassurance; a confirmation that her worst fears were unfounded.

She wove through the formations sprouting from the floor. Some barely reached her ankles while others towered overhead, reaching high into the mossy ceiling. Tel trailed her fingers across the facets of their surfaces, finding each formation cold to the touch.

Still, she pressed on, allowing the Force to guide her towards the back where a small cluster sat nestled between two protrusions in the wall. As she drew closer, she felt energy radiating from the bunch — the gentle tug on her hand as she reached forward and pressed her fingers against a small piece near the bottom. It was warm, the sort of warmth that came from the comfort of familiarity — a gentle reminder that though she may not have her lightsabers, and she may not be with the Order, she was still with the Force.

It hadn’t abandoned her as she’d begun to fear.

She plucked the crystal from the formation, but as she did so, her knuckles brushed against the shard beside it. It, too, was warm to the touch.

“Tel.”

At the sound of her name, she quickly snatched the crystals from the formation and deposited them in the front pocket of her jacket. She turned to face him, an excuse ready, but upon seeing him on the other side of the cavern, his helmet shifting as he scanned the floor of the cavern.

“What is it?”

“Tracks,” he said. “Human. Look to be a few hours old.”

The Jedi Vera spoke of, perhaps, Tel thought. 

She’d asked when she might meet this alleged Jedi, but Vera hadn’t an answer. He’d left the settlement the night before they arrived, claiming he’d wouldn’t be back for several days. Neither she nor the Mandalorian welcomed that news.

“Follow them,” she said. “Perhaps there’s a way to the bottom through the tunnels that branch from the cavern.”

The Mandalorian took the lead.

Tel trailed after him, her hand resting over the pocket that contained her newly acquired crystals as her mind wandered. She would never rebuild her original hilts. It’d been difficult enough back then to find a smith willing to work with the metal she’d chosen, and finding more of that metal would be short of impossible. Building replacements, however, would be easy. Palix had enough scrap to build thousands — if not millions — of hilts.

Locating an emitter matrix and a suitable power cell would be the most difficult part.

The thought of having her split-sabers back lifted a weight from her chest.

A Jedi’s weapon was crucial to their identity, and without hers, she felt exposed. She’d trained with a blaster. She could use nearly every weapon she could get her hands on, conventional or otherwise, but her lightsabers were as much a part of her as the Force.

At least she had the most important piece. Though, as that thought crossed her mind, uncertainty blossomed in her gut once more. There was no lesson — no test accompanying the acquisition of the crystals.

On Ilum, she faced a trial of patience. When the time came to replace her old crystal, which no longer resonated with her, the caves of Dantooine tested her prowess in combat, sending hoards upon hoards of kinrath to block her path. Those same caves presented her with visions of her fears of inadequacy, instilled by Master Vrook’s strict and unyielding demands for perfection, when she went to retrieve a second crystal to create her split sabers.

These crystals came easily. Too easily.

A sudden darkness, so overwhelming it stole her breath away, seized her. The air turned cold, an unnatural chill settling into the marrow of her bones. Her blood froze in her veins.

It was more than cold. It was dark. Sinister.

Tel crashed into reality at the same time she crashed, face first, into the Mandalorian’s jetpack. They were well beyond the cave now, the thrum of the Force-endowed crystals no longer a sense of comfort. Now, the Force grated on her ears, a discordant echo that sent her every sense into overdrive. Now, it was an agitated, discordant echo that grated on her ears and set her every sense into overdrive. Unease and anxiety welled within her. Fear clawed at her chest, her throat constricting.

She’d felt such a presence only once before, when she was still a Padawan.

When she peered around the Mandalorian, who’d stopped at the edge of a steep ledge, she found her suspicions confirmed.

At the bottom of the ravine, a massive temple of blackened stone rose from the earth. Withered vines crawled along its surface, splayed across the stone like gnarled fingers gripping the temple walls. The few patches of shrubbery clinging to the walls were dead and brittle. Dark, raging waters, the river the Mandalorian previously mentioned, surged around the jagged rock that ringed the base of the temple.

Tel wondered why the alleged Jedi hadn’t dealt with the disruptor field himself, and now she understood.

It was inside of a Sith temple.

Chapter Text

Tel paced before the sloped temple walls, her thumbnail clenched between her teeth. The incessant nagging that began shortly after the temple came into sight grew in intensity as they approached; now it hounded at the back of her mind, as fierce and unrelenting as the anxiety twisting her gut. The disruptor field generator had to be in a Sith temple, of all places.

Tel pursed her lips. The presence of the temple itself wasn’t alarming; there were dozens, if not hundreds, of such constructions scattered across the galaxy — the lingering remnants of the days when the Sith had a more active role in the galaxy. More than once, she’d accompanied Master Vrook on an excursion to recover an artifact or holocron from the abandoned temples, but he never allowed her inside.

Tel had no desire to follow him, either.

“What is this place?” The Mandalorian asked. “The air feels…heavy.”

“Something I hoped I’d never have to see again,” Tel muttered. “This won’t be easy.”

She hadn’t a clue how the temple might affect him, though she knew one did not need a strong connection to the Force to feel its influence. Sith temples had a way of corrupting everything around them. Even the flora and fauna.

“You’ve been inside something like this?”

Tel shook her head. “Near, yes, but never inside. There was a tomb on my homeworld that gave off a similar atmosphere, but this is…” She paused, gathering her thoughts, and chose her next words with care. “I’ve heard stories of these temples. They belonged to practitioners of… well, several nasty things.”

She felt the Mandalorian’s confusion — his apprehension — as he craned his neck to peer up at the walls. “So it’s Jedi sorcery?”

“No. A Jedi would want nothing to do with this,” Tel said. “It rarely ends well when those with a stronger connection to the Force entered them. We were wise to leave the Child behind. We’d be wiser to walk away.”

“Maybe you should wait outside,” The Mandalorian said. Though there was no malice in his words, she still felt a flicker of anger rise within her.

Immediately, she stamped it down. This was not to the time to be prideful. She knew deep in her heart she wasn’t ready for this challenge, and she’d be a fool to think otherwise.

Yet, despite her reservations, she knew she had no other choice. The Force had called her to Palix for a reason. Perhaps this was it; to give her perhaps the hardest test she’d faced yet.

“Not an option,” she said. “Where do those footprints end?”

“Right here.” The Mandalorian motioned to the ground at his feet.

He stood in the relative center of the wall, the spot he’d pointed out a few inches shy of the line between the base of the stone structure and the ground.

“Recent?” she asked.

The Mandalorian paused. “Very.”

Tel placed her hand on the wall, feeling along the smooth stone. She found it smooth and without flaw: no cracks, no crevices, nothing that alluded to a hidden door or an unlocking mechanism. True to Miria’s words, the temple offered no obvious means of entry.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. The footprints suggested there was an entrance in that location. However, without a door or an access panel, there was only one other means of gaining entrance. Vera’s alleged Jedi left the settlement the night before they arrived. As far as Jado knew, no one else had come this way in some time.

“Perhaps this rumored Jedi finally found the courage to enter,” she suggested. Yet, as the words left her lips, the dreaded realization dawned on her.

Or this Jedi is not a Jedi at all.

She hoped she was wrong. If she were alone, and armed with her lightsabers, the prospect of facing a potential Sith would not be as daunting. But she didn’t have them and she wasn’t alone; she was stuck with a clueless Mandalorian who seemed to know next to nothing of the Jedi and the Force — his ignorance, should the worse case scenario prove true, may be detrimental to them both. 

She bit back a curse. There really was no way around it this time.

“Listen carefully, Mandalorian. I am not a Jedi. Like many in my father’s family, I was born with the same capabilities, but my family did not give me to the Jedi,” Tel said, extending her hand towards the wall. “I don’t have a clue what to expect from this temple. Once we enter, trust nothing. Not what you can see and not even what you can feel.”

Before she could do anything, however, the problem remedied itself. The ground shook, the sound of grinding stone echoing through the ravine. A perfect slit, nearly several feet tall, appeared in the wall as the massive stone doors slid aside.

“What’d you do?” The Mandalorian asked. Light reflected off his helmet as he turned to look between her and the door.

Tel lowered her hand. “I… didn’t do that.”

The Mandalorian snorted. “Somehow I don’t believe that.”

“Believe it or not, it wasn’t,” she said, uneasy. “Whoever’s inside knows where here — and I have a feeling they’re not friendly.”

“Can’t be worse than you.”

Tel pinned him with a significant look as the last of the stone receded into the wall and revealed the wide entry hall beyond. “I haven’t tried to kill you.”

“I doubt you could.”

She refused to dignify that arrogant remark with a response. This was not the time, nor the place, to allow her emotions free rein. Sith Temples were tricky, deeply rooted in the Dark Side of the Force and perhaps even Sith magick. The energy here would lay siege upon the first negative emotion she allowed to slip through. She could not, for both their sakes, afford to rise to the bait. 

“Do the footprints continue?”

“What, no response this time?”

Tel drew in a breath, already feeling her temper flare. She could end him in a matter of seconds if she truly wanted to. By the time he realized what happened, she could have him off the ground, hands clawing at his throat, as she crushed his windpipe with the Force—

She shook her head, as if to dispel that thought. “The footprints, Mandalorian. Where do they lead?”

After a moment of silence, he said, “Straight, then turn to the left.”

“Then we go right,” she said. 

It was too risky to follow the footprints. The chances of walking into a trap or stumbling across whomever entered before they had were too great. They were woefully unprepared for their task, and Tel could kick herself in the ass for it. She should’ve consulted Miria’s archives before they left.

Then again, Tel expected a temple of another kind — perhaps an old Jedi enclave or one belonging to an ancient peoples. Palix’s topography didn’t quite match the Sith’s preferences.

Neither had Onderon and Dxun, now that she thought of it.

“What? Afraid to go in?” The Mandalorian asked.

Tel threw him a sideways glare. “Only a fool wouldn’t be. Remember what I said, Mandalorian. Keep your wits about you and trust nothing.”

Without looking back to see if he followed, Tel started down the central corridor. Massive pillars hewn from obsidian lined the hall at perfect intervals. Torches, lit with sickly green flame, sat perched inside the sconces bolted into the blackened stone. On the far side of the room, atop a rounded dais, stood an effigy of a Sith Lord she didn’t recognize. She didn’t stop to investigate it — the less time they spent there, the better.

At the base of the dais, the hall split. The pillars continued along both branches of the path before coming to a stop at a tall archway. Beyond the archways, the hall, though much smaller, continued, designs of unknown origins carved into the base of the solid walls.

Te paused at the intersection, her fingers drumming against the grip of her pistol. She’d told the Mandalorian to go right, but an inexplicable urge called her to the left. That same urge came with the unsettling sensation of the hair on the back of her neck standing on end.

“You lied to me.”

Despite herself, Tel froze. She felt the Mandalorian’s gaze bore into the back of her head, the barrel of a blaster digging into her spine.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a Jedi,” the Mandalorian hissed. “And you lied about it.”

Tel pursed her lips. Had the temple’s influence affected him so quickly? Or was it the temple influencing her?

She threw a quick glance at her surroundings. Nothing had changed. They still stood at the intersection, the eerie visage of the Sith Lord peering down at them.

“I’m a lot of things, but a Jedi isn’t one of them.”

Tel wasn’t sure what she was, but she knew she wasn’t a Jedi. She never was. Jedi followed the Code. They obeyed the Council. Tel placed little faith in either.

The moment she broke free of the Council’s influence, the glaring faults in their Code and in their Order. They were hypocrites of the highest order. They valued self-preservation above all else, willingly turned a blind eye to the millions of innocents dying in a war they could’ve ended long before it reached the breaking point. A Jedi’s life was sacrifice, but when the time came to make such sacrifices, they abandoned the Republic and shut themselves away.

She was a Jedi in the sense most understood, but nothing more. Tel did not abide by the Council. Their lofty notions of nobility and self-proclaimed prophecies of peace and justice didn’t sway her as it had so many. Peace was impossible to achieve if they were unwilling to fight for it.

The Jedi practiced apathy — spurned emotions and attachments — yet demanded compassion, mercy and empathy of their students. Compassion could not exist without love. Mercy was not the absence of anger, but the choice to give clemency despite it. Empathy required experience — understanding, for without it, it was merely pity.

It was insulting. She vividly remembered the day the council called her into their chambers — the patronizing way they looked at her as they decided her fate. It was not empathy, or even pity, that swayed them that day, but fear. Fear of what she was, of what she might become if they turned her away — of what might happen if they brought her into their fold.

“I’m not a Jedi,” she said, this time with more conviction.

They trained her in their arts and gave her their sacred weapon, but condemned her for everything that made her who. Just as her father condemned her for the gift he’d passed onto her. She wasn’t what they wanted — what they thought she should be.

“Liar!”

Tel released a slow, deliberate breath. Something felt off, but she couldn’t quite place what. She heard the sharp rasp of anger in his voice, distorted and heightened by the modulator. She felt the muzzle of his blaster dig into the bruises along her back. 

She felt all of that, but she didn’t feel him.

It was a trick of the Force, she realized. Just like her visions in the crystal caves, when Master Vrook pointed his blade at her — when he tore her confidence to shreds, mocked her heritage, and insulted her in the worst of ways. She’d been young then, barely fourteen, and unaware of how tricky the Force could be. 

She found her suspicions confirmed the moment she wrenched her blaster from her holster and swung it at the apparition behind her. The butt of the handle passed harmlessly through his helmet and all at once, the image of him dissipated. 

“Always resorting to violence.”

She spun around once more, her eyes wide. It wasn’t real; she knew it wasn’t real, but the moment her gaze found her old Master’s, her dread — fear — pitted in her stomach. She hadn’t seen Vrook since Kathar.

She’d hoped she’d never have to.

“I thought I trained you better than this, Padawan.”

“I’m not a Padawan anymore,” she snapped. “You never could accept that!”

Vrook’s aged face twisted into a scowl. “A title I can’t think of anyone less deserving of. The Council never should’ve accepted you.”

Tel bristled. “Yes, well, considering you made it to the rank of Master, I’d say there’s always that one questionable Padawan that slips through.”

Vrook, and those like him, had always struck Tel as a glaring fault in the Order. Their staunch perfectionism and penchant for disparaging any who fell short of it always seemed personal, as if the mere thought of inadequacy within their ranks was a direct insult to their sensibility. Vrook was one of the more outspoken, demanding discipline even for Padawans that weren’t his own.

“I warned the Council nothing good would come of training you.” Vrook’s hand inched towards his lightsaber as he skirted around her, the corners of his eyes crinkled and his brows drawn. “You defied the Council. You answered the call of war and basked in the carnage you unleashed against a minor threat to the galaxy.”

Anger simmered in her veins. His assumptions were baseless, supported by nothing but his own selfish desires. Vrook had always wanted her to prove him right, so he could stand before the Council and berate them for not adhering to his greater wisdom.

“It seems we have differing opinions of a minor threat,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. “The Mandalorians might have seemed like a minor threat to you, but were they a minor threat to the rest of the galaxy? To the Cathar, who they brought to the brink of extinction? To the countless children they enslaved after they murdered their families? Were they a minor threat to the millions they senselessly slaughtered in their misguided conquest for glory? To the Republic they nearly devastated?”

“The Mandalorians were not the threat,” Vrook snapped, his tone dripping with animosity. “There was something more, something darker behind them. You knew that. Revan knew that.”

He was right, and it was for that reason she fought. Tel couldn’t say what Revan saw — what she suspected lay behind the Mandalorian’s push for war. Only that the Mandalorians could not win, for the consequences would be more horrific than any of them realized. Tel had felt it herself, the stirrings of something much darker behind the Mandalorian’s relentless assault on the Outer Rim.

That alone was enough to push Tel into action; Revan was not easily daunted. If she refused to speak of what she’d seen, as if the very mention of it would unleash a horrible catastrophe upon the galaxy, Tel was wise to fear the consequences of a Republic loss.

She did not fight to spill blood — she fought so that those incapable of fighting would not have to. Tel had no love for the Mandalorians and their war-mongering ways, but she did not derive any pleasure or satisfaction from the lives she took. She didn’t revel in the stinging cold left in the wake of a loss of life. Their deaths — both Mandalorian and Republic — were an unfortunate necessity, but it did not stop her from waking in cold sweats with blood that was not really there staining her hands and the echoes of their last moments ringing in her ears.

“What should we have done, then?” She refused to yield, to allow this imitation of her Master to break her will. “Sit back meditate while the Republic pleaded for help? Watch dozens of worlds burn and allow the Mandalorians to hold the galaxy in a choke hold while you deliberate over philosophy?”

Vrook appeared in front of her again. His lightsaber flared to life, the tip of his green blade resting just beneath her chin. “You should have obeyed the Council!”

“And what would the Council have done if the Republic lost?! Would you have taken a stand then? Or would you have scattered into the wind while whatever lurked behind the Mandalorians swept in, unopposed?!”

Tel shook her head, as if to clear it, then continued, “You think I went to war because it’s in my blood — and perhaps that is true — but it’s not in my nature to sit back and do nothing while so many innocent people die. Not when I have can do something about it. I cannon, in good conscious, sleep easy at night knowing my comfort comes at such a cost. I put myself in the line of fire so others wouldn’t have to, and I would do it again without hesitation.”

“Then you’ve learned nothing.”

“Just because you don’t agree with what I’ve learned doesn’t mean I’ve learned nothing,” she said, unable to keep her lips from curling into a sneer. “I’ve learned much, on the contrary. The Jedi are so blinded by the light that they’ve failed to see what they’ve become; an order of hypocrites. You call yourself peacekeepers, but refuse to fight for that peace.

“You sit in your lofty temples, taking pride in your empty titles and fallacious ideals while you pull political strings and ignore the world burning around you. Yet you have the audacity to act affronted when someone dares point it out. I left one cult for their hypocrisy, only to find myself right in the middle of another.”

Vrook pressed the blade closer to her throat, and Tel wasn’t sure if the warmth against her skin was real or a figment of her imagination. “You are no Jedi. You never will be.”

Tel shook her head. Perhaps there was a time she might have believed she was a Jedi, but those days had long passed. She’d tried — tried to prove there was more to her than what Vrook and the Council believed — but it was a pointless endeavor.

The galaxy was not as black and white as they preached and there was more to the Force than simply Jedi and Sith.

“I never was.”

The image of her Master vanished before her eyes and, once more, silence reigned. Tel released a shuddering breath and leaned against the wall, suddenly aware of the weakness in her knees. She should feel lighter, but only uncertainty remained.

She was not a Jedi; she’d made peace with that. That knowledge, however, roused another, much more significant question; she was not a Jedi, then what was she?

Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, she pushed off the wall and started down the hall once more. There would be a time to reflect; she had more pressing concerns at the moment. The Mandalorian disappeared within seconds of them entering the temple; she couldn’t sense his presence. The Force had separated them, of that she was certain.

He could be anywhere, or her perhaps nowhere at all. She didn’t know. What she knew, however, was that from that moment on, the Force intended for her to face this challenge alone. This was her trial — how the Force meant to test whether she was worthy of the crystals she’d found.

It was a bit on orthodox — the trial always preceded the acquisition — but Tel had never been an orthodox Jedi.

Leave the generator to the Mandalorian. He’s not completely incompetent, she thought. Focus on your task.

She rounded a corner and stepped into a large chamber. It sat empty, save for the small statue, another depiction of the Sith Lord that the temple honored, perched in the alcove along the back wall. There were no exits — at least none that she could see.

A sudden presence — bitterly cold — appeared behind her and with it came the unmistakable sound of a lightsaber flaring to life.

Chapter Text

This was not an illusion. It was not a trick of the force.

Tel swallowed the sudden swell of anxiety that bubbled within her throat. The hand connected to the blade was ghastly pale, streaked with blackened veins that disappeared into the tattered sleeves of a dark robe. Blistered skin and dense callouses covered their fingertips.

She cursed her luck. Tel had always hoped the Force would prove her wrong — to let her intuition fail. It never happened. Such was an unfortunate byproduct of Force-sensitivity. When she felt that damnable pit n her gut, something inevitably went wrong.

And things could not have gone more wrong, then.

“I thought I sensed a disturbance in the Force.” His voice, gravelly and dripping with hostility, grated on her ears.

And yet, she hadn’t sensed him until he was behind her and his lightsaber ignited. She should’ve known better. Texts within the Jedi Archives spoke of the ability to conceal one’s Force presence. It was a skill most often employed by the Sith and their assassins, though some Jedi — those who hunted the Sith remnants following the defeat of Exar Kun — trained in the art.

She’d always wanted to learn, but Master Vrook forbade her from studying it; he believed her favored lightsaber form and her inclination towards emotion and violence pushed her too close to the Dark Side. It would be unwise, he’d said, to teach her abilities that would only send her further down that path.

“And it seems my suspicions were correct,” she countered. “I thought I caught a whiff of a Sith lurking about.” 

She couldn’t see his face, as the shadow of his hood hid all but his pale, cracked lips, but she felt the sick amusement roiling off him.

“And you still entered the temple without a lightsaber? Not so bright, are you?”

“Says the one who forfeited the element of surprise,” she pointed out. She couldn’t gleam his intentions; the darkness of the temple — the hatred and anger raging about him — made it difficult to see beyond the superficial. “Did you realize, even inadequately armed, I’m too much of a challenge?”

“As if a lone Jedi without her lightsaber could be a match for me.” He sneered and pushed his blade closer.

Just as Tel lifted her hand, fully prepared to give him a generous shove backwards, a metallic glint in her periphery drew her gaze downward. The pummel of a second lightsaber peeked from beneath the fold of his robes, and her heart sputtered to a stop. She recognized the design of the hilt: the hint of black-painted metal; the ornate pattern visible in the small window allotted by the external casing; and the flat, smooth pummel ringed with a thin, albeit strong, magnet. 

That was her lightsaber.

A bolt of white hot fury shot through her. The only connection to her brothers, who raised her in her mother’s stead and kept her sane despite her father’s drunken rampages, hung from his belt. The blade she carried through the worse of the war.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” the Sith asked, his tone mocking. He pulled the robe aside to fully reveal the hilt and ran a gnarled finger along the gleaming metal. “Stole it from the Jedi Temple. They believed it belonged to an ancient Jedi. One with a legacy of death and war.”

Her fury gave way to utter confusion. Ancient? Her lightsaber, ancient? That wasn’t possible. 

“A pretty little thing they kept in a tank in the deepest parts of the Temple,” he continued. “I couldn’t bear to leave it when the Jedi fell.”

Fell?

Tel took a deep, shuddering breath and shoved the flurry of questions floating about her aside. He wasn’t lying; she could sense that much, but he spoke from a place of malice. He meant to unbalance her with that revelation.

She refused to allow him that.

“Then you should know I’m not as unarmed as you believe.”

In one fluid motion, she ducked beneath his blade and flung her hand out. She willed the Force to seize her lightsaber and, with an infuriated grown, pulled it into her hand. The moment her fingers curled around the metal, another surge of anger swept through her.

The crystal no longer resonated with her — and while she expected as much, she hadn’t expected the horrendous red blade that rose from the hilt. Not only had he stolen her lightsaber, he’d tampered with it.

How dare he?!

The Sith cackled. “I thought I felt the seed of darkness within you. Good, good. Embrace it. Let it consume you. I always wanted an apprentice.”

The sheer audacity of that statement was enough to draw a laugh from her. “Seriously? You seriously think that’s why I’m here? To indulge in your delusions? And you thought it would be that easy?”

Her mother died to prevent her from falling into the hands of a Sith; Tel would not disparage that sacrifice because some wanna-be Sith Lord asked it of her. She would never take that path; she swore to that the moment she entered the Jedi Order.

A low, guttural growl rose from him as he adopted a stance that vaguely resembled the opening position of Form V and, again, Tel laughed. It reminded her of the Youngling she once helped train; unbalanced and unrefined. His stance was too wide, his feet oddly positioned and his shoulders hefted too high. 

“Besides, given that horrid form, I doubt there’s anything you could teach me.”

She still could not see his face beneath the hood, but the rigidity of his stance — the surge of anger that overtook him as he sprung forward — told her all she needed to know. Tel brought her blade up and deflected the ill-timed jab at her stomach with ease. A satisfied smile touched her lips.

The fool had fallen for the bait.

“So impatient,” she taunted as she stepped out of the way of a reckless strike aimed at her head.

Anger fueled a Sith, but as Master Vrook had taught her, it was a double-edged blade. What gave them strength was also their greatest weakness, for in their fury, they became predictable. This one, especially, had yet to learn how to channel his aggression properly. She’d had a similar problem when she first began learning the more aggressive forms.

The Sith swung again, and Tel lifted her blade to block it. This time, it wasn’t so easy; what he lacked in technique, he compensated for with brute strength. Each subsequent blow sent a tremor through her arms, her feet sliding across the polished floor as she fought to maintain control of her blade.

In hindsight, mocking him probably wasn’t the best idea, she thought.

It had, however, given her something to work with; he was not interested in dueling, but beating her into submission. Or killing her. Whichever worked best for him.

Yet, as their blades met once more, frustration poured into her veins. The crystal no longer resonating with her and her limited connection to the Force hindered her more than she’d expected. She should not be struggling against a poorly trained acolyte.

A searing burn erupted beneath her left eye as the tip of the Sith’s blade glided across her skin.

“Not so arrogant now, are you?” he jeered.

Tel flung her right arm forward, palm facing him, and shoved him backwards with a concentrated burst of the Force.  

“You’re the one who shouldn’t get too cocky,” she spat as she readjusted her hold on her lightsaber. “Don’t think that you’ve accomplished anything by wailing on me like an untrained fool. You want to fight like a Sith, then allow me to show you how it’s done.”

It was all too easy to fall into the motions of her preferred form — to channel her frustration into each sweep, arch, and thrust of her blade. She aimed for the weaknesses in his form and, with a flurry of feints and rapid misdirections, created openings where there were none. The Sith may have had the advantage of strength, but she had speed and dexterity.

He was defenseless against her onslaught, frantic in his attempts to evade the rapid shift of her blade. He moved to block one blow, only to stagger out of the way of another. Tel kept her focus on his blade, ensuring that she avoided a fatal injury. It would be all too easy to kill him, but he knew something about her — about her situation. He was of no use to her dead.

When he flung his hand towards her, Tel flipped her blade and brought it down upon his wrist.

It tore through his flesh with no resistance, severing the hand completely. The stench of burnt skin burnt her nose as a shrill, blood-curdling cry tore from his lips. Still, Tel did not relent. She seized his lightsaber with her feet hand, wrenching it free of his grasp. Then she slammed her boot into his chest and sent him sprawling onto the floor.

She leaned over him, pushed hard with her foot as she brought her blade to his throat, the tip resting mere inches from his jugular. The hood slipped off his head, revealing a tangled mess of sandy blonde hair.

Yellow tinted, accentuated by the darkened hallows beneath his eyes, glared up at her. His lips curled into a sneer. “I yield,” he growled, albeit reluctantly. 

“Good. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I have a couple of questions,” she drawled, pushing the blade closer. “Questions you will answer.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I kill you.”

“You? Kill me?” He laughed, and the sound made her skin crawl. “The Jedi don’t kill their prisoners.”

“Unfortunately for you, I’m no Jedi. Where’s the computer or generator responsible for the disruptor field?”

“That’s why you’re here? That stupid generator?”

“Answer the question,” Tel snapped.

“At the top of the temple. Good luck disabling it. You think I haven’t tried that already?”

“Something tells me it’s not for a lack of trying.”

“Unless you can read ancient Sith, it’s not going down.”

Tel made a sound at the back of her throat. Ancient Sith was one of the many languages she’d learned throughout her years in the Order. Though, if his earlier statement held true, her definition of ancient may not be the same as his.

“I think I’ll manage it just fine,” she said. “Now, tell me, how long was the Mandalorian Wars?”

The grin that split his lips bordered on feral.

“Almost four thousand years ago.”

Tel recoiled.

Four…thousand? Thousand?

It was a lie. It had to be. Twenty, she could hardly believe. Forty was pushing it. But four thousand?

There was no conceivable way that much time had passed. No one possessed the technology to preserve a living body for that long. She would’ve deteriorated, albeit at a slower rate, even within a cryochamber.

There was absolutely no way she’d spent four thousand years inside a kolto tank.

She opened her mouth to protest — to call his bluff — but before she could utter a word, her throat constricted. Something clamped around the column of her throat, her trachea collapsing in on itself as she sputtered and gasped for air. Panicked, she reached for her throat only to find nothing but smooth skin.

Maniacal laughter rang in her ears as the Sith raised his hand, his face twisted with sick delight. Her feet left the ground as tears welled in the corner of her eyes. A deep burn erupted within her lungs.

Instinct took hold as Tel extended a trembling hand towards the Sith. She struggled against the sudden rush of terror, fighting for a moment of clarity. She’d let her guard down — offered him a moment of weakness. He was going to kill her.

She needed to do something. Something jarring enough to break his concentration.

With a horrendous crackle, a stream of lightning leapt from the tips of her fingers, startling the both of them. Fear flashed across the Sith’s face and his hold over her slacked. Tel crashed to her knees, gasping, as the bolts found their mark. His body seized, shuddering violently as the electricity coursed through him. Then, with a horrified rasp, he fell backwards.

Tel refused to acknowledge the stench of burnt ozone that permeated the air; the smoke rising from the smoldering remains of his body; the sudden absence of his presence in the Force.

Instead, she doubled over, hacking. Her throat burned with each breath she sucked down, her hand trembling as she brushed it along her neck. Beneath the waning rush of adrenaline — of fear — she felt exhaustion take hold, her body aching.

A hand landed on her shoulder, startling her so badly that, without thinking, she swung a trembling fist at the offending hand. Her fist stopped short of its mark, the sensation of worn leather curling around her wrist. Then she felt an all too familiar presence.

The Mandalorian.

“What—”

“Don’t,” she rasped. Her throat burned with the effort of speaking, her voice hoarse and weak. “Just… Give me a minute.”

The Mandalorian’s grip slacked, though he didn’t release her fully. Through the tears blurring her vision, she saw him lean over, his visor tilted as he looked her over. His other hand prodded at the wound beneath her eye. His thumb tread too closes to the edge, drawing a pained hiss from her gritted teeth.

“The generator—”

It took several moments to regulate her breathing and still the frantic hammering of her heart. Swallowing as best she could, she leaned back onto her haunches, then stumbled to her feet. She only made it a few inches off the ground before her left knee buckled.

The Mandalorian caught her arm, his grip firm but gentle. Perhaps at any other point, she’d balk at the idea of relying on him for support, but she had no choice. Her head spun as he hauled her to her feet and she all but collapsed against his side.

The beskar was cool against her sweaty skin, a welcome relief from the adrenaline that had set her veins aflame. Against her better judgment, she leaned into it. The Mandalorian tensed beneath her, and in that moment, Tel couldn’t find it in herself to care.

“The generator—” she said, only for her words to dissolve into a fit of racking coughs.

“I found it,” he said, his tone uncertain.

“Good. The sooner I get out of this hell, the better.”

Chapter Text

“You can read that?” Din asked.

Tel gave the barest of nods in response. She leaned against the console — an ancient thing of rough stone and flickering screens. Her hand shook as she tapped the stone buttons of the keyboard and the display changed, something akin to a menu appearing on the screen.

Din couldn’t understand a word of the alien characters — all sharp lines, hooks, and barbs — displayed on both the keys and the screens. It didn’t resemble any language he’d ever seen.

“It’s Kittât,” she croaked.

Din frowned, but decided not to press the matter. He hadn’t a clue what to make of this ordeal. Nothing about this temple sat well with him.

He was not, by any means, a coward. Din had thrown himself into the midst of danger a thousand times over and lived to tell the tales. He walked the most dangerous streets of the Outer Rim, dealt with crime lords and gangsters that left even the New Republic wary, and ran with some of the nastiest beings the galaxy offered.

But this place?

This place was vile.

He felt it in the air, the unnatural chill that seemed to burrow into the deepest parts of his body. It refused to abate, leaving him shivering beneath his armor. There was a stillness to the temple that set his nerves on edge. The darkness here seemed heavier — oppressive, and the shadows cast by the torches menacing.

His every instinct, honed through years of braving the dangers of their fractured galaxy, screamed for him to leave. To forget the mission. To put as much distance between him and that wretched temple as possible.

And that was before Tel vanished before his eyes.

Din tried not to dwell on that; nothing in this damned place made sense, and the more he tried to understand it, the more it made his head hurt.

He’d turned his back for but a second, and she’d disappeared without a trace, not even a trail of footprints left behind. It was as if she’d stepped into another realm entirely — if such a thing were possible. From there, Din did the only thing he could do; he took the right corridor and followed the winding halls and steep staircases until they converged at the temple’s peak where he found the console.

He’d tried everything short of blasting it, but to no avail. The usual methods of overriding it failed him. He couldn’t figure out how to change the display language to one he recognized. Just when his patience ran thin, and he debated blowing the blasted thing to bits, he heard the commotion; the strange droning hum accompanied by the loud, periodic crackle of energy.

Din could barely comprehend what he stumbled upon after. When he entered the chamber, he’d found Tel hovering nearly three feet off the ground, her legs thrashing and her hands clawing at her throat. That wasn’t what startled him — he’d seen the Child use his sorcery to choke Cara once before. No, what startled him was the sudden burst of lightning that poured from Tel’s hand and the chilling scream that followed.

The effect it seemed to have on her.

Gone was the haughty, cocksure attitude that had grated on his nerves since he’d found her on Scir. Tel was almost unrecognizable now. Sweat covered her pale skin, her green eyes dark — haunted. Her hair had fallen out of the bun she’d put it in that morning, the tangled mess of flaccid teal waves clinging to the sides of her face. A deep gash spanned her left cheek, the edges treading dangerously close to her eye.

She seemed to curl into herself, her shoulders drawn to her jaw and her arms wrapped around her midsection. She hadn’t let go of that strange, cylindrical object clutched in her hands since she’d picked it up. Even as she prodded at the keyboard, it remained in her grasp, almost as if she feared she’d lose it if she were to let go.

"I can read it,” Tel said at length, “but I can’t bypass the security protocols. I don’t know how.”

“Then we blow it up,” he said, unable to keep the frustration from his voice. The sooner they got this over with, the better. The longer they spent in that temple, the more his mood seemed to sour. “I’m surprised that wasn’t your first choice.”

She shook her head and pointed to several individual lines displayed across the screen. Only the glaring red letters suggested it was some kind of warning. “Not an option. Can you slice a system?”

Computers weren’t his forte. He knew enough to bypass basic security and overload a terminal, but slicing into the deeper parts of the system and manipulating the programing was beyond him. He had others handle that when possible. Otherwise, his blaster made quick work of it.

“Any reason that’s not an option?”

“Exaggerated security measures,” she said.

When she didn’t elaborate, Din sighed. “You translate, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Even with her help, it was no easy feat. The computer was indeed ancient, thousands of years old, if he had to guess. More than that, it was infuriatingly slow. Several times, he moved too quickly, hit the wrong button, and had to begin the process again.

While his frustration seemed to only grow, Tel remained impassive. She spoke only when necessary, offering nothing but translation. No snark. No sarcasm. Not a single comment about his incompetence.

That unnerved him almost as much as the temple did.

“Are you... alright?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.

Tel glanced at him from the corner of her eyes, the subtle rise of her brow almost imperceptible. She didn’t need to speak for the message to reach him. It was a stupid question and one he already knew the answer to.

“That one.” She pointed to a string of text near the top right corner. “Disable disruptor field.”

Din pressed the corresponding button.

At first, nothing happened. Then a confirmation message flashed across the screen, promptly followed by the grainy image of a solid bar stretched across the display. It receded, slowly, and once the bar vanished into the edges of the screen, another confirmation message appeared. Tel hit a button and returned the console to the root menu.

“I’ll take that as… what are you doing?”

“Opening the hangar. And the windows.”

Tel pressed a series of buttons, and a low rumble shook the temple. Immediately following, the stone walls shifted aside, slowly revealing the ravine beyond. Through the opening, Din spotted the hangar in question. The sheer face of the cliffs had opened. Inside sat a single ship — a military affair from the looks of it, and one that pre-dated the empire.

“Had a feeling,” she muttered. “Tren had to get here somehow.”

Din turned back to her, brows drawn. “Tren? The Jedi?”

Tel pursed her lips, something dark and heavy in her eyes, and turned away from the console. Her grip tightened on the object in her hand. “He wasn’t a Jedi.”

Without elaborating, made for the stairs which led to the base of the temple.

The trip to the hangar was a quiet and awkward affair. Tel retreated into herself once more, though every so often she peered down at her hand and scowled. She didn’t speak as they entered the hangar and boarded the ship. There was no snide remark or snarky jeer about his flying when the ship shuddered and lurched on takeoff. Instead, she sat in the co-pilot’s chair, her still trembling hand resting on the controls in a manner that suggested she’d learned to fly, and stared out the viewport as the ravine gave way to the bleak, stony plains of the planet’s surface.

Din was not a talkative person — he rather preferred the quiet — but the relative silence of the cockpit was not the comforting sort. It rang in his ears, as loud and uncomfortable as the straining engines. It bore down on him, and he couldn’t quite shake the inexplicable uncertainty that twisted his gut.

He should be relieved. They accomplished their goal and, if all went well (when did it ever?), they’d finally get off this backwater skug hole and make for Tatooine. The Razor Crest needed repairs — extensive repairs — and after the incident on Scir, he trusted no one other than Peli.

Tel’s drastic shift in attitude, however, tempered any relief he might have felt.

Din wouldn’t say he disliked her, but he wouldn’t say he was fond of her either. Her actions earned his respect, but that’s as far as it went. Tel was the sort he preferred to avoid; haughty, commanding, reckless almost to the point of stupidity, and stubborn to a fault. Sometimes, he wanted to push her off the nearest cliff. Other times, he wanted to strangle her.

Yet, it was almost as if he could feel the fear and uncertainty churning within her at that moment.

“I’m not a Jedi,” she muttered.

“What?”

Tel didn’t respond, and Din wasn’t sure if she simply hadn’t heard him or ignored it.

He wanted answers on that as well, but they would have to wait. He’d had his suspicions, which only grew as the days passed, but the scene he’d witnessed moments ago dispelled any lingering doubts. She could rationalize and brush off the past incidents, but not that. People didn’t just fling electricity from their hands with no apparent source.

Impatient as he was — Din did not appreciate being lied to — he knew better than to breech the subject. That one specifically. Her words carried a weight they hadn’t the first time she’d uttered them on Scir. It wasn’t a flippant dismissal, but something more. As if saying it aloud confirmed some horrible truth she didn’t want to acknowledge.

He was better off staying quiet, he decided. At least she wasn’t nagging at him.

•·················•·················•

Before long, Palixtown loomed on the horizon. From the air, it blended seamlessly with the surrounding wreckage. It was only the moisture vaporators rising from the tangled mass of hulls and cloths stretched over the walkways that offered any suggestion of an organized settlement.

Din set the ship down on the makeshift landing pad, which was nothing more than a stretch of durasteel panels butted against one and another on the northern edge of the settlement. As he powered down the engine and ran one final check to ensure there were no last-minute complications, he spotted the crowd forming at the end of the pad. Even from that distance, he could see their elation — the children bouncing around with excitement, while others looked between the ship and the sky.

Tel stood slowly, almost robotically, and clipped that strange cylinder to her belt.

“What is that?” he asked before he could stop himself. Though elegant, and certainly eye catching, he couldn’t discern any apparent use for the strange object. It seemed neither heavy nor sturdy enough to be a weapon.

She turned to him, brows drawn. For the first time since they left the temple, there was something more than a listless haze in her eyes. Confusion.

“Something I thought I’d never see again,” she said at length. Then, with a rasping sigh, she added, “We’ve been gone too long. The ship still needs to be repaired before we can leave. It—”

“Then you’ll be happy to know it’s half finished.”

Din spun the pilot’s chair, ignoring the horrendous groan of the rusted bearings, to find Jado standing in the cockpit. He’d traded his tattered imperial grabs for a Mandalorian chest piece, which sat awkwardly on his frame, the sides jutting out further than ideal. It was almost too large for him.

He opened his mouth, a knee-jerk reaction to the sight of a non-Mandalorian wearing such armor, only to snap it shut with a barely restrained sigh. As much as it pained him to see, Dash had mentioned — on multiple occasions — that their grandfather was a Mandalorian. That he’d died when Jado was still a child. Still, it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Yet Jado offered them hospitality when he could not afford it, and for that reason alone, Din held his tongue.

“Had a feeling it as you two. I was out on a scavenge run when I saw the field go down. Given you’re flying Tren’s ship, I can only assume that means he’s dead.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Tel muttered. “It... It was me or him.”

Disgust twisted Jado’s features. “Good riddance, if you ask me. I’ve been trying to figure out how to get rid of that creep for years. Especially after he started taking an interest in my daughter.”

Before Din could question what he meant, Tel cut him off.

“You knew. You knew what he was.”

Jado shrugged. “I knew he was a Jedi, once. Then he tried to take down the disruptor field, and he wasn’t the same after that.” His gaze fell on the object at her hip, his eyes narrowed. “Neither are you, it seems.”

Tel bit into her lower lip. “It wasn’t a pleasant experience.”

“Didn’t think it would be,” Jado said, a note of sympathy in his voice. “That place is vile and you don’t need to be a Jedi, or whatever, to tell.”

Tel made a sound at the back of her throat.

“You said the ship was half fixed?” Din asked, steering the conversation back on track.

“Rorwaa’s doing,” Jado said. “He likes to fix every salvageable ship he can find. Said Tel’s help with the speeders gave him a bit of free time, so he’d do what he could in return. Unfortunately, a group of scavengers cleared the ship of just about everything before he got there.”

“Great,” Din sighed, leaning back into the seat. If they cleared the ship, they’d taken all the weapons, munitions, general supplies, and likely even the credits. It would take several high paying bounties and months of planet hopping to fully restock the Crest.

“While we can’t replace everything, we can at least give you some of the surplus munitions from the armory and maybe enough rations to hold you over until you find another inhabited planet. It’s the least we can do after what you’ve done for us.”

“Repairing the ship is enough,” Din said.

Jado raised a brow. “I wasn’t asking if you wanted it. Even if you did it out of self-interest, you still did the people of Palix a great service. We can leave now. Move on and resettle somewhere more hospitable. We’re not trapped here anymore.”

Din nodded. “Thank you.”

Jado motioned for them to follow. “Come on then. I wanted to speak with you before you left, and she looks like she could use a visit from a healer and some rest.”

Chapter Text

As a Mandalorian, Din had grown accustomed to people avoiding him. The mere sight of him sent most scrambling out of his path or seeking refuge within the relative safety of the nearest building. Such wasn’t always the case — in the seedier parts of the galaxy, he drew more attention than he’d like for the opposite reasons — but more often than not, people kept their distance. He learned not to let it bother him, but to embrace it. It made his job much easier when he didn’t have to force his way through a crowded street.

Being hailed as something of a hero, however, was not something he was familiar with. It was a newer experience, one he suspected he’d never get used to. Such a concept did not exist in the eyes of the Mandalorians. Why would they celebrate someone for doing what was required of them by Creed? He told them he’d disable the shield, and so he did.

If anyone deserved the praise, it was Tel; without her to translate, he’d still be wrangling with the computer.

“Hopefully this place will clear out within the year,” Jado said as he led Din through the winding labyrinth of makeshift pathways. “Rorwaa’s fixed enough of these ships that there should be enough to get everyone off this skug hole.”

“Where are you planning to go?”

“Wherever my family can live in peace. Somewhere where my children won’t have to go to bed hungry or scrounge for scraps just to survive.”

Din raised a brow. “You won’t try to find your father’s clan?”

“I thought one day I might. My father always insisted they’d take me in if I ever made it off this rock,” he said. "Now, I just want to find a place where my children can live as they please. If they decide they’d rather embrace their Mandalorian heritage, then that’s fine — but I want it to be their choice. Not something I forced onto them.”

Something akin to guilt rooted in Din’s chest. A year ago, perhaps, he’d have scoffed at the notion. A Mandalorian without their clan, without their Creed, was nothing. He’d have demanded Jado hand over the armor and be on his way. In the months since the Child had come into his care, however, Din believed he finally understood the bond between parent and child. He’d always been aware of it, as it was an integral part of his creed, and the Tribe placed the foundlings’ well beings above all else, but there was a personal aspect to it he’d only just discovered.

He knew his lifestyle wasn’t ideal for the caring after a child. The Child never complained (how could he when he couldn’t speak?), but there were times Din couldn’t shake those lingering feelings of inadequacy. The Child was capable, more so than most realized, but he was hardly more than a youngling. He shouldn’t have to fight for his life every time he stepped off the ship. He should be with other children, free to play and chase frogs to his heart’s content, not following him into one firefight after another.

With luck, the Child wouldn’t have to live such a life for much longer. Soon, he’d be back with his people — safe and where he belonged. Din only had to find this elusive order of sorcerers first.

And yet, the thought of leaving the Child in the care of filled him with dread.

As they stepped into the shadow cast by the imperial star destroyer that doubled as the settlement’s municipal complex, the crowds thinned. Idle chatter, carried by the sweltering breeze, drifted past, amplified by the metal walls. Talk of the future and the echoing cries of joy and relief followed them as the town gave way to the long, dimly lit tunnel of the engine.

“I’m curious, though. What brought you to Palix in the first place?” Jado asked a while later. “People don’t come here willingly.”

“Navcomputer malfunction,” Din said. “We set a course for Tattooine, but ended up here.”

Jado snorted. “Are you sure you didn’t type the coordinates backwards? It’s happened more than you’d think.”

“The navcomputer said Tatooine, but when we dropped out of hyperspace, we ended up here,” he explained. “I believe it was intentional. There’s…a bounty on both Tel and the kid.”

Jado made a sound at the back of his throat. “That’s how Tren ended up here. Said he was fleeing something. I’m sure that’s why he left the shield up, despite being the only one who could get inside the temple. Speaking of, how did you get inside?”

For that, Din had no answer. Tel insisted it wasn’t her doing, that someone else had opened the door. There had been someone else in the chamber with her, but he couldn’t say for sure if it was the alleged Jedi or not. He hadn’t stopped to inspect the body.

“I don’t know. Tel thinks your Jedi opened the door for us.”

“It was odd that he left for the temple right before you arrived,” Jado said. “As far as I know, he hasn’t been back since the first time.”

“I was hoping I’d have the chance to speak with him. I’ve been tasked with returning the foundling to the Jedi, and I thought he might know something.”

“If he did, he wouldn’t have told you. He wouldn’t speak of them. He said he was one, and that’s as far as anyone got with him.”

“And what do you know of them?”

Jado shrugged. “I only know what my father told me before he passed, and I didn’t believe a word of it. A bunch of space wizards running around with laser swords? It sounded too much like a child’s fairy tale.”

He’d have thought the same, if he hadn’t witnessed the Child display such sorcery. Even now, he struggled to wrap his mind around it.

“Besides, if there really was an order of sorcery-wielding do-gooders running around, they sure as hell wouldn’t be in this skug hole. Your girlfriend’s the one you should ask. She seems to know something about it.”

“She’s my quarry.”

Jado threw him a look over his shoulder that clearly conveyed he didn’t quite believe that, but Din didn’t bother to dignify him with a response.

“Whatever she is, she seemed to know more than she let on.”

“I got that impression.”

After passing through the armory and another storage area, Jado stopped before a sealed blast door. He keyed in the access code and, with a horrendous screech, it opened to reveal the briefing room. Once inside, he removed the Mandalorian chest piece, along with the pauldrons that dwarfed his shoulders and placed both inside a small chest near the door.

“While I can’t tell you anything about them, you might find something in Tren’s belongings. I’ll have Miria slip them onto the ship before you leave. I don’t want word of his death spreading. At least not Tel’s part in it.”

Din frowned. “Why?”

“We’re a bit… well, we look after our own around here, if you catch my drift. Most didn’t seem to notice there was something off about him; they adored him. The children especially.” Jado sealed the chest, then finished removing the rest of his effects before continuing, “And you’ll be here for a few more days. At least until Tel recovers and Rorwaa gets the ship space worthy.”

The idea of lingering didn’t sit well with him. With the shield down, they no longer had a means of protection against the bounty hunters aiming for the Child’s bounty. The longer they stayed, the more danger they, and the people of Palix, were in.

But Din knew they had no choice. It would be equally bad if they left before the ship was ready. He’d rather be planet-side than adrift in space. At least on Palix, they weren’t sitting mynocks.

“The kid’ll be happy, if nothing else. He likes Vera.”

A proud smile touched Jado’s lips. “Most do. She’s always been good at dealing with people, especially other kids. She took him to the library this morning. They’re probably still there.”

Nodding, Din took his leave.

The path to the library was fairly straightforward. He exited the thruster and followed the trail of boarding ramps to the freighter Vera had pointed out the day they arrived. There was nothing remarkable about it, the exterior pocked with dents and covered in a thick layer of grimy rust. Only the sign, a piece of floor panel painted with faded green lettering, hung above the entrance, suggested it was anything more than another piece of junk.

He could not say the same for the interior. Rows upon rows of shelves composed of storage lockers that had their door removed spanned the width of the interior. They stood three tall, the upper rows bolted to the ceiling. A ladder accompanied each row. Holobooks, holodisks, and datapads, some so old they looked as if they hardly functioned, cluttered the shelves.

Halfway through the library, the shelves gave way to a large sitting area. Old chairs, which looked as if they’d come from the bridge of a capital ship, sat around briefing tables. Benches decked with patchwork blankets and pillows lined the perimeter, while small lamps made from emergency floor lights provided just enough light to see by. On the other side of the sitting area, the shelves resumed. 

He found Vera and his ward at the furthest table, a holodisk displaying a map rather dated map of the galaxy perched in the center. It was pre-Empire from the looks of it. He could see the lines denoting Old Republic and Separatist space, and the brilliant white dot that signified Alderaan.

The Child, who sat on the edge of the table, reached for the floating expanse of holographic stars, his tiny, clawed fingers passing harmlessly through the projected image. Then, as if sensing his approach, the Child turned to him, a smile lighting his small, wrinkled face. He stood and waddled across the table, emerging from the curtain of star-speckled light, his arms stretched fully to greet him. Din pulled him into his arms, and the Child settled into the crook of his elbow, cooing.

Vera reached over and deactivated the holodisk. “You’re back! Honestly, I didn’t think you’d make it. Most people don’t.” She frowned, then crane her neck to peer around him. “Where’s Miss Tel?”

“With the medics,” Din said.

Worry twisted Vera’s face. “Is she okay?”

“She’s alive.”

Vera rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I asked.”

“She needs rest. I was going to check on her before I head over to the ship,” Din admitted. “We’re leaving as soon as it’s ready.”

It took several moments for Vera to react. At first she simply stared at him, confused. Then she was on her feet, tearing through the library until she reached the door. She stopped at the threshold, peering up at the sky, before she took off into the street screaming for her brother. Just as her voice faded into the drone of chatter that filled the settlement’s street, he caught the tail end of something that sounded like “We can finally see an ocean!”.

He peered down at the Child. “She seems excited.”

The Child warbled in response, then pointed towards the nearest shelf. Upon closer inspection, Din found it full of holobooks relating to other planets and their topography: the kolto rich oceans of Manaan; the endless dune seas of Tatooine; the open plains and beautiful mountain lakes of Naboo; and the sprawling ecumenopolis of Courscant.

To him, they were nothing spectacular. To Vera, who’d grown up surrounded by rust and wires, they must’ve been as wondrous as a fairy tale setting — something that only existed within the pages of a book. It put into perspective how much he took for granted.

The Child tugged on his pauldron, his ears lowered and his gaze expectant. Din knew, even without asking, what he wanted.

“Alright, we’re going, but you have to stay out of the way.”

The Child made a sound of affirmation, and behind his helmet, Din narrowed his eyes. He could never tell if the Child meant it or if, like always, he’d do exactly what Din told him not to do the moment he turned his back. He supposed they’d have to wait and see.

•·················•·················•

The clinic sat a half mile south of the library, a ramshackle thing situated inside a civilian transport shuttle. Nothing in the settlement was explicitly dirty — at least not on the inside — but the clinic exhibited a chaotic cleanliness. Bundles of wires, held in place by pieces of scrap bolted to the paneling, crawled along the walls. Makeshift cots, each surrounded by an array of dated machinery, sat between curtains of tattered cloth. Opposite the beds stood a row of lockers crammed full of rudimentary medical supplies. 

As Din stepped further into the clinic, the Child squirmed in his arms, his hands extended towards the farthest bed. Tel lay on her back, a thin sheet pulled to her chin. On the table beside the bed sat her belongings, that strange cylindrical object placed atop the folded pile of her clothes.

A young, green-skinned Twi’lek, armed with a datapad, stood over her, her brows furrowed as she tapped away at the screen.

“How is she?” Din asked.

“Worse than I expected,” the Twi’lek said, not looking up from the datapad. “I’m still waiting on the scan to confirm my suspicions, but from a purely visual appraisal, it appears she has several broken ribs and severe bruising on her back. Was she struck by something?”

“We ran into a metal-eater,” he said. “It hit her with its tail.”

The Twi’lek winced. “She’s lucky the spikes missed her, then. That aside, she should be fine, assuming her vitals are normal. She is a hybrid, correct?”

Din nodded. “Human-Twi’lek, as far as I understand.”

That’s what the description of her bounty claimed. At first glance, it was difficult to tell. The bright teal of her hair and lips could easily pass as a cosmetic choice. He’d have thought it was, if he hadn’t known better.

“I thought so,” the medic muttered. “Well, excluding her physical injuries, she appears to be exhausted. Not just tired, mind you, but it seems she’s overexerted herself.”

Before Din could ask how that was possible, a movement near the bed drew his attention. It was then he noticed the lack of weight at his side. The Child had, somehow, slipped from the sling and climbed up the side of the bed. How now sat on the edge of Tel’s bed, his clawed hand resting on her forearm.

Sighing, Din hurried to retrieve him. “I thought I told you to let her—”

He stopped short, his hands hovering at the Child’s side. The wound beneath Tel’s eye closed, the blistered skin shifting from angry red to pale ivory. Within seconds, it disappeared, leaving behind no trace. Her short, shallow breaths gave way to a more natural pattern. The crease between her brows soothed as she seemed to relax into the patchwork sheets beneath her.

The Child’s eyes drooped, as if he too had exhausted himself, as he settled into the space between her arm.

The medic pushed past Din, leaning forward to peer at the numbers displayed on the machines beside the bed, her eyes wide with disbelief. “How is that possible?”

“I’m not sure,” Din admitted.

He’d witnessed it once before when the Child saved Greef Karga that night on the lava flats of Nevarro, but he hadn’t seen him display that ability since. If he had, he hadn’t noticed. If not for the now absent wound beneath Tel’s eye, he may not have realized what the Child had done.

The medic, though still mystified, cleared her throat. “As I was saying, she needs rest. I would recommend at least two or three days of limited physical activity — and a proper meal — after she wakes.”

“That’s up to her. She’s…stubborn.”

“There is one more thing. I ran a blood test when she first arrived, and I noticed something unusual.” The medic tapped at the datapad’s screen and a chart, which appeared to be a list of test results, appeared. “I’m not familiar with this chemical composition, but as far as I can tell, it appears to be a sedative. The problem is, I’m not sure what it’s targeting. It doesn’t seem to affect her cognitive functions in any way I’m familiar with.”

“She was being held hostage by a gang of Nikto when I found her,” he said. “That was only a few days ago. A little less than a week now.”

The medic hummed. “That would explain it. I can’t say for sure, as I don’t know what it is or what dosage they used — there were no matches in the database — but it shouldn’t affect her for too much longer. Should be out of her system in a few days, from the looks of these numbers. I’ll run another test later this evening and compare the results.”

Din would have to take her word for it. To him, the chart displayed on the datapad was nothing more than gibberish. He hadn’t a clue what half those words or their accompanying numbers meant.

“Any idea when she’ll wake?”

The medic shrugged. “Not for the night, at least. Could be tomorrow or within the next day or two. Depends on her and how quickly her body recovers. When she wakes, I’ll send one of my assistants to find you.”

Din nodded. “Thank you.”

The medic waved him off. “Don’t thank me. I’m just doing my job, not that there was much I could do. We’re not exactly swimming in bacta. I used the last shot we had, and if she wasn’t so exhausted, I don’t think it would’ve helped.”

“I wasn’t thanking you for doing your job,” Din corrected. “Your people barely have enough for yourselves, yet you still extended your hospitality towards us.”

“No one survives on this deathtrap without help,” she said. “And you two have done more for the people of Palix than anyone else. You’ve freed us from this prison — given us a hope we’ve never had. The least we can do is make sure you get off this rock in one piece.”

Chapter Text

Tel felt worse than she had in years.

She pulled the patchwork blanket over her head and burrowed further into her lumpy pillow as the morning sun spilled through the open window of the clinic. The pulsating ache behind her temples hurt worse than the time a Mandalorian clubbed her with the butt of his repeating cannon. It was more persistent than the swarm of bugs that descended upon the jungles of Dxun at dusk. 

Exhaustion clung to every bone in her body, turning even the smallest movement laborious. It took an hour to find the will to open her eyes, but only seconds to screw them shut again. The light was too bright. 

The settlement bustled beyond the open viewport. Children laughed as they ran past, their feet thundering along the walkways. People chattered amongst themselves; plans of leaving Palix to return home or settle somewhere better drifted on the breeze. Within a day of the shield’s disablement, the overall atmosphere of the settlement had shifted, the air light and crackling with excitement and hope.

It was driving her nuts.

Tel wanted nothing more than to fall back into the blissful embrace of oblivion, where she was nothing but a spark of consciousness floating in an endless void — free from the thoughts hounding at her mind. She knew she treaded dangerously close to the line between Jedi and something else — that despite her training, her anger lurked just beneath the surface of a paper-thin barrier, waiting for the moment she relinquished control. She’d always toed the line, but she’d never crossed it. Not until now.

Only, she hadn’t crossed it; she plunged, headfirst, with reckless abandon, seizing upon her fear and unleashing a power she’d never dared wield before. The dark energy of the temple influenced her, but she allowed it to. In her anger and confusion, she opened herself to the Dark Side, reached into that newfound wellspring of terrible power, and ran with it. 

Master Vrook was right. She was no Jedi.

It was easy to fall into that notion. In the wake of what transpired, however, she realized she couldn’t have been further from the truth. Tel had made peace with her decision to join the war and what it wrought — and she would do it again if need be — but she had not come to terms with the consequences. She’d always assumed she’d be glad to be free of the Order and its rigid propriety.

She hadn’t expected to find herself stumbling blind, lost and without purpose.

If she wasn’t a Jedi, then what was she?

Force, she hated self-reflection. Nothing good came of it; only more what-ifs and would-bes purported by psychoanalyzing her every thought. She could lay there for hours, trapped in the vicious cycle of questioning her every decision, and never find answers. No, she’d only find another headache and a further sense of self-loathing that bread unfounded fears and anxiety.

She’d rather fist-fight her way out of a rancor pit.

A small hand against her face brought her thoughts to an abrupt halt. Tel pushed the blanket aside, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the light. The Child, perched atop her chest, stared down at her, his wide brown eyes filled with concern. He’d been there for some time, she knew; she’d felt the familiar comfort of his presence long before she woke.

“I’m alright, little one,” she croaked, the corner of her lip twitching in a half-hearted smile. “I just need a little more time and I’ll be as good as new.”

She hoped.

The Child babbled, his wrinkled brow furrowed. She felt his doubt as if it were her own.

“I’m fine, I promise,” she assured him. “I just need a bit of rest.”

And rest she did. Though awake, it was another hour before she found the will to sit up and observe her surroundings. Monitors, which displayed varied information — her heart rate, her blood pressure, her oxygen levels — sat on either side of her bed. A patchwork curtain blocked much of her view, but through the gaps, she saw a row of lockers packed with medical supplies.

A clinic, it seemed.

The curtain pulled aside then to reveal a young Twi’lek with her nose buried in a datapad. She threw a quick glance at the monitor, muttered something beneath her breath, then turned to the bed. She paused, her brows raised.

“Ah. I didn’t expect you to wake so soon.”

“I wish I hadn’t,” Tel sighed. “I feel like I slept for an eon, yet I feel like I haven’t slept at all.”

“Well, most people don’t pass out from exhaustion and wake up ready to seize the day,” the Twi’lek said. “I barely had time to examine you when you first arrived. You were out the second your head hit the pillow.”

“It’s been a rough week.”

Tel remained dutifully still (not that she had the energy to resist), as the medic poked and prodded at her with a delicate green finger. When the medic’s hand found her side, Tel tensed in anticipation — only to find there was no pain. The same held true for her back, where she was certain there’d be no shortage of bruising.

How long had she been asleep?

“You seem to have recovered well,” the medic said, making a note on her datapad. “At least your wounds have. You can thank the kid for that. I don’t know what he did, or how he did it, but it worked.”

The Child peered up at her, and though he said nothing, Tel understood the affirmation in his gaze.

“While your wounds have healed, it may be a few more days before you’ve fully recovered,” the medic continued. You over exerted yourself, from what I could see. That’s also not considering the psychological aspect of it.”

“It could be worse.”

The medic frowned, her dark eyes brimmed with sympathy — genuine sympathy. “It can always be worse, but that doesn’t make it any less than what it is. It may take time, but you’ll recover. You’re strong. I can see it in your eyes.”

Tel thought she was anything but, but she kept that comment to herself.

“I’ll have one of my aides bring you food shortly. You need to eat, even if you may not feel like it. I’ll also have someone inform the Mandalorian that you’re awake.”

To that, Tel frowned. “There’s no need. I’ll find him myself once I’m done eating.”

“Then I would suggest doing so quickly,” the medic said. “He might not say it, but he is worried.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Tel muttered.

The medic raised a brow. “I’ve dealt with enough patients and their acquaintances to know what hovering looks like. He’s been in several times to check on you, even if he says he’s making sure the kid’s not getting into trouble.”

“Is he? The kid, I mean?”

“Aside from pulling a few bandages off the shelves, no. He’s refused to leave your side since the Mandalorian came by the first time.”

The Child cooed.

“Now, if you excuse me, I have other patients to tend to. The scavenger party came back this morning pretty banged up.”

With that, the medic pulled the curtain closed, her footsteps fading beneath the drone of the monitors and the goings-on outside.

Tel released a breath and leaned back against the wall. Her stomach turned at the thought of food. She didn’t want to eat; she wanted to lie down and slip into the welcome embrace of oblivion, despite the urgent need to relieve herself.

Sleep would have to wait. Every second she sat there, the incessant prompting of her bladder grew more pronounced. Within seconds, the need outweighed all else, and despite against her better judgment, she pushed the covers aside and swung her legs over the side of the bed. It occurred to her only after she stood, her knees weak and wobbling, that she should’ve asked the medic for assistance.

Pride stayed her tongue. She was a Republic General, a decorated one at that. She was more than capable of walking the short distance between her bed and the refresher in the near corner. It was only ten, maybe fifteen feet away.

Yet, the moment she shut the door behind her, the lock firmly in place, she collapsed onto the toilet, her head cradled in her hands.

•·················•·················•

It was nearly dusk before Tel shuffled into Rorwaa’s garage, the Child in tow, and her stomach full, a smidgeon of her strength regained. The medic had insisted that her complexion improved substantially after she’d eaten — that perhaps malnourishment and lack of sleep were to blame for her condition. Tel let her think that — the less she spoke of her circumstances, the better.

Only the Force knew what sort of complications would follow four thousand years of suspended animation.

“I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Jado said you weren’t well.” Rorwaa noted.

Tel gave him a half-hearted smile. “I’m as well as I can be, all things considered. The ship looks better than the last time I saw it.”

The Mandalorian’s ship dominated the garage, speeders and crates pushed aside to accommodate its width. A small line of odd, cylindrical droids, interspersed with the odd worker, carried sealed containers up the reattached boarding ramp. Jado had mentioned something about providing them with supplies.

Rorwaa shrugged and gestured towards the port engine with his hydrospanner. “I’m fixing what I can, which isn’t much. Not enough working parts, even in this junk heap. You will need to find a mechanic after you leave.”

“What you’ve done is more than enough.”

He shook his head. “I can never do enough to repay you and the Mandalorian for what you’ve done. I once thought I would die here, away from the trees and my people. Now, I can return home.”

Home.

That word struck a nerve deep within her, the resulting melancholy threatening to drag her further into her stupor. She’d always assumed that once the war ended, she’d return to the Jedi and fall back into her old routine of acting as a liaison for the Order and an arbiter in the political mess that would follow. That she would continue serving at the behest of the people she fought to protect. She never stopped to consider that returning to the Order might not be possible.

She’d never stopped to consider anything beyond the immediate consequences of a Mandalorian victory.

A tiny, comforting hand curled around her finger. 

“You honored a promise many have broken.” Rorwaa’s gaze fell on the lightsaber clipped to her belt, recognition lighting his dark eyes. “I will be sure my people know of what you’ve done. That the Jedi aren’t yet lost, as the rumors say. Should you ever need help, you will find it among my people.”

“I’m not a Jedi. Not anymore.”

“You claim you are not one, but your actions prove otherwise. The Jedi who arrived before you promised to liberate us, only to continue our captivity.” He set a paw on her shoulder, his claws digging into the fabric of her jacket. “You said you would disable the disruptor field, and you did. You brought hope and freedom to the people of Palix, and that is more than we’ve ever had.”

With a pat that nearly sent her stumbling, Rorwaa stalked towards the ship, growling a slew of threats at the idling droids at the back of the cargo procession. The droids, unwilling to see if he’d follow through with ripping their arms from their sockets, scrambled (as much as droids could) to unload the rest of the crates piled on the nearby repulsor lift. Beyond them, Tel caught a gleam of silver — the evening sun reflecting off the Mandalorian’s armor.

They hadn’t spoken since they returned from the temple, and Tel was in no mood for conversation. She wasn’t worried about his reaction so much as she was her own. The visions she’d faced inside the temple reopened old wounds and created new ones to accompany them. She was still reeling from it all.

Tel would rather not discuss the matter until she was ready.

If she was ready.

With a heavy sigh, skirted past two odd-looking astromechs arguing among themselves, and ascended the boarding ramp. The cargo hold looked as it had before the crash, albeit more cluttered. Tel set the Child on the edge of the Mandalorian’s bunk and began shuffling supply cartes about the ship, opening a path through the haphazard mess. Though tedious and more exhausting that it should be, the task provided a brief respite from the recurring and intrusive thoughts lurking in the darker corners of her mind.

For those few moments, she didn’t think about the temple or the bitter truth that burned with bile each time she spoke it. The world around her dimmed to a distant buzz as she worked, separating medical supplies from food stores, and dividing up the munitions so that there weren’t thermal detonators tossed in with sonic grenades and flares buried beneath mines.

She pushed a couple of crates filled with spare parts off to the side, blocking off what she hoped was a large enough area to sleep comfortably. It was a temporary arrangement; the moment they reached the next inhibited planet — preferably one with a spaceport — she’d be on the first ship headed to Dantooine. She needed to see the enclave, if it remained.

Four thousand years... It just wasn’t possible.

Yet, it would explain the Mandalorian’s ignorance regarding the Jedi; the Child’sm memories; the strange Empire that allegedly placed a bounty on her head. More and more, she noticed the signs of progress. The guns cluttering the wall of the Mandalorian’s armory were vaguely familiar, but much sleeker in design than she remembered. Some she’d never seen before.

“You’re awake. Good,” the Mandalorian said, startling her from her thoughts. “We’re leaving.”

“Right now?”

“The sooner the better.” He brushed past her on his way to the ladder, pointedly refusing to look in her direction. “The last thing these people need is Imps and bounty hunters showing up on their doorstep.”

She supposed he had a point; the disruptor field was as much a blessing as it was a curse. Any ship that visited their planet with ill intentions would find itself crashed upon the surface within minutes, stranded and unable to call for help. With the field gone, they were now exposed. The Empire proved they’d decimate an entire city and endanger countless lives to achieve their goals.

Unease pitted in her gut.

Had she freed them, only to condemn them?  

“You think they’d find me that quickly?”

“It wouldn’t be you they tracked,” the Mandalorian said. “You don’t have a chain code. Or a tracking fob. The kid does.”

“A chain code?”

Despite her better judgment, she lifted the Child from the Mandalorian’s bunk and followed him into the cockpit. Just as she reached the top of the ladder, the Mandalorian turned, his visor angled downward. Even with his face covered, she could see the confusion and hesitance in his stance.

“You don’t know what the Empire is. You don’t know what chain code is. But you know what the Jedi are?”

“Those… didn’t exist before I woke on Scir. At least not as far as I can recall.” She dropped into the seat behind the pilot’s chair with an exhausted sigh. “The last thing I remember is a battlefield. Next thing I know, I’m waking up on the floor of a dusty storeroom outside of a broken tank.”

“You.... were in a bacta tank for twenty years?” he asked, disbelief coloring his tone.

“It’s… It’s been longer than twenty years.”

He stared at her for a moment longer, his entire demeanor radiating suspicion. Then, with what appeared to be a subtle shake of his head, he took the pilot’s seat. The console flickered to life, and with a slight shudder, the engines ignited. Within minutes, they were high in the atmosphere, the settlement shrinking out of sight. 

“Identification makers,” the Mandalorian said just as they broke through the planet’s atmosphere and slipped into the star-speckled void of space.

“What?”

“Chain codes,” he clarified. “They’re identification markers. They track everything; physical characteristics, family history, and criminal records. Bounty hunters use them to track their quarries. Everyone has one. Except you.”

She frowned. Even if she had such a thing, it would be incomplete, if not inaccurate. The Jedi didn’t keep extensive family records. Except in rare cases, as the Jedi did not accept some species or cultures, they were unconcerned with lineage. All that mattered was the Force.

Once a child entered the Jedi Order, the Masters encouraged them to sever their ties with the family, as familial attachments were fraught with heightened emotion. Most Jedi knew their home world and the day of their birth, but little else. Only a few could remember the names of their parents, or whether they had siblings.

Tel, who’d come into the Order later than most, remembered more than the Council had preferred.

“At least, Shaldi said you didn’t have one,” the Mandalorian corrected, “but I don’t know if you can trust anything that slug said.”

“I would think someone would’ve found me sooner if I did,” she pointed out.

Not having a chain code, especially in that instance, seemed to be more of a saving grace, but his earlier mention of the Child pushed that thought to the back-burner. He’d said something similar as they left Scir; that the Empire could be after the Child, not her, though he seemed to believe otherwise. It made no sense.

“Why would they be tracking the Child? What could they possibly want with a baby?”

The Mandalorian said nothing for a long moment. From the corner of her eyes, she saw him lean over to input a series of coordinates into the navicomputer. The coordinates for Tatooine, she realized.

“I’m beginning to think it’s the same reason they’re after you.”

Chapter Text

Tel had been to Tatooine only once in her life.

She’d been young then, barely thirteen, and on her first proper mission for the Jedi Order. The days of delivering summons to the homesteads scattered across the grassy plains of Dantooine and running trivial errands for the Masters were finally behind her. When she boarded Master Vrook’s ship that morning, she’d been ecstatic at the prospect of finally leaving the dreary farm world for the first time in two years. It would be the third time she’d traveled through space.

The first time she’d seen a world she’d only heard about in stories.

Had she known her mission would include mediating a dramatic argument between Anchorhead’s ruling Hutt and a furious senator demanding reparations for the destruction of his ship, she’d have asked to remain on Dantooine. It had been four days of running from one end of the settlement to the other, listening to complaint after complaint, and sitting through sandstorms.

Initially, Master Vrook had assumed the Hutt was the aggressor; he’d had a criminal record so long it took her nearly an hour to sort through it. They learned shortly after their arrival, and the subsequent conclusion of their investigation, such was not the case. For perhaps the first time in the Hutt’s life, he was innocent. The attack had not come from the Hutt, seeking ransom, as the senator claimed, but unrelated pirate activity in the sector. No matter how much evidence they provided, however, the senator refused to let the matter rest.

Tel learned several valuable lessons that day: most political figures were not the well-intentioned public servants they paraded themselves as, but privileged fools who’d rather risk a diplomatic disaster than admit fault; Huts, despite their lacking morals and often equally inflated egos, understood not to test legendary patience of a Jedi; and that Master Vrook, for all his lectures on diplomacy and decorum, had little of either to spare when it concerned pompous senators questioning the integrity of the Jedi and their Order.

Little had changed since then. Tatooine remained a barren dust bowl sweltering beneath the harsh light of its twin suns. Dewback and bantha dotted the rolling dunes of the open desert. Lines of Tusken Raiders meandered along the edges of the sheer ridges and rocky outcroppings.

Mos Eisley was far larger than Anchorhead had been, but more of the same. Circular buildings carved of hardened sand and stone meandered along half-paved roads within the protective wall that encircled the sprawling city. Aliens of all walks of life mingled in the expansive market, stalls of colorful clothes, cooked food, and other oddities scattered throughout the wide thoroughfare. Jawas traded and bartered their scraps from pop-up shops on scattered corners. Ronto and bantha crowded around large stone pools which dotted the middle of smaller squares.

As the Mandalorian’s ship passed into the blessed shade of the hangar bay, Tel prepared ran through a mental checklist of supplies and answers in need of gathering. She’d found some useful pieces of scrap in the provisions Jado allotted them, but there were still many more parts she needed in order to build her second lightsaber. She needed another set of clothes as well. Then, she had to find a transport ship headed to Dantooine — or, at the very least, headed to a system where she could find further passage to her destination.

As the ship powered down, Tel removed the safety restraints and her jacket soon after. Though they had only just touched down, the oppressive heat of the planet had already worked its way into the cockpit; the sunlight that spilled through the cockpit’s viewport during their descent had already raised the ship’s internal temperature by several degrees. Or, perhaps, the thought of stepping onto the sandy surface of the planet let her sweating with anticipation.

“We’re not staying long.” The Mandalorian stood and pulled the Child from her arms, settling him inside the sling at his side. “Once the ship’s fixed, we’re headed to Nevarro.”

Though she had no intentions of following him to his destination, she wasn’t yet ready to inform him of her planned departure. She hadn’t a clue how he’d react, and she’d rather wait until the last possible second, as not to give him time to react. Maybe she was better off not informing him at all.

“Why Nevarro?”

“Information,” he said. “I asked an old friend of mine to look into your bounty.”

Well, that complicates matters, she thought.

Without further explanation, the Mandalorian descended the ladder and disappeared into the cargo hold.

Tel remained seated for a moment longer, her lips pursed with thought. She needed to reach Dantooine — to see the enclave with her own eyes — but a silent nagging in the back of her insisted she wait. Whatever information the Mandalorian’s contact possessed may be of more use to her.

Sighing, Tel pushed those thoughts aside. She’d restructure her plan later; for the moment, she had more immediate concerns. If nothing else, she needed to get her weapons in order. She refused to replace the crystal of her lightsaber sitting on the toilet of a cramped refresher.

Her legs, numb from hours of staying seated, buzzed with protest as she made her way into the cargo hold. The Mandalorian had already left the ship, the boarding ramp released, and the sounds of distant conversation drifting through the open hatch. He must be speaking with the mechanic.

Tel left them to their discussion and knelt before the crates of scrap that comprised the barrier between her bed and the rest of the ship. During her arrangement of the cargo hold, she’d sorted through it, picking out the pieces that would best serve her purpose. She’d stuffed them into a pouch buried at the bottom, along with a second pouch filled with other odds and ends that might fetch a decent price.

She’d rather not ask the Mandalorian for credits — or if he had any; Shaldi’s reward was one of several things Jado’s men couldn’t recover.

It begged the question of how he intended to pay the mechanic for the repairs.

Said mechanic was an older woman, her skin worn and hardened by hours of labor and sun exposure. A mass of frizzy curls, singed and burnt and streaked through with grease and engine oil, sat atop her head. She held the Child in one arm, bouncing him on her hip, while the other arm gestured wildly towards the ship. Even from across the docking bay, Tel heard her every word as clearly as if she were standing next to her.

“Well, it’ll be a while,” the mechanic said. “What’d you do this time? Strip her down and replace everything with scrap? Is that the interior panelling of a freighter I see on that port engine? If it works, it works, I guess.”

“Crashed,” she heard the Mandalorian say.

The mechanic scrunched her nose. “You? Crash? What, you get shot down or something? I see some carbon scoring up there at the top.”

“Ran into some trouble,” was all the Mandalorian offered.

Tel decided then, while the boisterous mechanic had his attention, would be the best time to slip off into town. She’d rather not have him breathing down her neck or pestering her with questions while she scoured the parts for her new lightsaber — if she could find them.

She’d start with the Jawas — they had a way of finding obscure, albeit useful parts to barter.

“Well, now who’s this?” the mechanic asked no sooner than Tel started down the ramp. A cheeky, conspiratorial grin spread her lips as she jabbed her elbow into the Mandalorian’s side. “Gotta say, Mando, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“She’s… something,” the Mandalorian responded, irritation bleeding through the modulator of his helmet.

Tel, having no desire to engage in that conversation, hurried across the docking bay. If she were quick enough, she could reach the street and disappear into the crowds before the Mandalorian decided whether to pursue her. She’d run if she had to.

“Where are you going?” the Mandalorian asked.

She didn’t slow her pace. “Into the city. Where else?”

“You don’t have credits.”

“Neither do you!”

The bustle of the street swallowed his response.

When one wished to remain undetected, they often took the most obscure path and remained well out of sight. Tel was smarter than that. The Mandalorian could track heat signatures with his visor. The best way to combat that was to cover her tracks with as many others as possible.

She fell in with the largest group she could find and allowed the flow of the crowd to carry her to the nearby market street. Before long, the path narrowed as stalls hosting an array of goods, from handcrafted jewelry to freshly cooked meals, choked the sides of the road. Strange creatures clamored in their cages, teeth and claws and nails raking at any who dared get too close. The calls of vendors blended with the buzz if idle chatter.

Tel took her time, studying the wares. Nothing explicitly modern leaped out to her, and what caught her eye was more or less how she remembered it, albeit refined. Blasters hadn’t fallen out of use. Vibroknives were as plentiful as they’d been.

In hindsight, she should’ve expected as much. The galaxy had always been slow to progress. Few things remained in use for longer than a couple of decades at a time, and what slipped through the cracks remained for eons. Lightsabers had not changed in thousands of years; the Temple had relics nearly as old as the Order itself that looked and functioned like her own.

Things had not changed so much as they’d become more refined.

Though, she supposed Tatooine would be the last place to look for anything jarring enough to provide answers. The Outer Rim planets were among the slowest to change. Perhaps if they were closer to the Core, the differences might be more obvious.

For all she knew, the vendors were peddling wares that were centuries out of date.

At the far end of the market, she found what she was looking for. A small group of Jawas had set up shop at the end of the market street, their goods piled atop a rickety repulsor lift and further strewn across a threadbare blanket. A small cluster of droids, which looked in desperate need of proper repairs, stood off to the side.

“Trade?” the Jawa behind the blanket asked, almost too quickly for her to catch. “You trade?”

“That depends.” Tel studied the parts set up on the blanket, a frown tugging at her lips. “I’m looking for something specific. It’s not exactly common.”

“Lots of uncommon things,” the Jawa said, waving at the lift.

She raised a brow. “You have an emitter matrix?" After a moment of thought, she added, “and a power insulator?”

The Jawa turned to the others and waved. A pair of them began plundering through the cart, tossing parts and scrap pieces aside. After a few moments, and several thuds, which roused several snickers from the rest, a small, gloved hand appeared above the lift, a power insulator clutched in its fingers.

“We have power insulator!” one said. “No matrix.”

Tel bit back a curse. Still, it was better than nothing.

“What do you want for it?”

“Five thousand credits!” another exclaimed, holding out its hand.

Tel recoiled. “I can’t do credits. Even if I could, that’s absolutely ridiculous!”

One of the Jawas pointed at her belt.

Frowning, Tel glanced down at her lightsaber. “Absolutely not.”

“We have matrix. We give you both for that!” the first said.

“I thought you said you didn’t have an emitter matrix.”

“We do now.”

Slimy bastards. Now she remembered why she hated bargaining with Jawas. They’d rob her blind if she let them.

“It’s not for barter,” she said. “I have other parts I can trade, but not that.”

Another Jawa pointed to her blaster.

“You can’t have that either.”

The Jawas muttered amongst themselves for a moment, then the one behind the blanket said, “Both for ten thousand credits!”

Tel stared at them for a long moment. She knew the emitter matrix would be expensive; she’d seen shops on Courscant sell them for four thousand or more, but she was absolutely certain they’d raised the price of the insulator again. Then again, prices may have changed over the years.

She wouldn’t know. The Jedi Order provided the core components, and during the war, the Republic covered the costs of any that needed replacement or alteration. The only thing she’d ever had to pay for was to have the casing forged, as the Jedi refused to do it themselves.

They did not like the implications of her metal of choice, not after they’d learned where she’d gotten it from.

“On second thought I—”

“I’ll handle it.”

She’d been so engrossed in her thoughts that she hadn’t noticed the man approach until he was right beside her, his extended hand piled high with credit chips. Before she could protest — she’d find her own way to afford the parts — the Jawa snatched the credits and tossed the insulator at her. No sooner than she caught it, another threw the emitter matrix.

Lips pursed, Tel turned to the man. He was young, perhaps no older than his late twenties. His bright blue eyes seemed to glow beneath the fringes of his dark, messy hair, and the stubble around his chin gave him a roughish sort of roughish charm. A lopsided smile split his lips. It seemed disarming enough, if Tel ignored the fact that it didn’t quite match the calculative look in his eyes.

“While I thank you for your help,” she said, her gaze flicking to the blaster holstered at his hip, “I hope you realize they just scammed you out of several thousand credits.”

The man shrugged, his smile widening. “Maybe, but there’s no helping it. These guys drive a hard bargain. It’s not worth the hassle to haggle with them.”

“It was too much.”

He waved her off. “Don’t worry about it. I knew what I was doing when I offered the credits.”

Why did you offer them? She wanted to ask. Something about the look in his eyes — the thinly veiled promise of violence that lurked just beneath the surface of those impossibly blue eyes — suggested good-intentions weren’t the source of his unprompted generosity.

“Besides, my Ma would strangle me if I ignored a pretty lady in need of help.”

Tel hummed, dubious.

“Speaking of, you look like you could use a drink.”

“I don’t partake.”

It was a lie. Tel could drink half the Republic’s navy under the table and keep going. She’d done so on dozens of occasions, much to the chagrin of anyone who dared challenge her.

The man laughed. “Oh, I didn’t mean alcohol. You don’t look like you're handling the sun very well.”

She was thirsty, and the day only seemed to grow hotter as the twin suns arched higher into the sky. It was high noon, if not well past it. A glass of water and a few moments in the shade wouldn’t hurt. Yet, innocent as the offer seemed, she couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to it than just that.

Was he trying to woo her? Or did he have another, much more nefarious intention?

As if sensing her hesitation, he reached for her hand, his smile widening further.

“Please. I insist.”

Chapter Text

If Tel were seventeen, naïve and brimming with teenage rebellion, she might have fallen for the man’s disarming charm without a second thought.

She’d made that mistake once before on Dantooine. By the time she’d realized, she’d woken in the cargo hold of a ship bound for the slave markets on Nar Shaddaa. That day, she learned a valuable lesson — an unfortunate fact of life that the Jedi never taught her. Anyone who approached a lone woman in a cantina had nothing but nefarious intentions.

Whether it was an honest mistake, or if Master Vrook had his hand in it, she’d never figured out. He hadn’t seemed surprised when she returned to Dantooine hours later in a stolen ship filled with hysterical women. Tel wouldn’t put it past him. His methods were often questionable, and she’d always struggled with forgoing her desires and reigning in her impulses.

If he had orchestrated it, he had succeeded in some margin. While it didn’t stop her from reciprocating the odd advance, she was far more careful about the encounters. Celibacy, though strongly discouraged, was not a requirement of the Jedi Code.

This, however, was not an advance she’d consider.

Dantooine was a peaceful and often boring planet inhabited by farmers and those who sought to escape the constant chaos that plagued the galaxy. The Jedi guarded their secret enclave and its host planet as fiercely as they guarded the Temple and Courscant. Dantooine had its fair share of domestic disputes and family feuds, but it was nothing compared to the rampant crime and debauchery that plagued worlds such as Tatooine.

It was for that reason that she ignored the unsettling pit in her gut and accepted the man’s invitation.

“I have to admit, I’m surprised you agreed so quickly,” the man said as he slid into the book across from her, a pair of drinks in hand. He handed hers over before taking a generous swig of his own. “You don’t exactly strike me as easy.”

Tel peered into the cup. It looked like water, but it smelled terrible. A bit like rotten eggs and burnt matches.

“You don’t strike me as the type to take no for an answer.” Her gaze flicked to the back door, hidden in a shadowed alcove only a few feet from the booth she’d chosen.

She’d intended to slip out while he ordered the drinks, but once she settled into her seat, she realized it wouldn’t be possible. The cantina clientele mirrored the sort she’d find in the underbelly of Courscant; rough and itching to cause problems. Smugglers, pirates, and bounty hunters alike occupied the tables scattered about the main room. All armed. Many glancing in her direction.

The man who’d brought her there hadn’t taken his eyes off her, either.

Beneath the table, Tel kept a firm grip on her lightsaber. He hadn’t yet suggested he was one of them — he may just be after a few moments in a back room — but she wasn’t taking any chances.

After a tense moment, the man said, “I didn’t spike it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

She eyed the drink, apprehensive. He hadn’t tampered with it, not that she could see, but until she was certain of his intentions, she’d rather err on the side of caution. Conventional sedatives weren’t as effective (if they were effective at all) against one trained in the Force, but there were some designed with Jedi in mind. Tel hadn’t been aware of that when she was younger, but after having learned that lesson the hard way, she was in no hurry to repeat that mistake.

In no mood for mind games, Tel pushed the glass aside. “What do you want?”

The man laughed, waving her off. Tel did not miss the slight narrowing of his eyes or the sudden spike of nervous irritation that brushed against the fringes of her awareness. She was on to him, and he knew it.

“Come on, now. There’s no need to be coy,” he said. “I can understand the concern, though. Tatooine isn’t exactly kind to women all by their lonesome. Especially a woman that looks like you.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

With a shrug, he leaned back in his seat, a hand prodding at the pocket of his jacket. “It’s just that there’s a lot of interesting rumors going around lately. Word on the street is the same Mandalorian that caused a huge stink with the Bounty Guild on Nevarro ran off with another bounty. A hefty one at that. Triple reward for whoever gets her.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

“Well, you bear an uncanny resemblance to the description of the quarry.”

His hand disappeared inside his pocket. From it, he produced a small holodisk, which he promptly tossed onto the table. Upon its activation, a grainy, monochrome image of her face materialized in the air above it.

“The thing is, it gets better. There’s two now. Same reward.” The man drew his blaster, casually turning it over in his hands. “Here’s the catch, though. One wants her explicitly dead. The other? Alive and unharmed.”

Tel studied the image of her face and the accompanying text, her lips pursed. She never confirmed whether Shaldi’s claims of a dual bounty had merit. After much consideration, she and the Mandalorian assumed Shaldi had fabricated the unusual circumstances to make the job more appealing. The Hut had admitted, indirectly, that she intended to con the Mandalorian into doing her dirty work.

Now, this apparent bounty hunter claimed there were, in fact, two, and that in the few days between Scir and Palix V, the price had increased. Tel might not be a bounty hunger, and her knowledge of the occupation was severely limited, but even she knew this wasn’t normal. Nothing about her situation was.

When she said nothing, the bounty hunter waved his blaster as if to remind her of its existence. “Makes me wonder what the deal is, you know? Then again, my job’s not to ask questions. Just to bring you in. And lucky for me, I won’t have to deal with the Mandalorian after all. You walked right into my lap.”

Despite herself, Tel snorted. “Between the two of us, the Mandalorian is the least of your worries.”

“Oh, spare me the tough girl act,” he drawled. “You’re not fooling anyone. So, let’s get to the point, yeah? We can do this the easy way or the hard way. You come willingly, you’ll get to keep breathing.”

“And if I refuse?”

His smile turned wicked as he aimed the blaster at her head, his finger hovering over the trigger. “I’d rather not kill a pretty lady if I can help it.” So, come on, sweetheart. Hands up. Let’s not make this any more difficult than it has to be. Not really worth your life, is it?”

Tel plucked her lightsaber from her belt and set it on the table between them, a brow raised. “Perhaps you should ask yourself if it’s worth yours.”

The moment he glanced at the hilt, his eye wide first with confusion, then realization, she moved. With a burst of the Force, she slammed him against the back of the booth. His finger hit the trigger, a single bolt leaping free of the barrel. It struck the wall behind her, ricochetting off a shoddy piece of paneling bolted over a poorly concealed hole in the wall, and slammed into one of the many lights above the bar. Shards of glass rained down upon the patrons gathered beneath it, peppering their clothes and spoiling their drinks.

The orange-skinned Twi’lek seated directly beneath the broken light fixture cursed and slammed his fist into the jaw of the Rodian beside him.

Chaos descended upon the cantina. Tables toppled. Bottles streaked through the air. The Weequay barkeep ducked into the back room as the patrons began fighting amongst themselves, fits of hysterical laughter and strings of alien curses nearly downed out beneath the cacophony of the brawl.

Tel swept her lightsaber into her hand and bolted into the fray. She side-stepped a Gammorean armed with a wicked-looking battleaxe, which he swung at a pair of Jawas that had lobbed their mugs in his face. From the corner of her eyes, she saw the Twi’lek from the bar make a grab for her. She spun on her heels and planted a firm kick to his stomach, sending him careening into a nearby table. Before he could regain his footing, another Jawa, this one armed with an abandoned serving tray, whacked him over the head.

The peel of laughter that rose from the Jawa was short-lived; a stray bolt struck the tray and set it flying into the Gamorrean’s face.

Further into the ruckus she went, dodging bolts and bodies alike. A pair of grappling Niko staggered into her path, swinging at one another with reckless abandon. She vaulted over them, nearly running headfirst into the back of a large man as he struggled against another Twi’lek armed with a vibroknife, and bolted for the door. A blaster bolt, promptly followed by two more, whizzed past her head as she tore into the streets of Mos Eisley.

People scrambled aside to let her pass, a chorus of curses and startled yelps rising in her wake. She took a sudden right, plunging into the alley between two large buildings, then veered left into a much narrower sidestreet. As the bustle of the city faded, hurried footsteps replaced the droning chatter. She heard them in the space between her own, though only just.

A single glance over her shoulder confirmed her suspicions; the bounty hunter had followed her.

Cursing, Tel weighed her options.

She could fight, but doing so would only slow her down. He was not the only bounty hunter in the cantina, but perhaps one of several aiming for the prize on her head. There may be others hidden among the maze of back alleys and side streets waiting for the opportunity to swoop in and steal her bounty for themselves. Any further commotion would only draw their attention.

Returning to the ship, wise as it would be, was not an option at the moment. She’d rather not have to explain how a harmless trip to the markets turned into a city-wide manhunt. More than that, she risked leading them straight to the Child.

With that realization laid bare, Tel concluded she only had once choice; outrun her pursuer.

But Mos Eisley wasn’t Courscant. There was no rhyme or reason behind the haphazard network of roads. Some streets came to an abrupt halt, while others gave the illusion of a dead end before taking an unexpected turn. Tel was not familiar enough with the city to benefit from its chaotic layout.

Her thumb found the activation switch for her stealth generator. If she could break the hunter’s line of sight, she might have a chance. But the hunter was faster than she expected, and in the scant few minutes since she’d exited the cantina, he’d nearly caught up with her. She wouldn’t be able to run while the generator was active, either.

Briefly, her gaze drifted upwards. If she couldn’t outrun him, then the only logical course of action was to take a path he couldn’t follow.

The street took a sudden right and, no sooner than she rounded the corner, she called upon the Force. She leapt into the air, high enough to reach the roof of the nearby building, and hauled herself over the edge, just as the hunter rushed past. Upon realizing she was nowhere to be seen, he skid to a halt, cursing.

She ducked behind the shallow wall that spanned the eve, her finger firmly positioned over the belt’s activation switch. Below, the hunter continued his search. He peered through open windows and into the narrow gaps between the buildings, his growing frustration palpable.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he loosed another curse and continued on.

Tel remained on the roof for several more moments, waiting with bated breath. Once his presence passed beyond her reach, and she was certain there was no one else of concern in the vicinity, she sat up. Her legs ached with exhaustion as she swung them over the wall and dropped into the street below.

So much for not causing a scene.

It took several moments for her to gain her bearing and retrace her steps. After several wrong turns and a full lap around one house, she stumbled across a clothesline, bowing beneath the weight of its burden. She glanced down at the teal waves spilling over her shoulder, her hair having fallen from its bun during her mad dash from the cantina, then at the clothes strung up on the line.

“I really should’ve thought of this sooner,” she muttered.

She pulled a ratty scarf from the line and tossed it over her head, taking care to conceal her hairline. For good measure, she snatched the faded poncho that hung beside it. It wasn’t the outfit she had in mind when she but it would have to do.

Upon returning to the main street, she pulled the front of the scarf over her face to conceal the teal hue of her lips. It was unpleasant, the fabric stiff and scratchy and the stench invading her nose enough to make her gag. It hadn’t been washed, she realized; merely soaked and left to dry.

Perhaps it would be in her best interest to invest in cosmetics, though it was an odd sentiment to have. She wasn’t even sure what would look right on her. Blonde? Black?

She supposed she could just wear a hat, but even the scarf sitting atop her head roused unpleasant memories — memories of a childhood she’d rather forget.

Her appearance had never been a concern before, nor had the oddity of it posed an issue. The Jedi didn’t care so long as she looked presentable, and on Courscant, no one batted an eyelash. There was no shortage of unusual lineages and questionable cosmetic choices in the galactic capital.

It was only after she took in the haggard and dreary appearance of the people of Tatooine that she realized how much she stood out. Her hair color wasn’t natural by human standards, and though she was not entirely human, most couldn’t tell the difference. To them, it looked as if she merely preferred the color teal.

She’d counted it as a blessing growing up. Her human appearance spared her the discrimination her mother’s people faced, especially in the seeder parts of the galaxy, where the Twi’leks’ history of slavery remained just as prominent as it had in the past. At moments like this, however, it seemed more of a curse than anything.

Tel knew how to evade detection from a tactical perspective. It was a simple concept; stay out of sight, use the right equipment, and take advantage of distraction. A stealth generator could bypass a security scanner or a heat sensor. Few paid attention to their surrounding when a far more pressing matter appeared before them. One wave of her hand and a loose bolt or falling object could keep a patrol’s attention long enough to slip past.

But this was not a tactical matter — it was a practical one, and Tel, having been raised in sheltered and secluded societies, did not know how to handle anything outside of tactical matters. She wasn’t on a battlefield attempting to slip past enemy lines midst a fire-fight, nor was she sneaking up on an enemy encampment for reconnaissance. This was Mos Eisley — a street filled with innocent people who might find themselves caught in the crossfire if she weren’t careful.

She could evade the tracking capabilities of a Mandalorian helmet, but blending in with a crowd of people was another matter entirely.

She hoped she didn’t look as awkward as she felt.

As she passed the cantina, she found it quiet — almost too quiet. A quick glance through the door confirmed her suspicions. Most of the patrons had cleared out, leaving only the staff to clean the mess while a handful of drunken stragglers slumped over the bar. The orange-skinned Twi’lek leaned against the exterior door frame, a holodisk displaying the image of her bounty in his hand.

Ducking her head, she hurried on.

Before long, the street gave way to the market. In the distance, the spaceport loomed, a curtain of sandy stone against a clear, cerulean sky. There was, by her estimation, only another half-mile between her and the relative safety of the ship. She just had to get there without further complications.

She hastened past the Jawas, one of which flung their hands in the air, the tail end of a curse and something about ‘fake credits’ just audible above the bustle of the market. Perhaps under different circumstances, she’d return the parts and apologize, but she had neither the time nor the luxury to do so. Jawa weren’t subtle creatures.

And they tried to scam her. It was only right they received nothing for their efforts.

“There you are.”

Tel faltered as the modulated voice of the Mandalorian rose from her right. Against her better judgment, her hand reached for the scarf. It was still firmly in place, her hair tucked safely inside.

Her momentary confusion gave way to relieved amusement as he shouldered past her, completely oblivious to her presence, and made straight for the nearby fruit stand. Perched on the edge of the table, a half eaten jogan fruit in hand, was the Child. He lifted his head, his ears perked, as the Mandalorian approached.

“I’m sorry about him,” she heard the Mandalorian say. “He’s young.”

The elderly woman behind the table merely laughed. “Oh, it’s no bother. I gave it to him. It’s hard to say no to those adorable eyes.”

The Child kept a firm grip on his treat as the Mandalorian pulled him into his arms. “Come on, you little womprat. We need to find Tel, and then you’re going back to the ship. I’ve got work to do.”

The Child looked up at him, then turned to Tel. He lifted his hand, stained with purple juice, towards her. He babbled something, his words drowned beneath the bustle of the street, and pointed, insistent.

Tel, knowing she couldn’t fool the Child, pulled the scarf below her chin. “I’m right here.”

The Mandalorian’s head snapped to her. “What are you wearing?”

“A precaution,” she said. “Let’s just say after seeing two people looking at my bounty, I figured it was best to play it safe.”

He didn’t know she came to that realization only after her carelessness led to one bounty hunter cornering her. He barely trusted her as it was, not that she blamed him. She hadn’t exactly been honest with him — not completely.

Deciding it was best to change the subject, she asked, “What’s this I heard about work?”

“A scholar from Courscant came to study the ruins of an ancient civilization believed to be somewhere in the Dune Sea. He’s looking for someone to escort him to the site.”

“That hardly seems lucrative.”

“The payout’s enough to cover the cost of repairs.”

“And how long’s this going to take?”

The Mandalorian shrugged. “Two days. Three at the most. The ruins are just south of Anchorhead.”

That was far too long for her liking; she’d rather leave Tatooine as soon as possible. There were too many bounty hunters about, and with the alleged increase of her bounty, more may be on the way. She had no doubts that by now, every hunter on the planet knew of her presence.

But they weren’t going anywhere until the mechanic finished the repairs, and that likely wouldn’t happen until she received her payment.

Tel bit the inside of her cheek. It would be best to accompany him, if for no other reason than to stay beyond the city’s walls. Yet, the mere thought of trudging through the sand for hours on end left her exhausted. She still hadn’t fully recovered from the incident on Palix V, and her short stint through the city had sapped what strength she’d regained since.

“I think I’ll sit this one out,” she said at length, pulling the Child into her arms.

The Mandalorian stared at her. Though the cold steel of his helmet betrayed nothing, she sensed the confusion and apprehension behind his gaze. If she could see his face, she was certain he’d be frowning.

“I’m tired,” she admitted, “and I don’t think the heat’s doing me any favors.”

Though clearly offput by her willingness to stay behind, the Mandalorian nodded. “Stay with the ship and stay out of trouble.”

“I always do.”

The Mandalorian made a sound that clearly conveyed his disagreement. Then, with a shake of his head, he disappeared into the crowd.

Once she lost sight of him, she glanced down at the Child. “Come on, kid. I need to get off the streets and you need to get cleaned up. You’re staining your robes.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 28 | Intermission.

Tel had almost forgotten the comfort of grease on her hands and the soothing ache that lodged itself in her back after hours of work. She’d always found comfort in the complex simplicity of machines. They didn’t have lofty expectations or unobtainable demands. They didn’t pass judgment nor pester her with questions, as if looking for the smallest fault to exploit. No, machines were dutifully silent, allowing her to slip into the blissful reprieve of the mind-numbing task of replacing faulty wires and straightening warped pipelines. 

Peli, the mechanic, was not so silent.

Her voice carried across the docking bay, shrill and biting, as she barked orders at her strange droids. They were unlike anything Tel had ever seen; small, oddly shaped, and decidedly clumsy. There’d been three incidents in the last hour, and that wasn’t counting the several in the two hours prior. Yet, for all their blunders, they worked well enough.

They’d already replaced the exterior paneling on the port engine, the metal welded with such precision it looked as if it’d come straight from the manufacturer. That was, if she ignored the staining and pockets of budding rust molted on the panels’ surfaces. They’d buff and polish it later, if there was time. The Mandalorian wasn’t so concerned about appearance as he was about functionality.

“He’ll ruin it in a week, anyway,” Peli had said.

Rorwaa had fixed the worst of the damage, the internal frame straightened and restrengthened, and the viewport replaced. What remained was minor by comparison, but no less tedious. The interior wiring needed work, and several systems remained offline, as Rorwaa hadn’t been able to find the parts necessary.

That was Tel’s job; to climb into the bowels of the Razor Crest and wrangle with the ship’s wiry innards. Peli couldn’t spare another droid, and Tel was small enough to fit into spaces she couldn’t. The Child had tried to help, but he was much too young to understand the intricacies of electrical engineering and much too impulsive. He’d shocked himself three times, despite her explicit warning not to touch loose wires, and taken to chewing on the rubber o-ring he was supposed to hand to her before she’d thrust the silver knob he so loved into his hands and left him to play in the cargo hold.

It lasted for but a minute. When that childish curiosity took hold, and he’d gotten his hands on a thermal detonator, Tel promptly removed him from the ship and left him with Peli, who was more than happy to look after him. The Child, however, wasn’t so thrilled to have his new “ball” taken away.

Footsteps, heavy but casual, rose below her. Through the gaps in the wires, Tel watched as Peli sauntered into the cargo hold, her lips pursed as he studied the exposed wiring near the entry hatch. Then she whistled.

“Not bad,” she said, sounding genuinely impressed. “So what’s the deal with you and Mando? He bring you on as a mechanic?”

Though the question seemed innocent enough, Tel knew better than to think otherwise. She could hear the cheeky grin in her words, and when she turned to inspect the other side of the ship, there was a gleam of something mischievous in her eyes.

She was looking to fuel the local rumor mill, Tel suspected.

“Extenuating circumstances,” she said at length.

The Mandalorian seemed to trust Peli — enough that he would leave the Child in her care — but the Mandalorian was, perhaps, too trusting for his own good. Tel couldn’t puzzle out whether it was a matter of naïvety or simply that, as a Mandalorian, he expected others to act with honor. As if he hadn’t yet grasped the concept that much of the galaxy, as well as many of his own, had little honor to speak of.

“Though he seems to think I’m better suited for babysitting duty,” she added after a moment. “Not that I mind. I’ve always been good with children. It’s more the principle of the matter. It’s not my child to care for and I did not ask for that position.”

She didn’t ask for any of it, nor could she fathom why the Mandalorian insisted on keeping her close at hand. Perhaps he intended to collect on her bounty; he said he wouldn’t give her to the Hutt, but he said nothing of handing her over to anyone else. The Mandalorian had proved he was more than capable of finding and exploiting loopholes. He’d done so several times with Shaldi.

Or, the less paranoid part of her mind rationalized, he was merely trying to make good on his promise to repay her for saving the Child, albeit in the most frustrating way possible.

Whatever the case, Tel had no intentions of finding out. She would leave Tatooine with him, but once they reached Nevarro, and she gathered whatever information his contact claimed to have, she’d be on the first available ship to Dantooine. Bounty or not.

“Besides, I don’t even think he realizes I know my way around a ship,” she muttered.

“Looks to me like it’s more than just knowing,” Peli said. “I don’t think I’ve seen cord management that good in a while. Did you label these? Yeesh, you work fast.”

“Things are a lot easier to fix when you don’t have to spend three hours digging through a tangled mess.”

“I hear that,” Peli snorted. There was a pause, then she asked, “So what are these ‘extenuating circumstances’?”

Tel sighed. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

She said it with such confidence that Tel couldn’t help but chuckle. She really was an odd one, but entertainingly so.

“Let’s just say I’m a long, long way from home.”

With another sigh, Tel set her hydrospanner aside and shimmied from the narrow space between the cargo hold’s roof and the cockpit’s floor. She’d spent the better part of two hours fixing the gizka’s nest hidden inside, and though she’d made considerable progress in undoing matted tangles of wires and replacing the ones that the gizka had chewed through, there was still much to be done. But the ache in her back had passed beyond comforting familiarity and into the realm of downright painful. An unrelenting crick in her neck had joined it, the beginnings of a headache pounding behind her right eye. Her left leg, which she’d pinned between two supports within the fuselage, had long since gone numb.

That leg nearly buckled when she hit the floor, an uncomfortably pronounced static mass shooting through her.

Tel grimaced. She’d long since grown accustomed to the feeling, as it often accompanied her more lengthy meditation sessions, though it was no less unpleasant each time. Master Vrook had insisted she kneel rather than sit in a more comfortable position — that it instilled discipline and patience. She suspected it was to keep her from running off the moment she had a chance to.

It never quite worked as intended; Tel was a little too accustomed to ignoring her own pain and pressing on.

Tel hobbled down the boarding ramp and stumbled into the hangar bay. The droids had finished repairing the exterior portion of the engines and had moved to repairing the internal damage. They were running at half capacity, the right more so than the left, and she’d seen signs of a potential fuel leak as they’d made the landing approach. It was a Force-given miracle they’d reached the desert planet without complications; the Mandalorian may as well have been flying half a ship.

And he might still be.

Just as Tel reached the midway point between the ship and Peli’s office, a movement near the entrance to the docking bay drew her attention. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Mos Eisley’s spaceport was far busier than Anchorhead’s had been, and there was no shortage of workers and spacers roaming about the halls. She could say the same for bounty hunters.

The orange-skinned Twi’lek from the bar stood just beyond the arch of the bay — and Tel was not so naïve to think he was leaving. Not when his gaze flicked in her direction every few moments.

He wasn’t alone either; the hunter that chased her through the streets stood to his left, half hidden in the shadows of hallway.

Lips pursed, Tel glanced at the commlink strapped to her wrist. Shortly after they’d departed from Palix, the Mandalorian had it set to match the frequency of his. It would take but a second to inform him of the problem, though, in hindsight, it wouldn’t do her any good. He was likely halfway to Anchorhead by now, and there was nothing he could do.

Not that she needed him to do anything; Tel was confident she could handle the hunters on her own.

But should she? That was the question.

She’d kept the scarf on, both as a precaution and to keep her hair from tangling in the wires or catching on the ship’s innards. They may not have recognized her. They may be looking for the Mandalorian — or the Child.

Whatever they were looking for, it seemed they didn’t find it, as when Tel glanced at the hallway once more, both had disappeared.

•·················•·················•

The next two days passed in a blur of muted grey and muffled yelling. Peli, rambunctious and chatty as she was, worked quickly — and efficiently, despite her droids’ proneness to fumbling. By noon on the third day, the droids had finished the exterior work and refurbished the engines, which now ran at full capacity and lacked the odd grinding noise that Tel hadn’t noticed until it was gone. 

In those two days, she’d gotten most of the systems back online, though several refused to work as intended. The proximity sensor, though connected, displayed a continuous error. Five times out of ten, when she input coordinates to various planets, they returned reversed or scrambled. After running a diagnostics scan on the ship’s computer, Peli’s astromech found some something akin to a glitch in the system, one that had no solution. They would have to replace the navcomputer entirely, and Peli had neither the money nor the means of finding the right parts in a timely manner.

“Arfive did what he could to bypass it.” Peli squinted as she peered at the navcomputer’s display, which outlined the route from Tatooine to Kashyyyk, rather than to Dantooine as Tel had input. “Looks like someone hacked the system, and they did a damn good job of it.”

“There was an incident on Scir V,” she muttered. “I’d suspected the mechanics there had tampered with the system, but I assumed, since we made it to Tatooine in one piece, it’d been fixed.”

“Looks to me like you got lucky. With a system that screwy, you’re lucky you didn’t fly into a sun.”

“You think it’ll hold until we reach Nevarro?”

Peli shrugged. “Who knows?”

With that, Peli returned to her office, leaving Tel to finish the last of the repairs inside the cockpit.

They were minor affairs — a button that needed replacing, a stuck lever in need of oiling, and a few wires waiting to be connected to the hyperdrive before it was fully online. She hammered out a small dent in the central console, fixed the altimeter, which wasn’t reading as well as she’d like, and replaced the panel of switches that controlled the more intricate processes within the ship. Before long, she’d run out of things to fix.

With a heavy sigh, Tel dropped into the pilot’s seat and pulled the scarf from her head. She lifted the end to her face, wiping away the sweat beaded on her brow. Though the shade of the hangar bay kept the worse of the suns at bay, the stifling heat of Tatooine still permeated the ship. Her clothes clung to her like a second, albeit itchy, skin, and her hair felt much like a woolen blanket as it fell over her shoulders.

She had half a mind to pull out her knife and hack it all off, but after a moment of silent debate, she decided against it. With the way things had been going for her, it wouldn’t surprise her at all if she cut it short and the ship’s navcomputer sent them crashing onto an icy planet. Might before the best; another crash might knock a few things back into place.

As that thought occurred to her, Tel slammed her heel into the console. The screen flickered, but the incorrect coordinates remained.

“Worth a shot,” she sighed.

As she reached for the console to wipe clear the coordinates, the sound of footsteps in the cargo hold gave her pause. They sounded off — a soft, but sporadic pattern that matched neither the heavy and purposeful stride of the Mandalorian nor the frantic pattering she’d come to associate with Peli. A cursory glance with the Force confirmed her suspicions that it wasn’t the Child either.

As the steps drew closer, Tel pulled her blaster into her hand and curled into the pilot’s chair, her legs pulled flush against her chest. She kept her attention on the viewport, glancing between the partial reflection of the cockpit and the docking bay beyond. Save the trespasser in the ship, there was nothing out of the ordinary — not that she had an expansive view. The front of the ship faced the rear wall of the docking bay, leaving her with only a sliver of ground and a curtain of sandstone. Peli’s office and the bay’s entrance were just beyond her field of view.

It was the top of the bay, which she could only see a fraction of, that worried her the most. If the what the bounty hunter in the cantina said was true, she no longer had the luxury of assuming they’d take her alive. A sniper, if positioned in the right spot, would have a clear shot at her through the cockpit — and any bounty hunter worth their credits wouldn’t hesitate to take the shot.

Tel bit the inside of her cheek. There was just enough space beneath the console for her to fit; if she were quick enough, she could dive beneath it and take out the intruder without presenting an opening for a sniper, if there was one. Or she could make the first move and take the intruder by surprise and hope the pilot’s chair would block a shot from above.

The intruder decided for her.

The moment she felt the hand seize the back of the chair, Tel shifted her finger to the trigger of the blaster. With enough force to nearly throw her from the seat, the chair turned. Dark eyes, brimming with satisfied glee, stared down at her. A sharp, toothy grin split the face of the orange-skinned Twi’lek from the cantina — the one she’d kicked into a table two days prior.

“Let’s not make this any more diff—”

Tel pulled the trigger.

Another blaster went off simultaneously.

Tel tensed, bracing for an impact that never came. The Twi’lek jerked, his body spasming as if it didn’t know whether to fall forwards or backwards. Then he careened to the side and collapsed into an unmoving heap on the floor.

“I leave you alone for five minutes.”

The rough, modulated voice of the Mandalorian startled her out of her stupor. He stood at the entrance to the cockpit, a blaster in one hand and the Child in the other. With something of a sigh, he looked between her and the Twi’lek, and holstered his weapon.

“It’s been three days,” she pointed out. “And I had the situation under control.”

The Mandalorian made a sound of vague disagreement at the back of his throat. “Get the ship ready. We’re leaving. Headed to Nevarro.”

To that, Tel raised a brow. “You want me to fly?”

The Mandalorian shifted on his feet. It was an awkward movement, one that drew her attention to the inside of his thigh. A pair of massive, bloody gashes spanned the width of it. He’d cauterized the wounds to stem the bleeding, but he’d done a terrible job of it. It was patchwork, at best — the sort of hasty quick-fix she’d grown accustomed to seeing during the war.

Not that she could blame him; the position of the wounds made treating them without help difficult.

Sighing, Tel turned the chair around and began the start-up sequence. “How did you even manage that?”

“The ruins weren’t as empty as they seemed,” was all he said.

“Dump the body and go sit down,” she instructed. “Once we’re out of orbit, I’ll see to the wounds.”

“I don’t need—”

“I didn’t ask. If you want to deal with it yourself, then fine. But if you want it healed, then let me handle it.”

For a long moment, the Mandalorian stood there, staring at the back of her head. Then, with another sigh (which sounded suspiciously like a half-choked groan), the Mandalorian disappeared into the lower deck. Tel shook her head and punched the coordinates into the navcomputer.

As her hands settled onto the yoke, she sighed. “I am not looking forward to this conversation.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 29 | Discomfort.

“What the hell was I thinking?”

As the ship drifted through the swirling tunnel of hyperspace, Tel placed the cockpit, the nail of her thumb firmly planted between her teeth. For perhaps the first time since she set foot in the enclave on Dantooine, the prospect of using the Force — openly, that was — filled her with unrelenting anxiety. It shouldn’t. Part of her was certain the Mandalorian wouldn’t care; he had no qualms with the Child’s ability, and he showed no outward concern over her own.

Yet that damned voice in the back of her mind insisted she’d made a grave mistake. This wouldn’t end well. It never did.

This is what you get for lying when you’re no damned good at it, she thought.

Tel bit down, hard. The nail gave way beneath her teeth, the edge separating from her finger. Without thinking, she tore it away fully. Stinging pain erupted along her fingertip.

“You’re overthinking this,” she muttered. “You’re always overthinking.”

No, you’re not thinking enough, her traitorous mind insisted.

“It’s not like you’re doing something you shouldn’t be doing. You’re just using the Force. In front of a Mandalorian.”

Nausea turned her stomach. A phantom weight clamped around her wrists. Sweat slicked the palms of her hands, which had turned numb with static.

“It’s nothing you haven’t done before,” she assured herself.

Not without consequences.

“Not from him.”

Not yet.

She drew in a deep, deliberate breath. Holding it, she counted to ten, then released it slowly. Several more times, she repeated the process.

Master Vander had taught her the breathing exercise during the earliest days of her training — when she was still on Courscant, the Jedi testing her aptitude in the Force while awaiting the Council’s decision on her soon-to-be Master. It served her well in the years that followed, especially when her mind refused to still and the bitter memories of a less than ideal childhood rared their ugly heads. By the time they transfered her to the Dantooine enclave, she’d no longer needed the exercise.

Or so she’d thought.

With one last exhale, Tel shook out her hands, wiped the sweat clean, ad descended the ladder to the lower deck. Upon arrival, she found it relatively empty. The Child lay in the hammock strung above the Mandalorian’s bunk, his eyes closed and his favorite silver ball hanging precariously between his fingers. The bunk beneath sat empty, the Mandalorian nowhere in sight.

Tel breathed a sigh of relief. In hindsight, the Mandalorian never confirmed whether he’d prefer to handle the wound or leave it to her. Perhaps she’d fretted over nothing.

Just as she turned back to the ladder, a muffled curse, promptly followed by a dull thud, rose from the other side of the ship. From the corners of her eyes, she caught the glint of beskar beneath the dim lighting of the deck as the Mandalorian unceremoniously flung himself onto the edge of a crate, medical supplies in hand.

Forcing aside the fresh wave of anxiety that crashed over her, and swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, Tel said, “I told you I’d handle it.”

“You were taking too long,” the Mandalorian bit out.

“I was wrangling with the navcomputer,” she lied. “The system’s compromised. I had to sort out the coordinates.”

The Mandalorian threw her a look over his shoulder. “We’ve been in hyperspace for twenty minutes.”

Tel scrunched her nose. It felt longer than that.

“Would you prefer I ignored it and we fly into a sun because the coordinates changed at the last second?” When the Mandalorian didn’t respond, she released a long-suffering sigh. “Let me see it.”

Albeit reluctant, the Mandalorian lifted his left onto the crate and angled it so she could see. The wounds were longer than they initially appeared, the latter half stretching around to the back of his thigh. It was an odd place for an injury — and a dangerous one. It looked as if something ran between his legs and took a shot at the femoral artery.

Tel grimaced. “You’re lucky. From the looks of it, had that wound been any deeper, you’d have bled out before you made it to the port.”

“I stopped the bleeding.”

“Consider yourself fortunate it could be stopped. What caused this?”

It took a moment for him to respond. “Some kind of droid. It was hidden in the sand. I didn’t realize I was standing on it until it was too late.”

She hummed. That was the trouble with ruins; there was always a nasty surprise or two lurking in the far-flung corners or hidden just out of sight. Some that caught even Jedi Masters unawares. She and Master Vrook had stumbled across their fair share during missions for the Council.

The Mandalorian must’ve triggered a security protocol — or his charge touched something he shouldn’t have.

Painful as it looked, the wound wasn’t too extensive. Long, and perhaps a bit too deep for comfort, but nothing that warranted concern. The Mandalorian had already stemmed the bleeding, and, as far as she could tell, he showed no signs of poisoning or any such adverse effects. It would be simple enough to mend — in theory.

In reality, she could barely contain the trembling her hands as she reached for the wound. The Mandalorian tensed as her fingers brushed along the edges of it. Through the bleak void of his visor, she felt his eyes on her, the side of her face burning beneath the intensity of his gaze.

She called upon the Force, but it did not respond. Instead, fleeting fragments of unpleasant memories prodded at her mind, growing more and more incessant as she struggled to push them aside — to clear her mind and allow the Force to work through her. Yet, the more she fought against them, the more demanding they became.

As one in particular leapt to the forefront of her mind, Tel jerked her hand back. Ignoring the inquisitive tilt of the Mandalorian’s helmet, she wrenched her jacket off and tossed it over his head. He reached for it, his confusion palpable, but she smacked his hand away.

“Leave it,” she said. “I can’t focus with you staring at me.”

Without the cold and uninviting facade of the helmet, and the memories it roused, she found it only slightly easier to focus. This time, when she laid her hand over the wound, the Force responded. It flowed through as not the steady river she’d long grown accustomed to, but a mere trickle — a single, fraying thread of a connection that bid his skin to mend. Slowly — much too slowly for her liking — the wound knitted closed. By the time she finished, only a thin white line, vaguely reminiscent of an old scar, remained.

Tel removed her hand and leaned heavily against the crate, her head pounding. It was not, however, the ache that sprouted behind her temples in the wake of her more recent attempts to use the Force. It was the all-encompassing exhaustion that came with an extended bout of wrangling with her thoughts — the sort that transcended the physical and left her utterly drained in all regards.

“I’m done,” she said, trying not to sound as spent as she felt.

The Mandalorian removed her jacket from his head, and despite herself, Tel turned away. Now came the part she dreaded; the questions, the accusations, the—

“Thank you.”

The speed with which Tel turned to face him left her neck aching. For a long moment, she could only stare, her eyes wide and mouth agape. Faced not with judgment, but genuine gratitude, she hadn’t a clue how to respond. In all the wild scenarios her mind had conjured in her earlier panic, acceptance was not something she’d considered.

“That’s it?” she asked, well after the silence between them became uncomfortable. “You’re not going to question it?”

The Mandalorian shrugged. “I’ve witnessed the Child accomplish a similar feat.” Then, after a moment of thought, he added, “You weren’t exactly subtle, either.”

Tel scrunched her nose. She couldn’t argue with that.

“I don’t understand why you hid it, though.”

To that, Tel sighed. “It’s… instinct.”

The slight tilt of his visor prompted her to continue.

“I don’t know how or why, but it seems I was in that tank far longer than should be possible. Things have… well, things have changed considerably since. The Jedi and the Mandalorians weren’t on the best of terms.”

“So I’ve heard,” the Mandalorian said. “I was told the Jedi were an ancient enemy of the Mandalorians.”

Tel grimaced. Ancient. That’s what she was — a relic of a time long past.

“It depends on which side you ask, I suppose,” she said after a moment. “The Jedi, by nature, don’t seek out conflict. For the most part. The Mandalorians however believe — er, used to believe, I suppose — defeating a Jedi was a commendable feat. A bragging right, so to speak.”

Not all of them believed such, but they were a rare few, she’d learned. Even if they didn’t openly seek conflict with the Jedi, most Mandalorians reviled the Force, and they took great pride in besting those who wielded it. Some more than others. To see the younger or less honorable brandishing the lightsabers of fallen Jedi as if they were little more than pretty trophies was a common sight during the war.

“I wasn’t sure what I was dealing with,” she admitted. “I was a Jedi, once, but that hardly matters. Most see the Force and that’s enough for them to assume.”

—

“You use their sorcery, but you’re not a Jedi?”

“Is everyone who carries a blaster and wears armor a Mandalorian? There’s more to it than that. Just as the Mandalorians live by the Resol’nare, the Jedi live by the Code.”

“It’s a creed? Wait, how do you know—“

“I suppose you could call it that,” she said before he could finish. That was not a matter she had any intentions of discussing. “Those unawares of the distinction assume anyone who has the Force and carries a certain type of weapon is a Jedi, but it’s a bit more nuanced than that. I do not follow the Code, therefore I am not a Jedi.”

There was a pause as the Mandalorian seemed to consider her words. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t agree with it.”

That wasn’t entirely true. Her issue was not with the Code itself, per se, but the Jedi’s interpretation and their near-fanatical adherence to it. A Jedi’s priority should be to serve the Force — the Code was merely a set of guidelines detailing the ways in which the Order preferred it to be done.

She believed in the ideals of defending the innocent and helping those who could not help themselves, but she abhorred the way they taught their younglings and what they required of them to identify under their symbol. She despised the hypocrisy and extremism that had become prevalent, or perhaps simply exposed, during the Mandalorian War. Rumors circulating among the ranks of the Jedi and news from the defected or contacts within the Order implied there was a rift among the Council, one that seemed to only widen once Revan and her followers left for war.

“Then why did you join them?”

Tel couldn’t help the bitter laugh that escaped her. She’d asked herself that same question a thousand and one times since she arrived at the Jedi Temple. Perhaps she could’ve refused when the Council asked if she wished to be trained, but she knew as well as they did that their question was little more than a formality. She had nowhere else to go. When faced with the prospect of life on the streets — alone and struggling to survive long enough to see the next sunrise — or the guarantee of a decent bed and a warm meal every night, she’d have been daft to refuse them.

And Tel had always firmly believed they would not accept a refusal. Not without substantial protest. The Council had made certain she understood that her abilities, coupled with her emotional instability and lack of formal training, were not something they could overlook. She was a threat — a danger not only to herself, but to others.

There were some, she suspected, who took pity on her, and those who felt genuinely moved by her predicament, but for as long as she could remember, the prevailing sentiment towards her was one of fear. Fear of what she was. Fear of what she might become.

“Choice is often an illusion where the Jedi are concerned,” she sighed. “Even when I finally walked away from the order, they did their damnedest to drag me back. For punishment, of course.”

The Mandalorian stared at her for a moment. “They tried to punish you for leaving?”

Tel grimaced. “It’s… a bit more complicated than that. Let’s just say there was a difference of opinion regarding a conflict of sorts, and I may have openly defied their orders to remain uninvolved.”

Ignoring the Mandalorian’s growing curiosity, she gathered her jacket and made for her sleeping arrangements. She’d said more than she’d intended, and she had no intentions of delving further into the matters of Jedi policy and war politics. Not when the pounding behind her eyes refused to relent and the exhaustion sleeping into her limbs threatened to drag her to her knees.

“We’re already en route for Nevarro, assuming the coordinates haven’t changed themselves. I’d prefer to be left alone until we arrive. Healing that wound was more exhausting than I expected and I need some time to… reorient.”

“It might be the sedative.”

Tel frowned. “Sedative?”

“The medic on Palix said she found traces of a sedative in your system,” he said, his words punctuated by the sound of him rifling through something. “Said she couldn’t identify it.”

“I was in a tank for twenty years. A sedative is to be expected,” she said. “Though, the fact that it’s lingered this long is a bit alarming. It should’ve run its course by now. I’ve been awake for, what? Two, almost three weeks now?”

A hefty dosage of a regular sedative, even one designed to target the Force shouldn’t have remained in her system for this long. Then again, she’d never heard of a sedative capable of keeping someone subdued for centuries, much less decades — and in near perfect condition.

“Did you get a copy of the results?”

In a few easy strides, the Mandalorian crossed the deck, and old, threadbare sack in hand.

“Jado had this put on the ship before we departed. It contains Tren’s belongings and a copy of the medic’s lab results.”

Tel took the bag, frowning. “Why would he give you Tren’s belongings?”

“Said he couldn’t tell me much of the Jedi, but he insisted Tren — or you — might know something.”

“I already told you what I know,” she sighed. “I was in that tank for twenty years, at the very least. What I’ve learned so far suggests you’re not going to find the Jedi anytime soon. Even if you did, there’s no guarantee they’ll take him.”

“Why not?”

Tel stared at him for a long moment. “Why are you trying to take him back to the Jedi?”

“He belongs with his people.”

She snorted. “Because that’s what you believe, or because that’s what you were told? You know, he’s fond of you. Almost too fond. That alone would turn most Jedi away from training him.”

“Why can’t you train him? You use the same sorcery.”

“If you still intend to hand him over to the Jedi, it’s in his best interest that I don’t.”

That was not her role — at least, not at the moment. Their paths may have converged, but Tel knew, inexplicably, they would deviate all the same. She would correct him when necessary, but she would not commit to taking him on as a Padawan.

If the Jedi Order remained, which seemed less likely with every bit of information she gathered, training him would only cause problems for the Child once he returned. Tel refused to put him in the same position she’d been in; trained as a necessity, but otherwise unwelcome within their ranks. The Council never said it aloud, but she knew they sent her to Dantooine not because she showed promise, but to keep her isolated; to keep her where her emotional attachments and per-existing notions wouldn’t interfere with the other Padawans.

No, it would be easier for the Child if she kept her unconventional beliefs to herself and let the Jedi handle his training. The fear and anger buried deep within him would be difficult enough to handle; he didn’t need her sowing the seeds of distrust in the Order within him.

Without thinking, she pulled her lightsaber from her belt and turned it over in her hands. “There is one other thing I will say on the matter. If — when — the time comes for him to go, let him make the decision for himself. Your quest may be to reunite him with the Jedi, but the choice of whether to walk the path of one is his own.”

And, somehow, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she, too, would soon have a decision of her own to make.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 30 | Nevarro.

Nevarro had changed.

As the Razor Crest descended towards the landing zone outside of the city proper, Din could see the subtle differences. The streets were busier than ever, not a single Imperial in sight. Gone was the tension that was once tangible, even in the higher levels of the atmosphere. It was still a far cry from a respectable settlement, but it’d certainly come a long way since he last visited.

“This place doesn’t look like much.” Tel leaned forward, squinting as she peered through the viewport, the Child cradled in her arms. “There’s not even a proper spaceport.”

“The Empire didn’t care to build the city up,” Din said. “Not when the only thing worth mentioning was the Bounty Hunter’s Guild.”

Tel threw him a sideways look, her grip on the Child tightening. “And you thought bringing two bounties to a planet of bounty hunters was a good idea?”

“Things have chanced since I was last here.”

She hummed, dubious. Her hand fell to cylindrical the object strapped to her belt — a laser sword, Jado had called it. Tel been toying with it since they left Tatooine, the sound of her plundering through the tool locker and the periodic drone of the blade a near constant racket in the last day or two. Din hadn’t a clue what she was doing, only that it was tedious, and that he was not to disturb her. Not unless he wanted a hole blown into the side of the ship.

He had noticed, however, that a few hours after she locked him out of the lower deck, the color of the blade had changed. It was no longer the ominous red he’d seen in the temple, but as blue as the skies above Sorgan.

“Tatooine has changed since I was last there, and that meant nothing.” She pulled the ratty scarf from around her neck and tossed it over her head, taking care to tuck every strand of teal beneath the edges. “I need to find something less conspicuous while I’m here. I look like I’ve been plundering through a refuse pile, and this shirt’s practically ruined.”

Din couldn’t argue with that. She’d been wearing the same set of clothes since they left Scir, and it showed. Blood and grease had stained the once vibrant yellow of her undershirt brown, and she’d had to crop the hem after it caught on something in the ship and torn further. Her jacket was two threads from falling to pieces, and her pants shredded in several places from traipsing across the junk heaps of Palix. Her boots were the only thing that didn’t need replacing.

“Armor might be a better idea,” Din pointed out.

She was far too reckless to be running around unprotected. A halfway decent set of armor might have spared her a few of the injuries she’d sustained since Scir. She was supposed to be looking for one on Tatooine. He’d have insisted she find a set before they left Tatooine, had she not had bounty hunters on her tail.

“The Force doesn’t lend itself well to armor,” she said.

She didn’t elaborate, and Din didn’t bother to ask. Though Tel had been more forthcoming than he expected the other day, she’d since refused to discuss the Jedi and their sorcery further. She met his questions with stony silence or flippant dismissal, and kept to her side of the lower deck, toying with her laser sword or simply staring at the strange crystalline object Din had found among Tren’s belongings.

A holocron, she’d called it — a sort of information storage device used by the Jedi.

Of course, she’d waited until after he wasted an hour trying to open it before she mentioned it not only required the Jedi’s sorcery to access, but what it contained would most likely be of no use to him. After all, what would he need with lectures and lessons on the mystical?

Din sighed. With luck, Karga’s information would prove useful. The sooner he sorted the mess with Tel’s bounty, the sooner he could focus on locating the Jedi. Tel had not been the lead he’d hoped for — assuming she was as clueless as she claimed to be.

And Din suspected she wasn’t.

As the ship touched down, and he began powering down the engines, Tel turned to him. She said nothing for a long moment, merely staring at him, eyes narrowed. Din knew that look.

“What now?”

“I still don’t understand exactly why it is you’re going through all this trouble over my bounty.”

“You’ve saved me and the Child. More times than I can count. Until the issue with your bounty is resolved, we’re in your debt.”

She was no more appeased by the answer than she had been the first time he’d given it. Her eyes narrowed further, the vibrant teal of her lips paling as she pressed them into a thin line. Her foot shifted, her hip jutting out, and Din bit back a sigh.

“I’m not a fool, Mandalorian, nor do I buy the honor bit. I’ve yet to meet anyone, especially a Mandalorian, who truly means it.”

“I didn’t turn you in,” he reminded her.

“Yet,” she countered. “I set aside my suspicions, mostly, because necessity demanded cooperation, but I have to say, I find it rather odd that you’ve run off with not just one, but two bounties. It begs the question of how you came to have the Child in your care to begin with.”

Din’s grip tightened on the ship’s controls, the bitter taste of guilt burning his tongue. If there he could somehow go back in time and change anything in his life, it would be that. The moment he gave the Child to the client, he’d traded his Creed for his repute as a bounty hunter. Even if his clan turned a blind eye to it, even if the Child forgave him, there was nothing he could do to atone for it. There were still times where he couldn’t look at the Child — at his child — without remembering how he looked when he found him again. Barely alive. Barely breathing.

“There were…extenuating circumstances,” he bit out."

“You turned him in.”

Tel had gotten under his skin before — more times than he cared to admit — but the accusation struck a nerve. It wasn’t the sharpened edge to her words that set him off, nor was it the disgust twisting her upper lip. She was right. He knew she was right.

Had it been anyone else, Din might have walked away, but Tel had been prodding at his every nerve since their paths crossed. It was as if she knew which button to push to incite his temper. As if she was trying to piss him off.

And this time, she’d succeeded.

Tel didn’t so much as flinch when he stood and closed the distance between them. She stood her ground, her chin hefted as she stared straight into his visor, a brow raised. In her arms, the Child craned his neck to peer up at them both, his brow creased and a tiny frown turning his lips.

“You don’t know a damned—”

Tel rolled her eyes. “I can feel the conflict within you, Mandalorian.”

Din scoffed. “Oh, you can read minds now?”

“Even if I couldn’t, I wouldn’t need to. Your reaction is telling enough,” she drawled. “I had my suspicions. A Jedi youngling doesn’t just turn up in the hands of a bounty hunter for no reason.”

“Does it matter?”

Tel stared at him for a moment longer, then dropped her gaze to the Child. “More than you’d think. Beyond you expecting me to trust you when you’ve made it obvious I shouldn’t, Force-sensitive younglings often end up the targets of abductions. It’s usually a bounty hunter hired for the job. I only kept it to myself since the Child seems to trust you.”

“He trusts you, though you’ve made it obvious you shouldn’t be trusted either,” he shot back. “How many times have you lied to me these last few weeks?”

“More than I’m willing to admit,” she said. “But would you not do the same if you were in my position?”

“You’d be dead.”

If she were a bounty hunter sent to capture the Child, Din would not have given her the chance to try.

The corner of her lips twitched. “It’s adorable you think you’d win that fight, but that’s not what I meant. I meant in my position in its entirety; if you were the one who woke up in that tank with not even the clothes on your back, so weak you could hardly stand, and the first thing you run into is the bounty hunter sent to capture you.”

“I—”

She held her hand up, stopping him short. “Not as a Mandalorian, either. I’m fully aware your kind would rather die a senseless death in the name of ‘honor’. I mean as a Jedi that knows Mandalorians aren’t fond of you. That most wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to ‘prove their worth by killing’ you. Would you not lie if you thought your best chance at survival was to pretend to be something you weren’t?”

Din frowned. He hadn’t a clue where her perception of the Mandalorians came from, but it was a warped perception, regardless. She spoke of his people as if they were nothing more than common thugs — guileless and honorless.

“No Mandalorian would harm an unarmed or defenseless—”

Her expression hardened, her eyes alight with barely restrained fury.

“The last time I dealt with Mandalorians, they were razing worlds by the dozens and killing millions in their misguided conquest for the ‘glory of war’,” she spat. “I don’t know where your idealistic view of the Mando’ade comes from, but it isn’t reality. As far as most Mandalorians are concerned, the resol’nare is nothing but a loose set of rules to be bent and twisted to suit their needs.”

Whatever report he had died on his tongue as one particular observation stood out to him. He hadn’t noticed it on Palix, but there was something about the way she spoke mando’a that struck him as odd. Her pronunciation was too perfect. Too practiced. More than that, her accent changed entirely. There was a twang to her words that wasn’t present when she spoke Basic.

“How do you know Mando’a?”

Din swore he saw the corner of her eye twitch. “I trained as a Jedi. I can speak any common language, so long as it’s humanly possible, and understand dozens more, both modern and ancient.”

“Why would the Jedi have knowledge of Mando’a?” From what he understood, Mando’a was not a common language; it was spoken only in the confines of the covert, and only among those of the creed. He’d never heard of an outsider capable of speaking more than a word or two. Most only knew the name of the metal they used to forge their armor.

“The Jedi Archives were one of the most extensive collections of knowledge in the known galaxy. So extensive the Jedi often claimed that if there was no record of something in the archives, then it didn’t exist,” she said, shrugging. “As for the Mandalorians specifically, beyond their clashes with the Order, they played quite the role in Courscant’s ancient history. After all, the Mandalorian creed originated from the Dha Werda Verda.”

He recognized the words — The Warriors of the Shadows — but he couldn’t see the significance behind them.

As if she could sense his confusion, she sighed.

“People often mistake the Mandalorians for a race, though they’re not entirely wrong in that regard. They were a race. They called themselves the Dha Werda Verda. Taungs, in Basic. The term Mandalorian didn’t come about until one of their warlords, Mandalore the First, though I have seen some accounts refer to him as Mandalore the Great, conquered the planet that eventually became Mandalore.”

That Din knew of. The founding of Mandalore was one of the first tales he’d learned as a foundling. It was an integral part of their history — the birth of their culture, some would argue. For Tel to know that…

Then again, she could read that strange language in the temple on Palix. She had no problem communicating with Shaldi or the Twi’lek bounty hunters. Perhaps there was an extensive archive of Mandalorian history and culture that he hadn’t been aware of.

Or she was lying. It was impossible to tell anymore.

“But I digress,” she said. “The creed may have changed over the years, but it still clings to the ideals of the Taung’s war-glorifying religion. To say the Mandalorians would never attack someone unarmed and defenseless is a misguided notion. I witnessed the massacre of the already defeated Cathar. I watched them slaughter one of their own for daring to speak out about it.”

While he hadn’t a clue what incident she spoke of, it was clear it affected her greatly. He could see it in her eyes — the hollow despondency in her gaze as she turned to look out the viewport once more. He heard it in the barely constrained anger in her voice, the undercurrent of sorrow laid buried beneath it.

“I fought in the Mandalorian Wars,” she said, seemingly to herself. “I saw what Mandalorian honor looked like. You could feel it in the Force — the haunting echo of pain and suffering. The bone-chilling stillness that followed. So much needless death.”

She turned to him then, the fires of fury lighting her eyes once more. “And for what? The glory of war? The honor of an uncontested victory? Or pure, barbaric bloodlust?”

Din merely stared at her. If it was an answer she sought, he didn’t have one. He knew nothing of the Mandalorian Wars, only that the scavenger — Jak, if he remembered correctly — had mentioned something of it. That it had taken place between the Republic and the Mandalorians thousands of years ago.

It seemed impossible — inconceivable, even — but as outlandish as Tel’s claim was, he couldn’t bring himself to deny the truth in it. She spoke of the war the way some of his clan spoke of the Night of a Thousand Tears, when the Empire decimated Mandalore and sent what remained of the Mandalorians scattering across the galaxy.

A bitter smile touched her lips then. “Though, I suppose things have changed if actually been as long as I suspect it’s been. Tren said it’s been four thousand years, but I’m not sure I believe him. Not entirely. How can I?”

Even a century, if it were possible, would explain her confusion — why she had no recollection of the Empire and why she couldn’t say for certain where to find the Jedi. It might explain her possibly dated view of the Mandalorians.

But, assuming it was true, there were a dozen more questions in need of answers. What could the Empire possibly want with an allegedly ancient Jedi? How did she end up in the hands of Nikto on Scir, of all places?

Most importantly, how had she survived that long?

“Strange things happen when the Force is involved,” she said, and it took Din a moment to realize she wasn’t speaking to him, but the Child.

The Child’s hand curled around her thumb.

“Maybe there is a reason I’m here, and I just haven’t figured it out yet.”

The Child nodded.

“You can…communicate with him?” Din had noticed it on Scir, but it’d become more apparent that Tel could understand the Child even without speaking. In hindsight, she seemed to do the same with him. There were times Tel seemed to know exactly what he was thinking, or what he would say, before he opened his mouth.

“In a way. I can’t actually read your minds, not without intentionally delving into them, but I can sense both of your emotions. Children, however, are simple creatures and easier to understand.” She jerked her head towards the viewport then. “But never mind that. It seems your contact’s here. Or, at least I hope that’s your contact and not another bounty hunter. She’s been hanging around the city’s entrance for a few minutes now. Looks like she’s gotten tired of waiting.”

No sooner than the words left her lips, the Child stirred in her arms, his ears perked and his tiny hand outstretched towards the viewport. A single glance out the window confirmed Din’s suspicions.

Cara Dune carried herself in a way that set most on edge — a measured, even stride benefiting a soldier. The passersby skirted out of her way as she strode towards the ship, her repeating blaster carelessly slung over her shoulder. Karga, far less imposing, trailed behind her, his garish robes fluttering.

Din nodded.

“Then let’s get this over with. I have shopping to do, and we need to replenish the food stores since someone got into the rations last night, ate half of them, and threw up on my leg.” Tel threw a pointed look at the Child. Then she glanced back at him, her nose scrunched. “And you reek.”

It was then Din realized he hadn’t moved since the start of the argument. There were hardly more than a few inches of space between them; every time she moved, her hand brushed against the lower half of his breastplate. It occurred to him, then, just how small she was. He’d known she was short — the top of her head barely met his shoulder — but he’d never quite realized how little space she took up. Even the Child seemed larger in her arms.

“Seriously, when was the last time you took a bath?”

Without thinking, he nearly lifted his arm to check. He hadn’t had a proper shower since Scir, and while the sonic shower in the refresher handled the dirt and grime well enough, it did nothing for the stretch. Nearly three days beneath the sweltering heat of Tatooine’s twin suns likely hadn’t helped matters.

“I doubt you smell any better.”

“Never said I did,” she said. “But I’m not the one with a helmet on. You’re not the one who has to smell it.”

The Child babbled, seemingly in agreement.

“Oh, you’re getting one too. You’re just as stinky. We’ve all been roughing it for a few weeks.”

The Child pouted, his ears drooping.

Perhaps for the first time since they’d med, Din felt the stirrings of sympathy over her predicament. If what she claimed was true, then she’d woken, alone and disoriented, in an unfamiliar galaxy. There was nowhere for her to go. If there was, she had no way of getting there. She could only make do with what she had — and what she hard was hardly worth mentioning.

Her bed was nothing but a couple of old, threadbare blankets thrown over a floor and a few balled up rags serving as a pillow. She had a single set of clothes, which were well on their way to becoming rags, and not a single credit to her name. What weapons she had she’d plucked off corpses or found lying about.

If he were in her position, he’d be just as frustrated, if not more so. And yet, she hadn’t uttered a single complaint.

“We’ll deal with that after,” Din sighed, pulling the Child into his arms.

They still had enough credits leftover from the repairs, if they spent them wisely. Though he would need to find another job soon. He’d have to see if Karga had anything he needed doing while Tel dealt with the markets.

Tel slipped past him, shrugging, and made for the ladder to the lower deck. “Assuming this isn’t a trap. I still don’t trust you.”

The moment she disappeared below, Din let out another sigh. “She always has to have the last word.”

The Child stared up at him, his ears twitching.

“You don’t understand her either, do you?”

The Child nodded.

“At least one of us does.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 31 | Information.

Cara and Karga were waiting for them at the at the door.

“You could’ve warned us before you dropped in,” Cara said, her lips quirked in a half smile. “We were expecting you… what? A week ago?”

“There were complications,” Din sighed.

“With you? No doubt. You always find some sort of trouble to get into,” Karga snorted. He turned to Tel, an inquisitive brow raised. “I think it this is the lady in question? Hmm. She doesn’t look worth the bounty — no offense.”

Tel reached up and adjusted the scarf, pulling it further over her hairline. “It’s always the ones you least expect that prove the most troublesome.”

“If that isn’t the truth.” Karga reached for the child, setting his hand between his massive ears. “You wouldn’t believe the chaos this one caused.”

Tel bit back a smile. “Oh, I think I would. He’s quite the adventurous kid. Quite popular too, I hear.”

From her pocket, Cara withdrew a small black puck and held it up for them to see. “On that note, turns out you were right to assume they were involved. Situation’s a bit more complicated than you expected, though. There are two, but one of them’s recent.”

“Bounties?” Tel asked.

Cara nodded, but before she could say more, Karga waved her off. “Let’s discuss this back at the cantina, shall we?” He lowered his voice and added, “Just in case we missed a couple Imperial sympathizers.”

Tel frowned. “Is it that concerning?”

“Well, you never know who’s listening,” Karga said, motioning for them to follow. “Better safe than sorry. Especially these days.”

From the landing zone, Karga led them into the all too familiar maze of side streets and back alleys — past half-empty bars and dingy housing units. Din had walked this path a thousand times since the responsibility of providing for the covert fell onto his shoulders. Though much had changed, these streets hadn’t. He doubted they ever would. Nevarro was a far cry from respectable, but even the most lavish and respectable cities had a seedy underbelly.

No amount of cleaning up would change that.

“So, what’s the deal?” Cara jerked her chin towards Tel. “She doesn’t look too thrilled to be here.”

That was putting it mildly. She was cordial enough during the introductions, but she’d sense regressed into a state of heightened awareness. He could see it in the way her head shifted as she scanned their surroundings — the occasional glance at the alleys they passed or the slight craning of her neck as she checked the rooftops. Her left hand hadn’t left her laser sword since they exited the ship, and her right hand hovered near her blaster.

“She doesn’t trust me,” Din sighed. “Thinks this is a trap.”

Approval lit Cara’s eyes. “Smart woman. Any idea what they’d want with her? Karga thinks she might have been one of them. You know, got some kind of intel someone’s desperate to get their hands on. Why else would they want her alive?”

Din bit the inside of his cheek in thought. The Empire, from what few jobs he’d run for the, preferred their bounties alive as to make an example of them, though they weren’t as picky as the Republic in that regard. Most clients weren’t too concerned with the state of a quarry, so long as they got them. The conditions for Tel’s bounty, however, were the strictest — and perhaps the most humane — he’d ever seen from the Empire.

“She’s not an Imperial. She doesn’t even have a chain code,” he said at length.

“I noticed,” Cara muttered. “I had someone to a bit of digging into her background just to see what came up. What they found was… odd.”

Din motioned for her to continue.

“There’s one file attached to her name and nothing else,” Cara continued. “Came from an imperial database raided during the Rebellion. It’s an old Republic file. and I mean old. Dated a four thousand years ago, apparently.”

“I wasn’t aware the Republic kept files that old.”

He doubted anyone would. Significant historical records, and perhaps files on prominent public figures during those times, might have survived, but not the average file. They would’ve been written over long before now. Never mind the potential compatibility issues. The Republic’s system surely changed throughout the centuries.

“They don’t. At least, that’s what my contact said,” Cara agreed. “I thought it was a computer error. Happens sometimes when a file or system gets corrupted. Greef thinks she isn’t using her real name, and we stumbled across something that somehow avoided being wiped.”

Din might have believed that, as it wouldn’t put it past her to use a false name — she’d been lying about nearly everything thus far. But in retrospect, perhaps not. The scavenger on Palix V had mentioned something of the Mandalorian Wars — that his wife was looking for relics rumored to be hidden deep beneath the endless sea of refuse that blanketed the planet’s surface. Not moments prior, Tel had admitted to having fought in that same war.

It still seemed too inconceivable to wrap his mind around, but he had little choice but to accept it as truth. Tel was not as good of an actress as she thought she was, and even an actress would struggle to emulate the emotion she displayed — the bitter sorrow and burning anger that seemed to radiate from her as she spoke of the war.

“I wouldn’t put it past her, but that’s the name attached to the bounty,” he said. “And the rest of the information checks out, as far as I can tell.”

“My contact said the file’s about as legitimate as it can be, but there was information missing. Said it wasn’t an error. That someone tampered with the file about a standard week ago. Around the time the second bounty came out.”

“Can they trace it?” Tel asked, startling the both of them. She’d been so quiet he’d almost forgotten she was there.

“No,” Cara said. “They know someone in the Republic accessed it, but they couldn’t figure out who.”

“Why would the Republic tamper with it?” Din asked.

Cara shrugged. “Who knows? Could be an Imperial sympathiser. I heard there’s been issues with them since the Republic started their rehabilitation project. Could be a higher up who knows something and doesn’t want it getting out. The file said she was a Republic officer, though doesn’t say when she served or in what capacity. Oddly enough, that was part of the information that was removed.”

That gave Din pause. One of Shaldi’s hunters had mentioned something of that, now that he thought of it. They had known Tel was a Republic officer — a fact that was not represented on her bounty puck. There hadn’t been time to dwell on it then, and it’d completely slipped his mind in the chaos that followed.

“I wasn’t just an officer,” Tel said. “I was a Republic General. Served nearly three years before… waking up in a tank.”

Din had long suspected Tel had previously held a position of power. Her tendency to take charge and issue orders rather than suggestions was telling enough. He had not expected that position to be so high up the proverbial ladder. She was likely well accustomed to being in command and not at all used to questions or defiance.

Cara threw her a dubious look. “Only three years? You rose through the ranks fast.”

“Let’s just say my previous affiliation ensured that when I involved myself directly in the Republic’s affairs, my rank was guaranteed.”

“So it was an honorary title.”

“Only in the sense that I didn’t attain it in the traditional way.”

Before he or Cara could press her for more information, they arrived at the cantina. Upon entering, Din found the city streets weren’t the only thing that had changed since their encounter with Moff Gideon. He’d never seen the cantina so empty.

Weak sunlight spilled through the grimy windows set high into the wall, dust dancing in the muted rays. The Bounty Guild, which had once been a boisterous establishment that catered to some of the best and most infamous hunters in the sector, had stagnated. Din knew he was partly to blame; in his attempt to escape with the Child, he’d taken out many of the Guild’s members. His covert likely cleared out the rest.

“Now, let’s get down to buisness, shall we?” Karga asked, taking his usual seat. “I know she’s mentioned it, but since your last transmission, I had a few of my more trusted men help Marshal Dune do a bit of digging. Truns out, there are indeed two bounties.

Cara slid into the seat beside Karga and tossed the puck from earlier onto the table. The holographic image flickered to life, Tel’s face prominently displayed in the center of the wanted poster. Din leaned forward, his eyes narrowed, as he studied the image.

It was not the same one used in the bounty puck they’d pilfered from Shaldi’s hunters. This one was more recent. He saw it in the haziness of her eyes and the fatigue etched into her face. The jacket thrown over her shoulders looked suspiciously like the one she wore currently, except in far better repair.

What truly caught his eye, though, was the conditional. The original bounty demanded her alive — this one wanted her dead. And it was non-negotiable.

“So the Hutt lied,” Tel concluded. “I suspected as much.”

“Or she knew something you didn’t,” Karga suggested. “There was only one public bounty at the time Mando took the job, but it’s possible she may have had more… private dealings.”

Tel hummed, unconvinced. “I think it’s more likely she fabricated the dual bounties to make it more enticing. She had no intentions of allowing the Mandalorian to deliver me to the client. I suspect she meant for him to do the dirty work while she handed me over and collected the full reward. And possibly whatever the beskar’s worth.”

“Its possible,” Cara said, shrugging. “But that doesn’t explain why the Empire came after you. And so quickly. From what Mando said, it sounded like they showed up within hours.”

“I would assume someone tipped them off,” Tel said, “but we were told the client was a collector, not part of this Empire.”

Cara reached into her pocket and produced a second bounty puck. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

The second puck displayed another bounty, this one depicting a middled-aged man, his face twisted with a series of nasty scars. Sharran Carrden, the name said.

“This is New Republic issued,” Cara explained. “Been out for a while now, but that’s not what’s odd. Mando said the Hutt claimed he was the source, but turns out he’s just the middleman.”

“What do you know of him?” Din asked.

“Not much,” Karga admitted. “According to the New Republic reports, he was an officer in the Empire.”

“Not sure how high up, though,” Cara added. “He defected after the Rebellion dusted the first Death Star and the Imps wiped his records. Intel says he passes himself off as a collector now, but rumors say he works for an underground crime syndicate based on Dantooine. Black market weapons trade — and possibly slave trade — but I haven’t been able to confirm that.”

Tel sat up straighter, her eyes wide. “Dantooine?”

“Pretty bold, if you ask me,” Karga said. “Dantooine’s New Republic territory. Guess he figures they won’t suspect he’s hiding right under their nose.”

“Dantooine is… a remote system, from what I remember,” Tel said, chewing on her thumbnail. “Sparse population. Almost primitive in some places. Mostly inhabited by farmers. It’s the sort of planet most people would overlook.”

“What would a black market trader want with her?” Din asked.

“Not a clue, but I doubt it’s selling her off,” Karga said. “Not when there’s a conflicting bounty. If I had to guess, the Hutt planned to hand her over to this Sharran Carrden, and the Empire caught wind of it.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Tel dropped her head into her hands. “I don’t get the need for this convoluted battle of bounties. If this Empire can decimate an entire city to prevent my escape, why didn’t they just storm the compound and come get me themselves?”

“They may not have been aware of your location until Shaldi confirmed it,” Din offered. “Assuming you were their target. They may have been after the kid. The Empire has a bounty out for him.”

“Could be both,” Karga said. “We don’t know who issued the second bounty, but it can’t be a coincidence the Empire showed up only after you brought her in.”

Din bit back a sigh. He should’ve refused the job the moment he suspected something was amiss.

“I just don’t get it,” Tel said. “What could they possibly want with me?”

“Well, if you ask me, it’s beginning to look like you’re caught in the middle of a power struggle,” Karga said. “And for whatever reason, someone thinks you’re too much of a threat to be kept alive.”

Tel pressed a finger to her temple and squeezed her eyes shut. To anyone else, it may have come across as irritation, but Din knew better. This conversation was giving her a headache — and it wouldn’t be long before she’d decided she’d had enough of it.

“It can’t be information,” she said. “My memory pre-dates this Empire. I’ve had no dealings with them.”

“That you’re aware of,” Cara pointed out. “We don’t know where you were before Mando found you.”

Tel made a face that clearly conveyed her disagreement. “Is there nothing else?”

Cara shook her head. “We’ve told you all we know. Everything else is just speculation.”

“It’s more than we had before,” Din said.

If nothing else, he now knew he was correct to avoid Ord Mantell.

But now remained the question of what to do about it. Turning her over, even if it might be the only way to deal with the root of the matter, wasn’t an option. He’d already given her his word that he would not turn her in. More than that, it would put the Child directly in the Empire’s sights, and that defeated the entire purpose of ditching the bounty.

Leaving the Child behind wasn’t an option either. He’d made that mistake once before, and regardless of whether he trusted Cara and Karga to keep him safe, he’d be damned before he did it again. No, the Child would not leave his side until he died or found the elusive Jedi.

Perhaps there was a place for her in the New Republic. With her apparent military history, she should have no problem finding a place among them. They might even reinstate her as a General. Last he heard, the New Republic was struggling to fill the ranks of their rapidly expanding military.

“How far are we from Dantooine?”

“No,” Din said without a moment’s hesitation. “You don’t trust me not to turn you in, but you want me to take you straight to the person responsible for one of your bounties?”

Tel pinched the bridge of her nose. “The bounty has nothing to do with this. I spent almost most of my life on Dantooine. I know the planet like the back of my hand.”

“Knew,” Din reminded her. “You knew Dantooine. Things have obviously changed since then.”

If looks could kill, the glare she threw his way would’ve taken his head off. “Given that no one corrected me, I’m assuming Dantooine is still the same as I remember.”

“I am not taking the Child to—”

The sigh that left her was one of utter exasperation. “The Jedi had an enclave on Dantooine.”

“And you didn’t mention that sooner?”

“Would you tell a complete stranger where to find your clan?”

Din opened his mouth, only to snap it shut. He would not. Even if they weren’t a stranger, and he knew trust them, he would never tell an outsider where to find his clan. Not unless it was a dire emergency.

“I don’t know if they’re still there,” she admitted, “but even if they aren’t, there may well be something that might point you in the right direction.”

Din stared at her for a long moment, his lips pursed in thought. Tel had never made much of an effort to help him locate the Jedi; she’d repeatedly insisted she hadn’t a clue where to find them. She’d made it clear she wasn’t fond of them.

“I’m going to Dantooine, with or without you. That’s not up for debate,” she said when he didn’t respond. “I’d already be there, if not for the complications on Palix and Tatooine. The only reason I stayed this long was to see what information your contacts had.”

Cara made a sound at the back of her throat. “I don’t know how you’re planning on getting there without him. You can’t use the official channels without a chain code, and if I were in your position, I wouldn’t want one. It’s probably the only thing keeping more bounty hunters from coming after you.”

“Bypassing security has never been an issue for me,” Tel said. “I can be very…persuasive when I want to be.”

From the corner of his eyes, Din saw the Child lift his hand and wave it in a small arc in front of him. He hadn’t a clue what it meant, but from the half-smile that touched Tel’s lips, he suspected she did.

“If not, I’ll find a way,” she said, shrugging. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to smuggle myself somewhere. I’m sure I can find a container big enough for me.”

Cara chuckled. “You’ve got spunk. I’ll give you that.”

“More than you’d think.” Tel stood and readjusted her scarf. “Well, if that’s all, I’m headed for the market. I’ve got shopping to do.”

“You don’t even have credits,” Din pointed out.

She raised a brow and patted the pocket of her jacket. “I still have what you gave me on Tatooine. If I can’t get a change of clothes with that, someone needs to have a serious word with whoever’s in charge of commerce around here.”

Before he could say anything else, she was already out of the booth and halfway to the door. At the threshold, however, she paused. “You have until nightfall to make your decision, Mandalorian.”

“We’ll… talk about that later.”

“If you don’t contact me before then, I’ll assume the answer is no.”

With one last pointed look over her shoulder, she disappeared into the street.