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Din jolted to awareness in an instant, body aching fiercely, head pounding. He felt like he did after he was hit by the mudhorn, dazed and disoriented – and fearful for Grogu’s safety. It’d been a less serious thing back then, an abstract notion that he’d brought a child along on his work and he didn’t know if that child was safe. Grogu’d been safe then – Grogu had saved him then – but he wasn’t safe now.
Rolling onto his side, Din pushed himself up and staggered to his feet. There was no time for hurts, for aches and pains and bruises. Grogu needed him.
He’d thought this whole bounty-hunter-out-for-the-kid’s-blood thing would have been done with, with Gideon’s capture, and maybe this wasn’t related to that, maybe this was something different. Didn’t matter. Someone had taken Grogu, dashing out before Din could come to, and that was all that mattered. It’d been a targeted attack, clearly, because he hadn’t been stripped for parts the way some folks around here would have been inclined to do. ‘Course, that could just have been because he was only out for a few seconds, and they knew better than to tangle with a Mandalorian, but then, that was the same conclusion, in the end.
They’d come for Grogu. Din would get him back, or die trying. It was as simple as that.
He couldn’t hear the motor of a speeder bike, but even if he’d only been out for ten seconds or so that was enough to put some distance between them, get out of hearing range. And his hearing was shot anyway, with the pounding in his head.
Inhaling deeply, ignoring his desire for a cool drink of water, Din flicked through the different views his helmet could provide, gazing around the ramshackle, abandoned barn he and Grogu had spent the night in. His instincts screamed at him to go after his kid but he had to make sure he didn’t miss anything in the meantime, some evidence left behind – or a way to get after Grogu faster. There was nothing but the remnants of their fight: two dead bodies, still cooling, stray blaster shots, the hole in the wall where Grogu had tossed a third.
If Din was remembering correctly, there’d been five of them, and he’d hit another with a solid shot to the shoulder. That one must have been sturdier than the rest, or else that last attacker had dragged off his fellow’s corpse for some reason. Din strode out of the barn, left ankle twinging. Normally, in a fight, a few seconds blanking out’d get him hurt bad, but his attacker would usually still be around when he came to, and Din would have the opportunity to remind them not to mess with a Mandalorian. Well, at least for the next minute or so, before they didn’t have to remember anything anymore.
These attackers had come with an objective. Luckily, the last of them hadn’t had time to destroy his fellows’ bikes. Din would have called him an idiot, if he hadn’t also known that getting out of there as fast as possible – giving himself time to regroup – was about the smartest thing the person could have done. It was sheer dumb luck that their surprise attack of five on one (and a half) had gone as well as it had (luck, and the two broken ribs and a sprained ankle Din had from his last job, on top of Grogu's exhaustion); only way a rematch wouldn’t end in seconds would be if he found himself some reinforcements.
It was luck, too, that there was a trail left in the dusty soil. Throwing a leg over one of the bikes, Din sped off after his kid.
The ride was longer than he’d hoped for, by the time the trail worn down, ending in a dusty town. If the last man standing had taken the fastest bike – if he’d had the time to make that judgement – there was a chance he’d regrouped plenty. There was a chance too he’d caught another ride or made his way out of town on another route, cutting through only to cut off his trail. There were lots of chances, and lots of possibilities, and wasting time dwelling on them wouldn’t bring Din to Grogu any quicker.
Ditching the bike at the nearest place that served alcohol, Din strode inside without any care to the afternoon hour. One interrogation later – a few well-placed words, and a bit more well-applied force – and he had the name of the local criminals, and their hangout too. He left the bike where it was, using the jet pack to take him to the roof tops. Buildings round these parts were spread out enough that he had to use it again, here and there, to stay off the streets, but Din kept low as he could and ignored the stress on his ankle each time his feet touched down.
Two minutes after he’d left the tavern he was hunkered down low on the roof across from the local mechanics garage, speeder bike parts laying askew around it. The place wasn’t big enough for any real ships, nothing that left atmo; local, ground transportation was their specialty. And those speeder bikes looked mighty familiar.
It wasn’t much evidence, but then, Din wasn’t the law. He didn’t much care about reasonable evidence.
There was no one around on the outside of the building. Could have been plenty of activity inside – could have been a fortress, for all he knew. But the door looked flimsy enough, and planning took time. Wasn’t much need for a plan without someone to share it with. Din gave himself a minute to get a good look at the building, circling ‘round it best he could, mainly scoping out the exits. Then he landed in the street in front of the main door, shot the lock with his blaster, and kicked the thing in.
If he was wrong, he’d drop a few credits on his way out to apologize. If he was right, there wouldn’t be anyone left to take that apology.
The shooting started before he cleared the doorway, which meant amateurs – they were aiming at nothing, and they hit what they aimed at. Din kept his arms in tight, just in case, prepared to let the armor take the blow. He stepped in quick as he could, and shot back in the direction of the blaster fire. A hit pinged off his chest plate, another clipped his left pauldron. The force of it threatened to send his shoulder backward a little, but Din powered through it. He tore through the front room, downing two people he didn’t recognize, and a third already bleeding from the shoulder, and didn’t bother to stop and check if they’d stay down. No reason to give anybody an opportunity to get out the back.
Blasting through to the next room, another shot hit his chest plate, and a fourth clipped his leg, sending fire racing up his veins, before he got off a few shots that downed a third. The last few – one of them the thug from the barn who'd grabbed Grogu – must have been hiding, and intending to stay there, because the blaster fire stopped after that.
Din took a deep breath to steel himself against the way the chest hits had rattled his ribs, and the way his leg had been cauterized by the heat of the blast. “If you return the kid to me,” he said, projecting his voice, “I’ll let you walk away.” It was the truth. Din wasn’t much of a liar, unless the occasion called for it. Of course, how far he’d let them walk was the real question. Nobody ever thought to ask that.
There was no immediate response to his proclamation, but someone shifted behind some boxes to his right. Din shot again – and again – until the boxes stopped moving.
“Alright, alright!” someone shouted, scared and angry from the other side of the room. “He’s in the cabinet, alright? The metal cabinet!”
Blaster still raised in the direction of the voice, Din stepped sideways until he could open the cabinet door with his other hand. Grogu blinked up at him, sleepy in that way he still got sometimes when he was running on empty and using his powers. He looked nervous and shaky a little, but he brightened at the sight of Din in a way that would never stop brightening Din’s own heart in turn. He was safe, unrestrained except for the fact the cabinet had been shut and there were no handles on the inside.
With one hand, Din helped him to the ground, then stepped away, aiming still at the thug who’d spoken.
The man in question had stepped out from his hiding place while Din had been taking care of Grogu; he’d noted the movement, but deemed it non-threatening enough that he hadn’t taken the shot. He’d said he’d let the man walk away, after all.
“The two of you are more trouble than this is worth,” the thug said now, holding up a small cylinder, wire trailing out of the bottom.
It took a second, but Din recognized the threat for what it was. He had two options: lunge for the thug, a farther distance, and risk missing, or dive for Grogu, just a step behind him, with the guarantee that the explosives would be set off. It wasn’t really a question. He had beskar armor, and Grogu’s own armor wouldn’t save him from everything.
Din dove backward, curling his body around his kid. The building detonated.
Someone had their hand on his shoulder. Din recognized that even as his body was still processing all his aches and pains, the fire racing through his left leg, the pounding in his head, the sharp spike of pain from his right shoulder, his broken ribs, rattling in his chest, maybe more of them than before. More important than all that: someone had their hand on his shoulder.
And then, even more important than that: Din didn’t have Grogu in his arms. He pushed himself upward into a seated position even as his vision whited out from the pain; since he couldn’t see much of anything, he strained with his ears for the kid’s distinctive babbling. He had to be alright. Din was going to rain fire down on this planet if he wasn’t.
The hand on his shoulder tried to push him back down. Whoever it was was saying something, but Din didn’t pay it any mind. They weren’t Grogu. He blinked, vision clearing even as he struggled to breath through the broken ribs (and the beaten everything else). The room he was in was small. He was on some kind of cot.
The hand pushed harder. Din almost folded, but he wasn’t about to let himself be pushed around. He reached up instead with his left hand, with the shoulder that was working, and tightened his fingers around the figure’s wrist.
The voice turned alarmed. “Hey, hey, whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down there. You’re safe now, okay, I’m just trying to help,” the voice said, trying to be soothing, but Din still struggled against them, fingers curling tighter. “Hey, you’re safe, you’re safe now, both of you.”
He froze. He refocused on the man speaking, on the pain in his expression from Din’s grip, on the concern in his eyes. He’d already assumed the man wasn’t a hostile – he’d be dead otherwise, or his helmet removed probably – but now he re-evaluated.
“Grogu?” he asked, and it was all he could manage to ask, voice gravely and chest still tight and aching. He loosened his fingers, but he didn’t let go.
The man winced, gaze flickering to his captured wrist before he quickly returned his focus to Din. “I don’t know what that means,” he said. “Or if that’s a name or anything. We pulled you out of the rubble, you and the little fellow, green, big ears. He’s in the next room over.”
That was enough information for Din. He dropped the man’s wrist in a second, swinging his legs over the side of the cot. The movement was enough for his vision to white out with pain again, but it was a temporary effect. It wouldn’t stop him from getting to Grogu.
“Whoa, whoa!” the man said again. “You shouldn’t be moving! I will bring him to you, okay? I’ll bring him here. Just give me a minute.” He had a hand on Din’s shoulder again, not pushing, just resting, and concern in his eyes still.
Din re-evaluated his own state; passing out wouldn’t do Grogu any good. “You have five seconds.”
The man nodded, standing in a hurry and moving for the door. He didn’t need five seconds. Grogu was on the floor just outside the room, looking like he was five seconds away from opening it himself. Din’s heart leapt in his chest, wanting to surge forward and pick him up, but he held himself back. No point in passing out now, he reminded himself again.
He didn’t have to wait long. The man, after asking for permission, scooped Grogu up and deposited him in Din’s lap speedily. The kid was quick to burrow into him before his gaze, his big brown eyes, flickered upward. He vocalized his concern the only way he knew how, in incomprehensible babbles and chirps, but Din had gotten pretty good at reading him by now.
“I’m alright, kid,” he said, and then, “Grogu,” he said, because the kid liked it better when he said his name. “I’m alright.” And he was: Grogu was safe again. That was really all that mattered.