Chapter Text
Feemor is, for no particular reason, reminded of the time his source turned out to be running an elaborate scheme to double cross his own criminal syndicate and, instead of telling Feemor any of that, proceeded to lead him around in circles for weeks while hyping himself up as a threat under an alter ego.
A Mandalorian wanting to keep their involvement in a Jedi investigation a secret is hardly that strange. There are other Shadows who’ve found themselves allied with Mandalorians for one reason or another, sometimes on a very temporary basis but Feemor knows one of his former mission partners still goes out drinking with her’s when they find themselves in the same system.
Still, he thinks as he strides forward, it would be nice if his sources would give him a little warning sometimes.
The Mandalorian looks up at Feemor’s approach, their posture cautious but not at all skittish like their messages implied. They hold themself with the confidence of someone who has lived and fought long enough to know what they’re doing.
Feemor sits beside them, orders a drink for himself and sips at it. It’s stronger than it should be but he never remembers which systems use which name for which drink. The Mandalorian is looking at him though Feemor can’t be precisely certain where their gaze lands.
There are half a dozen seats he could have chosen that are not right next to a Mandalorian. If anyone was paying even a bit of attention they might note the oddity.
They aren’t. Feemor barely has anything to do with it.
The Mandalorian is wearing a red cape and really, they could have just said they were wearing a helmet. It would have been vague enough.
It doesn’t matter.
Feemor turns from his drink and, casually as anyone can manage when the words are lines copied from an opera over three hundred years old, says his code phrase.
The Mandalorian, as best Feemor can explain it, lights up in the Force with recognition.
Feemor casually takes a sip as he waits for the returning answer.
The door explodes.
There are Jedi who don’t believe in luck. Feemor’s luck is pretty good, most of the time. Most of the time isn’t all of the time.
Someone lobs what Feemor guesses but doesn’t want to find out is a grenade through the smoking remains of the door. The bar is wide awake now. Feemor figures there’s little point in subtlety and sends it right back out the way it came.
The resulting explosion tells him he hasn’t lost his touch on grenade identification.
The Mandalorian peaks around his shoulder and Feemor moves to block them better as he takes his lightsaber out. He has no idea how good that armor is and he’d rather not lose his best source of information to a stray bolt. They can spar over the insult or something later.
He takes a breath, reaches out with the Force, realizes a moment too late that he never saw the bartender leave.
Feemor does not take a wooden chair directly to the back of the head, which is much appreciated. The Mandalorian, his only source of information does, which is very much not.
He shoves the perpetrator back with the Force and hopes that helmet really is of at least decent quality as he catches the Mandalorian before their body hits the floor.
Feemor tells himself, in the brief moment of wry humor he allows before snapping back to the fight at hand, that convincing an unconscious Mandalorian to retreat is probably much easier than convincing a conscious one.