Chapter Text
The bite of the sun leaves as you step into the doorway of the cantina. No one bothers to look. With almost every inch of your small frame covered, you’re not interesting or intimidating enough to hold the patrons’ attention.
“You have anything from Alderaan?” Your voice is hoarse, bone-dry like the Nevarro desert you just trekked through.
“No. Nothing from Alderaan.” The droid, a beat-up C5 unit that has seen better days, betrays no emotion at your request.
“I can pay.” You slam credits on the table. Too many credits. Shiny credits. Heads turn.
The bartender’s metal arm pushes them back to you. “No.” You open your mouth in protest, but the droid cuts in first: “We do not carry wine from Alderaan. Not since it’s destruction in the year—”
“I get it, shiny-face.” Your scoff is muffled only by the thick fabric covering your mouth. You’re being childish but you can’t find it in yourself to care; it’s hard to care about anything after that piece-of-junk speeder decided to break down in the middle of a lava flat. You hastily gather the credits off the counter, the growing number of eyes on the back of your head sending pricks across your skin.
“Can I buy you a drink?” The man who stands next to you at the counter has a warm voice. He’s around the same age as you, his hair laced with sun and his palms streaked with grease. A local tech, you’re guessing.
You give him a few seconds before you reply curtly: “No.”
“You new around here?” Curiosity colors his voice and you decide to humor him. It’s been too long since you’ve had an actual conversation.
You tug away the cloth obscuring your face, feeling the metal kiss of your necklace. “What’s it to you?”
“I suspected you were pretty.” He cuts right back, smiling. A large part of you wants to cringe at his line, but you refrain. “You’re too small to be a bounty hunter.” You hate the way he says that, as if its a immutable fact.
He’s not your type at all. Even with dirt on his hands, this man is far too clean for your tastes. For starters, there’s a simple trust written all over his face; you two might be near the same age, but he hasn’t seen the things you’ve seen. He hasn’t done the things you’ve done.
“So,” you say. “Are we going to talk all day or are you going to buy me that drink?”
The Mandalorian needs a pilot. It was too close a call on the last ride, too much for him to simultaneously watch the foundling and guide the Razor Crest through a crowded debris field. Having Imps in hot pursuit never helped.
Mando fingers the pucks tucked in his belt, counting them yet again. Five, all the highest bounties Greef Karga could offer during this stop in Nevarro. Mando didn’t want to resort to bounty hunting again, but with his credits this low and the Kid around there seemed to be no other option. It was all familiar, but meeting Karga in an office instead of the cantina was strange. Things had changed around here.
For this next run, Mando needs a pilot.
The Child doesn’t notice his father’s concern. Blissfully upbeat as always, the Child babbles as Mando cradles him in the crook of his broad arm. “I know, Kid.” The Child coos in response, unaware of how Mando’s baritone softens just for him. “I know.”
Many would argue that the cantina—though Nevarro was far more respectable now than ever before—was no place for a child. But wherever the Mandalorian went, his foundling went too.
Mando steps through the door, and every living being in the cantina turns to clock him. It’s a moment frozen in time, a snapshot of sheer awe before a ripple of fear shivers through the building. The Mandalorian hesitates before approaching the counter. The bartender is a droid.
A sentence wouldn’t hurt. “I was told I would find a pilot here.”
The machine stares at him with its beady eyes. “Pilot?”
“A small…” Mando’s voice trails off. Karga hadn’t given him much to go on. “A pilot.”
“Oh. If you’re talking about her…” The droid returns to polishing a glass so streaked with dust that Mando doesn’t know why it bothers. “She’s out back.”
Out back? The Mandalorian looks down at the Child, who is still fussing in his arms. She? He remembers Karga’s office, where the big man had bellowed out the pilot’s description: “The best pilot on-planet right now. Small… flew for the rebellion. Been living on the fringes of the city for the last few months. Very capable, but a bit rough around the edg— you know what? You two will get along just fine.”
The Child coos again.
“I know, Kid,” Mando repeats. He lets the Child play with the tips his gloved fingers. “It won’t be long now.”
“What did you want to show me?” Your voice is blurred from the drink—the drinks—the nice man had bought you. It hadn’t taken him long to invite you out back. You lean against the wall, waiting.
The man stands near you but not close enough, shoving his hands into his pockets. He’s much taller than you, but you both know who holds the power here.
“I—” The man scratches at the back of his head, toying with his shaggy hair. “I—"
It takes all of your good will not to let out a groan of frustration. During the rebellion, everything had been urgent; people never wasted time on coyness. But the rebellion is over, you remind yourself. That’s why you were on a scummy Outer Rim planet like Nevarro in the first place. You look at the man. He’s still weighing his options as if they were some intricate life or death situation. The man takes a step forward—finally, when—
You hear it.
The echo of heavy footsteps to your side. Your face turns whip-fast on instinct. A Mandalorian of all things in the galaxy steps out the backdoor of the cantina, his shiny helmet turning towards you. His beskar armor glints silver, somehow untainted by the dust and dirt of this place. You stare up at the visor as he towers above you, the centerpiece a thin blade of black splicing his helmet in two. You wonder whether he’s there for your companion or… you.
Your companion—or whatever he’s been reduced to now—visibly quakes in the presence of the Mandalorian. The nice man steps quickly away from the both of you, his gaze ducked, only darting up to clock the long pulse rifle strapped to the Mandalorian’s back. The bounty hunter’s figure would be intimidating even without the armor; you can tell his frame is naturally tall and broad, but wearing the beskar he feels impossibly so. Unbreakable. A warrior of the ancient world.
The Mandalorian's cape billows with the next gust of wind that tunnels through the alley.
Despite yourself and all the things you’ve faced, you feel it too. The shimmer of fear. From all the stories you’ve read as a child, from the stories you still hear in rundown cantinas time and time again. You eye the blaster at the hunter’s hip. If the Mandalorian is hunting you, there would be no running.
“Can I help you?” You will your voice not to shake as you spill your question.
The Mandalorian pauses, the cold steel of his helmet completely unreadable. “I’m looking for the pilot.” His voice is deep and steady through the modulator.
Your companion starts to stammer. “I—I can fly—”
“You’re looking for me.” You try to find the warrior’s eyes through the visor, though the experience is disorienting; the confidence in your own tone surprises you. “I’m the pilot you’re looking for.”
After a few moments, the Mandalorian seems to accept this. He takes a breath, audible through the helmet’s modulator, which crackles pleasantly in your ears. “Then let’s speak in private.”
“I’ll just—” Your companion shuffles from foot to foot. He looks up at the Mandalorian as if to say something, but his body locks again in fear before he can. The helmet tilts and turns subtly towards the gaping mouth of the alley—go—and before you know it, the other man is running, eager to scamper away.
“It seems as if we’re in private.” You watch him leave without regret. “Do you have a ship?” You don’t want to sound too eager, but the mere thought of it—the possibility of finally getting off this planet—is dizzying.
“I do. She’s not much.”
“Whatever she is, she’ll do.” You nod. As long as it flies.
“Don’t you want to know the details?”
“Let me guess. Bounty hunter.” You push away from the wall, crossing your arms over your chest as if that’ll protect you. “Want me to pilot your ship while you go and catch the bad ones?”
The Mandalorian shifts. For the first time you notice how his arm is bent, almost like he’s shielding his satchel from your direct line of sight. The beskar helmet tilts down and back towards the tiny green being rocking in the bag. “Settle down, Kid.”
“Is that…” You shake your head. This must be a dream. “Is that a pet? Or a… baby?”
The Mandalorian doesn’t reply. Finally—slowly—he reaches into the bag, scooping the wrinkly baby up to rest on a thick forearm. “He’s part of the deal. My foundling.” You peek at the Child, only to see the edge of a large, fuzzy, green, ear. Was that what was under the helmet? “I need to pick up a few bounties on the Outer Rim, and I need someone to help pilot the Crest. It won't take more than a few weeks. I’ll give you a handsome cut—”
“Done.” Credits didn’t concern you. You shake your head again. “Wait. Can I… Can I see him?”
There is complete stillness. Finally, the bounty hunter nods. And then, because you don’t move, he steps closer for you to see the baby. “This is the Child.”
The Child is adorable. Every maternal instinct you’ve jammed down deep inside of you flares back into existence at the sight of him, his big black eyes and large floppy ears almost compelling a girlish “aw” to slip from your mouth—almost. You swallow the sound, urging yourself to adopt the Mandalorian’s speech patterns, his dryness and brevity. “I see.” The Child reaches for you and you step back, your heart racing as you notice the Mandalorian’s helmet tilting down again, this time to study your expression. The bottom of your stomach feels like a Bespin Fizz. If the stories are true, then why does this Mandalorian cradle a Child tenderly?
“Let’s meet when the sun rises tomorrow.” The Mandalorian's low voice nudges you out of your stupor. “You’ll know the ship when you see it. Pre-Empire. Pack light.” The bounty hunter turns and leaves, the large rifle still strapped across his back. His cape swirls behind him, his stride sure and steady as he moves further away.
“Wait!” You call out before it’s too late. “I don’t even know your name.”
He hesitates only for a second before walking on, not even gracing you with a reply. You cross your arms again, displeased. Not even a name. It occurs to you that he hasn’t asked for yours either. So that’s how it’s going to be… As you watch him leave, all you can think about is the stars, the streaks of light painted across the darkness as you make the jump to hyperspace.