Chapter Text
If it wasn’t for the fact he was already near Glavis Ringworld, Din probably wouldn’t even have considered taking this job. It’s routine, these days: track down some ge'hutuun irritating enough to put a Mandalorian on it, bring him in, collect the meagre payment, and find the next job. Aside from the client offering a reward rather than just a bounty, this Klatooinian isn’t any different from his other bounties.
Too standard, almost, to keep him distracted from the increasing aches in his body after weeks of hunting and little rest. But the work keeps his mind occupied, safely away from memories of Grogu, and this was one of the few jobs close-by enough to pay for passage and have any credits left of the reward at all. Without his own ship or a home base to hunt from, the already slim margins of bounty hunting prove barely enough to live on.
Din pauses in front of the plastic barrier to the abbatoir, tapping his vambrace to switch his helmet display to heat vision. It is clearly cold inside: the silhouettes of the Klatooinians are stark against the room, the tips of their canine noses visibly colder than the rest of their hulking bodies.
He strides into the room, past the rows of dangling meat. Klatooinian butchers look up warily as he passes, but their cleavers remain aimed at the meat on their worktables. He is grateful for the vacuum seal on his helmet, spotting the bloodied tiles on the walls and the grimy butchers’ aprons. Whomever they’re selling this meat to has probably never been down here.
The makeshift office and storage room at the back is little warmer, his readouts tell him, but at least the floor is cleaner. Less risk of slipping, and no knives lying around. The four armed Klatooinian guards scattered around the room straighten up when he enters, but make no move to stop him. Good.
Their bosses are sitting in the middle of the dingy room, around a low table strewn with New Republic credits. One of them sneers at him nervously from the side, his hand straying to a concealed blaster holster.
Din stops well before the durasteel table, keeping his vambrace in front of the gaps between his chestplate and his backplate in case the Klatooinian gets twitchy and tries to shoot at him. The other one in front of him, matching the Klatooinian face he saw emerge from his bounty puck two days ago, merely looks irritated at the interruption.
He won’t look that way for very long.
“I’m here for Kaba Baiz.”
“What makes you think he's here?” The Klatooinian shrugs, the pockets of his coat jingling with the motion.
Din shows him the tracking fob, blinking rapidly. If he wants proof, he can get it.
“What do you want of him?” The Klatooinian is clearly trying for nonchalance, but his nervous glances to his companions say otherwise.
“He owes someone important money.”
“Who?”
The Klatooinian likely knows perfectly well who he’s been shafting, and Din is feeling less charitable by the minute in the ice-cold room. “That's not my business. I'm here to bring him in.”
“Well, if I see him, I'll let him know.”
He puts the bounty puck on the table, the thick metal disk landing on the grimy surface with a click. “I see him right now.”
“That's not me. That doesn't even look like me,” Baiz scoffs.
Din ignores him, instead looking at the other Klatooinians in the room. They have moved closer, their hands hovering near their beat-up blasters. They look nervous rather than focused, clearly not used to facing a Mandalorian. If it’s up to him, they don’t have to.
“I'm gonna give the rest of you the opportunity to walk out that door. I have no quarrel with you.” The less Klatooinians to protest at his treatment of their boss, the faster he can get to his next bounty.
Baiz grins, sharp teeth flashing in the abattoir lights. “They’re not going anywhere. And neither am I.”
He spreads his arms, lounging for a moment, before he gestures at the piles of credits before him. “But you look like the practical type. Let's discuss our options.”
Din resists the urge to sigh. Bargaining doesn’t work, not with Mandalorians, but somehow bounties never seem to learn that.
“I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold.”
There is a flash at the corner of his eye, and he can barely draw his blaster before slamming his forearm into the chest of one of the guards barreling towards him. The Klatooinian snarls loudly, spittle landing on his helmet display. Din feels his blaster slip out of his hand, and he grunts with the effort of keeping the snapping teeth away from his shoulder.
Cold, then. He grips the Klatooinian by his shirt and disposes of him with a vicious kov'nyn, his helmet making a satisfying thud against the Klatooinian’s forehead. His opponent grunts, slumping down onto the tiles.
There is a brief beat of silence, and then the other guards roar and start shooting, blaster bolts pinging around the room. Too far away for his vibroblade, and it would be a waste of his Whistling Birds. Perhaps—
His hand reaches almost involuntarily for the Darksaber. He uses the blade as little as possible, the black-and-white lightsaber drawing too much attention for his liking. It is still an efficient weapon though, and he’ll be off this planet before anyone can come after him for it.
His thumb flicks over the small switch on the side, and the strangely metallic sound of it igniting sizzles along his spine.
He shudders: he never gets used to it.
It cuts through his first opponent with ease, but grows heavier as he turns on another Klatooinian. He grunts, his arms trembling with the effort to lift the blade far enough to stab a guard in the gut.
As he yanks out the blade, he feels the angle of the blade is wrong, slanting too far to the right. Before he can adjust it, it brushes his thigh, and white-hot agony lances through Din's leg.
He slams down on one knee with a muffled cry, blinded by pain. His leg feels like it’s on fire, nerves screaming in a way he’s never felt before, and he shudders in a deep breath not to throw up in his helmet.
There is no time to check how bad it is, one of the guards already snarling towards him with a meat hook. He forces himself to lift his arm, the impact thudding through his shoulder moments later. Black spots dance across his vision.
He flings the Klatooinian into the doorpost, and turns only to see Kaba Baiz rise from his seat at the table with a blaster in his hand. Din reaches for his blaster, but finds an empty holster beneath his palm. Kriff. He draws his vibroblade instead, but he can barely stand, let alone get to the Klatooinian to take him down.
Grinning, Baiz aims for his chest, and Din turns and drops to his knees to shield himself. Blaster fire pings off his armour. He barely feels the impacts, even from up close: the burning pain radiating through his leg drowns out everything else.
He has to finish this. Quickly.
He forces himself on his feet before he can think about it too much. His leg screams at the effort, and he has to focus for a long second before he flings his vibroblade at the Klatooinian.
It slams into Baiz’ chest, pinning the hand he had raised to defend himself. His howl of pain echoes off the tiled walls. Din grabs the hilt of the vibroblade and lifts the Klatooinian off his feet, slamming him onto the durasteel table.
He raises the Darksaber high, snarling with rage, and lets it fall through the Klatooinian.
The table splits clean in two, credits clattering onto the floor. Din slumps, breathing heavily. The taste of blood and bile fills his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to focus on his breathing, the room, anything but the agony in his leg. In his hand, the Darksaber is heavy again.
He can’t afford to wait. However much it hurts now, he knows it’ll be much worse when the adrenaline wears off. He spots his blaster, lying half-hidden beneath the spill of credits.
Before he can reach down, there is movement in the corner of the room. A Klatooinian crouched by the door looks at him with terrified eyes. The butcher rises, trembling, and flees through the barrier before Din can muster enough energy to go after him.
Now he’s really out of time.
Outside the office, at least a dozen butchers are waiting for him. They’re quiet, knives held in their fists. When he doesn’t speak, their gazes turn towards the bag in his hand, dripping on the grubby floor tiles.
He has to offer some sort of explanation.
“Your boss is dead. I'm here to collect on his bounty.”
The butchers shift, exchanging glances.
“I have no trouble with any of you. If you do me the honour of letting me pass, you can take whatever you like from the pile of New Republic credits back in that office.”
He waits, carefully not moving. If they decide to take him on, he’ll have to use his Whistling Birds, maybe the Darksaber again, and this job is not worth that.
Several Klatooinians exchange glances, and one of them nods at some undefined signal. Din keeps his hand close to his blaster as the butcher starts moving, thick arms carefully held away from his sides. His eyes skitter nervously towards the armoured figure before him, shuffling across the stained floor with exaggerated slowness.
Once the worker is safely inside the office, the other butchers flood after him. They barely glance at Din as they clatter through the makeshift door, the sound of falling credits and arguing already rising in the room behind him.
He is left in an empty abattoir, and starts making his slow way back up the city levels. No-one disturbs him as run down buildings with flickering lights make way for polished durasteel structures. He doesn’t think he’d notice anything other than a full-blown attack anyways: waves of nausea hit him with every laboured step.
The client is still in the same building, at the same velvet-clad dinnertable. He cuts straight through the partygoers, people jumping out of his way, and sets the leaking bag onto the table. “I want my reward.”
The Ishi Tib tries to protest at his bluntness, gesturing her blue claws at the food laid out before him, but Din refuses to indulge any pleasantries. The pain in his leg is radiating outwards up to his shoulder blades: he needs to treat it, now.
At the curt shake of his helmet, she tilts her leathery head. “Sit. Feast with us. Business can wait.” Her beak clicks threateningly, one of her table companions shooting a nervous glance at a server.
Din shifts his weight slightly, trying to keep his leg from trembling. He doesn’t have time for this. “There’s a bounty on this Klatooinian. If you won’t give me the credits, someone else will.”
A blue bag clatters onto the table. “Sit. I have another job for you.”
Finally.
Din grabs his payment and straightens up, his back protesting at the movement. He points at the soaked-through bag before he walks back to the elevator. “I'd put that on ice if I were you.”
Back in his rented room, cramped even with only a threadbare bed and a rickety table, he locks the door before sinking down on the bed. He rotates his shoulder, hissing at the twinge of pain shooting down to his elbow. His knee and back also ache, but they are barely making themselves known faced with the white-hot agony of his thigh.
He cuts open his already-torn flight suit, wincing at the wide strip of scorched flesh on his thigh. It is clearly too severe to heal with his small medpac: even with the medkit on the Crest it would have been a stretch. Right now, he has to work with what he does have.
His shoulder protests when he pulls out his bag from under the bed, carefully laying out the contents of his small medpac on the ratty bedsheets. He hesitates, his hand hovering above the dented container, and grabs the only hypo with anaesthetics. His hands tremble with pain as he injects the small canister as close to the wound as he dares. He doesn’t know if it will work with the damage to the nerves, but he has to try.
He gives up on cleaning the wound after the touch of disinfectant almost causes him to black out, even with the anaesthetic numbing his leg. Bacta, then. He braces himself, but cannot bite back a whimper when the bacta touches the angry red surface.
Even as the second layer of bacta spray relieves some of heat, he knows it won’t last or restore the nerve endings. He can add another numb scar to his tally. Few of those are self-inflicted though, and he hisses when his glove brushes against the edge of the wound. He can’t hunt like this. He’s not even sure he’ll be able to walk tomorrow.
Food isn’t the issue: he has two more ration bars in his bag and there is a water tap in the shabby hallway, but he doesn’t want to rest. He can’t do long without bounty hunting. His funds are limited, even with the payment he received today, and he doesn’t have anything other than hunting to keep him busy. He fills his days with chasing after bounties, exhausting himself in the hope of dreamless snatches of sleep.
Most nights he dreams anyways: piles of Mandalorian helmets shouting his name, the metal grip of a Darktrooper crushing his throat, and small claws pressed oh-so-gently against his cheek right before Grogu is ripped out of his bloodstained hands.
He squeezes his eyes shut, inhaling sharply. He doesn’t want to think of it, not now, not when he likely has days to go before he can get his next job.
Almost automatically, he reaches for his pauldron and detaches it from his flight suit. Carbon scoring from blaster fire tarnishes the bright silver of the beskar. He reaches for the soft cloth in his bag. He will clean it, even if he already did that yesterday. And the day before.
He is halfway polishing his second vambrace, carefully cleaning the ridges of the whipcord firing mechanism, when his comm beeps. An incoming message.
“Fennec.”
The flickering figure of the female assassin nods, her usually cold expression very nearly friendly. “Djarin. Are you looking for work by any chance?”
He shrugs, interested. “I could be.”
“The pay is good,” she offers. Din is sure it is: with her reputation, anything less would not be worth the effort of contacting her.
“What is the bounty?”
To his surprise, she gives a single, short shake of her head, her braid bouncing on her shoulder. “No bounty. We need muscle.”
He exhales softly. “Boba Fett.”
Last he heard, the former bounty hunter was headed to Tatooine to claim the title of daimyo. Fennec had looked coolly delighted by the prospect of what she called target practice on some sand rats. Between their impressive skillsets, Din had assumed everything had gone smoothly, until now.
“He sure would appreciate it.”
He barely has to consider it. “Tell him it’s on the house.” Boba helped him when he had nothing: Din owes him, a hundred times over.
She doesn’t even blink at his refusal of payment. “How fast can you make it?”
“A day, two at most. There is a direct star liner to Tatooine from here.” He can get to the starport while the anaesthetic is still working, and he’ll spend most of his time sitting down either in a starship or on a speeder. It won’t keep him from travelling. Not for this.
“We’ll be expecting you.” She nods at him, and the holo breaks off.
Din barely has to pack: most of it is shoving the medpac and the credits into his shoulder bag. Spots swim across his vision when he rises from the worn bedsheets, but his thigh seems to hold. He’ll be fine.
Attention, please. Flight 1020, nonstop service to Tatooine, is now ready for boarding at gate number one.
The boarding area is crowded, the noise of chatter and rattling suitcases almost drowning out the service announcement. Still, most travellers skitter out of his way as he limps towards the starliner. He is focusing on keeping the shoulder bag away from his thigh when a sharp beep sounds from his right.
“Excuse me, sir. You’re going to have to remove your weapons,” a security droid intones.
Din glares at it. “I’m a Mandalorian. Weapons are part of my religion.” It worked last time he flew commercial, the service boy prattling something half-excuse and half-protest as he walked onto the ship.
Unfortunately, this is a droid.
“I’m sorry, sir. You can’t board a commercial flight with your weapons.” He sighs. The droid cheerfully continues, “If you wish to discuss this with my supervisor, I will gladly book you on tomorrow’s flight.”
He grunts in annoyance, and relents at the sight of the security system on the on-flight luggage. “Fine.”
He keeps his back tilted to the passengers boarding the starliner as he removes his weapons, carefully rolling up his whipcords and placing his explosive charges securely in a corner of the case. He looks at the placid face of the droid, and removes his backup blaster as well. He leaves his beskar spear on his back, hoping that the droid will mistake it for a segment of his jetpack.
Only one weapon left. He hesitates, the Darksaber faintly warm in his hand. He will have it back on Tatooine. He exhales, and carefully places it in the case.
He clicks the suitcase shut, tucking the key deep into his belt pouch. “I know everything that’s in there.”
“Proceed,” the droid chitters cheerfully when Din glares at it again for good measure.
His leg throbs with pain as he lowers himself into his seat, his jetpack tucked securely against his side. Around him, travellers fill up the seats. A blend of Huttese, Pyke, Basic and other languages flow around him, laughter echoing somewhere behind him. What seems like minutes later the starship rumbles beneath his boots, and slowly lifts itself up from the surface.
When he looks up, a Teedo child is staring at him, standing on the seat of the chair opposite. Its headstalks wiggle slightly in curiosity. The child doesn’t seem afraid under the attention of a fully armoured Mandalorian, seemingly entranced by the shiny beskar. It leans forward slightly, pointed chin nearly brushing the top of the seat as its big eyes track the contours of Din's helmet.
Then, with a gesture so familiar that Din's throat constricts, it cocks its head.
He has to squeeze his eyes shut, the ache in his chest very nearly swallowing him up. He can almost hear Grogu’s cooing, asking for some item to play with or to stuff into his mouth. Sometimes all the little one wanted was to watch, just sitting on the floor of the Razor Crest as Din cleaned his weapons or prepared food, taking care of the two of them. He sucks in a shaky breath, trying to escape the memories flooding him, drowning him.
After a few long seconds, the Teedo wiggles its scaly fingers at him. He still hasn’t moved, immobilized by the grief lodged in his chest, when the child is tugged back down towards its parent.
He doesn’t look up for the rest of the flight.