Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Part I

The gunfire is a surprise. 

It’s not that Din’s unused to it, gunfire has been a fairly regular sound since he was old enough to remember, it's more where the gunfire is coming from. It’s an older part of the city, but it’s still fairly safe. Solidly blue-collar working class. Not a normal area for shootings to occur. 

His truck rolls to a stop at the light and he looks around, sitting back to listen. The quiet of the evening is broken by yelling down the street. He squints in that direction, eyes tired and dry after the day. There’s silence, then two more gunshots, and a woman screams. Din considers for a moment and then turns right. 

The truck slips into the dark shadows up the block from where the shots came from. Climbing out, he runs a hand over his back pocket, verifying that his wallet and the guild ID card authorizing him to carry are with him.

Sliding into the alley between the narrow old row homes, Din moves around the side. Pulling the pistol from his back, he sticks close to the shadows. A door slams further down the alley and his head snaps towards the sound. A woman runs out of one of the houses to his left, carrying something in her arms. She almost loses her balance on the back steps but catches herself and races into the alley. 

She cries out when he comes out from the shadows into the dim streetlight, and he extends his hands out in front of him. The woman skids to a halt and starts to back away, chest heaving, her eyes wild. There’s a dark red stain on her shoulder, and he can see the face of a small, dark-haired boy tucked inside the blanket in her arms.

“Easy, I’m not going to hurt you. You’re okay. It’s okay.” He assures her, taking a slow step forward. She stumbles back, whipping her head towards the house as someone yells from inside it. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He says more softly and lowers his hands. 

“They– they–” she’s breathing fast, “they want to take him. I can’t–” The yelling grows louder and she steps closer, turning her back to him and clutching the child closer. The kid whimpers in her arms. 

Moving in front of her, Din raises his pistol. “Stay behind me.” She’s standing so close that he can almost feel her panicked breaths against his back. Whomever the woman is running from, she’s clearly more afraid of them than she is of an armed stranger. 

Then there’s another shot, from behind him this time, and it sounds like the woman has just had the breath knocked out of her. Din spins, firing at the man further down the alley, and watches him drop to the cracked asphalt. The woman is looking at him, eyes still wide, mouth open, and she starts to drop to her knees. Din catches her by both arms but her legs give way and he ends up kneeling with her as she slides down the brick wall. Moving a hand around to her back, he can feel that it’s wet. The scent of copper fills the air and Din curses. 

“Hold on, okay? I’m gonna call–” He looks up. The shouting is coming from the backyard of the house now. “Just hold on.” He stands and moves slowly towards the house the woman emerged from. 

He and the man on the back porch catch sight of each other at the same time. Din’s faster, and that’s the end of it. He moves quickly back to the woman, whose breathing is labored now. 

“Osik, okay. I’m gonna--just hang on.” The boy is clutching the woman, both arms wrapped around her neck and his face hidden in her uninjured shoulder. She has one hand curled around his head as she rubs slow circles against his back with the other. 

As Din kneels in front of her again, pulling out his phone, her eyes open. They’re an odd shade of green, like old jade. 

“Take him.” Her voice is weak. 

“911, what’s your emergency?” The voice on the other end of the line chirps. 

“You have to take him. Keep him safe– they want to take him– hurt him,” the woman says, sitting up from the wall with a groan and pulling the kid away from her chest. 

“Hello? Is there someone on the line? ” Din is frozen. 

“Take him.” Her voice is stronger, and Din’s hands automatically move to take the boy as she holds him out. The kid starts crying in weak sobs and Din tucks him in one arm, his other hand still gripping the pistol.

“Go, they’re coming for him,” She mumbles weakly as if handing him the child had taken up her last bit of energy.

“But–” he can vaguely still hear the voice of the dispatcher on the other end of the line, but the phone is muffled against the coarse blanket around the kid. 

“Go.” Breathing heavily, she sags back against the wall and closes her eyes. A moment later, her chest stops moving and she’s just...gone. The child in his arms lets out a thin wail and reaches for the woman, and Din tucks him closer, shushing him. He stands, looking around, but there’s no one. 

“Sir, can you hear me? We have officers dispatched to your loca– ” 

Din hangs up and shoves the phone back into his pocket. EMS isn’t going to help her at this point. He hefts the kid up higher in his arm and moves back out to the street. Sirens echo in the distance. Breathing quickly, he lengthens his strides, not worrying about keeping the gun hidden as he returns to the street. He’s just about to his truck when he hears a yell behind them. 

One hand on the driver’s side handle, he turns back and sees another man standing on the sidewalk in front of the house, and then he’s ducking and wrenching the door open. The sharp sound of gunfire makes the kid cry out again, but Din doesn’t try to quiet him as he jams the keys into the ignition and puts the truck in gear, pulling out with a screech against the pavement. In the side mirror, he sees the man running after them and he slams on the gas. The truck’s engine roars as he pulls out, leaving the man behind. They turn the corner before two patrol cars come screaming past him, the blue and red lights sliding across his face as he moves to the side of the road. 

As soon as they’ve passed, Din pulls back out and takes the next left, then an immediate right. His eyes jump between the windshield, rear-view, and side mirrors, but no one’s following. A muffled sob comes from the bundle in his arm and he glances down. Two wet, brown eyes look back, terrified, and he rubs the kid’s back through the blanket. 

“You’re alright. You’re safe, I promise.” The boy burrows into his shoulder, wrapping both arms around his neck, and Din holds him closer as he heads for home.

“Gar morut’yc, ad’ika.” 

Chapter Text

The first night is hell. 

Din gets the kid back to his apartment without issue, though he thinks he might have given himself whiplash looking around on their way from the car into the old brick building. The kid doesn’t stir from his place against Din’s shoulder as he climbs the three flights of stairs, but he can tell from the death-grip the kid has on him that he’s not asleep. 

He finally looks up when Din unlocks his apartment and flicks the light on, kicking the door closed behind him and locking it. His large brown eyes are still wide but there’s a layer of curiosity under the fear. Din dumps his keys on the rickety side table and leans down to turn on the living room lamp. The warm light illuminates the somewhat dilapidated couch, worn coffee table, and old tv. 

“It’s not much, ad’ika, but it's got heat and running water, and the door locks.” 

He goes to put the kid down, conscientious of the woman’s blood drying tacky on his hand, and the kid shrieks. 

Din jolts straight again, clapping a hand over the kid’s mouth. This is also clearly not the right response, because the boy jerks back from him. 

“Sorry, sorry, kid. But you can’t yell like that. It’s late, there’s people sleeping.” He puts a finger to his lips. “Shhh, okay?” The kid just looks at him suspiciously. 

He looks around before realizing it’s pointless to look for somewhere to put the kid if he isn’t going to let go of him. He manages to wash his hands one at a time and dry them on the ragged dishcloth hanging from the oven handle. 

“Food…” He opens the fridge and exhales through his nose. It’s more or less empty outside of a few beers, a bottle of hot sauce, and a single slice of dried up pizza on a plate. He closes the fridge and looks down at the kid, who nuzzles into his chest. Din tries the pantry and thank manda, there’s broth cubes and the bags of rice and beans at the back for emergencies. He pulls both out and sets water on to boil in two pots with mismatched lids.

“It’ll take a bit but maybe you can get some sleep, lek?” 

As it transpires, the kid is not interested in sleeping. Instead, Din endeavors to take off his jacket and shoes - a challenge when he has a human barnacle that panics every time he makes any possible move to put him down - and scrolls through several articles on his phone that lead him to put the kid’s age at about a year old. Most likely. Possibly. Who knows. 

The kid is hungry enough that Din has to keep him from reaching for the food when he puts the plate down on the counter and pulls out a fork. From his searches he’s reasonably certain feeding the kid solids is safe, but he isn’t sure about utensils, and he blows on the forkful of rice and beans before feeding it to him. And anyway, remembering the mess the babies of the tribe made at mealtimes, this is undeniably neater. 

The boy turns his face away from the fork after about ten bites. Din devours what's left and puts the plate in the sink. Filling a glass from the tap, he heads back to the couch and sits, sighing as he lets himself relax. He feels the kid balance his feet on his leg and looks up to see him reaching for the water. As he carefully tilts the glass against the kid’s mouth, small hands come up to rest on his. 

“Don’t gulp it, you’ll make yourself sick.” He pulls the glass away and the kid rests back against him with an exaggerated sigh. Din drains the glass and puts it down on the table before he sits back. Just a few minutes, he tells himself. He’ll just close his eyes for a few–

He jerks awake to the kid thrashing in his arms, making high-pitched keening sounds more like a wounded animal than a human being.

“Ad’ika, hey, hey, you’re okay.” He shifts the boy around, trying to figure out what’s wrong, and terrified brown eyes meet his in the dim light. His is smeared with tears and snot and he’s still making little whimpering sounds every time he breathes in. Din pulls up the edge of his t-shirt and wipes the kid’s face. “You’re alright, okay?” 

The baby collapses against him again, small hiccuping sobs escaping him now. Din rubs his back with one large hand, trying to calm him. The kid is saying something brokenly, over and over, and Din listens. Something twists hard in his chest when he makes out the word, and he pulls the boy tighter against him. 

“I’m sorry. Ni ceta, ad’ika. I’m sorry I couldn’t help her.” 

As if he can understand him, the boy clings to him and cries harder. Sitting clearly isn’t working, so Din stands and begins to walk in slow circles between the kitchen and the hallway, leaning down to switch off the light as he passes. The kid cries himself into exhaustion after a while and just lays with his head on Din’s shoulder, arms still tight around his neck. 

He pulls his phone out once he's quiet. It’s already 11:30 but he doesn’t have to be at the worksite til 7 tomorrow. Plenty of time for them both to get some sleep. Not wanting to disturb the finally sleeping child, he sits slowly down on the couch and slouches back to a comfortable angle. 

* * * * * * *

Din isn’t sure which is worse; getting no sleep at all, or being woken every hour by a frantic, crying baby. Either way, he staggers up from the couch at six the next morning feeling more dead than alive.

The kid’s eyes are barely open now, and he’s got his thumb in his mouth. He’s tired enough that he doesn’t protest when Din puts him down for a few minutes on his bed while he changes and washes up, but he reaches his arms up as soon as Din comes back into the bedroom. Breakfast is an ordeal, and he only manages to coax the kid to eat about a quarter of sliced apple before the boy buries his face back in his arm. Blinking tiredly, Din can hardly blame him. 

He checks his watch. He’s going to be late if he doesn’t get a move on. Throwing a few spoonfuls of instant coffee in his thermos, he fills it from the tap and throws it in his backpack with a plastic container of the rice and beans from the previous evening.

He turns to look at the sleepy child, heaving a sigh. The reasonable course of action would be for him to take the boy to the police and leave him in the hands of Child Protective Services, but that doesn’t sit well with him. The woman hadn’t asked him to take the child to the police, and he hadn’t seen anything on the local news about the shooting when he’d checked his phone that morning. He’ll just keep the kid with him today and figure it out later.

The issue now is that he can hardly leave the kid here, even if he looks like he’s finally about ready to conk out. He doesn’t have a car seat, and a babysitter is out of the question considering how low he is on cash at the moment. His truck has a back seat but he can't risk the kid rolling off the seat in his sleep. Din shifts the kid to his other hip and looks around the room. His eyes land on the worn green couch. 

* * * * * * *

It’s hardly the most elegant solution and definitely not the safest, but this is very much a one-time thing. He looks down at the kid, who sits on his lap, roused slightly in the chilly morning air and peering over his arm out the window. It’s early enough that there aren't that many other cars on the road, but Din still drives slowly and sticks to the right-hand lane. He heads back into the dense old apartment buildings, tracking the numbers until he sees the man standing outside one, raising a hand to flag him down. The man opens the passenger side door when Din pulls over, holding out a large bottle of water as he climbs in. 

“Hey, thanks for the ride– whoa!” Marin’s bushy eyebrows travel up his forehead as he takes in the kid on Din’s thigh. “Hey, little man!” 

He looks back up at Din, grinning. “Someone drop off an unexpected surprise for you, brother?” 

Din gives him a withering look. “No, he’s my– cousin’s sister’s nephew. She had to go to the hospital and couldn’t find a babysitter. Told them I could look after him for the day.” 

Marin nods. “Well, how about you come sit with me, little man? That way Uncle Din can drive since apparently your mom and dad forgot to drop off a car seat for you.” He gives Din a sideways glance as Din shifts the kid to him. Luckily, the boy seems curious enough about the new face that he allows the transfer without more than some wide eyes. He stands unsteadily on Marin’s thighs, and Marin holds him by the waist to stabilize him.  

“You gonna come lay some stone with us today? Keep an eye on our work?” Marin looks over at Din again as the kid sways slightly with the motion of the truck. “Where’re you gonna leave him while we’re working?” 

Din jerks his chin towards the back seat. “In the back. I figure it’s cool out today.” 

Marin twists around to look and turns back with an incredulous look. “Dude, are those couch cushions in your footwells?” 

Din shrugs. “Had to fix it so he wouldn’t fall down in there.” 

Marin turns to look again at the blankets Din’s spread over the back seat. “That’s actually not a terrible idea, but you got any toys or whatever for him? He’s gonna get bored.” 

“I’m hoping he’s going to sleep. Maker knows he didn’t do any of that last night.” Din grumbles. 

Marin turns back to the kid with an exaggerated smile. “Did you keep your Uncle Din up late last night? You little troublemaker.” 

The kid plunks down on Marin’s lap and leans against his stomach, yawning hugely. “This might be your lucky day, man.” 

Din glances over. The boy’s eyelids are drooping, and his thumb is back in his mouth. Looking up, Din meets Marin’s eyes and shakes his head, grinning in spite of his exhaustion. 

* * * * * * *

The kid falls asleep before they pull up outside the house and into a shady spot where Din will be able to easily see the truck from the front of the house. Marin hands the kid back to Din and the baby curls into his arms. He lays the kid down on the blankets he’s spread over the back seat and after a moment tucks one around the relaxed form. Closing the door quietly, he watches the kid breathe slowly for a minute, a light breeze from the partially open window ruffling his light brown curls. 

 The stone has already been dropped off and sits in pallets next to the unfinished front walk, and Din grabs his own supplies from under the cover of the truck bed before heading over. Marin’s working with two other guys on fencing and some other landscaping, and Din settles into the rhythm of setting stone quickly. It’s a puzzle, figuring out what pieces go where for the most stability and best aesthetic look, and he’s constantly up and down as he steps back to make sure the stones fit with everything else. 

Anyone can set stone, Din, but people don’t just want something sturdy to walk on, they want something that speaks to them. Fitting it smooth is important, but it’s just as important that it resonates with everything around it.

His buir, Razan, hadn’t been overly bothered by his ad’s impatience, but Din did remember the occasional light cuff to the back of his head if he was caught rolling his eyes at his buir’s poetic waxing. His grudging attention to detail had paid off though, and he’d developed a reputation for artistry in his work that came straight from Razan. 

Stepping back, Din stretches, joints popping as he groans lightly. He turns for the fiftieth time to look back at the truck, still in the cool shade despite the sun’s movement through the morning, and this time sees brown eyes looking back at him over the lip of the window. The baby gives him a smile for the first time when Din comes over and pushes himself up so he’s leaning against the door. Din reaches in the window to push him back some before opening the door, but the kid crawls over to him as soon as he sits down. 

He notices the smell first and looks around, but nothing seems amiss. And then he looks down at the kid, who has pulled himself up to lean against his shoulder. 

“Oh.” 

The kid hums and Din lets out a deep breath before he leans forward, pulling his backpack into the back seat. He rifles through it and curses. The water from Marin, his lukewarm instant coffee, their lunch, and a spare t-shirt to change into at the end of the day. He pulls out the water and the t-shirt, and after a moment, opens the glove box and pulls out a thick stack of disposable napkins.

Din looks back down at the boy, “Okay. Can’t be that hard, right?” 

The kid blows a raspberry in response as Din tips him onto his back. He steps out of the car and tugs the blanket until it’s at the edge of the seat, and then starts removing layers to see the damage. 

By the time he’s got the diaper off, Din can say with all certainty that he’s smelled four-day-old corpses in summer heat that reek less than this. The mess has migrated to the kid’s soft green pants, but thank the Maker hasn’t managed to get all the way up his back, so the kid’s shirt is salvageable. Din throws the soiled pants into a loose plastic shopping bag and ties it up tightly. He starts to scratch his face but freezes his hand just before he does when he sees what’s on it.

Letting out a deep sigh, he rubs his face on his shoulder and starts to clean the kid up as much as he can. The bottle of water is about three-quarters empty and he's down to his last two napkins but the kid is as clean as he can make him when he hears someone behind him. 

“Oh, man...” 

Din grits his teeth. He likes Marin, really, he does, but frankly, he would rather not have anyone else around to witness him with babyshit under his fingernails.

“You’re gonna need more napkins, brother.” 

“Don’t have any more,” Din says shortly, shaking the last one open. Aside from some initial wiggling, the kid has been blessedly well-behaved, more interested in looking around and plucking at the blanket next to him than fighting Din. 

“I’ve got a clean towel in my bag, you want to borrow that?” Marin jerks his thumb over to where his backpack sits next to another guy’s cooler.

Din straightens, resisting the urge to wipe his hands on his jeans. Mortar is one thing. Shit, another. "Actually, yeah. If you don’t mind.”

Marin heads over to his backpack and Din looks down at the kid, rolling his shoulders as he does. The baby sticks two fingers into his mouth and looks back at Din, grinning. 

“Don’t give me that face, you know what you did.”

Marin returns with the towel and a small pack of wet wipes, thank the manda, and the kid is clean and dry a few minutes later, Din’s spare t-shirt wrapped as best he can as a makeshift diaper. He finishes cleaning up the backseat quickly, balling up the top layer of blanket and tucking it in the front seat footwell. 

“Thanks, really saved my ass there.” Din starts to hand the towel back and sees Marin wrinkle his nose. “I’ll– I’ll wash it and give it back next time I see you.” 

“Yeah, that’s better.” Marin grins and pats his shoulder. “Hey, first time for everything. Just be glad you don’t have one full-time.” 

Din grunts as the man walks back to his crew, and pulls out the container of leftovers from his bag. The kid is ravenous, which he guesses is a good thing, and between the two of them, lunch is quick. 

“Alright. I’ve got to work for another few hours, but I’ll wrap it up early, lek?” He’s not sure why he’s talking to a baby as if he can possibly understand him, but he feels the need to explain himself. The kid doesn’t seem interested, and rolls over onto his stomach. “Just. Stay here.”  

Din closes the door and heads back to the half-finished path. He moves faster now, taking less care than he normally would, but as he steps back to check his progress, he’s pleased to see it doesn’t appear to have suffered as a result. He puts his tools away and waits while the well-dressed woman inside writes him a check for the two-thirds portion of his fee. Tucking it into his back pocket, he heads for the truck. He can hear the kid fussing now. 

“Can you hitch a ride back with one of the guys?” Din shouts to Marin as he walks past the crew, “I’ve gotta–” he raises his chin towards the truck and the crying toddler inside. Marin nods and waves him away. 

“Hey, ad’ika, all done for the day. What do you say we get out of here, hm?” The kid latches onto him as he lifts him from the backseat and sniffles into his neck. 

Making a quick stop to deposit the check and pull out some cash, Din pulls into a gas station. While the truck’s refilling, he has a small heart attack about the cost of a four-pack of diapers, wet wipes, and milk, and wonders how anyone can afford to have a child. 

Just as he’s unlocking his door, his phone starts to ring. Tossing the keys on the side table, Din tucks the phone against his shoulder. 

“Din Djarin.” 

“Djarin, Greef Karga. How are you?”

“Not too bad. Yourself?” Din heads into the kitchen and pulls the beans and rice from the previous evening out of the fridge, still in their pots. The kid doesn’t seem bothered that it’s the same thing they had for lunch, and Din starts spooning it onto a plate. 

“Doing quite well, thank you. You have a few minutes?” 

Din sits down heavily on the couch, lowering the kid to sit next to him. His back aches, and he's bone-tired. “Yeah, what’s up?” 

“I’ve got a potential job for you.” 

“You can add it to the load I’m picking up tomorrow.” 

“This isn’t a puck. It’s not...it’s not a Guild job, exactly.” There’s an edge to Karga’s voice that’s almost like nerves, “Private commission. They asked for my best.” 

Din ignores the flattery, “And they’re not going through the Guild because…?” 

“No idea. They just reached out and asked if I had any interested hunters. Do you want the details?” 

He scoops the kid up before he can reach the edge of the couch and puts him down facing him. “Sure. What’s the target?” 

“Well, that’s the kicker. Apparently, they’re looking for a child.” 

Din’s stomach flips over and he turns his head to look at the kid, who’s now levered himself up and is using the back of the couch for balance. 

He keeps his voice neutral, “A kid? How old?” 

There’s the sound of shuffling papers before Karga replies, “Thirteen months. A boy; brown hair, brown eyes. They also gave his last known location.” 

“What do they want a kid for?” He knows he’s getting into dangerous territory. Questions are strictly against the rules. 

“Hell if I know. Maybe they’re trying to reunite him with his family. All I know is they’re offering a lot of money to whoever delivers them the child.” 

“How much?” 

“Half a million.” 

Din’s eyebrows shoot up. Half a million dollars for a target is an insane amount of money. He’s never even heard of a Guild bounty over two hundred thousand, and that one had been open for long enough to build up to that amount. 

“So, you interested?” There’s excitement in Karga’s voice now.

The boy sits down heavily next to him, looking up. His curls frizz like a halo around his head, and he sticks two fingers in his mouth. 

“Yeah. Send me the details.” 

Chapter Text

Din remembers coming to Ebrya as a child. Leaving Concordia, with its high mountains and the mist that rolled across the tops of the trees in the early morning. He remembers the day explosions rocked his town, shattering the delicately painted buildings and leaving his home in rubble. He remembers his parents’ lifeless bodies still protecting him in death. And he remembers being terrified when he’d been pulled from the broken stone by a man with a metal face. 

I’m going to take you somewhere safe, ad’ika. Somewhere we can start over. 

The trip from Concordia to Ebrya had been brutal. They'd walked for days, until he'd cried from the pain in his feet, and the man who’d saved him carried him on his back. He remembers how tight his throat had been, how he had turned away the first time he’d seen his finder drink from a sluggishly flowing stream. And how he’d finally closed his eyes against the dizziness and drank from a similar one. Anything to stay alive. 

We are not a place, ner ad, we are a people. And there are thousands, without homes, without hope, just like you were then. Now more than ever, they will need support. 

With Razan's voice in his mind, Din follows the GPS directions back to the house from the previous evening. Rounding the side, he glances at the wall where the woman with the jade eyes had implored him to take the child. There’s nothing there now but a dried, dark smear. Din climbs the back stairs and pushes open the door, switching on his maglite. 

The place is old, and has the familiar damp odor of a house where the windows don't quite keep the moisture out, and no one has ever bothered to fix them. It’s been ransacked several times, and he sees the needles and burn marks that indicate druggies have at one point taken up residence inside.

Climbing the creaking stairs to the second floor, he listens hard but hears only his own footsteps. At the end of the hall, the door to a bedroom stands open, a pile of blankets in one corner. Fresh scuff marks in the dust tell him this is the room where the woman and child stayed. 

He scans the room carefully, seeing the worn backpack next to the blankets, the small book with a blue dinosaur on the front, and the blue scarf strewn across the floor, as if dropped in a hurry. Din crouches and opens the backpack, shining the flashlight inside. 

There are a few more baby things in it; a pacifier, a few diapers, a tattered green blanket, and a plastic ziploc bag with some folded papers; a photograph of the woman from the night before, smiling with a baby cuddled close to her face, and a photocopy of an ID card. He doesn’t recognize the language it's written in, but the photo is clearly the woman with the jade eyes. 

Din slips the photograph and the photocopy into his inside pocket, and after a moment, picks up the blue scarf, folding it into a small square and tucking it in his jacket. Then he stands, takes one more look around at the evidence of a family ripped apart, and heads back downstairs and out of the house. 

* * * * * * *

“No, he was fine. Very quiet. Kept watching the door.” Mrs. Vebay says, passing the sleepy child over to Din. She steps out in the hall, closing the door to keep the curious cat from getting out. 

“Thank you, I really appreciate it. My cousin’s, sister’s–” 

She waves a gnarled hand. “Please, please. It doesn’t matter whose child he is, only that he’s looked after. He’s a sweet boy.” 

Unsure what to say, Din pulls out his wallet. Mrs. Vebay fixes him with a very cold stare, and he feels vaguely like a young boy brought before the tribe’s alor. 

“Don’t you even think about it, young man. Take that money and buy the poor thing something else to wear. I can’t believe they’d send him for an overnight without a change of clothes…” She shakes her head and turns back into her apartment, muttering under her breath. Din lets out a long breath and slips his wallet back into his pocket before unlocking his own door. 

The kid rouses some and blinks, rubbing one small hand across his eye. 

“Mama?” he asks, and Din’s throat tightens painfully. He just shakes his head. 

The kid seems to understand and tucks his head under Din’s chin. Din stops for a minute, his chest aching. He forces himself to think about how many children had fled the violence of his home and now live day to day, reduced from people to something lesser because of interests beyond their control. This money can help them, in a very real way.

Surely, the exchange of one life for the betterment of so many others is worth it?  

He redresses the kid in the clothes he found him in, pants washed and dry, and pulls the blue scarf from his jacket. The baby reaches for it and lets out a soft sad sound. It should make Din feel better to wrap the boy in the scarf, but it just feels like a betrayal. He picks the child up again and flips the light switch on his way out the door.

The ride to the drop point is quiet. The kid sits on his lap, a corner of the scarf in his mouth. It’s not lost on Din that the corner is frayed and worn. He parks the truck outside a white stone building with immaculate sidewalks, manicured grass, and overly bright lights embedded around the entrance. The place reeks of private wealth. He pulls open the front door and a man in a black suit with the distinctive bulge of a concealed weapon straightens from the wall. Looking at Din and the child, he pulls out a radio. 

“They’re here.” 

He motions Din to follow him, and moves down a hall and through a key-carded door. The door hisses on pneumatics behind them and closes with a loud click. The boy huddles closer to Din and he instinctively puts a hand on the child’s back. Every step he takes along the spotless, sterile hallway feels heavier, and he repeats the words of his buir in his mind like a mantra. 

You have a chance to give them opportunities we could never give you. A chance to dream and see those dreams become reality. 

The man opens another door into a large room with expensive-looking equipment and a metal examination table in the center under a bright light. Din can feel how cold the room is through his jacket and the boy in his arms shivers. 

As they enter, the two men inside look up from their conversation. One of them, a slim man wearing glasses and a lab coat, walks over eagerly, his eyes greedy as he looks over the child. The other man is older and grey-haired, with eyes sunk deep into his head. 

“Yes, yes, yes. You found him.” The delight in the doctor’s voice turns Din’s stomach. When the man in the black suit reaches for him, the child whimpers and tries to hold onto Din. The man pulls the boy roughly away and Din curls his fist at his side to resist snatching him back.

“Take it easy with him,” Din snaps. 

“You take it easy,” the man sneers, carrying the boy to a nearby examination table. When the man puts him down on the exam table, the child clutches the blue scarf around himself, eyes fixed pleadingly on Din. The older man comes out from behind the table, gesturing towards the door. 

“Shall we adjoin to another room? My colleague needs to run some tests to ensure the child was not harmed during his disappearance.” 

Din turns to follow him out and the boy lets out a single plaintive cry as he does. He looks back as the doctor shushes the child, and Din has never felt like more of a coward than when he turns away and follows the Client out of the room. 

He leads him to a small conference room and motions him to sit before turning to another black-suited man.

“Please fetch Mr. Djarin’s payment, if you would.” 

The black-suited man leaves the room, and every agonizing second they wait in silence feels like an hour. He returns a few minutes later with a safety deposit box, which he places on the table between them. The Client sets a hand on the box and looks at Din.

“Greef Karga told me you were his best, but I have to admit, I am astounded that you found the boy so quickly. I’m told you went to the house where he was being kept?” 

The hairs on the back of Din’s neck stand up, but he doesn’t react. 

The Client continues, undaunted by Din’s refusal to play along. “Well, every specialist has their secrets, don’t they? And bounty hunting is a complicated profession. I don’t blame you for not wishing to divulge your methods.” He smiles indulgently before inputting a code into the safety deposit box. 

“Karga also told me you have a somewhat unorthodox requirement when it comes to payment, but I’m happy to say that wasn’t a problem for us, particularly in light of your expedient work.”  

Opening the box, the Client draws out four thick stacks of plastic cards, each stack banded together, and places them on the table between them. “As requested, each card is pre-loaded with two thousand, five hundred dollars. Fifty per stack, two hundred in total. This is acceptable?”

Din inclines his chin minutely, and the Client places the stacks back into the safety deposit box. Standing, he slides both the box and a paper with the code across the table. 

“Now, I’m afraid I have business to attend to, but Mr. Greyson will see you out.” The man in the suit steps away from the wall and Din stands, tucking the box under one arm and the code into the pocket of his jeans.

“What will you do with him?” The question is out before Din can stop it, but some part of him has to ask. The Client turns slowly back towards him, a curious look in his eye. 

“How uncharacteristic for one of your reputation. You have taken both commission and payment. Is it not the code of those in your profession that these events are now forgotten?” 

The Client's eyes rake over him with a final appraising look before he leaves the room. Mr. Greyson escorts Din back to the front of the building, and the door swings shut behind him with a loud click. 

* * * * * * *

Din glances at the box on the passenger seat. He’ll stop by the post office in the morning and mail all but one of the cards to pre-set locations. PO boxes where they’ll be picked up by other Mandalorians and distributed to the heads of the tribes. They’ll pay for rent and school fees, food and clothing, and in some cases, legal fees.

His apartment is dark and very quiet as he puts the box down on his bedside table. Turning on the light, he starts to throw his jacket on the bed and stops. The t-shirt he’d dressed the kid in before lays across his blanket. Picking it up, he moves to drop it in the laundry bag and stops. 

He pulls out the folded photo from his pocket, looking at it again in the light. There’s a tiredness to the woman’s eyes, but she’s smiling as she holds the boy close to her face. The baby is grinning widely in the picture, no trace of the fear Din saw in him the past two days. He’s happy. Safe. Din thinks about the old backpack, and the tattered green blanket and children’s book he’d found at the house. Wherever she’d come from, the woman had ended up with only an old scarf for herself, but she’d kept things for her child. 

“You have to take him. Keep him safe– they want to take him– hurt him.”  

He thinks of the children he’d seen fleeing Concordia and greater Mandalore, filthy and tired and hungry. Nothing but death behind them, nothing but uncertainty ahead. They’d been so accustomed to the sight of armored men and weapons that they’d barely flinched when they’d passed his unit on the mountain roads. 

“I know you are so full of anger right now, and you want nothing more than justice for our people and our home. But there is always a right way and a wrong way. Sometimes they look the same when you are tired and your vision is clouded by pain, but they are not.” 

Din remembers the way the boy had smiled at him from the truck window when he’d looked over the previous afternoon, how he had reached for him. How he’d calmed on hearing Din’s voice under his cheek, the same way Din had calmed to hear Razan’s voice when he woke with nightmares in the first months after they arrived in Ebrya. 

“It doesn’t matter whose child he is, only that he’s looked after.”

He lets his hand fall to his side, rubbing the fabric of the shirt between his thumb and fingers. Instead of throwing it in the laundry bag, he moves to the closet and takes down the rectangular box from the top shelf. He hasn’t taken Razan’s helmet out since his memorial service six years ago, but it still gleams silver in the dim light. 

“When you wear this, you are no longer Din Djarin. You are one of the mando’ade, one among countless warriors who have fought for generations to maintain peace and justice in our country. It hides your face, but it reveals the strength of your soul.” 

As Din lowers the helmet over his face, he breathes in deeply. The seal hisses shut and he swears even after eight years he can still smell smoke from the mountains burning. The HUD blinks to life and he looks down at the photo again, turning it over to read the handwritten notation on the back before slipping it into his pocket. 

“Hang on, Samir.” 

* * * * * * *

Kneeling behind a bush, Din breathes out and squeezes the trigger. The man at the corner of the building crumples into the shadows. He’s watched long enough to verify that this is the only guard patrolling this area -- one of the black suits, armed only with a sidearm and a radio.

Standing, Din shifts the rifle to rest across his back and jogs to the loading bay door. The commercial lock doesn’t stand up to the sawed-off shotgun at close range.  Shouldering the door open, he takes out the suit that comes around the corner. He dumps the now-empty shotgun and pulls the sub-machine gun up from the drop-sling at his side. 

Din moves down the sterile corridor, cursing at the key-carded door at the end. His decision to leave the security cameras intact pays off a moment later when a man comes through the door, gun drawn and a grim look on his face. A different brand from the black suits, this one wears body armor but no helmet. Blood sprays on the wall and the man goes down missing his face. 

Din rips the key card off the man’s belt as he passes. Wiping off the spattered blood, he swipes it through the card reader and opens the next door. He turns another corner in this maze and finds the same room they’d led him to when he turned the kid in. It's empty now, but before he can turn to keep moving, something catches his eye. 

The blue scarf lies abandoned in the shadows under the exam table, and blood roars in his ears. He turns on his heel back out into the hall, gripping his weapon hard enough that he can feel the creak of leather across his knuckles. 

Another black suit rounds the corner, gun drawn. Din moves in to disable him, shoving the sidearm into his belt. He grips the man by the throat, and the man rasps for breath, his fingers digging pointlessly into Din’s arm. 

“Where’s the kid?” Din keeps his voice pitched low and angry, aware that the modulator in the helmet only does so much to mask his voice. The man shakes his head and Din slams him back against the wall, tightening his grip on the man’s throat. Turning purple, the man points down the hall. Din loosens his fingers minutely and the man draws in a rasping breath. 

“Lab. Got him in the lab. Next hal-hallway on the left. Just let me–” Din shoves the barrel between the man’s ribs and pulls the trigger. The man’s body slides down the wall, and he moves through the next door. 

Another man in military body armor is waiting on the other side and opens fire as soon as Din is in sight. Ducking down, he turns to let his armor take the brunt of the shots. Advancing rapidly until he’s inside the guard’s range, he pulls a knife and turns the gun aside with the other hand. No helmet on this one either, and the knife slips easily into the side of the man’s neck. He lets the man's body fall and keeps moving.

Stalking around the corner, he sees the Client turn out of a room and race down the hall away from him. Din starts to take aim but hesitates when he looks left and sees the boy strapped to a table, the doctor hovering over him. A snarl rips from his chest as he advances toward them. Eyes widening behind his glasses, the doctor stumbles back from the exam table. The boy doesn’t appear to be injured but he’s either unconscious or sedated. 

The doctor holds a hand out as if to stop him and Din shoves him aside. “No! Please, don’t hurt him! He’s just a child.” 

“What did you do to him?” Din growls, taking a step towards the man. The demagolka drops to his knees, flinching away. “What did you do?” 

The doctor cowers beside the table, a hand raised pathetically towards Din. “I– I protected him. I protected him. If it wasn’t for me he would be dead. Please.” He buries his face in his shoulder, face screwed up in anticipation of the shot. Din isn’t in the habit of shooting men on their knees, but he makes an exception and the doctor slumps back against the leg of the table.

Din loosens the restraining straps and picks the boy up carefully, settling on his hip. He keeps his head on a swivel as he brings them back out to the front. Their luck holds until they reach the front door, when he’s thrown forward by a sharp impact to his back. 

Spinning, he shoots the black suit that’s taking aim again from behind the welcome desk, his teeth bared under the helmet. The ache in his back pounds in time with his blood, but in the face of his guilt, the pain feels deserved. 

* * * * * * *

Fifteen minutes later he’s pulling onto the highway, the boy still unconscious against him.  He drives to the Walmart two towns over and parks far out in the lot, away from the lights. Just as he puts the truck into park and shuts the engine off, he feels the boy shift in his arms, pushing himself off Din’s shoulder. Din pulls the helmet off and reaches around the boy to put it on the passenger seat, before lifting his eyes to the kid's. They're groggy, searching his with confusion. 

“Samir?” Din tries, and the boy blinks tiredly and looks around, curling small fingers in Din’s collar. Din strokes his back and looks towards the storefront. If the kid is sticking around, he’s going to need a few things. First among them, a car seat. 

The kid starts to hyperventilate when he puts him down on the driver’s seat and steps back to pull off his body armor. Din steps close quickly, taking the kids outstretched hands. 

“Easy, ad'ika, easy. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve just gotta take this stuff off. It’ll draw all kinds of attention in there.” 

The kid continues to cling to his hands, his eyes darting, and Din sighs. He leans down and presses his forehead to the crown of the kid's head. 

“I promise, I’m not going to leave you again. Okay, Samir?” The use of the kid’s name seems to calm him and he lets Din pull his hands away to finish stripping the armor off. He drops it into the footwell behind the kid, who watches him with worried eyes. 

Looking back towards the lit building, Din unzips his hoodie and wraps it around the kid, pulling the hood up. It’s still early spring, and the night is chilly enough that it won’t look strange to have the kid wrapped in his jacket. When he picks him up, the boy clings to him as if he’s about to be pulled away again, and Din wraps his other arm around the small form. 

Inside, Din makes his way to the sign proclaiming “Baby” towards the back of the store, and he’s in a section of soft fabric and pastels. There are so many options for everything, and now that he’s here and has twenty-five hundred dollars in his pocket, he figures he may as well be thorough. 

Shifting the kid, he pulls out his phone and looks up “baby supplies”. There appear to be at least four hundred different lists, but within a few minutes, he’s identified a short list of common essentials. He grabs a cart and settles Samir in the kid seat, hoodie still throwing his face into shadow. 

Thirty minutes later, Din is sweating as he watches the cashier scan and bag the items. He gave up on the mental tally about halfway through his shopping, and anyway, he’s sure it can’t be more than a few hundred dollars for everything. Right?

Samir watches the purple dragon inch up the checkout line with concern in his brown eyes. Din had turned to place a pack of baby socks in the cart and the kid had been staring at it with longing. Before he realized what he was doing, Din had picked it up and handed it to the kid. The hot feeling in his stomach felt a lot like guilt, but he told himself it was only practical for the kid to have something to play with. And seeing the tiny smile on Samir’s face as he drew his hand along one floppy wing, Din had bit back a small smile of his own.

When the total comes up, it’s more than he was hoping, but there's still enough on the card for the electric bill, insurance on the truck, and groceries. Rent for the month will be tomorrow’s problem. He swipes the card and sticks the bags in the cart. The cards are untraceable, and there’s something extremely gratifying about knowing that the kid's recent captors just paid for a shiny stuffed dragon.

He digs the blue hoodie out of one of the bags and pulls off the tags before tugging it over Samir’s head with only mild protests. The purple dragon is quickly restored to the kid’s arms and he’s quiet as Din unloads everything into the back seat before fumbling to get the car seat installed.

It’s nearly 1 am by the time he starts the truck up and pulls out. In the rearview mirror, he can see Samir’s feet drumming lightly on the car seat as he speaks in gibberish to the dragon, his blue-hooded head tilting towards the window as they head for the highway. At a red light, Din’s phone pings and he pulls it out. It’s a text from Marin.

Hey man, meant to send this earlier. My sis is in nursing school with a girl who does babysitting. Pass the info on to your fam, she’s good with kids and doesn’t cost an arm and a leg. See you next week.  

The text is followed up with a name and contact number. Din puts the phone down on the passenger seat as the light turns green. Street lights reflect off the helmet beside it as he pulls onto the highway, and heads home.  

Chapter Text

“We have a problem at our Ganister City facility. There was a break in.”

“Damage?”

“An asset was taken. Security team and a researcher are dead. Whoever it was, they were a professional. I’ve got cleaners in now, and I’ve called the local authorities.”

“You did what?”

“Security was local, easier to explain away through legitimate channels then cover up. I have the situation under control.”

“Just tell me you can handle this.”

“Don’t worry, sir. I’ll take care of it.”

* * * * * * *

Detective Rolands has seen some strange crimes during his time on the force, but as he watches the security video footage, he has to admit this is a new one. He sits in the security office of the PhenoVisage laboratories on the outskirts of Ganister City while forensics scours the crime scene. A small woman is showing him the footage, overseen by an older man introduced as Mr. Raines. He has disturbingly sunken eyes, and is dressed in a suit that says wealthy, corporate, and upper-management. Three words Rolands does not need associated with a septuple homicide at a private laboratory in the rich part of town.

“As you can see, Detective, the attacker from last night was a lone Mandalorian.  I have been told that armor is quite distinct.” Mr. Raines says.

Rolands ignores the assertion. “I’ll need to take these recordings as evidence. You said you perform medical research here?”

“That is correct. We use this facility to coordinate our drug trials for the south-west. The Mandalorian stole one of our test objects.”

Taking a sip from his coffee, Rolands squints at the recording, unable to make out the blurry object the attacker carries out of the facility. “Is it common for your research staff to be in the office so late?”

Mr. Raines narrows his eyes. “I don’t ask how my staff accomplish miracles, I simply give them the resources to make them happen.” 

“I see.” Rolands taps his index finger against the paper cup. “You said this happened last night. Why did you only call us an hour ago?”

Mr. Raines spreads his hands. “There was no one left alive. We have only a small working staff at this facility. My first notification of an incident was when one of my other researchers arrived this morning. I called you immediately after that.”

“And of course, your security specialist.” Rolands glances at the woman watching quietly from the computer.

“Of course.” Mr. Raines smiles in an entirely unlikeable manner. “As with most support organizations, you tend to forget about them until they fail you.”

Ouch. Rolands ignores the blotchy flush that comes over the woman’s face. “You said the attacker was Mandalorian. Have you had any threats against the facility that would lead you to believe that?”

“No, but I would think the footage makes it clear enough.”

Rolands nods towards the computer screen, where the image is frozen on a helmeted figure halfway out of a room, hunched protectively over the object in their arm. “Footage shows what appears to be a man in full armor and black tac-gear. You could pick most of that up in any military surplus store.”

Mr. Raines makes a gesture to the woman, who shifts the footage forwards to a specific point, as if they’ve anticipated needing to show this.

“Yes, but you may be missing two important factors, Detective Rolands. First, the distinctive helmet the attacker wears, and second, you can see here, one of my security staff manages to shoot him in the back. He barely takes notice. Normal armor cannot provide that level of protection. This man is wearing Concordia Reinforced Steel. Beskar, I believe they call it.”

Rolands shrugs. “If he’s a professional, he could have gotten that armor on the black market.”

Mr. Raines turns to him with a stare that Rolands last remembers receiving in grammar school, “Detective, the Mandalorians are an insular and violent people.  Their history is one of constant aggression with their neighbors. They do not trade their tools of war. This man has Mandalorian armor because he is Mandalorian. I would imagine that this makes your job easier. After all, how many Mandalorians can there be in this area?”

Rolands raises his eyebrows. “We can’t just round people up because your lab was broken into, sir.”

“And I’m sure the Mayor will be interested to hear about your reluctance to pursue the perpetrator of these murders, particularly in light of our generous contribution to his latest re-election campaign.” Mr. Raines’ voice is smug, and it sets Rolands’ teeth on edge. “I feel confident he will agree that it is best for everyone that this crime be resolved as quickly as possible, through the most direct path.” 

At this point, Rolands can feel a headache brewing behind his eyes. This kind of heavy-handed shit was exactly what he doesn’t need in a high-profile case. Holding back a sigh, he waves in the two uniformed officers waiting outside to collect the computer. 

“Sir, let me assure you that we will do everything in our power to find the individual who killed your employees-”

The man waves his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, yes, and while you do that, make sure you keep us informed so that we can retrieve our stolen property.  We will need to be personally involved in its retrieval.”

Rolands frowns. “Is the item dangerous, sir?”

“No, but it is PhenoVisage proprietary property. As a research object, it could become damaged if handled improperly. I am sure I can count on your full support in assisting us to retrieve it?”

Rolands has been doing this dance long enough to know the next step. “You’ll have our utmost cooperation, sir.”

Chapter Text

It’s past eight the next morning when Din wakes to a scuffling sound. Rolling over, his hand goes automatically to the pistol stashed by his bed before he remembers he’s not alone. Squinting tiredly at the other side of the room, he’s met by large brown eyes staring curiously at him over the edge of his bottom dresser drawer. Seeing him awake, the kid sits up on his knees, the purple dragon clutched in one arm. 

“Jate vaar’tur, ad’ika,” Din yawns, stretching and feeling his spine pop.

It’d been nearly two in the morning by the time they’d made it back to the apartment and gotten everything inside. The kid had eaten a handful of goldfish before he’d conked out on the couch next to Din as he read up on baby bedtime routines. He’d roused slightly for a diaper change (which went astronomically better than the one earlier that day had gone, albeit still with questionable substances under Din’s fingernails), and had quickly fallen asleep again after being changed into his new pajamas. It was then that Din realized the one thing he’d forgotten.

In the end, he had pulled open his bottom dresser drawer, padded it with his t-shirts and sweatshirt, and put the sleeping child and his new dragon gently down into it. Mercifully, Samir had slept through the rest of the night, and Din had sent a quiet prayer of thanks to Issik for it. 

"Kai'tome, Sam'ika? You hungry?” Din crouches in front of the drawer and Samir scrambles to his feet. When Din straightens with him in his arms though, the kid squawks. 

“What?” 

Samir points down to the drawer. “Basa.”

It’s the first time the kid has said anything distinct beyond calling for his mother and Din grins. “Basa? The dragon?” The kid nods, still pointing down. 

Leaning down, Din swipes the stuffy out of the drawer and hands it to Samir, who promptly tucks it in one arm and sticks his thumb in his mouth. “Basa needs breakfast too, huh?”  

While Samir alternates eating pieces of banana and dropping them in his lap, Din does a quick search on Robslist and comes up with a used crib for a reasonable asking price. A few more minutes of work takes care of the electric bill and the insurance payment for the month and he turns his eyes back to the banana-smeared child next to him. 

Cleanup goes quickly, and by nine-thirty they’re both dressed for the day. While the kid works his way around the living room in exploration, Din sits at the coffee table and separates all but one of the debit cards into six stacks. He re-bands the stacks together and puts each inside a plastic ziplock and a brown paper lunch sack. The six packets, a bag of goldfish, some water, and the makeshift diaper kit he’s put together all go into his backpack and he slings it over his shoulder as he stands. 

Samir immediately turns to him, eyebrows coming together in a frown as he watches Din suspiciously. Unfortunately, he can’t really blame the kid. He sighs and crouches in front of him. 

“I’ve got a few errands to run today, but you’re coming with me, okay? Gotta get you checked out, for one thing.” 

Samir continues to give him the side-eye until Din puts both hands out and curls his fingers in. “K’olar gedet’ye, ad’ika. Come on.” 

The boy takes two shaky steps towards him and Din picks him up. There’s something strange in how the kid’s weight feels natural on his hip now, like he’d be unbalanced without it. 

The temperature has dropped overnight, and they blend in with everyone else in line at the post office, with their jackets on and hoods up. Samir is looking everywhere but keeps one hand tucked securely around Din’s upper arm. The purple dragon is tucked in his other arm after an instance of lower lip quiver when Din attempted to leave it in the car. He knows caving like this is a dangerous habit to get into, but there’s still some lingering shame in his throat when he thinks about the previous evening and he folds like wet cardboard.

At the counter, he hands over the six pre-addressed envelopes and the woman behind it smiles at Samir. The kid buries his head shyly in Din’s neck and the woman chuckles as she rings up the postage, making small talk with Din. 

Their first errand done, Din parks a few blocks away from Bounty Hunter's Guild office and drums his fingers on the wheel. He’s fairly certain Cara would let him know if anyone had called in about the job the previous evening, but the whole situation is so strange that he can’t be sure. Pulling out his phone, he texts her.

D: You around today?

His phone buzzes less than a minute later. 

C: I’m off. Your pucks are ready for pickup though. Why?

D: Just curious. 

C: You need something?

D: Need to talk to you about something. Stop by tomorrow?

C: Sure. I’ll call you.  

Slipping the phone back in his jacket pocket, he turns to look at Samir. The kid is asleep in his car seat, mouth slightly open. Din has no desire to draw out the interaction with Karga, and he decides the kid will be fine for ten minutes. Closing the door, he stands outside the car for a moment, listening for sounds of distress. Satisfied when he hears nothing, he heads inside.

Karga is as annoyingly enthusiastic as usual, maybe even more so. The reason for it is revealed after the admin leaves the room and the Guild rep leans forward in his chair. 

“My friend, please sit. I hope you know, you’ve made my month!” 

Din starts to reach for the stack of pucks on Karga’s desk and scowls when the man puts his hand over them. Fine, he’ll bite. 

“How’s that?” It’s not a challenge for Din to sound impatient as he flicks his eyes up to the clock. 

“I knew I did the right thing calling you for that commission. The Client was very pleased when he contacted me last night on its completion. He was even impressed enough to throw in a little extra for the recommendation.” Karga pats his breast pocket and winks. 

“I’m delighted,” Din says flatly, but he’s thinking hard. If Karga still believes all is well, it means the Client hasn’t reached back to him. Which means either they don’t know it was Din who came back for the kid, or they’re choosing to handle the situation quietly themselves. 

“As am I. Do you have any idea who the Client works for?” 

“Should I?” He tries to pay attention to Karga’s response but he’s distracted by trying to figure out how likely it is that they genuinely wouldn’t have known it was him the previous evening. The helmet does hide his face, and the body armor adds a layer of bulk to his form that can be surprisingly deceiving. It’s possible that the Client knows only that the asset was taken by a Mandalorian. 

Even if he’s been lucky, the implications of the situation aren’t lost on him. The last thing the remaining Mandalorians in the area need is a manhunt, particularly when there’s no easy way for him to get a warning to them about what might be coming. And if the Client is handling the situation themselves rather than through the local authorities, there’s no telling what methods they’ll employ. 

His only reprieve personally, should the Client come to Karga in the near future, is that the Guild rep doesn’t know he’s Mandalorian. The tribe was nearly decimated in the Purge and had gone underground to hide their identities and numbers. Shortly thereafter, Din had left Ebrya, unable to stomach the irony of his situation, and had crafted his skillset and reputation hunting with a small group of mercenaries overseas. In doing so, he’d managed to avoid the registration most other Mandalorians in the country had been subject to. 

By the time he’d returned, the tribe’s old neighborhood in Ganister City had been replaced by a set of new condominiums, and the inhabitants had scattered. When his buir had finally passed on, Din had put his helmet away and had taken to wearing other, less obvious forms of protective equipment necessary for bounty jobs. It kept attention away from the remaining mando’ade and from himself. 

“...bodes extremely well for the Guild chapter here.“ He zones back in just as Karga sits back, contentedly clasping his hands over his stomach. 

“Like I said, I’m delighted,” Din says. “Can I get my pucks?” 

Karga chuckles good-naturedly and motions to the small pile in front of him. “Always looking to your next job. I appreciate that. You’re a hard worker.” 

Din shifts the backpack off his shoulder and tucks the handful of pucks inside. He turns to leave before Karga speaks again.

“You know, I was a little surprised you took it.” 

He stops and looks back. The smile has faded from Karga’s face, and he’s giving Din a thoughtful look.

“Never figured you for one to hunt children.” 

Din shifts the backpack back on his shoulder and keeps his voice carefully neutral.  “Never figured you for one to forget our rules.” 

* * * * * * *

His mood is sour as they pull into a parking lot down the street from their next stop. The old white building with the words Elazig Cherry Community Clinic painted in faded blue letters above the doors occupies a corner lot of the block. He’s been here a few times over the past few years for patch-up jobs that he couldn’t take care of on his own, and once for a particularly nasty sinus infection that he couldn’t shake. It’s well-run, clean, and chronically low on both questions and funding. 

As he and Samir approach the door, a dark-haired man comes out, a small girl on his hip and a boy running ahead of him. Din neatly sidesteps the boy and grabs the door. The man gives him a hurried nod of thanks before calling sharply after the boy. 

The place is busy, and he heads off collisions with two other children as he walks to the reception desk and writes a throw-away name down on the list. They’ll have a bit of a wait, and he settles back against one of the open walls. An exhausted-looking woman sits in a chair to his left, supervising two children as they draw with markers in a coloring book on the floor. 

Samir watches them with interest for several minutes before he turns back to Din and babbles a question, pointing down to the kids.

“Yeah, they’re drawing.” 

The boy twists dangerously in his arms, reaching back down towards the children in a gymnastic escape effort.

Din catches him with his other arm, levering the kid back upright. “No, ad’ika, those aren’t yours. We’ll see about getting you some, okay?” 

The kid makes a devastated sound and then screws up his face in preparation for maximum protest. Din panics. 

“Hey hey hey, no. We can’t do that here.” He looks around desperately and across the room, he spots some kind of wire and bead contraption with several children around it. Pushing himself off the wall, he walks over quickly. “Let’s see what this is, lek? This looks better than coloring anyway.” 

Samir is unconvinced, but Din crouches in front of the table and moves one of the beads along the wire to let it drop down to rest on the table. He does the same with a few others and shifts Samir when he tries to look back over his shoulder towards the coloring kids. Finally, Samir acquiesces, and the next twenty or so minutes go by quickly before he hears Samir’s name called. 

They follow an older nurse into the back. She turns to look at him as they walk. “Is the visit for you?” 

“For the kid,” Din says, before correcting himself, “My– my kid.” 

“Okay, anything major?” She stops outside an exam room door and gestures them inside.

“Just a checkup.” 

“Alright. Nurse Practitioner Luna will be with you in a few minutes.” She pulls the door closed behind her and Din sits down. Muffled conversation and footsteps from outside the door are the only sound. Samir satisfies himself by looking around for about twenty seconds before deciding that Din’s lap is not the most interesting part of the room. Looking down at the floor, Din comes to the conclusion that while worn, the old linoleum floor appears to be clean enough to let the kid explore a little. 

Hearing footsteps approach the door, he grabs Samir up off the ground just before it swings open. A woman with tight black curls and glasses looks up from the chart in her hand. Samir protests being removed forcibly from his inspection and drops Basa. Din catches the dragon in his other hand and puts it down on the chair behind him. 

“Samir...Bossk? Am I saying that right?” 

“Yes.” At the sound of his first name the kid shrinks back against Din’s shoulder, giving the woman a look of deep suspicion. The nurse practitioner smiles warmly at him. 

“That’s a pretty good-looking dragon, Samir. Does he have a name?” Samir doesn’t answer as she gestures towards the padded table and Din puts the kid down, keeping a hand on his back. “You said you’re just passing through the area?” 

“Yes, ma'am.” 

The NP looks in Samir’s nose, ears, and mouth. She talks to him quietly the whole time, and the kid is hesitant but allows it. Din knows he’s hovering, but he can’t help wondering if this is making the kid relive what he went through at the laboratory. 

They go through weight and height, she listens to his heart and lungs, checks his flexibility, and asks about his sleeping habits. Din is skeptical at her assertion that thirteen-month-olds sleep ten to twelve hours a night, but he supposes there’s got to be a bell curve at work here. 

He knows the kid is relaxing when he reaches out for the brightly colored stethoscope hanging from the NP’s neck, and Din starts to stop him. 

“That’s okay, this works to check his coordination and grip strength.” The NP watches Samir grab the rubber cover in one hand and pull it towards him. “Looks good. He’s in good health. How’s he eating?” 

Still watching to make sure the kid doesn’t yank it off her neck, Din loses his train of thought for a moment. “Pretty much whatever I give him. Beans, rice, bananas. Really likes goldfish. Three meals a day, and a few snacks?” He tries to remember everything he’s fed the kid in the last forty-eight hours and hopes it sounds moderately well-rounded. 

The NP gently untangles her stethoscope from Samir’s fingers before she sits with a sigh.“Yeah, they really go for goldfish and those honey grahams. But sounds like he’s doing fine.” 

Din breathes a small sigh of relief. “Great.” 

She flicks her eyes up from the chart. “Don’t get used to it. What’s his vaccination schedule look like?” 

“We’ve been on the road. I haven’t really had a chance to–” Din stops himself. “What does he need?” 

She taps her pen on the chart for a moment. “Well, ideally at this point he’d have DTaP, polio, MMR, Prevnar, and Hep A and B. But the critical ones for him to have now are the DTaP, polio, Prevnar, and MMR.” 

“Can you give him those today?” 

“Sure.” She pushes back the stool to stand. “He should have the others soon, but these are a good start.” 

Samir is extremely unhappy with the vaccines and Din’s stomach twists to have to hold him still through them but between Basa and a cherry lollipop the boy hiccups himself into silence. He tucks his face into Din’s neck as he asks a few other questions of the NP. 

On his way out, he stuffs two hundred-dollar bills in the donation box. It’s more than he can realistically afford, but he knows the clinic can use every penny of it. The cash in his pocket will go quickly, but they’ve only got one more stop for the day. 

* * * * * * *

Din is learning quickly that the game is about distraction and efficiency. He has to have something distracting enough to occupy the kid’s attention for the duration of his task. He then has to maximize his own efficiency in said task to try and ensure its completion before his hands become quite literally full. And he can use the phrase “hang on a second” approximately twice in quick succession before demands for his attention escalate.

Groceries put away, he lets out a satisfied sigh and heads to where Samir sits on the carpet in the living room with a small cup of goldfish, a coloring book, and some markers in front of him. The kid is focused on green and doesn’t seem to have any regard for coloring inside the lines, but he’s distracted, and that’s the game.  

Sitting down on the couch, Din pulls the old chromebook over to him and boots it up to start looking through the pucks Karga sent him. Most of them should be fairly quick but don’t have high payouts, they’re hardly worth more than he could make in a few days on a house job. 

There’s one that would likely take him a few days, but has a payout high enough to cover next month’s rent and his newly expanded living expenses. Enough to give him some room to breathe. He puts that one aside for later in the week.

He’s also got an email back from the Robslist seller of the crib, telling him he can pick it up that afternoon if he can pay cash. Din shoots off a reply that he’ll be there in an hour, and then pulls up the number for the babysitter Marin recommended. 

He waits for three rings before it connects.

“Hello?” 

“Hey. Is this Senha?"

"Yeah, Senha Rohdin. Can I help you?" 

Din isn’t expecting her to sound so young. "Marin Castillo gave me your number. Karil's brother? He said you look after– you do childcare?"

"Mhm.” She sounds like she’s walking. “Do you need someone?"

"Do you have any time tonight?” 

“I do, actually. How many kids?” 

“Just one. A boy, about a year old.” He doesn’t want to be too specific. Din hasn’t seen anything on the news feeds but that doesn’t mean they’re not publicizing the kid’s disappearance other ways.  

“Okay. Anything specific I should bring or know about ahead of time?” 

“Uh.” Din thinks about the nightmares the first night. “No, nothing special. I’ll be back late though.” 

“That’s not a problem. What’s the address?” 

He gives the address for the apartment and the time and hangs up. 

“Haar'chak.” He forgot to ask how much she charges, but he dismisses it. Marin had said she was reasonable, and he'll have a payout if the job tonight goes well. And if it doesn't, he'll figure it out.  

Coloring finally abandoned, Samir pulls himself up and wanders over, holding onto the table and couch as he makes his way unsteadily to him. Din wraps an arm around the kid and brings him up to his knee. The kid has green ink on his fingers as he reaches out to touch Din’s face.

“I’ve got to go out again tonight, okay? Somebody’s going to look after you while I’m gone.” 

Samir just looks at him. 

“She sounds nice.” 

The kid grabs the string from Din’s hoodie, pulling it before looking back up at him.

“You’re going to be good for her, right?” 

Samir makes no promises, but Din doesn’t have a lot of other options. 

They head back out to pick up the crib, which is in better condition than Din expected, and he’s almost feeling like he’s got somewhat of a handle on things by the time he’s got it put together and set up in the corner of his room away from the window. Just as he finishes figuring out the fitted sheet business on the mattress pad, there’s a knock on the door. Stepping around the kid, who’s busy coloring again on the floor of the bedroom, he grabs the pistol out of his bedside table and slips it into the back of his jeans under his t-shirt before heading out to the living room. 

Opening the door, he looks down. The babysitter barely comes up to his shoulder, and the oversized bag on her shoulder looks like it’s half her weight. Din’s mildly reassured that she looks older than she sounded on the phone, and her handshake is firm when she sticks out her hand. 

“I’m Senha.” 

“Din Djarin.” 

He moves back to let her into the apartment, and she swipes a lock of brown hair out of her eyes, the rest of it tucked neatly into a short braid. 

There’s a cry from the bedroom and Din hurries back to get Samir, who’s looking indignant at being left behind. 

“Sorry, ad’ika,” Din murmurs, picking him up out of the crib, “had to be sure it was her.” 

Samir gives him a gibberish response in a scolding tone as Din carries him back out to the living room, but the kid lets him off the hook when he sees the babysitter. 

“This is Samir.”

“Hi, Samir.” She smiles, and the kid buries his head in Din’s neck. 

“He’s a little shy,” Din says in explanation. 

Senha nods, still smiling. “That’s fine. What’s his normal routine for bedtime? Does he have a favorite book or anything?”

Din hesitates. “Uh.” 

She hefts the bag on her shoulder. “It’s alright if he doesn’t. I brought a few, just in case.”

Perfect. He lets out a breath. “I should be back before three. You can reach me at the same number I called you from earlier if anything happens.” 

Samir clings to him when Din tries to pass the kid over. 

“Can you give us a second?” He says apologetically to Senha.

“You’re fine,” she jerks her thumb towards the kitchen. “I’m gonna go wash my hands, okay?” 

He tilts his head down to Samir when she leaves the room. “Ad’ika, you’ve gotta let me go to work. She’s going to take good care of you. And when you wake up, I’ll be back. Haat.” 

The kid just holds on tighter. Din lets out a frustrated breath and kneels, peeling the child away from his body. It puts him at eye-level with Samir, and he meets the kid’s tearful gaze firmly. 

“Sam’ika. Listen to me, gedet’ye. I need to go, but I promise I’m going to come back. I need you to trust me here.”

Din knows the kid can't really understand, but he tries to infuse his voice with warmth and reassurance. Guilt rises in him at knowing this panic is at least partially his fault, but he doesn’t have a lot of other options. He just hopes the babysitter can handle whatever comes after he leaves. 

* * * * * * *

It’s quarter to three and he’s fucking exhausted when he stumbles up the stairs to the apartment. His side and back will host colorful bruises by morning. The bounty had gotten in two lucky hits before Din had cuffed him, a fact that he blames entirely on how tired he is. His feet are also killing him. He really needs to replace his boots, but they aren't cheap and if it comes down to diapers versus new boots he knows how that’ll turn out. 

Dragging his keys out of his pocket, Din unlocks the knob and the two deadbolts. The babysitter looks over from the couch as he comes in, putting down a large hardcover book. 

“Hey.” 

Din fishes out some bills and holds them out towards her. “Everything go alright?”

“More or less.” She takes the bills from him, tucking them into her back pocket. “He was upset when you left, but he tired himself out pretty quickly. Bath time was easy after that, and we read some before bed.” 

He nods, too tired to press for further details. He wants nothing more than a shower and bed at this point.

The babysitter packs up her things quickly and leaves with a murmured goodnight. His feet aching, Din peers into his bedroom long enough to verify that Samir is sleeping in the crib. The boy doesn’t stir and Din heads gratefully to the bathroom. It takes a solid effort to not just fall asleep standing up under the warm spray of the shower, and he takes stock of their situation as he scrubs. Surprisingly, it's not that bad. The kid is safe for the time being, he’s got enough money to keep them going for a while, and he’s even optimistic that he might get some sleep tonight. 

Changed into an ancient pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, Din runs a hand through his wet hair as he checks the front door and windows in his usual routine. He stifles a yawn as he flips off the main light and shambles back to his room. The first thing he sees on entering is a pair of brown eyes looking at him from the bars of the crib, one pudgy hand clutching a floppy dragon wing. 

He was so close. 

Samir puts his hands up as Din comes over, running a hand over the boy’s curls. 

“Go back to sleep, Sam’ika. Time to sleep now.” 

Samir lets out an agitated whine and reaches more insistently for him as Din starts to draw his hand back.

“Nayc, you can’t sleep with me. You sleep here, ad’ika.” He can see the telltale glisten in the kid’s eyes that indicates oncoming tears. “Osik.” 

A single tear escapes the kid’s eye in what Din would bet was a performance coming from anyone other than a baby, and he sighs. “Alright, fine. Just for a minute though.” 

As he lifts a suspiciously smug Samir from the crib, it strikes him that the kid’s been with him for a grand total of 48 hours and is already a pro at getting what he wants. He’s got to work on his negotiating skills. 

Settling onto his own bed with the boy at his side, Samir squirms to find a comfortable position. Finally, the boy curls his fingers in the collar of Din’s shirt, and he brings an arm up around the kid and closes his eyes. The warmth of the kid burrowing into his side is oddly comforting, and he has the vague thought that at least his bone-deep exhaustion means he’s less likely to roll over on the kid during the night. 

He feels Samir’s head shift and a small hand rests on his arm. A moment later, Din’s eyes shoot open at the intense itching sensation under the kid’s hand. Grabbing his phone, he turns the flashlight on and directs the light down. Samir makes a noise of protest at the bright light, but Din’s somewhat preoccupied with the fact that the cut he’d gotten the previous day from a piece of sharp slate is gone. 

The skin on his arm is unblemished, not a scab or even a scar left. If he hadn’t spent time cleaning it in the shower, Din isn’t sure he could tell where it had even been in the first place. 

His mind working furiously and coming up with nothing reasonable or rational, he tilts the light a bit to fall over Samir’s face. The boy turns his head into Din’s side, away from the light, and whines. Switching the light off, Din drops the phone back on the bedside table and lays back slowly. It makes no sense, and it’s not even possible, but he’s too fucking tired to think about it tonight.

Chapter Text

Din jolts awake to the now-familiar wail and swings his feet out of bed before his eyes are fully open. Samir is trembling when he picks him up out of the crib and tucks him against his shoulder. 

“Udesii, ad’ika, udesii. Gar morut’yc, Sam’ika.” 

He hums low in his chest as he sways slowly, but the crying continues. Used to the routine after several days of it, Din leans down to collect Basa, and brings both crying child and purple dragon back to his bed. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he closes his eyes and rubs one large hand in slow circles on the child’s back the same way the woman with the jade eyes had done in her final moments. Samir’s wail quiets but Din can still feel the effort of the wrenching sobs shaking his small body. It’s agonizing, and he has no idea how to stop it.

Not knowing what else to do, Din just lets Samir cry into his shoulder and continues the slow circles on his back and the deep, rumbling hum in his chest. He has never wished quite so much that Razan was still alive as he does in that moment. Would his buir have known how to calm the kid? How to protect him from the silent threats in the night that steal sleep from both of them? Some small part of him whispers that even if he couldn’t, Razan would still be doing a better job than Din. He always had more patience, more compassion, more forgiveness. More sense. 

Samir has quieted to occasional hiccups but still clings to him like a bur, Basa shoved up under his chin. Din hauls himself back up, blinking hazily as he shuffles to the kitchen. A cup of milk goes into the microwave, Din leans back against the counter, and his eyes close as the appliance hums. 

“So you’ve signed, then?” 

Din looked up from his tiingilar, and saw Razan sitting back in his chair, watching him with knowing eyes. He sat back himself, letting his fork rest on the plate, “This afternoon. They ship us out in two weeks for Basic.” 

Razan let out a heavy breath, “I’d hoped you’d stay, but I know you better than that.”

“I can’t stay here when our people are being slaughtered. And there’s word they’re setting up all-Mando units.” 

“They’d be foolish not to. Young men and women eager to fight, with a cultural connection, able to speak the language? You’re exactly what they want.” 

“You don’t seem pleased.” 

Razan shook his head resignedly, “You know I never want you in danger, ner ad.” He looked across the table and grinned. “But you wouldn’t be happy to stay here, under the circumstances.” 

He hauled himself to his feet and left the room, returning after a moment with a cloth bag. There was a dull metallic thunk as he set it on the table between them. Razan sat again and crossed his arms, gesturing towards the item with his chin, “If you’re going to be fighting alongside other Mandalorians, you should look the part.” 

Standing, Din reached out slowly and took the bag, pulling the drawstring with trembling fingers. Reaching inside, he drew out a shining silver helmet with a black glass T-visor. Razan stood again and came around the table. 

“I’ve got the rest of the ‘gam in my room. Haven’t worn it in awhile, but beskar is made to last.” 

Din settled the helmet over his head. It was just slightly too big. 

“We’ll take it to the forge tomorrow, get it fitted to you. I suspect our armorer will have their hands full doing the same for the others. And you’ll need a few days to get used to the field of vision the buy’ce gives you.” 

Din pulled the helmet off and held it in both hands, the metal smooth under his palms. Looking up at Razan, he had no words. There was pride in his buir’s eyes, but he looked older as he smiled at Din, the wrinkles around his eyes deeper set. Reaching out, Razan tapped a calloused finger against the gleaming silver surface of the helmet. 

“When you wear this, you are no longer Din Djarin. You are one of the mando’ade, one among countless warriors who have fought for generations to maintain peace and justice in our country. It hides your face, but it reveals the strength of your soul.” 

Smiling, Razan stepped closer. He leaned his forehead against Din’s in a gentle kov’nyn, his hand a comforting weight on his shoulder. 

“No matter what happens, where you go, or who you fight, you will always be my ad. The day I found you was the most important day of my life, Din’ika.”

Din sighed, “You know I hate when-” 

“When I call you that, I know. Deal with it. An old verd’s allowed certain indulgences.”   

He laughed at that, and shook his head, “Vor entye, buir.” 

“Nayc, there is no debt. All I ask is that you make every effort to come back when it’s over. Ogir’olar, hm?” 

“Ogir’olar,” Din promised. 

He catches the microwave just before it beeps, and carries the milk, the still hiccuping child, and the ever-present Basa back to his room. In the few days since they picked it up, the crib has been used only when he’s away, and co-sleeping has become the word of the day. 

Din settles back on the bed, and steadies the glass as Samir drinks. The boy’s hands tighten rhythmically around his hand as he drinks, and Din leans his head back against the wall, his eyelids heavy. He’s got another house job tomorrow, and they’ve got to get up early enough that he can get things organized for the kid to stay with his neighbor for the day. 

As Din puts the empty glass on the nightstand, Samir whimpers slightly and cuddles tightly into his side, small fingers twisted in Din’s t-shirt. Another memory comes to him, hazy with age. Razan sitting next to his bed, his fingers trailing gently over his brow as he sang. 

Looking down at Samir, Din draws in a long breath, and sings low and quiet. His voice comes out rusty with disuse, and the words come back to him slowly. 

M'ni mar'laar gotal’ur tuur par gar,

Ni dinui gar vaar’tur, ve'vut bal vaar

Tuur darasuum, tuur ori’mesh’la.

Bal dinui gar ca nau’u de kar’e. 

As he sings, he trails his fingers gently over Samir’s brow and temples. He goes through the lyrics twice before Samir begins to grow heavy against him, and he hums the tune a third time to be sure. Din tucks the blanket over him, smoothing a hand over his soft curls.

Leaning his head back against the wall, he rubs his thumb over the spot on his arm where Samir had laid his hand several night’s prior and the cut there had mysteriously vanished. Every time he tries to think about it, his mind slips from the memory, as if the very act defies rationalization.

He doesn’t have the time or energy to really consider the possibility, and instead, he unplugs his phone from the charger and pulls up the homescreen. It’s almost two, and he needs to be up in four hours. Before he can replace the phone on the nightstand though, a push notification at the top of the screen catches his attention. 

A manhunt is in progress for the suspect in what some are now saying is a domestic terrorism case-

His blood runs cold as he scans the news article. The details are sparse, stating only that the attack took place during a robbery at a private genetics laboratory on the outskirts of Ganister City, and that police are pursuing leads. Nothing about a child, nothing about the perpetrator being Mandalorian. He puts the phone on the nightstand and lays back. Staring up at the dark ceiling, he wraps an arm around Samir’s sleeping form.

Ideally, they should run. He should be packing them up right now and getting them the hell out of town. Realistically, if they run now it’s a red flag to Karga and anyone else looking to connect him to the incident. 

In addition, Din’s been able to put aside the money from the bounty job he took on earlier in the week. He’ll be paid the other half of the latest house job tomorrow, and if he can deliver the bounty from the two-day job this weekend, they’ll be in a much better financial position than they are presently.

No, for the time being it’s in their best interest to stay where they are and try to build up some funds in case they have to bug out. Keep their heads down and stay low.

Our secrecy is our survival. Our survival is our strength.

* * * * * * *

He knocks on Mrs. Vebay's door the next afternoon and a muffled voice sounds from inside, but it doesn’t open immediately. Looking down at himself, he brushes stone dust from his jeans and tries to scrape some of the mortar off his nails as he waits. His phone vibrates and he pulls it out.

C: You free now?

D: Give me an hour?

C: Sure. 

Finally the lock clicks and Mrs. Vebay swings the door open as she speaks to someone, “There we are, didn’t I tell you he’d be back soon?” 

Samir almost falls out of the door in his haste, and Din feels an immense measure of relief when he scoops him up. The kid clings to him with one hand, his other clutching one of Basa’s wings, and he lets out a contented babble against Din’s neck. 

Din looks back to the older woman. “I really can’t thank you enough for this. Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do?” 

“Actually, the bulb burned out in my bathroom and I can’t reach it. Do you think you could...?”

“Of course.” He’s relieved to be able to do something, even something so small, in return.

“Oh, thank you.” She steps back and motions him inside. The place is exactly as he remembers it from the few other times he’s helped her with small repairs. The furnishings are aged but immaculate, there’s an antique-style radio in the corner, and not a spot of dust anywhere. There are also a few brightly-colored children’s books on the low table, one of them lays open. 

There’s already a new bulb on the counter in the bathroom, and it’s the work of only a few minutes to get the fixture off the ceiling. 

She comes back as he’s screwing the new bulb in place, “Coffee or tea?” 

“Thank you, ma’am, but I’m fi-” 

“Coffee or tea?” 

Din sighs, “Coffee, please.” 

She disappears back down the hall and he distantly hears plates rattling and the sound of a kettle hissing. He resets the fixture and comes back out to the living room. Mrs. Vebay is on the couch, pointing to something in a flip book, Samir more engrossed in the flip bits than the pictures. As Din enters, he smiles and raises his arms in the opening act of what he’s coming to think of as the kid’s barnacle routine. 

As he picks him up, Mrs. Vebay gestures to the chair across the table, “Please sit, I’ll be right back.” 

They settle into the armchair and Samir curls his hand in the collar of Din’s shirt, seemingly content just to cuddle close to him with his thumb tucked in his mouth.

Mrs. Vebay comes back out carrying a tray with a coffee pot, two delicate-looking cups, a small cup of juice, and a plate of cookies. Din automatically starts to stand.

“I’ve got it, don’t trouble yourself.” He sits again slowly and feels Samir settle more comfortably in his arms. Mrs. Vebay pours the coffee and hands him the cup before seating herself on the edge of the couch and crossing her legs at the ankle. 

As she settles herself, Din takes a sip of the coffee and blinks. There’s some kind of spice in it and he already knows that he’s going to be comparing it to his own pathetic excuse for caffeine over the next several weeks. On the couch, Mrs. Vebay takes a small sip from her cup before nodding towards the bathroom. 

“Thank you for fixing the light.” 

Din shakes his head, “It’s the least I could do. I’m in your debt for looking after him.” 

“He’s a good boy.” She takes another sip of coffee before putting down the cup, “If I may, how’s it all going?”

 Din has the impression she’s well aware how it’s all going, but he knows she’s being polite, “It’s been an adjustment.” 

She smiles softly, deepening the wrinkles beside her eyes, “Children always are. Do you know how long he’ll be staying with you?” 

“No. The situation is... complicated.” 

Mrs. Vebay hums, “It so often is with family, especially given the world today. He’s lucky to have someone like you to look after him.” 

A hot flash of guilt comes over him at the memory of the last few days, and he wonders if she’d still feel the same way knowing the whole story.

She continues hesitantly, “I hope I don’t come off as rude, but you do look very tired.” 

Her voice is kind, and he knows just how dark the shadows under his eyes are from the last few nights of interrupted sleep. 

“I-” he stops, “He has nightmares. I don’t know how to help him.” 

“Just hold him. Reassure him. Tell him he’s safe.” 

“I do. It doesn’t seem like enough.” Din leans forward to put his cup on the provided coaster and sits back, one hand migrating to Samir’s back protectively. 

She gives him an understanding nod. “Often the only thing we can do for those we care about is to show them we’re there, try and be present with them when they’re struggling.” 

He doesn’t know if it’s his exhaustion or his desperation or both, but the words come before he can stop them. ”I worry that I'm not helping.” 

Mrs. Vebay takes another slow sip of her own coffee. Setting it down, she looks over her  thick lenses at him. “How so?” 

“His mother passed away recently. And I have reason to believe he’s been in- high stress environments. He gets upset when I leave.” 

“That’s understandable. If he’s without his mother, and in a less than ideal situation at home, you may be the only consistent safe presence that he has.” 

“Is there anything else I can do to make him feel safer?” 

As he speaks, an long-haired grey cat saunters into the room, giving Din an uninterested look before flopping down in a sunbeam. Samir immediately squirms in his arm to get down. 

“It’s all right,” Mrs. Vebay assures him. “He and Beatrice are good friends.” 

Slightly dubious, Din lowers the child to the carpet and watches him crawl to the luxuriating feline. Samir pets the grey ruff at the cat’s neck gently, and the cat begins to groom one of its paws. 

Mrs. Vebay clears her throat, drawing his attention back to her, “It may help him to have routines he can count on.” 

“Routines?” Din reaches for his coffee. He’s already in this deep, he might as well come away with some caffeine and potential advice. 

“Yes, like a hug first thing in the morning, or reading a book before bedtime. Something you always do, so he can come to count on it. It would make your coming and going part of that routine. It would also build his trust that you’ll come back.” 

“I can try to schedule my jobs on a more regular basis, but-,” He thinks of the bounty jobs that take several days, and the house jobs coming in high summer, where his work hours are dictated by how hot the day will be, “if I can’t always be there in the morning or the evening, is there something else I can do to help him?” 

He doesn’t mention the possibility that he can’t help the kid, because that’s a little too much to deal with at the moment. 

She thinks for a moment, turning an old silver ring on her left hand, “Could you have a routine with him for when you leave, maybe? And then ask a babysitter to carry out whatever morning or bedtime routine you normally have, if you can’t be there?” 

“I can do that.” He looks down at Samir, who’s now stretched out on his stomach, nose to nose with Beatrice. “Thank you. For the advice, and the coffee.” 

Mrs. Vebay looks down at the boy and the cat as well and smiles, revealing a dimple on her left cheek, “For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing just fine.” She nods approvingly at the plate between them. “Have a cookie.”

* * * * * * *

The kid’s been napping for twenty minutes when there’s a knock on his front door. Din pulls the bedroom door shut behind him and strides quickly to the front before Cara can knock again. 

“Thanks for coming,” he says as she comes inside, shedding her jacket. 

“No worries. All good?” 

Din makes a non-committal sound and detours to the kitchen as she heads for the living room. Sitting down in her usual spot on the couch, she lets out a long breath. 

“Karga told me about the commission the other night. Did you see that place got broken into later that night?” 

Din keeps his face carefully neutral as he hands her a beer, “Broken into? By who?” 

She shrugs, shaking her head, “No idea, cops haven’t said anything about having a suspect in custody so my guess is they don’t know either. Fancy looking place. You didn’t see anything when you were there?” 

“Nothing,” the lie comes easily, “I was only there for a few minutes to deliver the quarry.” 

“Huh.” Cara takes a drink before putting the beer down on the table. “So, what’s up?” 

Din resists looking back towards his bedroom. “Did Karga tell you who that commission was for?” 

“No, but I saw the paperwork.” She eyes him with that sharp gaze, “A kid, right? I was surprised you took it. I thought that would’ve been out of bounds for you.” 

“Yeah...” He nods, resolving himself to the course of action. He can trust Cara, and they need help. “Alright just, stay here for a second.” 

She frowns, “O...kay?” 

“Just stay here.” 

Samir looks up from his crib when Din enters, and eagerly stretches his arms up. With the kid on his hip and his heart in his throat, Din heads back to the living room. 

Cara’s mouth falls open. Watching this new person with interest, Samir tucks Basa securely under his arm. 

“Oh holy shit, that’s-,” she shakes her head. “Oh, Djarin, you fucking idiot.” 

“Hey,” Din glares at her. “Knock it off with the cussing. I don’t want him to pick that shit up.” 

She looks pointedly at him before running both hands over her short, braided hair, “Oh man. Okay. So what, you turned him in and then got hunter’s remorse and went back?” 

“Something like that, yeah.” The kid squirms in his arms and Din puts him down on the floor, where he starts to make his way over to Cara. 

She keeps her eyes on the tottering child heading towards her, “How come they didn’t know it was you? You cover up before you went in?” 

Din watches Samir lay a small hand on her shin, “Yeah. I- I had a helmet on.” 

Cara looks away from the baby now trying to climb up onto the couch, “You mean...” 

“Yeah.” Din picks Samir up before he falls and sits down on the couch, the kid on his lap.

She hums and takes a sip of her beer. Cara is one of very few people outside the community who knows where the vast majority of his money goes. Strictly speaking, it’s not safe to publicize information like that, but Cara’s proven herself an ally on multiple occasions.

“Wow.” She puffs out a deep breath, “So...what’re you going to do?” 

“I have no idea.” Din tucks in the tag sticking out of the back of Samir’s shirt, “I don’t know how hard the company is looking for him. They were watching the house where he’d been kept before, but I don’t know if they followed me from there. And if they did, why haven’t they come for him already?” 

Cara takes another pull from the bottle and shakes her head, “I mean, seeing a Mandalorian with the helmet is rarer than hell now, and you don’t wear anything but the necklace normally...” She gestures with her bottle towards the black cord that vanishes under his shirt, “maybe you got lucky and they just saw a Mando.” 

Din grunts. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s been lucky in his life, and this would be a big one, “I’d rather not trust his safety or mine to luck.” 

She shrugs, “So maybe leave town for a while? At least until you figure out how badly they want him.” 

He sighs, “If I leave town, I lose my ability to operate with the Guild. And all my connections for contractor work. The jobs you get starting out in a new place are shit money. Post-hole digging. Would barely be enough for me to keep him fed.” 

Cara inclines her head in acknowledgment and blows out a breath, “Alright. If you’re sticking around, do you have anyone you trust to look after him while you’re working? I’m happy to help, but you know my hours aren’t exactly ideal. Not to mention, I don’t really do the baby thing.” 

“My neighbor.” Din lifts his chin towards the shared wall of the apartment, “And I found a babysitter I think I can trust.” 

“There aren’t any of your people around?” Cara asks carefully. 

Din lets out a long exhale, “Not really. There're a few around, but I don’t know them well. And I’m not sure what they’d think of the situation.” 

“You said adoption’s pretty common though, right?” 

Having decided that Cara can be trusted enough for closer observation, Samir scoots off Din’s lap and crawls over to her, pulling himself up to stand. Looking unsure, Cara offers him a finger to hold onto as they study each other dubiously. 

“It is, but he’s…” Din hesitates, trying to decide how much to tell her, “Okay. I think he can do something really weird.” 

She glances quickly over at him, her finger still held captive, “Really weird how…” 

Samir looks from one to the other as if he knows they’re talking about him before plopping himself down on Cara’s leg. She starts slightly before she looks back at Din.

“He can... he can heal.” 

She shakes her head, eyebrows raised, “You lost me.” 

Din sighs. Knowing it sounds crazy, he tries to get it out as quickly as possible, “The other night I got back from a job and he wouldn’t settle so I was laying there with him and he put his hand on my arm and a cut I had there just...disappeared. No scar, no scab. Like it was never there.” Pushing up his sleeve, he shows her the unmarked skin. “If my shirt didn’t still have the blood on it, I would’ve thought I dreamed the whole thing.” 

When he meets her eyes, she’s looking extremely skeptical, “You sure the cut just wasn’t as bad as you thought?” 

“I’m sure. I think that’s why they want him.” 

She watches his face carefully and then looks back down at the boy on her lap, “You’re serious.” 

“Yes,” Din breathes out, “and the only lead I’ve got on his family is a- hang on.”

He retrieves the plastic bag from his room and pulls out the photo-copy of the ID and the picture. Setting her beer down on the table, Cara takes the picture from him and looks over it. 

“This is his mom?” 

“I think so. She had him when I found them, and then afterwards he kept asking for her.” 

She looks up sharply, “Wait, you didn’t-” 

“No, fuck no. Maker, Cara, you think I’d do that?” 

Cara rubs a hand over her face, “Look, it’s a day for a lot of firsts, okay? I had to ask.” 

“I found him before Karga even called me. Was on the way back from a day job in Clarice on Wednesday and stumbled into the whole thing. She was bleeding out when she gave him to me. I couldn’t do anything.” 

She takes in a deep breath and lets it out, “Show me the other thing?” 

Din passes over the photocopy of the ID card. Squinting at it for a beat, Cara hands it back, shaking her head, “I’ve never seen that language before. Have you done any searches on it?” 

“Haven’t found anything close so far.” 

“Give it to me.” She gestures for it again when he hesitates, “I’ll take it and run some searches, quietly. Try to figure out what it says. I’ve got better resources than you do anyway.” 

Din hands over the folded paper, “Thank you.” 

She shakes her head, “I don’t know how you get yourself into these things, Din. You never take the easy way, do you?” 

“Easy way is rarely the right one.” 

Cara groans, “Ugh, that sounds like your dad talking.”

Din smiles crookedly, “He did have some good sayings. And he liked you.” 

“Of course he did, he had taste.” Cara stands, putting her bottle down on the table, “Let me see what I can find out. I’ll call you.” 

* * * * * * *

He hesitates this time before dialing the number for the babysitter. She’d been fine last time. Reasonable rate (enough that he could afford more than a few hours), had put the kid to bed on time, and hadn’t asked any questions when he’d come back. 

So why was he hesitating? She’d either tell him the timeline was too long, or she’d take the job and he can go after this puck knowing it’ll cover rent and food for the next month. Running a hand through his hair, he dials Senha’s number and sags back against the couch. 

“Hello? ” 

“Hey, this is Din Djarin, Samir’s-” He chokes on the word, “You looked after him-” 

“On Thursday, yeah.” Her response has that casual half tone of someone multitasking and only being partially successful, “D’you need a sitter again? ” 

Din hesitates, “Do you do overnights?” 

There’s a long enough pause on the other end that Din opens his mouth to take the question back, “Not usually, but I can make exceptions. What’re the details? ”

“Two days. And I'd need you to stay here.” Taking the kid to someone’s house was out of the question, “Is that alright?”

Another pause, “When? ” 

Din relaxes slightly, “This weekend. Friday, around seven?” 

“Sure, that’s fine.” 

“Do you,” he winces, “do you have any special rates for overnights?” His cheeks burn at the potential implications of his question, but it’s far from the first time he’s had to sacrifice his pride for the sake of others.

He hears her sigh, “We can figure something out.” 

“Thanks.” 

* * * * * * *

Sitting cross-legged next to the tub, Din leans over to check his phone, placed safely on top of a towel and out of the splash-zone. They’ve still got close to an hour before Senha arrives, and Din is determined to get the bedtime routine right before he leaves. It feels good to be more prepared than he’d been the first time, but in the meantime he still has to navigate the minefield of getting Samir to sleep before she arrives. 

Scooting closer to the tub, he dips the cup into the water and pours it over the kid’s head, one hand shielding his forehead to keep it out of his eyes. The last of the baby shampoo rinses away, and Samir looks up from the plastic rings floating next to him. A trip to the Goodwill across town (the good one) that afternoon had yielded several new toys and a few books. 

Surprisingly, Samir hadn’t been interested in any of the stuffed animals there. He had, however, protested when Din had suggested leaving Basa in the living room before his bath. The purple dragon now stands guard in the doorway, facing the hall. Din is fairly certain the kid has a bright future as either an actor or a dictator. Maybe both. 

Samir giggles as his hair is toweled dry, and the sound is cute enough that Din does it for a second longer than necessary. When he pulls the towel down to wrap around the kid’s shoulders, Samir’s curls pop back up and he shows tiny baby teeth in a wide smile. It’s the closest Din’s seen to the smile he had in the photo with the woman with the jade eyes. The sight of it loosens the knot he’s been carrying around in his chest for almost a week.  

Brushing teeth requires some convincing, but then they’re settling down on his bed with one of the books he picked up. Samir snuggles into his side and leans his head on Din’s stomach, thumb in his mouth. 

“Foxy and the Fabulous Fruit Bats,” Din clears his throat, “by K.C. Kas” 

The story is silly and the illustrations adorable. He glances down at the child at his side from time to time, and sees Samir’s eyelids slowly drooping. But when Din finally closes the book, Samir turns his head up to look at him. 

Of course it can’t be that easy.  

He sighs, “Nu’haryc, Sam’ika?” 

The kid pushes himself back up to sitting, albeit with a slight sway, as if he’s forcing himself to stay awake. Din lets out a long exhale through his nose before he remembers the lullaby two nights before. His voice is still raspy as he sings this time, but the words come more easily, and Samir’s blinks become longer and slower as Din draws his fingers across his forehead and down his temples. The boy relaxes into his hip, and is asleep before Din reaches the end of the second iteration. 

There’s a soft knock from the front door and he steels himself as he slowly shifts Samir’s weight to his chest to stand. Halfway to the crib, Din freezes at a murmur from the kid, but Samir just snuggles further into his chest and continues breathing deeply. Din lowers him into the crib with the same level of care that he would afford to an unstable high-energy explosive, holding his breath until Samir is settled with Basa close by. 

Din straightens from the crib, feeling oddly reluctant to leave. Samir’s slow breaths don’t change, and he wonders if someone from the child’s aliit is looking down at an empty crib somewhere, wishing they could see the same thing he sees now.

Chapter Text

The last few days have not been kind to Ganister City Police Detective Bob Rolands. The pressure from City Hall to find the perpetrator of the PhenoVisage murders is unrelenting, and word had come down that morning that the Feds are getting involved now. Some asshole had apparently forgotten that throwing around the words domestic terrorism brought them out of the woodwork. 

Rolands is acutely aware that the Mayor’s office is expecting a breakthrough, and as he stares at the printout from his computer, he knows it’s his only guaranteed get-out-of-jail-free card. At the very least, it’s passing the buck to some other poor bastard. 

On the paper is a list of just over a dozen names pulled from local records, all first generation Mandalorians living in the Ganister City area. The footage from the attack made it clear the perp is male, which narrows the list by about half, but otherwise there’s nothing tying one specific individual to the murders.

Mr. Raines had implied he would find a list of hardened mercenaries, but what he has is a baker, an accountant, two carpenters, an insurance salesman, and a paramedic. Rolands has confirmed that the paramedic was on a twelve hour shift the night of the attack, a solid alibi. That leaves five possibilities. Looking down the list of names, he just doesn’t see Mr. Ordo gunning down a half-dozen people after coming home from a day of selling home policies.

Then again, how many insurance salesmen considered rifles to be sacred symbols of their religion? After the mess down in Mandalore, Ebrya had established local registries of those first-generation immigrants who followed the so-called “Way” for just that reason. Apparently there’s some bullshit first amendment case still rolling around the courts, but right now, the detective has seven dead bodies and impatient city officials expecting results.

Rolands winds his way through the bullpen to the desk sergeant. “Greg, I need these five brought in for questioning on the PhenoVisage case. If they refuse, find a way to get them in here. Work with Assistant Attorney Peterson if you have to.”

The sergeant glances over the list before looking back to Rolands, “Want me to run these by forensics first? I think they pulled some info from the footage, might narrow the list down a bit.”

Rolands waves away the suggestion. “Don’t waste your time. With as much as these Mandos like hiding behind their helmets, I’m sure they’ll be feeling awfully uncomfortable once we get them face to face across a table.”

The Sergeant shrugs and turns to begin dispatching the uniforms. 

Satisfied that he’ll have five potential suspects in-house by the end of the day, Rolands is about to turn back to his office when a voice cuts through the low buzz of the bullpen. “Excuse me, Detective Rolands?”

The voice has the quality of a college education, with an out-of-state accent. He turns to see a tall woman approaching him from the Captain’s office. From her outfit, he first assumes she’s some corporate suit asking about the “research object” again. Then he sees the badge on her hip.

Shit. The Feds have arrived.  Rolands isn’t sure what annoys him more: that it’s taken them this long to drag their asses out here or that they hadn’t decided to take just a little more time. 

“Yeah. And you are?”

“Special Agent Silvia Fess, Domestic Investigations Bureau, Counterterrorism Division. I just spoke with your captain. I’m told you’re working the PhenoVisage case?”

Rolands takes her offered hand. Surprised by the strength of her grip, he motions her back to his office. As she sits across the desk from him, he can’t help but wonder about the suit. He’d thought pantsuits had become a career-limiting fashion since the last election. Nonetheless, he pastes on a bland, cooperative smile. “How can I help you, Agent Fess?”

“I’d like to see where you are with the investigation. Our office was surprised you didn’t reach out to us following the attack. In fact, it was the Governor’s Office that requested assistance.”

They both know full-well why the Mayor has kept things local; the rest of this is just jurisdictional posturing. Well, unfortunately for Miss Pantsuit, Rolands knows who signs his paychecks, and he follows the long tradition of not shitting in your food. 

“I suppose you’d have to ask the Captain  about that.” Rolands takes a sip of his coffee. He does not offer Miss Pantsuit any. “May I assume you are not here in an advisory role then, Miss Fess?”

“Agent Fess.” There’s a brittle quality to her voice and Rolands congratulates himself. “And lucky for you, Detective, no. Given the details and the suspected perpetrator, my superiors have decided to investigate the case as a possible incident of domestic terrorism. I realize you’ve been under a lot of pressure, but I’m pleased to say you can now happily shove all that onto my plate.”

Rolands leans back, clasping his hands over his stomach. “Just you? No support staff, Agent Fess?  It’d be awfully unchivalrous to dump this entire investigation onto you, particularly considering its sensitive nature.”

“I’m a big girl, Detective, and besides, you seem to have been keeping your head above water.”

Rolands lifts one shoulder, ignoring the jab. “Fair enough. As it happens you’re in luck.” He hands her the list. “I just put in a request to have these suspects picked up for questioning. Chances are one of them is our perp. You could be home by this time next week.” And out of my jurisdiction.  

She takes the offered list and looks it over quickly before handing it back. “Aside from being Mandalorian in nationality, what leads do you have on these individuals?”

The list is just names, ages, and addresses. Basic info pulled from local records. If she already knows they’re all Mandos, she’s done her research before coming. “The individual in the security video is clearly a Mando, Special Agent. This is a short list of Mandos in the area. One of them either attacked the lab, or gave their armor to someone who did.”

“And if the perp wasn’t local? Or got their gear from somewhere else? Detective, ignoring the clear fourth amendment violations involved in a sweeping round-up like this, I’m not sure this is the home run you think it is.”

He shrugs again to cover his annoyance. “Well, as you said, it’s your case now. I’m happy to help if you have a better idea.”

She gives him a distinctly unfriendly smile that ruins the lines of her face. “Oh, I’m sure you have other cases, Detective.  I wouldn’t want to impose on your department rounding up all the usual suspects. Wouldn’t be chivalrous.”

“The Mayor wants progress, ma’am. This is progress.”

“Detective, the perp took out six armed guards, with automatic weapons, in body-armor. An insurance salesman, even if he goes shooting in his free time, isn’t going to pull that off and we both know it. You’re under pressure to bring faces in front of a camera, I get that. Call off your officers and let me get you a useful list.”

Now she wants to be helpful? “Ma’am, like you said, I have my orders. In fact, I think I’m going to have to ask to see the paperwork requesting I turn jurisdiction of this case over to you.”

She gets up from the chair. “The paperwork will be here on Monday, Detective. I came in early to try to smooth the transition, but if you want it by the book, by all means, continue to waste the city’s time.”

Rolands stands but doesn’t offer his hand. “Seven dead bodies might say otherwise, Agent Fess.”

“You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t believe adding five innocents to the chorus will improve the sound.”

* * * * * *

“Detective.”

“There’s a new complication, sir. The DIB has gotten involved. I’ll be off the case by this time next week.”

“That is unfortunate, Detective, as you have yet to locate our stolen property.”

“I understand, sir.  I’ve ordered the local Mando suspects rounded up.  If one of them confesses, we should know the location of the research object soon after.”

“If one of them confesses? And if your delay to act gives the Mandalorian the opportunity to sell or abscond with our property? ”

“If it was one of them, we’ll find it.”

“You will forgive me if my confidence in your department is not bolstered by this assurance, Detective. And you can be sure we will be expressing our concerns to your superiors.”

“I understand, sir.”

The line goes dead and Rolands leans back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. And to think he’d thought the day might be looking up. 

Chapter Text

He’s a sweet kid. Quiet beyond just shy, but he doesn’t show any of the signs that would really worry her. No flinching, he’s engaged and interested in activities, and he reaches out for contact regularly. This kid is clearly accustomed to snuggling, and demands it without shame. 

The first time Senha had looked after Samir, some questions had come up. Like, why the place was clearly not baby-proofed, why the kid had almost no toys, or why his dad had come home at three in the morning wearing body armor under an old jacket. Some questions had been resolved when Din had clarified that he wasn’t in fact Samir’s father, just a relative looking after him for a few weeks. The body armor one was still a mystery, but she certainly wasn't going to ask. 

When he’d explained that the boy’s mother had died less than a week before, Senha had covered her hitched breath by clearing her throat. It's been nearly fifteen years since she lost her mother, and it still hurts like it was only a few months ago. In light of that knowledge, Samir’s nightmares and his panic anytime his caretaker was out of sight made painful sense. 

From there, it isn’t a far stretch to remember Jenni’s nightmares. How Senha used to wake up in the middle of the night, shuffle to her little sister’s room, and hold her as she cried. Samir isn’t hers by blood, but those deep, wrenching cries are the same. Loss sounds the same in every language.

The desperate way the boy had clung to Din when he’d made to leave the first time, and the reluctant look the man had cast towards the bedroom where Samir slept before he’d left this time had settled the last of Senha’s concerns. It didn't matter that Din wasn't Samir's biological father. That anxious look in his eye was the same she’d seen in the eyes of every parent leaving their child with a near-stranger.

Samir’s been down for about twenty minutes when she hears keys in the front door. Turning the two deadbolts, she leaves the security chain on until she meets Din’s familiar dark gaze and prominent nose. His keys are still stuck in the bottom deadbolt. 

“Hi.” 

“Hey,” he sounds exhausted, and he’s holding himself strangely as she stands back to let him in. Closing the door behind him, she notices the slightly darker patch towards the bottom of his blue jacket, the fabric moving like it’s stuck to him.  

“Are you alright?” 

“Fine. Where’s the kid?” His tone is polite, but clipped. It’s either pain, annoyance, or both. Senha would put money on that last one.

“Napping. He went down about twenty minutes ago.” She hears him let out a breath and his shoulders relax minutely, ”You’re bleeding. Do you need to go to the hospital?” 

“No. How did everything go?” 

She shrugs as she follows him to the living room, “Rained all day yesterday, so we just stayed in and played. Went to the park this morning, and read some before his nap. He fussed a little at bedtime last night, and woke up a few times but that’s normal.” 

Din grunts as if he knows too well how normal it is. 

Senha skirts around to his front, practiced eyes scanning for signs of other injuries. He doesn’t seem to have any other major injuries, but there are what look like electrical burns on his right hand when he holds out their pre-negotiated fee. Ignoring the bills, she raises her eyebrows and nods to the burns. 

“Those look painful.”

She can’t quite hear his internal reply of no shit but it’s plain as day in the look he casts down at her. He doesn’t reply, just continues to hold the cash out to her. The smart thing to do here would be to take the money, pack up her things, and book it. She’s got plenty on her plate without prying into whatever the hell it is this guy does during his off-hours. Which looks suspiciously like being on the losing end of a fight with a cattle prod. 

“Are you sure you don’t need a ride to the hospital?”

“I’m sure.”

Curious against her better judgment, she moves behind him again to look more closely at the injury on his back, “You going to be able to reach this yourself?” 

“I’ll be fine, thank you.” 

Doubtful.

“Because if you can’t clean it out properly, you’re risking infection.” The intelligent voice in her head that usually tells her to back off in these situations is strangely absent.

“I’m fine, thank you. You can go.” He’s clearly trying to keep his voice light, courteous, but there’s an unmistakable edge to it. Senha circles back to his front and he fixes her with a look that he probably reserves for people who stab him in the back. Literally. 

Unluckily for him, unruly patients are a dime a dozen, and she stares right back, “I’m a nurse, alright? I can clean it, stitch you up, and make sure you don't end up in the hospital next week with a staph infection. No questions asked.” 

Clearly, these last three are the magic words, because he drops the flat denial routine in favor of curious skepticism, "Thought you were in nursing school."

"I've been an LPN since I was twenty, just going back to get my RN. I know what I’m doing.”

He pauses for another moment before nodding once, “Okay.” 

Thank the Maker, he’s capable of rational thought, “You got a medkit?” 

“Bathroom closet.” He lowers himself gingerly to sit on the edge of the coffee table as she hurries to the medicine cabinet. The red and white kit is surprisingly well-stocked and looks more like what she’s got at home than the usual bathroom kit most people have. Hands washed, she carries the kit back out to the living room and puts some water on to boil in the tiny kitchen.

Her patient’s dark eyes follow her as she moves around the apartment. It’s not unlike how the neighborhood cat watches birds digging in the grass outside her building. Not threatening, exactly, but assessing. Tracking. 

Firmly ignoring it in favor of brisk professionalism, Senha lifts her chin towards him as she sets the supplies out on the table. “Can you take off your jacket and your shirt? I need to see what we’re working with.” 

The only visual indication that he’s in pain is a slight tightening of his jaw as he tugs his jacket off and unstraps the blue and grey body armor underneath. He breathes in sharply through his nose when he starts to lift it off over his head and she steps forward to help with the weight of it. Given how thin it looks, it’s surprisingly heavy. There’s a rectangular diamond inlay in the center, and some kind of animal skull in faded black paint on the front draws her eye as she places it carefully on the couch behind her. 

“You all right?” She asks, more to gauge his pain level than anything else. There’s enough blood on the remaining undershirt he wears to answer the question by itself.

“Yeah,” his voice is tight but he breathes a bit more easily with the armor off. As he strips the last layer off, she frowns. 

Whatever this guy does in his free time, it has not treated him well. Silvery lines criss-cross each other along his olive skin, interspaced with a few broader splotches, a few still pink and fairly recent. There’s a distinctive patterning that suggests the armor is a regular accessory, but he’s still far from unmarked under where it must lay. 

After retrieving the water from the stove, she pulls on the wrapped set of nitrile gloves from the med kit and settles in. He stiffens when she touches him, and she stops, fingertips resting lightly on his back. 

“Sorry,” she says, “didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“It’s fine.” 

She’s particularly careful in cleaning it but he doesn’t flinch again, just turns his head slightly to watch her work. The incision itself (which is very definitely a knife wound, what the hell) is pretty clean, and seems to have avoided anything major. Honestly, she’s more concerned by the fact that a scar running up his side just to the left looks like it’s been burned shut. Letting her gaze travel, she sees that it's not the only one. 

“You use a cauterizer?” She tries to keep the disbelief out of her voice, because what the fuck, who uses a cauterizer if you’ve got access to basic medicine?

“Thought you said no questions.” 

Senha glances up quickly to meet his eyes, but there’s no trace of humor in them. Alright then. “Fair. Just--you don’t see that kind of thing very often.” 

Din lets out a non-committal sound and continues to watch her as she reaches over for the suture needle and thread. He doesn’t flinch at the pinch from the needle, and she’s almost convinced that he’s turned to stone when he speaks. 

“He was okay, then? The kid?” 

Senha’s preferred conversational material would’ve swung more towards cautionary tales about the lasting nerve damage you can do to yourself via cauterization as a treatment option but ‘the kid’ does seem like a safer topic choice. 

“Mmhm. Pretty easy, actually, as long as he could see me. Eats well, plays well, sleeps...maybe not well, but given what you told me, that’s not unexpected.” 

“Is it--” Senha looks up from the neat stitches at the hesitation in his voice, but his face is turned forward again. “Is it alright that he’s a little--”

“Clingy?” She guesses, and he turns back to look at her. 

“Yes.” 

“For a baby his age, yeah. They’re still so small, they rely on us for pretty much everything, even the more independent ones. And he’s got some extra elements on top of that, so I’m not surprised that he’s a little limpet.” She ties off the thread, snipping it with the pair of barber scissors in the kit. 

“Alright,” she sits back, “I’m putting an antibacterial gel on it, and I’m going to cover it for now but you’ll need to wash it with-” 

“-soap and warm water and change it once a day, or if drainage is showing through. I know.” He finishes as she smooths a bandage over the area.  

Senha shakes her head, “And I'll need to come take the stitches out in about a week. Clearly this isn’t new for you.” 

“Not exactly.” 

No surprises there. Standing, she looks pointedly down to where his right hand is braced on the table’s edge, “Do you want me to take a look at those burns too?” 

“I can handle those. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” At least he has manners. She crumples the used gauze and wrapper, and heads to the kitchen to throw them out and wash her hands again.

“So…” she asks over the sound of the water, “whatever did this isn’t going to follow you home, is it?” 

“No.” There’s a finality in his tone that puts the kibosh on any other questions.

“I see.” She comes back out to the living room to find him packing the unused supplies back into the medkit. Now that she’s not focused on stitching, it’s altogether too obvious that she’s in the apartment of a man she barely knows, who is both shirtless and attractive. “Well, unless you’ve got any other mystery wounds that need stitching, I’ll get out of your hair.” 

Standing, Din digs out the money she’d ignored before. 

“Thank you,” he says again, and there's sincere, if grudging, gratitude in his voice.

Senha shrugs jerkily as she takes the money and shoves it into her jeans pocket, “No problem. I won’t say anytime, but-” cutting herself off, she hitches on a professional smile. “Happy to help.” 

As she packs away her book and slips her jacket on, Din twists carefully, testing his range of motion. Ignoring the distracting shift of muscles under skin, she eyes him sharply, “You better not rip those.” 

He comes back to center, “I’m just seeing how I can move with them.” 

She gives him a skeptical sound, “Just- text me if it starts looking bad.” 

Din raises an eyebrow at her.

Shouldering her bag, she rolls her eyes as she steps out into the hallway, “Don’t get excited. Call it professional pride, I don’t want a rep for doing shitty work.” 

The corner of his mouth ticks up into the slightest hint of a smirk, and she raises her hand in goodbye. 

Turning to the stairs, the door clicks closed behind her, and just like that, she’s back in a world where people don’t normally go around stitching up mystery stab wounds. Especially, not on people who seem unnervingly unfazed over sporting one, and have clearly left the other guy more than a little worse for wear.  

* * * * * * *

“Come on, Sam’ika. It’s good, you’ll like it.” Samir turns his head sharply away from the spoon and a gob of applesauce splats onto Din’s jeans, “Ad’ika, at this point you’re eighty percent goldfish. You have to eat something else.” 

Ducking back, the kid wrenches away. Little face crumpling, his arm blocks his mouth, smearing applesauce along the sleeve, as he screeches his opinion on the topic. Clearly avoiding the spoon as if it’s threatening him with personal injury, twin tears roll down his flushed cheeks, and Din throws in the towel.

 A knock at the door adds to Samir’s piercing shriek, and Din turns to look at it. He lowers the baby down onto the floor and resignedly watches him wobble his way back over to the makeshift play area. Sighing, he heads for the door.

There’s another knock and he lets out a relieved breath when he sees Cara through the peephole. As soon as the door is open, she slips past him into the apartment, “Congrats, you’re a news celebrity.”

“What? Did they--” 

“Relax, they don’t know it’s you. I just meant it’s all over the news now.”

He follows her back to the living room, “I saw an article last night but it just said they were looking for the suspect. Nothing about--who they think did it. And nothing about the kid.” 

Cara sits down with a sigh and rubs her eyes, “They’re calling it domestic terrorism. You know that means it’s going to be a media circus.” 

“They’re only calling it domestic terrorism because of who they think did it.” Din doesn’t even try to tame the nervous energy in his limbs enough to sit. Instead, he takes to pacing the length of the small living room. 

“More than likely,” she concedes. “Din, you’re freaking the kid out.” 

He stops and looks over at Samir, who’s watching him with dark, worried eyes, Basa squeezed tightly against his chest. Din sighs and picks him up, carrying him to sit down on the couch. It’s a physical effort to keep his leg from bouncing but he forces his limbs to still. Samir tucks his head under Din’s chin and he rubs smooth circles into his small back. 

“I think you were right about them wanting him for the healing thing,” Cara continues, “considering how their stock price jumped a month ago when they announced trials on a ‘revolutionary cellular regeneration therapy’.”

Din frowns, “A month ago? I only turned him in last week.” 

“Maybe they were just counting their chickens. Or maybe he’s not the only one.” 

That’s a disturbing thought, and his mind concocts a chilling image of other children hooked up the same way Samir had been. He pushes it away. One thing at a time.

“Whatever it is, they’ve got money to burn. They’re under a parent company, Akcenco.” 

“Never heard of it.” 

“Fifth richest company in the world? Looks like they bought the genetics company about five years back, just as it was about to go under. Allegations of medical malpractice.” 

Din raises his eyes at that last tidbit of information. “So they’ve got no morals and no problem doing things under the table. Nothing new about that.”

She nods. “It does mean they’ve got access to some serious resources.”

“Think that’s pretty clear from the way the cops are working this.” He tilts his head, “Did you find anything on the ID card yet?” 

“No, but I reached out to a friend of mine who works with Project Arallutes. I’m hoping she’ll be able to find something.” Cara shifts to face him more directly, her expression worried, “Din, I know you said things would be tough for you guys if you run, but this is getting really hot. If they--” 

“I know. Trust me, I know how risky this is. But until something forces my hand, we need to stay low. Running now would look even worse than it would have last week.” 

She grimaces, “I hope you know what you’re doing.” 

“Me too.” 

* * * * * * *

On Mrs. Vebay’s suggestion, bedtime now consists of a bath, an argument over brushing teeth, a reading of Foxy and the Fruit Bats, and the lullaby. His own shower (squeezed into about two minutes between the Great Clean Teeth Debate and the newest retelling of the Fruit Bats saga), is barely more than a rinse. The endeavor becomes high stakes when he gets shampoo in his eyes while trying to peer around the curtain to verify that the kid is still contained in his crib. And to round it all out neatly, he nearly kills himself when he makes a blind grab for his towel and overbalances, Samir’s protest at being left unentertained growing louder by the second. 

He stumbles into his sweatpants and back into the bedroom, eyes still stinging and hair dripping, “I’m here, I’m here.”

Samir looks up at him with overbright eyes, his ears and cheeks red from stubborn fatigue, and holds up his arms. 

Din sighs in resignation as he bends down to pick the boy up, but the small arms looping around his neck and the contented babble Samir makes against his shoulder go a long way to turning that resignation to a feeling of rightness. Even with the damn dragon shoved up under his chin. 

The incision on his back twinges as he leans back against his pillow, Samir tucked against his left side as usual, thumb in mouth. Making a mental note to cover it before he passes out, he opens the book and clears his throat. Halfway through the story, Samir shifts against him and the tips of his fingers touch the edge of the bandage extending from under his back.

Din starts to move the kid to his chest and away from the wound before he pauses. Instead of pulling him away, he holds his breath and allows the boy to trace his fingers over the stitches. When the itching sensation from before crawls over his skin, his heart begins to race. It’s one thing to assert it to Cara, and an entirely different thing to have confirmation that it wasn’t all just a vivid dream. 

Looking down, he meets Samir’s drowsy gaze. The boy has gone from somewhat sleepy to full-on exhaustion and slumps against him. Din checks him quickly, but he’s breathing deep and slow, no signs of pain on his face, the same as the first time. 

Reaching behind his back, Din runs his fingers over smooth, healthy skin. It doesn’t make any more sense than it did before, but it’s not something he can afford to shy away from any longer. It’s also not something he can allow to happen again, regardless of how unharmed by it the kid appears. 

He lays awake for at least another hour, body exhausted and mind reeling. When he finally does sleep, he dreams of Concordia.

“How’s it look, vod?” Rhoroc’s voice sounds low in his ear. 

“Ten, maybe twelve hostiles guarding the depot. Automatic weapons, but they don’t look armed to the teeth.” 

“Jate. Shouldn’t be difficult.”

“Maybe we’ll even be back before breakfast.” 

“Why would you want to be back before breakfast? I’m sure stale haarshun and cold caf isn’t exactly what they promised you when you joined up.” 

Din grins, picturing the expression of disgust on the Kyr’tsadii’s face under his helmet. “They promised us a lot of things. At least they came through on getting us here.” 

Rhoroc hums in acknowledgement. “Only good thing Ebrya’s done right in this mess, bringing our vode back home. Come on down out of your nest, galaar, let’s go ruin some chakaar’s day.”

Din climbs down from the sniper’s nest and drops to the ground among ten other Mandalorians. The shine on the Ebryian Mandos’ uniforms has faded over the last two years and at this point looks about the same as the Kyr’tsade uniforms. The helmets of nearly all the verde have scratches and scorch-marks on them, and their outerwear is a mishmash of whatever they can find or patch up for the thousandth time. 

Underneath, they all wear the same beskar body armor, whether inherited from their buire, forged by their armorers, or, in the case of Jari and Matas, given as a gift after trust was built between them and their Death Watch brethren. The ancient symbol of their people adorns each of their chests, painted over the kar'ta beskar inlay.

The group is undetectable as they move through the jungle, the sounds of insects and dripping rain more than covering their quiet footsteps. Miru holds up a closed fist ahead and the group stops, weapons at the ready. 

“Eyes open, vode. We’re not alone out here.”

Din is jolted out of the dream by a buzzing sound echoing in the otherwise silent room.  Samir is still asleep, curled in the space between his arm and side. He murmurs as Din raises his head to look around. The only light comes from the underside of his phone, laying on the bedside table with the screen illuminated. He squints as he picks it up, swiping down to see a new text.

It’s from the spouse of one of the few Mandos from the old Tribe with whom he’s maintained contact, a carpenter who moves in similar circles when it comes to contract work. His breath stops when he sees the series of dots and dashes on the screen. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s received a message in Dadita in Ebrya, and all of them occurred before Razan had passed. 

Vod. Police at house. Took Vras to station. Segar, Iyex also. You safe? Information?

He starts to type a response before deleting it. Starts another, and deletes that one too. 

There’s a sickening feeling of déjà vu as his thumbs hover over the screen, not knowing what to say anymore now than he did seven years ago when the first messages had started to circulate about the police taking people away. Questioning them. 

Except this time it’s his fault. 

This time, he can’t send her to the alor, because there is no alor anymore that he knows of. He can’t tell her to go to the forge, that others will be there soon to plan a response. This isn’t the Tribe, coming together as one. This is a single frightened vod, who remembers him as a friend, and is looking for reassurance. It seems cruel to provide it when it would so blatantly be a falsehood. 

In the end he leaves the message unanswered. Helpless rage manifests itself in a minute tremor in his fingers as he lays the phone back on his bedside table. Rage at those in power, for refusing to let his people breathe for even a moment. At history, for dealing them the shittiest hand he can imagine. At himself, for not finding a way to warn them or help while still protecting Samir. 

Forcing the tremor in his fingers to still, he lays one large hand on the boy’s back and ducks his head to press his cheek against Samir’s soft hair.

Foundlings are the future.

How many times had he heard that from the alor, from the other members of the Tribe, from Razan himself.

We live on through them. Our traditions, our beliefs, our will to survive carries on through them. 

He clings to this memory of the Tribe’s values, hoping it can give him the strength to do what's best for the boy in his arms. Even if that means ignoring a fightened  vod reaching out to him for help.

Chapter Text

The paperwork arrives first thing on Monday morning, and the PhenoVisage case is officially transferred away from the Ganister City Police Department. Special Agent Silvia (Sil to the few who have earned the privilege of first name basis) Fess of the Domestic Investigations Bureau is now the proud owner of this steaming pile of garbage.

Rolands had moved quickly over the weekend to make his arrest. Of the six individuals brought in for questioning, five had come in without trouble. One had not. In all likelihood, this was exactly what Rolands had been hoping for. Sil has seen this type of cop before, the kind in self-professed perpetual need of a long vacation, if not outright retirement. She wishes he’d taken either before this case had dropped onto his lap for his sake, as well as the sake of decent police work everywhere. Unfortunately, Rolands is still working, and for a cop like Rolands, working means shifting case files off his desk as quickly as possible. It’s all about finding a bad guy; which one or what they did wasn’t exactly the point anymore.

The combination of circumstances has led Sil to her current predicament: in the DA’s office, with Rolands, discussing what to do with his new perp. Predictably, once he’d gotten one of the suspects into custody Rolands had lost any interest in the rest. Based on her own research, Sil is sure that all six are dead ends, but one just had to give Rolands the opportunity he needed to call the job done. While it’s unfortunate for the poor bastard currently languishing in County lockup, it isn’t strictly speaking her problem. Instead, she needs to convince the DA that the suspect’s arrest is a purely local matter. Unfortunately, local matters are turning out to be a bigger problem than the unruly suspect.

“Agent Fess, are you saying the DIB is not interested in furthering the investigation into this suspect?” The DA is an older man who, between the multiple pictures of him in a wide-brimmed cowboy hat with the local great and goods, and his bolo tie, doesn’t need to tell Sil anything further about his opinion on individuals originating from outside his sphere of influence.

“What I am saying, Mr. Zintgraff, is that from what I can see, this arrest has nothing to do with my ongoing investigation.” Sil sees the sideways glance exchanged between the DA and the detective. Apparently, that isn’t what Rolands was expecting to hear. Figures that the asshole had ignored everything she’d said up to this moment.

“Please excuse me if I appear a bit slow here, but was this individual not arrested for resisting officers in relation to Detective Rolands’ investigation? And was he not found to be in possession of several firearms and the same rare armor utilized by the perpetrator?”

“With respect sir, all of his firearms and the armor were registered according to federal and state laws. It would have been more suspicious if the individual’s house had been full of peace signs and vagina hats.” Sil allows herself some satisfaction at the grimace on the men’s faces at her particular example. 

Rolands speaks up, a sneer in his voice, “With all due respect, Agent, the Mando resisted two uniformed officers when asked to come in for questioning. He made it clear that he was armed, and told them,” Rolands pulled out the report, “‘the next thing you touch me with, I keep’. We had cause to make the arrest.”

Sil shoots him a level glare, “I’m not interested in getting involved in local matters, Detective. If your officers felt threatened or if this man assaulted them, work him through your system. But he’s not my suspect, and his arrest is not part of my investigation.”

“The Mayor feels differently, ma’am. He’s requested we deliver a press release about it in a few hours.”

“And my office has reminded him that he does not have the legal authority to make such a release of information to the public. This is a DIB case. The city cannot speak regarding ongoing federal investigations.”

Rolands gives her a rigid smile, “Agent Fess, if this is a local matter, then it is the Mayor’s prerogative to inform his constituents about the arrest of a dangerous individual within the city.”

Not bothering to return the smile, Sil narrows her eyes dangerously, “Detective, I shouldn’t need to remind you that the Preventing Terrorism in States and Dependencies Act makes it a federal crime for a local jurisdiction to release unauthorized information on an ongoing domestic terrorism case prior to an arrest being made.  ”

Rolands blinks, taking just an instant too long to respond before he stumbles over his words, “But an arrest has been made, Agent.”

“Not in my case. That’s exactly why I came here today, to make it clear that the DIB does not see this arrest as connected. I’m afraid your office is going to have to change their press release, or you might see a lot more DIB agents down here.”

DA Zintgraff chooses this moment to step in. Cops pissing over territory is one thing, but things are escalating quickly, “Exactly what cause would DIB have to open a wider investigation, Agent Fess?”

“Well, aside from a PTSD violation, I have the suspect list Detective Rolands so helpfully provided me before the case was transferred to DIB jurisdiction. In addition to the blatant case of profiling, the civil forfeiture of the individual's armor could also be seen as a civil rights violation. Each of those armor sets are worth a small fortune. You can’t buy them, and the only people legally allowed to own them are required to show that the artifacts belong to their family. It’s not my division, but I’m not sure you want to escalate this beyond a local level, Mr. Zintgraff.”

“Your meaning is taken, Agent Fess.” Sil is relieved to see that he appears to have a few working brain cells before he continues. “I assume you have an official cease and desist letter for the Detective and myself?”

Sil finally smiles as she pulls a sealed envelope from her briefcase, “Of course, Mr. Zintgraff. Signed by the regional director. I'm not here to get involved in your local matters. Don’t force my hand.”

* * * * * * *

“Mr. Karga, I find myself once again in need of your services.”

“Another special request?”

“I would assume that a man as well informed as yourself has been following the news?”

“Yes, I heard about the attack on the laboratory. You have my heartfelt condolences for the loss of your personnel and the asset. I did hear that the local police believe they’ve made a breakthrough though. Something about a press release later tonight?”

”I would not believe everything you hear on the news if I were you, Mr. Karga. Now, if you will excuse my truncation of pleasantries, I’m sure you can understand that I am a very busy man.”

“Of course!  How may my humble organization be of service to you?”

“I need to reopen the contract for the original asset.”

“I see…would you like me to reach out to the same hunter as before?”

“This time, I would like you to reach out to all of your hunters.”

Chapter Text

“I don’t think so, little man.” 

Having just reached the edge of the blanket, Samir shrieks with laughter as he’s swept up. Her charge secured for at least the third time, Senha sits back and plops the toddler in the space between her crossed legs. 

The boy immediately pushes himself back to his feet, pudgy fingers clinging tightly to her hands. Wasting no time, he makes another escape attempt and trips over her ankle. Senha catches him before he faceplants but lets him continue on his way. It’s hard not to be won over by his boundless enthusiasm at being independently mobile. It’s also no wonder Din looks increasingly tired this week, with Samir apparently having decided to skip walking and go straight from crawling to running. 

“You’re running that poor man ragged, aren’t you?” Senha asks, pushing herself to her feet to follow as the boy ventures off the blanket and into the surrounding grass, “Good thing you’re cute, because I don’t get the impression he’s that patient with everyone.”

Samir babbles in agreement as he squats down to pick up a pebble. Before he can stick it into his mouth, Senha snags it and picks him up in her other arm. Outraged at being denied this novel gastronomical experience, Samir gives her a glare that mimics that of his caretaker closely enough to make it impossible for Senha to keep a straight face. “How about something with a little less of a choking hazard, okay?” 

Rifling through her bag, she pulls out a bag of goldfish, and Samir’s frown fades. Bingo. 

As he takes his time spreading the orange crackers artistically across the blanket between them, she thinks back to when she’d picked him up that morning. She’d been prepared for another instance of separation anxiety when Din had knelt in front of Samir, the same as the first night. This time though, Din had hugged the boy before touching his forehead gently to Samir’s and murmuring something under his breath. When the man had stood to leave, the boy still looked uncertain but didn’t panic as before. 

As much as she hadn’t tried to eavesdrop, she’d been close enough to hear that the words he spoke weren’t Basic Ebryian. The vowels were a bit too guttural, and there was an overall fluidity to the language that she hadn’t heard before. It explains the slight accent she’s heard in some of his words when they’ve spoken the past few times. 

It isn’t unusual to run into immigrants in Ebrya. Up until about a decade before, the country had boasted some of the most flexible asylum laws in the hemisphere. Unfortunately, political tension mixed with a change in administration had put an end to that atmosphere. 

“Mo?” Samir asks hopefully, interrupting her thoughts. 

Senha shakes her head, pulling out a wet cloth to wipe down the baby’s hands and mouth, “Sorry, kiddo, all gone.” 

Mercifully, he’s more tired than upset by the lack of extra snacks, and he crawls back into her lap to trace his fingers over the pictures while she reads. Eventually his weight against her relaxes into sleep, his long eyelashes splayed over his cheeks and his curls tousled in the warm breeze. Careful not to jostle the napping child Senha tucks him into the blanket at her side and lays back. 

She's grown attached to the little guy quickly. Something about the way he'd clung to her at first, looking at everything with no small amount of fear in his eyes, has made it different from other children she's looked after before. Seeing him opening up to reveal this sweet personality with a penchant for mischief and exploration only endeared him to her further. It would make it hard once this job ended and he went back to his family, but that would be a problem for another day when he wasn't being quite so adorable.  

His hand curls in the hem of her shirt, as if he's searching for reassurance even in his sleep, and Senha strokes a hand over his back in reply. It’s clear how Samir could draw out such patience and affection from his at-times laconic caretaker, but she’s beginning to suspect those qualities likely run deep in the man to begin with. 

They have a peaceful half hour or so before a low rumble of thunder sounds in the distance. She sits up to see grey clouds darkening the sky to the west of them. 

Leaning back down, Senha runs a finger across the hand Samir still has curled in her shirt, “Time to go home, kiddo, lest we want to get rained on.” The boy’s eyes open slowly, and he looks less than pleased at being woken. He grumbles but permits her to settle him on her hip as she rolls up the blanket and tucks it away.

Slinging her bag over one shoulder, Senha picks Basa up, twitching the stuffy in front of Samir, “You gonna leave your dragon here?” 

The boy reaches out one hand and petulantly snatches it from her before dropping his head against her chest tiredly. 

As they wait at the light, Samir drops the dragon and sluggishly strains down towards it. He starts to sniffle, and Senha leans down to pick it up. Before she gets to it though, a tall man stoops to pick up the stuffy and hands it back to the boy. 

“Oh, thanks.” She smiles as Samir takes the dragon, looking suspiciously at the stranger. “Can you say thank you?” Senha asks him, and the man chuckles when the baby hides his face in her neck instead. 

“Cute kid.” 

She’s saved from a response by the light changing, and she shifts Samir to a more comfortable position on her hip, “You need to keep a good hold on Basa, little man. Otherwise he could get lost.” Samir doesn’t dignify the suggestion with an answer outside of a grumpy huff, but he does cling a little more tightly to the dragon, looking slightly more awake.

Din’s not back yet when she closes the door behind her with a sigh. The idea of sitting through two hours of licensure preparatory class this evening isn’t one she relishes. Dropping her bag on the couch, she lowers Samir to the floor. 

“Alright kiddo, we can do some coloring or-” 

The front door slams open and Senha yelps. She only has an instant to recognize the man from the crosswalk before he’s on top of her. A broad palm muffles her scream and her eyes flash to Samir. Backing up, the baby trips and sits down hard. His eyes are wide and terrified. 

“Didn’t hardly take a day to find you both.” The man says into her ear, but the words don’t make sense, Senha struggles against him but one of his arms is like a steel band over her torso. Arms pinned to her sides, she can’t do more than thrash helplessly. 

“Would’ve thought a Mando’s girl would be more careful. Lucky for you, the bounty’s for the kid and whoever’s with him. Think they were hoping it would be the Mando, but this certainly makes my job easier.” His voice twists with a dark detachment as he grabs one of her wrists and wrenches it behind her.

None of what he’s saying makes sense, but Senha’s not willing to count on the man’s kind nature to explain it. Cold metal starts to close around her wrist and out of reflex she jerks her arm hard in his grasp, dislodging the binders. Opening her mouth wide, Senha bites down on the man’s fingers. He curses and yanks his hand from her mouth. 

Ripping out of his grasp, she grabs Samir and flees into the kitchen. Recovering from her unexpected resistance the man stalks after her, binders in hand. She retreats through the other doorway and back out into the living room. As the man follows her, Senha realizes too late that she should’ve run for the front door. Stupid.

Left with only one possibility, she grabs her phone and keys from the open bag on the couch and sprints for the bedroom. Slamming the door closed behind her, Senha leans hard against it, holding Samir tightly. She squeezes her eyes shut as she braces, feeling desperately for the knob with her free hand. 

A second later the man slams his own weight into it from the other side. A cry escapes her before she finds the knob’s lock. Panting, she engages it before moving to the other side of the room. She pulls up Din’s number with shaking fingers and listens as the line rings. Samir is stricken silent with terror and she can feel him trembling against her. Please please please--

“Hello? ” 

“Din, oh thank god,” she sobs in relief. “There’s a man, he's trying to take Samir. Please-” 

“Where are you? ” He demands, panic in his voice. She can hear the truck’s engine in the background. Please be close, Maker, please let him be close.

“We’re at the apartment, he must’ve followed us from the-” Samir shrieks as the man slams his body into the door again. “Please, no-” 

“Where are you in the apartment? Are you safe?” 

“We’re in your room, we’re locked in your room.” 

“I’m almost there, just hold on. Don’t hang up .” 

“He’s-" The man slams his body into the door again and it gives way this time. Senha drops the phone and grabs her keys, scrabbling for the keychain pepper-spray. Holding Samir’s face into her neck, she squeezes her eyes shut and aims the small canister towards the doorway. A bellow of pain tells her she’s found her mark. Her eyes start to burn at the chemical released in the small space. Blinking rapidly, she keeps Samir’s face pressed into her neck to minimize his exposure. 

“Senha? Senha! ”

Through her blurred vision, the man is bent over, rubbing his eyes. Her heart leaps, he’s dropped the gun on the floor. Depositing Samir on the bed behind her, Senha darts forward and grabs the weapon in sweaty palms. Clenching her fingers around the grip, she steps back to point it at the man. She can still hear Din’s voice tinnily through the phone but she doesn’t dare take her hands off the gun or her eyes off the man. When he straightens his eyes are red and streaming. He’s breathing painfully through clenched teeth. Her own eyes water and she blinks furiously, trying to clear them. 

“Fucking bitch,” the man hisses, and manages a step towards her. “You’re damn lucky you’re worth more alive.” Senha’s not sure whether or not she can actually shoot another person but she’s damn well going to try. She curls her finger around the trigger and every muscle in her arms and shoulders tense up. 

A door slams out in the apartment and Senha lets her arms drop with a groan of relief when Din skids into the room. The relief changes to horror when he grabs the man before he can turn and snaps his neck with a quick, violent movement. 

“Oh my god, you just-” Senha gasps, the sound rattling hoarsely in her burning throat. Her entire body shakes like she’s wracked with fever. She stumbles back from him, watching the man’s body slump to the floor. None of this makes any sense. 

“Easy, Senha. He’s dead.” Din steps over the body, hands held out towards her, “You’re safe. Give me the gun.” 

He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. 

“Senha. Give me the gun.” 

She realizes that she’s pointing the fucking thing at him and immediately passes it over. He takes it from her and Senha cradles her hand as if the weapon had burned her. Din passes her to open the window before crouching in front of Samir. The boy coughs and she hears the man murmuring quietly to him in another language. Her musings on his origins and accent at the park an hour ago seem an entire galaxy away now that there’s a dead man laying two feet from her. 

“You-” Her throat closes before she can finish. She can’t identify why this is so alien and disturbing. It’s nothing like the ER, no blood or alarms or panicking families. Just bared teeth and a sharp crack, and the man intending to kill her is a limp heap of flesh and bone. Dead at the hands of the man she’d seen gently kiss Samir goodbye that morning. Who’d politely thanked her for stitching him up a few days before. And who appears to show not even a modicum of concern over killing a man with his bare hands. 

What the actual fuck is going on here.

The hand on her shoulder is gentle but Senha still flinches hard. Din draws his hand back. “Are you alright?” 

“I...” She’s unable to take her stinging eyes off the man’s corpse in the middle of the floor. Laying his hand back on her shoulder, Din turns her to face him, eyes searching her face and tracking down her torso quickly. Performing the same automatic search she’d made of him when he’d returned to the apartment bleeding earlier that week.

“Are you hurt? What happened?”

Eyes finally torn from the man’s limp form, Senha shakes her head. It feels like coming out of a dream and back into a reality with too bright colors and too sharp sounds. The warm rain-scented breeze coming in through the open window seems at odds with everything else. “He- he said it only took him a day to find us? And that the bounty was for the kid and whoever was with him? What does- is Samir-” She starts to turn and breathes out a relieved breath at the sight of the boy sitting on the bed with reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks, but otherwise unharmed. 

“He’s fine.” Din steps back and looks at Samir for a long moment before his face hardens. Dropping his hand from her shoulder, he strides to the closet and pulls down a duffle bag. 

“We need to go, now.” 

* * * * * * *

He wrenches open the dresser drawer and starts pulling the kids new stuff out and shoving it haphazardly into the bag. No time to worry about organization now. Not when he's landed them on the wrong side of risk.

His anger comes out in short, sharp movements as he berates himself. He’d gotten complacent, left far too much to chance. Should’ve left a week ago. Shouldn’t have assumed you’d have-

“Who was that man?” Senha asks. He can hear the quiver in her voice, “What did he mean, ‘the bounty’? And he said ‘a Mando’s girl should be more careful’, what the hell does that mean?” 

Din looks up sharply. “He was a hunter. They must’ve opened a bounty on the kid.” He tries and fails to keep the anger out of his voice, grabbing another handful of clothing and shoving it into the bag. He’d sacrificed safety for discretion, and had nearly put the kid directly into their  hands as a result. “Tell me exactly what happened.” 

She wipes tears from her cheeks. Whether they’re from the pepper spray or the dead hunter is up for debate, “We went to the park, just like we usually do. A- and on the walk back he dropped Basa. This guy picked it up and handed it back, and said he was a cute kid and then walked away. He must’ve followed us back but I don’t-” She cuts off, still fixated on the hunter’s body. 

Just like we usually do. Din curses, but he can’t blame her. Avoiding predictable routines isn’t something Senha has likely ever had to consider. Din hefts the body up and drags it out into the hall, where at least she and the kid won’t be face-to-face with it, “They think you’re involved.”

The object of her focus removed, Senha sinks down onto the bed, bracing her hands on the edge of the mattress, “Involved in what ? Who is ‘they’? Why is someone hunting a child in the first place?” 

“This company, PhenoVisage. They want him for some kind of genetic experimentation. I took him from the facility where they had him, and they must’ve put out a bounty to find him. Now that they’ve seen you with him, they’ll assume you’re involved with us.” Din looks over at her, closing the kid’s now-empty drawer. “Do you have somewhere you can lay low for a while?” 

“Genetic experimentation- ’put out a bounty to find him’?” Rubbing her eyes, she sounds stuck somewhere between disbelief and suspicion, “Are you fucking serious?” 

“Yes. And stop cussing in front of him.” 

At the reminder of the still-sniffling child, Senha pulls Samir into her lap. Wiping his eyes carefully with a tissue, she gives Din a scathing look, “So someone just tried to abduct your kid, but cussing is the pressing issue at hand?”

“He's not my kid. And we don’t have time for this. Do you have somewhere you can lay low? Do you have family nearby?” 

“I--my apartment? My family isn’t here and- will these people go after them to find me?” He can almost hear the connections being made in her mind, panic rising as her anger fades, “Why would they think I’m involved? I’m just the damn babysitter.” 

“Because they saw you with him.” Din sharpens his voice, “Your apartment isn’t safe anymore, they could have ID’d you already. We need to get out of here. Where do you live?” 

“Over near the park, on Jacob street.” 

He inclines his head. It’s far from ideal but he doesn’t feel right abandoning her to the tender mercies of the roughest hunters in the Guild, let alone whomever PhenoVissage decides to send her way. Maybe this is one innocent he can actually do something about, “Help me get our stuff in the truck and we’ll get what you need from your place.” 

She gapes at him as he crosses to the bathroom and pulls out the medkit and the bag of diapers, “I can’t just leave my life behind! I- I’ve got clinicals. I’ve got class tonight!” 

Din shoves the supplies into the bag and zips it shut. “You heard that hunter. They’re going to be looking for both of you now. The people looking for Samir won’t hesitate to hurt you if they think it’ll get them closer to him. They know-” He rubs his forehead before he straightens to yank another duffle out of the closet and begins packing his own clothes into it. “He has the ability to heal. That’s why they want him.” 

“They- what?” 

“He has the ability to heal. He healed the incision on my back, look.” Din rucks his shirt up so she can see the unmarked skin that she’d stitched up a few days before. Senha sucks in a breath as she feels across it before he turns away, letting the shirt fall back down. 

“How...?” To his relief she sounds more incredulous and less skeptical now. 

“I have no idea. I just know they want him for it.”

“He did that?” 

“Yes.” Din stands and hauls both bags out to the living room, Senha starting to follow him out before he returns. Samir still cuddled in her arms, she steps in front of the bedroom door when he tries to move past her, jaw set. 

“How did you find out about him? What happened to his family?” 

He meets her gaze. There’s a healthy dose of fear that he hasn’t seen in her eyes before, but she holds the kid close. Steady. Protective over a child that’s no more hers than he is Din’s. 

“We don’t have time right now, but I promise I’ll explain what I can once we get away. It’s not safe for him here anymore, and it’s not safe for you either. So I need you to help us, and I can help you, okay?” 

She hesitates for a moment before her shoulders slump and she nods. Din shifts her and the kid out of the way to drag his gear crate out of the closet.

“Help me bring this out to the truck.” 

* * * * * * *

A little over an hour later they’re on the highway headed north, the setting sun throwing a slant of light across Din’s face. Samir is asleep in his carseat, exhausted from the stress of the afternoon. Senha’s face is turned toward the window, her forehead braced against the heel of her hand as she stares out into the gathering dusk. 

Din’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel, his jaw shifting. He’d stopped at two ATMs to drain the remaining balance on the debit card, and shut off both of their phones until he can get a burner phone. It’s not a permanent solution, but it should at least give them a head start until he can gauge just how much shit they’re actually in. 

Before he’d turned his own phone off, he’d finally seen the five missed calls a few hours ago from Cara, along with a text that read GET OUT . Had he been paying closer attention, the warning might’ve given him enough time to collect Samir and leave town without getting Senha involved. The thought is enough to make him want to break something. 

Senha finally speaks up from the passenger seat, “So he’s not your cousins’ sister’s whatever.” 

“No.” 

Sitting back against the door as if trying to put some distance between them, she turns to face him, “How did you find him?”

Din sighs, loosening his grip on the wheel, “You know I work day jobs at houses with Marin?” 

She nods jerkily, “Karil told me.” 

“I also moonlight for the bounty hunters’ Guild.” Her eyebrows are raised when he looks over, “It’s a good source of extra income.” 

She shrugs, her tone acrid again, “Sure, who doesn’t want to make a couple extra bucks being stabbed in the back every few weeks, right?” 

It’s becoming clear that her go-to coping mechanism is sarcasm. Normally, it wouldn’t faze him. In his current mindset, however, he’s just not in the mood. “It’s not normally like that. Most bounties know there are contracts out on them, and they come quietly. Besides, the money’s worth the occasional incident.” 

“If you say so.” She doesn’t sound convinced. 

“I was coming back from a job a few weeks ago when I heard gunfire. Went to check it and I found him and his mother- I think.” Din swallows, remembering the woman with the jade eyes slumping back against the wall, “His mother was shot. She gave him to me before she died. Told me to keep him safe.” 

“I got a call from my guild rep the next day, telling me about a private commission from PhenoVisage. Private commission usually means there’s a gang involved, or someone wants things done under the radar. This one requested delivery of an asset to a laboratory. A child.” Din jerks his chin towards the rearview mirror, where Samir’s blue hood can barely be seen above his car seat. 

“So you hid him?” 

The shame that’s been slowly fading in him roars back with a vengeance, filling his throat with bile, “No.” He keeps his eyes on the road, because he knows no explanation will excuse the act. Truthfully, he’s known that since before he handed the kid over to the sickeningly enthusiastic doctor. 

“You turned him in?” She sounds more confused than appalled or disgusted. 

“Yes,” Din grinds out, “but I went back for him an hour later. You probably saw something on the news about a robbery at a genetics lab outside town.” 

She raises her eyebrows, looking slightly alarmed, “I saw something on the news about seven people being murdered at a genetics laboratory outside town. The robbery part took a backseat. That was you?”  

“I had to neutralize the guards to get him out. With the kind of security they had, that place was more than just a genetics research lab.” 

Senha worries at the cuff of her jacket, “And you said he healed your back. Because I just stitched that a few days ago. It’s not possible for there not to at least be a scar or a scab. Something .”

Din tries again to explain the unexplainable, “He put his hand on my back, and it itched for a minute, and then the wound was just gone.”

Senha seems to realize she’s been pulling at the loose thread and links her hands loosely in her lap. Taking a deep breath, she closes her eyes, “So you think they want him to do research into replicating it?”

“Seems likely, considering the fact that the company announced last month that they were starting trials on some new kind of anti-ageing technique.” 

“Alright. Okay” He glances over and her eyes are still closed, a line in between her furrowed brows, “Phe- what was the name?” 

Din’s face twists. “PhenoVisage. They’re part of some rich multinational corporation, Akcenco.” 

“You think they were involved in his mom’s death to get him?” 

“Yes. But they can’t have him.” 

Senha opens her eyes and glances at him, “Do you know where he’s from? If he has any family outside his mom?”

“I’ve got a friend trying to help me figure that out, but nothing yet.” 

“Okay.” She lets out a long breath and there’s an almost painful, last-ditch hope in her eyes when she looks at him, “You’re not fucking with me, right? This isn’t some prank that you’re recording to put online? Because if it is--” 

Din sighs, “I wish it was.” 

* * * * * * *

Silence lapses for the next few hours. Samir is passed out in his car seat, and sometime in the second hour Senha’s eyes finally drift shut and her head lulls against the back of the seat. 

The mile markers blur together and the yellow reflective lines become the only dynamic item in his field of vision. He’s in some strange in-between place, driving into the middle of the night, his armor in the back along with most of his possessions. And two people with him that he barely knows from Issik. Both reliant on his protection. Both subject to the fallout of his decisions. 

In truth, Samir and Senha aren’t the only ones subject to potential fallout over the situation. Din knows that there are other mando’ade who contribute on the national level rather than Tribal levels, but as a single male with no Foundlings or Creedborn children, he’s been able to put nearly everything he makes towards the community. 

It seems stupid, but the fruit on the uj cake is the seven hundred and fifty dollars he’d  delivered to his landlord the day before. Rent for the next month for an apartment that will likely only host searching hunters and corporate goons over the next few weeks. Seven hundred and fifty dollars that he knows would’ve helped down the road. 

If they sleep rough in the truck, the several thousand he’s netted over the past week will hold them for a few months. The money is his only, flimsy consolation for staying put too long, and it weakens further in the face of his absolute lack of a long-term plan. The kid deserves better than a life on the run while Din tries to figure out what’s next.

Senha sits up as he pulls off the highway for gas somewhere in hour three. She looks around but doesn’t ask where they are, instead turning back to check on Samir. The boy makes a small sound of tiredness, but he settles under her quiet reassurances. 

Senha finally turns back to face front and looks over at Din, “Will they go after my family?” 

“It’s possible.” Din’s never been one to lie as a method of reassurance, and he certainly isn’t going to start the habit with someone in Senha’s position, “It depends on how much information the hunter had on you.” 

“I mean, he just saw me the one time today at the park with him, right?”

Remembering Cara’s frantic attempts to reach him, Din has a fairly good idea that the bounty had only been opened a few days prior at most. Cara had been away on a long weekend, and has a strict ‘no work on vacation’ policy that would’ve kept her from seeing the new bounty information before today.

Din heaves a breath. “I wouldn’t assume that. It’s possible he’s been tracking you a few days already, waiting for you to be out with the kid. And-” looking over, he cuts himself off. She’s got a guilty look on her face. “Hey, this isn’t your fault. I should’ve told you not to leave the apartment with him. This is on me.” 

Senha doesn’t look reassured, “Are you sure they think I’m involved, and--not just there by accident?” 

He grimaces, “From what you said, he thought you were with me. That means he didn’t think you were just the babysitter, he thought you were involved, which means whoever he worked for also thinks you’re involved. Any hunter worth their pay is going to stake out an area ahead of time and get photos in case their target gets away. You’ve got social media?” 

She nods. 

“Then they likely know your name at this point. As far as your family...I don’t know how these people operate. They could just keep an eye on them to see if you show up, or--” 

“Or they could go to my dad’s house and-” Her eyebrows come together, worry etched into her face.

“Easy.” Din reels her back in, “It isn’t going to help to get yourself riled up with uncertainties. We need to work with the facts that we have now.” 

They turn into the brightly lit gas station and the fluorescents illuminate the tired lines of her face. 

“Can I call them?” 

Hating himself more than a little at the open pleading in her voice, Din puts the truck in park, “It’s safer for them if you don’t. As soon as we figure things out more, we’ll find a way for you to tell them you’re safe.” 

“Okay.”

Instead of getting out, he turns to face her directly, “If you want, I can drop you off here, or anywhere outside Ganister. I can’t risk taking Samir back there. But you’re not a prisoner.” 

Senha is quiet for a long moment, nervously rotating the hairband on her right wrist, “That man back there, the hunter. What would’ve happened if he’d been able to- to get us?”

Din gives it to her straight. “He would’ve put you in binders, loaded you and Samir into a car, driven to a drop point, and turned you both over to someone. I would assume someone associated with PhenoVisage. Once proof of delivery was confirmed by the receiving organization, he would’ve received the bounty in whatever form he accepts it. For most hunters it’s direct deposit. Some take cash.” 

“And- after he turned us over?” 

“I don’t know what they would’ve done. But I can tell you this: they only want Samir alive because of his ability to heal. Neither you nor I have that ability.” Din takes a deep breath before voicing the thought that’s been moving through his mind the last few hours, “I can offer you protection from whoever is trying to find you and Samir.” 

Ever perceptive, Senha picks up on what he didn’t say, “And in return…?” 

“You help me take care of the kid. I can use someone with your experience.”

She considers for a moment, then lets out a resigned breath, “I’ll stay for now. But I need more than just ‘come with me if you want to live’, okay? We need information.” 

Din nods as he opens the door and steps out into the cool night air, “Okay.” 

Chapter Text

It’s a small room, even for interrogations. Just large enough for a table that can seat two on each side. It doesn’t even have the stereotypical one-way glass, instead there’s just a camera in the corner. Detective Rolands stands outside with two uniformed officers, preparing himself. He had hoped to shove this off to that DIB bitch, but it looks like this is yet another problem he has to take care of himself. Given how much resistance the Mando had put up coming in, Rolands wants both officers in there with him, which just means the already cramped room is about to become claustrophobic.

He motions to one of the officers, who opens the door and enters the room in front of him. Rolands follows him in and sits down across from the prisoner. Pulling out the arrest file, he flips through it with a bored expression, ignoring the man in front of him.

“Paz Vizsla, age 36, Eybrian citizen by naturalization. You were arrested for assaulting an officer of the law during the legal enactment of their duties. Now, you could have saved yourself and,” he pauses to look through the file as if he needs reminding, it never hurts to remind a perp how unimportant they are, “your wife and two little girls a lot of trouble if you’d simply come in quietly like my officers asked.”

The Mando just stares at him from across the table, his face an unmoving mask. He calmly crosses his arms over his broad chest and Rolands is made aware of two things. First, how heavily muscled those arms are for a baker, and second, how his own neck is now easily in range of those arms. 

It’s a challenge, but Rolands manages to keep himself in his seat with minimal shifting, “Mr. Vizsla, when is the last time you had contact with the terrorist organization known as the Death Watch?” There’s no response from the man aside from the slightest flicker in his eyes, “If you choose to make this difficult, then it’s going to be a very long time until you see your family again-”

The door to the interrogation room opens to reveal a tall woman in a dark blue suit, her red hair coiffed in an immaculate bun. The officer closest to the door turns to intercept her, but she seems to just slide past him to place a document down in front of Rolands. 

“I assume you were about to finish that with, ‘if you for some reason refuse to post bail’, which my client will be doing.”

The woman moves around the table to stand beside the prisoner, and Rolands sees something in the Mando’s eyes. Recognition, and perhaps respect. “I just came from Judge Dinehart’s office. You have held this man for over seventy-two hours without bail, and with no formal hearing before a judge. Dinehart was not pleased to hear of such unprofessional work, Detective.”

Rolands struggles to take control back from this interloper, “And you are, Miss...?”

“I am Mr. Vizsla’s legal representative.”

“Is that so? You’re here from the Public Defender's office?”

“I am here because my client is being held against the laws of this country.”

“Your client has not asked for legal counsel. Unless Mr. Vizsla happens to confirm that you are in fact his lawyer, I’m afraid you need to leave. Now.”

“Yes.” The man rumbles. It’s the first, and only, word out of him since his arrest. 

Rolands cannot fathom for the life of him what he’s done to deserve this plethora of nosy women barging into his neat world. 

“Good.” She says, as if she’s the one running this interrogation. “It is time for us to leave. That document should be sufficient for release. If you will open the door, Officer?”

As one of the officers moves to open the door, Rolands raises his hand, annoyed he has to remind his men that this is his interrogation, “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, ma’am. This man was arrested as part of a domestic terrorism investigation. He has ties to a known terrorist organization, we can’t release him without explicit orders from a judge. In addition, I have the legal right to hold him for fourteen days without pressing formal charges in order to conduct a thorough investigation.”

The woman just tilts her chin to the paper in front of him.

“This,” Rolands says, picking up the court order, “only authorizes you as his legal counsel, and requires that we submit Mr. Vizsla to Judge Dineheart as soon as possible for a hearing to establish if he poses a national security risk. I’m afraid that until then, Mr. Vizsla will be staying in custody.”

“You are aware that the DIB has stated explicitly that Mr. Vizsla is not part of their investigation. Your fourteen day claim is invalid.”

“He attacked an officer, and he’s worked with terrorists. DA doesn’t look kindly on that around here.”

Unfortunately, she’s clearly not interested in taking his bait. Instead, she studies him with the same look a hawk gives a potential challenger from a high perch, “Very well. I’ll see your DA in court. Vizsla, remember who you are until we meet again. Do not let these people degrade you. K’oyacyi, tayli’bac?”

“Lek, alor. ”

And with that she’s gone. The man across the table fixes his gaze back on Rolands, and the detective clenches his jaw in frustration. 

“Watch him,” Rolands spits to the officer as he hauls himself up from the chair. “I need to go call the damn DA.” 

* * * * * * *

“Special Agent, please come in. It is always a pleasure to aid the guardians of security and stability in our world. How may I be of service to you?”

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Raines.” Sil says, sitting down across from the older man in his almost comically well-appointed office, “I have a few questions I’d like to ask you about the attack on your laboratory two weeks ago.” 

The smile the man sends her is likely meant to be courteous, but with his sunken eyes it just increases his appearance to that of a skull, “Of course. PhenoVisage is eager to see a resolution to the situation. I am happy to assist in whatever way I can to put this unfortunate incident behind us.”

Sil thinks this an oddly long way to say ‘yes’. Still, some people just like the sound of their own voices. “Excellent. I’ve gone over the deposition you made to the local police, and there’s a few items I’d like to clarify. In your initial report to the GCPD, you never actually stated what was stolen, only that it was a single item. Small enough to fit in a backpack. Could you elaborate on what the item is?”

“I am afraid that I will have to give you the same answer that I provided the detective-”

“The item is a corporate secret and prototype, I understand. However,” Sil pulls a file from her bag, “if I am going to put whomever did this behind bars, and return your stolen property, I’m afraid the Bureau is going to need to know what we’re looking for. This paperwork should clear up any legal barriers between PhenoVisage, or Akcenco, and the DIB regarding sharing proprietary information.”

The older man takes the document and, to his credit, at least appears to read over the header and the signature block before signaling his hovering, black-suited shadow to take it. Sil would put down her next paycheck that it’ll go directly to his lawyers, “I’m sure you understand, Special Agent, that I cannot simply give-”

Sil gives him a polite smile, “Mr Raines, allow me to explain what you have just accepted. That is a court search warrant that authorizes the DIB, and myself as the lead investigator, to search and if necessary, seize anything here. We both know that the real reason for this attack was to steal whatever it is your staff were working on. The federal government has become very concerned with foreign espionage on Eybrian soil, and as PhenoVisage works on several government contracts, I’m afraid that makes this case a matter of national security. Your lawyers are more than welcome to examine the warrant, but the law is clear.”

The older man seems to lose what little color he has left, “Special Agent, this is a private facility. My company has-”

“That, Mr. Raines, is exactly why the DIB is taking this theft so seriously. But to catch your thief I need to know what he stole, and where he might sell it. And I’m afraid my priority is rather larger than next year’s mayoral election.” Sil takes out her cell phone and speaks into it, “It’s been delivered and accepted. Let’s make this quick.”

“Roger.” 

The reply is followed by the sound of multiple voices from outside the office as Sil stands. The older man follows her out of the glass-walled office to where over a dozen DIB agents in their distinctive blue jackets have entered the building. Sil notices a few of the black-suited guards move to stop the agents before Raines gives a slight shake of his head. With more than a little smug satisfaction, Sil folds her arms and watches her men go to work. The element of surprise won’t let them net everything, but with a bit of luck, it will get them enough. 

“You know, Special Agent, had you only asked I would have been happy to provide you sufficient information to meet both of our goals. There is no need to sully our relationship at this early juncture.” She’s pleased to hear the lightest note of annoyance in the older man’s voice. 

Sil turns to look down at him. She’s a tall woman, and with heels she stands at least two inches taller, “Mr. Raines, as I understand it, we have identical goals; the arrest of the man who attacked this lab, killed seven people, and stole your property. You want to protect your investment. I respect that, but I need to ensure that whatever you are researching here doesn’t end up in the hands of this nation’s enemies. I’m not here to play nice, sir, I’m here to do my job.”

“Then I sincerely hope you are able to continue this level of performance, Special Agent. For both of our sakes.”

“The deposition you gave to the GCPD didn’t list the stolen item as dangerous. Should it have?” Sil allows a little concern into her voice, if only to perhaps pry something useful from him.

The older man is either fooled by her performance or has been playing this game long enough to know how to parry, “In and of itself, the item is not dangerous. But what it represents, what it could mean? In the right hands, Special Agent, the item could save millions of lives and revolutionize medicine. Should the wrong people gain access to it and unlock that potential, imagine the harm they could cause.”

This is far from the first time Sil has heard a marketing pitch disguised as privileged information, but something in the man’s voice tells her that at least a part of him believes his own pitch.

She shifts gears, going for a more pragmatic, but encouraging tone, “Anything you tell me will only make it that much easier for both of us to get what we want.” 

He pauses for a moment before turning to look at her, “I suppose at this point it is information you will acquire in time, regardless of propriety. The object that was stolen is a series of biological samples taken from a volunteer for our genetic regeneration research. The subject did not survive. This is the only complete sample remaining. It is literally irreplaceable.”

“And equally invaluable?”

“To the right individual. Another genetics research corporation, a university, a national laboratory, or even some nefarious element. There is no saying what they might be willing to do to acquire it. The previous owners of PhenoVisage bankrupted themselves to acquire this research.”

“Including hiring an elite mercenary from a nearly extinct warrior culture?”

“Special Agent, given the value of my property I would not put it past either an enterprising individual, or any number of my competitors, to outfit such a dangerous individual and send them against me.”

“So you don’t think the Mandalorian was working alone?”

“Mandalorians are like any tribal savage, Special Agent. Even when they temporarily serve another master, they always return to their own kind. They are simply too primitive to function as part of a larger organization. They cannot comprehend a whole greater than their insignificant tribes. I would hazard a guess that the Mandalorian who attacked this laboratory worked alone, but you already know the answer to that question, don’t you?”

Sil allows the hint of a smile to grace her lips, “Mr. Raines, I too am a professional. But yes, nothing about the attack points to a group. It was too targeted to be a random attack, but from your surveillance cameras it’s clear it only involved one individual. No one pays that much for a lone gunman without some backup or even a driver. Wherever the Mandalorian is, they are alone. We’ll find them and bring them to justice.”

“And return my property, Special Agent?”

“If your property is what you say it is, we’ll get it back into the right hands, Mr. Raines.”

Chapter Text

“So, I’ve got no issue with silence, but there are some things we should probably talk about.” 

Looking at the sliver of light barely showing over the horizon, it occurs to Din that she’s starting in on the questions awfully early. “Such as?” 

“Oh, weather... sports...the multinational corporation actively trying to kill you...” Senha looks pointedly over at him. 

He would prefer to go back to the silence, but he remembers the imploring tone in her voice when she’d told him they needed more information. She’d been dragged from her world and already exposed to far more of his than planned. The least he could do was hear her out. “What do you want to know?” 

She shifts on the worn grey fabric of the seat, looking almost nervous to be given permission to indulge her questions. His guess is confirmed at the hesitancy in her voice. 

“Why didn’t you go to the police?” 

Of everything he would’ve predicted she’d ask about, this is close to the bottom of the list. She rushes to continue. “I mean, I get why you didn’t go to the police after you, you know, killed seven people. But why didn’t you go to them at first? When his mom got killed?” 

It’s not something he expects most people to understand. Children are orphaned and abandoned in wartime every day, and their fate tends to fall drastically to one side or the other. Din’s seen enough of the bureaucratic pipeline in place to deal with unaccompanied minor asylum seekers to know that it’s an apathetic nightmare. He’s well aware that being found by one of the mando’ade, by Razan, instead had been an instance of ori’jate’kara that he could easily work a lifetime to pay back. The decision to keep Samir out of the system had been an easy one to make. Not to mention the fact that in his experience, the police were rarely a safe option. He’s not sure how to articulate any of this though, and takes the easy way out instead. 

“Why didn’t you?” 

She looks perplexed. “You mean–” 

“When that hunter tried to take you both in. Why did you call me, instead of the police?” 

Senha swallows and looks out to where the sky is slowly changing from dark blue to pink. “Because it just– you'd come back the last time after being stabbed, and you didn't want to go to the hospital and it was clear he wasn't your kid, even with that bullshit–" Din growls at the expletive, "–bullcrap story about him being your cousin's kid. And then you had that body armor and– I don't know, okay? I just didn't."

Din nods approvingly. She's got good instincts. He can work with that. 

"But look," she continues, "that was an entirely different situation. Now we're talking about a lot of people over several regions looking for him. This is a little bigger than one guy breaking in. What if I took him and went to the cops now? I could tell them I'd found him abandoned, and that someone attacked us and tried to take him. I could–" 

"And then the cops would take him from you and hand him over to CPS.  The company would pay off the right person there and have their lab rat back before the end of the week.” He shakes his head. “ Our society is run by those with power and money, and they’ve already proven they have both and aren’t concerned with who gets hurt in the process." 

"But–" 

"No one is taking the kid anywhere." He doesn’t relish the flicker of fear in her eyes at the quiet threat of his tone, but it does accomplish the goal of ending the conversation quickly. 

The sound of the truck’s engine and the road under the tires fills the silence for the next few minutes. Glancing over, he watches her chew her lip out of the corner of his eye. Sighing, Din tries to soften his voice. “I’ve taken too many chances already. I can’t afford another mistake.” He lifts his chin towards the rear-view mirror, where Samir’s brown curls are just visible over the back of his car seat. "He can't."

Senha doesn’t reply, just nods quickly. 

He reaches over and turns on the radio. It’s mostly static out here, but he manages to find a channel with oldies. It’s tolerable and breaks up the palpable discomfort between them for the next twenty or so miles before she speaks again. 

“Did you– the– is he still in the back of the truck?” Her brows are drawn together when he looks over, almost as though she were a little afraid of her own question. 

It takes him a minute to realize what she’s talking about. “The hunter?” 

“Yeah.” 

“No. I dumped it earlier.” 

“Oh.” 

He’s not exactly sure what reaction he was expecting out of her. Good? Thank you? Maybe she’s just surprised she hadn't noticed the stop. 

“You were asleep.”

Senha hums in acknowledgment but doesn’t look any more comfortable with the situation.

Putting people at ease has never been one of his strong suits. Particularly when it comes to the more sticky details of things. Still, he feels like he should make an effort. And if answering her thus-far reasonable questions is the key to making her feel comfortable, that’s far from a high price to pay.

“Any other questions?” 

Senha glances over at him, as if unsure whether to trust the open invitation. He raises his eyebrows. 

“I don’t–” Senha shakes her head. “How do you know what to do here? How come your first instinct was to kill that guy? Is this normal for you?”

Din makes a mental note to avoid leaving himself open for interrogation quite so freely in the future. “I served in the military. You pick things up.” 

“Like how to dump bodies and go on the run?” She’s giving him a very skeptical look but it’s a relief from the deep unease he’s seen in her eyes the past few hours. 

“Alright, no. That one I learned somewhere else. I killed him because he was a threat to the kid. And it's not abnormal. Anything else?”  

“What’s in that crate I helped you put in the back?” 

“It’s not a body if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

“I mean, my mind went to torture implements, but I’m glad to hear that my day isn’t going to involve another dead guy.”

“Still early.”

She lets out a small laugh, but it sounds just on the edge of hysterical. 

“I’m sorry.” The words feel like smoke in his mouth, weightless, dissipating at the first breeze. There is no ‘ni ceta’ in Ebryian. No deep apology to describe an emotion of regret heavier than a platitude meant to absolve the user of all guilt. Din has always hated the one-dimensional feel of the language, but right now it’s all he has to express himself to her. 

Ignorant of his thoughts, Senha lets out a long breath. “Yeah. Me too.” 

* * * * * * *

Samir wakes hungry just after dawn and they stop at a travel center to gas up again and find something to eat. While Senha mercifully takes the kid for a diaper change, Din buys a burner phone and sets it up while he fills the tank. Flicking down the handle’s trigger brace, he lets the pump continue filling as he walks to the outside of the building. He dials Cara’s number and listens while the line rings. 

"Dune."

"It's me."

"Holy shit, Din. Are you okay? Did–"

Din interrupts, knowing her well enough to anticipate the likely questions. "I don't have a lot of time. We're safe for now. Thanks for your warning. What are the details on the bounty?" 

"There’re two of them, both set by the original Client. One for the kid and whoever is found with him, double payout if they’re both alive.” She hesitates before continuing, a tense note in her voice. “The second one is an open bounty on any Mandalorian armor in the Ganister area. Details of ownership required for payout."

Twin surges of nausea and black rage flood him. Pushing them both down, he focuses on steadying his breaths. Establish the facts. Look at the situation with objectivity. "Can you see which hunters Karga assigned the bounties to?" 

"All of them. Every fucking hunter in the Guild." 

He swears as he looks over to see Senha carrying Samir back to the truck. The kid’s hood is up and his face is hidden in her shoulder, as they’d discussed. 

"Fuck, I need to go." 

"Din, I can try to get it pulled. Talk to Karga and figure something out."

He considers it for a moment. Cara's ability to talk just about anyone into or out of anything is legendary. But he's already dragged one person into this mess, and Cara's taken enough chances for him already. 

"No. I don't want you risking your position for this. We'll figure it out."

"You know I don’t give a damn about my position."

"I know. And believe me when I say I’m grateful for the offer, but it may be more useful to have you on the inside. Anything on the kid's family?" 

"Nothing yet. Sorry."

"It's fine." Din hesitates, watching Senha buckle the kid into his car seat from a distance. "Cara, I–" 

"If you give me that 'I owe you a debt' shit, I swear I'm going to take on the bounty and hunt you down myself. Keep yourself and the kid safe. Call me when you can." 

"I will." Anything else he could say is caught behind the lump in his throat as he ends the call. He doesnt deserve someone like Cara as an ally, much less a friend. Truthfully, he thinks as he heads inside to pay for the gas, nobody deserves Cara.

As he waits in line to pay, the triumphal opening music of a breaking news bulletin draws his eyes to the television behind the cashier.

“Ganister City Police released a statement today that they have arrested a man during a routine questioning after he resisted the attending officers. While it’s unconfirmed if the arrest is connected with the ongoing investigation into the septuple homicide at the Ganister City office of genetics giant PhenoVisage, police have stated that the arrest involved coordination with the Domestic Investigations Bureau, which has taken over the investigation as a probable act of domestic terrorism. Police have identified the man as Paz Vizsla, a 35-year old from the semi-autonomous Mandalorian province of Concordia."

Din’s stomach churns at the photo of the man displayed on the screen. He’s only met Paz a few times, and last saw him more than two years ago, but he recognizes the man from the Mando units deployed near his own in Concordia. 

“Police have been unwilling to state a motive for the homicides, but experts have stated that the suspect’s ties to the terrorist organisation Kyr'tsad, or 'Death Watch', in Greater Mandalore could indicate a connection with the ongoing investigation.” 

The rage he’d pushed down on hearing about the bounties comes roaring back as he stalks out to the truck, unable to stomach listening to more of their lies.

* * * * * * *

When she’d first woken that morning, face pillowed against her arm on the door, Senha's first thought had been why aren’t we home yet?  

The land outside the window was dry and brown, more scrub brush than anything else, and certainly nothing like the lush wetlands she’d woken to while traveling with her family as a child. It took her another moment to realize where she was, and another after that to remember what had happened the previous day. Realizing that the whole thing hadn’t been some dream took some additional time as she’d watched dawn break over the horizon to color the sky in pinks and golds. 

She’d smoothed her hand over her mouth, remembering the hunter’s fingers wrapping around her jaw to muffle her scream. The hard look in Din’s eyes when he’d told her they had to go. Turning, she looked over at him. The heavy shadows under his eyes had only grown deeper as he’d driven them through the night, west from Ganister City. 

She hadn’t been able to articulate why her first instinct had been to call Din rather than the police when the hunter had come for them. For the hundredth time, she’d wondered if she would be in the same predicament she is now if she had. Or if she’d already be dead. 

The conversation earlier this morning hadn’t really improved her understanding of the situation either. He’d answered her questions with either more questions, disturbing information, or no information at all. 

So what are you still doing here?

Senha had hoped that he would agree to her taking Samir and going to the police. The tone in his rejection of the idea gave her the impression that pushing him on it would put her on more dangerous ground than anything else right now. 

But the idea of the man as a cold-blooded killer kidnapping a baby didn’t fit with everything else. The lie was too elaborate, the evidence of the lack of scar or scab on his back too concrete, the boy too attached to him. As insane as the situation sounded, the pieces fit together too well to be anything but the truth. And there was something else in Din’s eyes that made her believe he was telling the truth, that he was in just as far over his head as she was. 

That, or he was the best liar she had ever come across in her life. And somehow, good liars don’t seem to get stabbed as often as honest men do. 

She’s almost (almost) glad to see him when he comes out of the travel center, until she catches sight of the expression on his face. It’s like a thundercloud, and that small tendril of fear that’s been curled around her sternum for the past day tightens again. She actually takes a step back when his glance shifts to her, the anger in his eyes kicking her fear up another notch. She almost unbuckles Samir from the car seat – if this is the moment she’s going to run, there’s no way she’s leaving him here – before she stops herself. As Din stalks over to replace the fuel nozzle, she summons her courage. 

“What happened? Is there–” 

“We need to keep moving.” His voice is clipped as he screws the filler cap closed with enough force that she hears the plastic creak. Without meeting her eyes, he reaches past her to check the kid’s seat-belt harness, albeit with significantly more gentleness than he’d used on the filler cap. Chewing her lip, she steps back, hesitating as part of her whispers that this really would be a good time to run. 

He hasn’t given any indication that he’s pissed at her, though. And he’s certainly not pissed at the kid. Slowly, Senha moves around to the passenger side and climbs back into the truck, settling herself gingerly on the seat. Din climbs in on the driver's side, the black expression back on his face. He does wait until her seatbelt is on before he pulls out though. 

Surely he wouldn’t be putting safety first for someone he’s preparing to remove from the equation, right?  

She makes it about three minutes before she risks a glance over at him. He’s staring straight ahead, his jaw shifting. His hand is tight on the steering wheel, and he’s looking out at the road as if it’s done him a personal wrong. Before he can notice her staring, she turns her eyes away. But over the next few minutes, she can’t help peeking a few more times. Din continues to look like he’s planning a detailed and methodical murder (hopefully not hers), and the longer she watches, the more her anxiety crawls through her, saturating her chest and making it more difficult to draw full breaths. 

What the hell is going on ? What happened back there? Are we in more danger?

She can almost feel the words writhing on her tongue like living things, trying to get out, but she bites them back. She can satisfy herself with looking over, and hopefully he’ll either calm down or share what the problem is. Ideally both. It’s not like there are really other options here. She can be discreet. She can be patient. 

Unfortunately, she must be less discreet than she thinks, because at her next careful peek he snaps out at her. 

“What.” 

Shit. She looks quickly away again. “Nothing.” 

“You’ve looked at me six times in the last ten minutes. What is it.” 

Alright, fine. If he doesn’t like her sneaking glances at him, she can give up the whole charade. Turning towards him, and careful to keep as much space as possible between them in the truck’s small cab, she narrows her eyes. “Something clearly happened in there that really steamed you. Considering the situation we’re in, I’m trying to figure out if it’s relevant.” 

If the tightening of his jaw is any indication, he’s not amused. “You don’t need to worry about it.” 

Nope, that’s not going to fly. “You sure about that?” 

“Positive.” She can almost hear his teeth grinding against each other, although he keeps his voice admirably level. 

Senha shrugs. “Alright. I’m just gonna say one more thing–” he’s going to break something clenching his jaw that hard, but she continues, “–and it’s that the last time you didn’t tell me what was going on, I ended up with a man shoving a gun in my face while trying to kidnap your magic baby.” 

Her piece said, she turns to look back out the windshield. Ball’s in his court now. If he wants to share what the hell is going on, she’ll stay. Otherwise, she resolves that she’ll sneak Samir out at their next stop and find the first person to drop them off at the nearest police station. She’ll take her chances there. 

He lets out a long breath and rakes a hand through his dark hair, his shoulders slumping as if the effort to stay angry has taken all his energy.

“Saw a news bulletin when I was inside. They've arrested someone in connection to what happened at the lab."

Her heart skips a beat as she sits up. “Who? Did they mention anything about us?” 

Din shakes his head. “No, but they also didn’t say he was the suspect behind the attack. Just 'arrested in coordination with'.” 

She lets out a long breath of her own before voicing the hopeful thought in her mind. “So, do you think they're still looking for us?" 

"More than likely. And if they aren't, there's still the Guild bounty, and whatever information that hunter might have transmitted on you." 

“Oh. Alright.” Senha doesn’t bother to hide her disappointment. It’s no secret to him that this isn’t her ideal situation for a Wednesday morning. And she’s pretty damn sure it isn’t his either. Still, she hasn’t gotten an answer to her most pressing concern. “Why are you so upset, then?” He glances over and she explains. “Not that it’s good that there’s an innocent man in jail, but it’s not you so…” The ellipsis lays in the air between them for a few long moments before Din sighs, looking back to the road. 

“The man they arrested is another Mandalorian.” 

That isn’t what she's expecting. It also doesn’t really clarify anything other than reinforcing the fact that he’s a champion at providing answers that just spawn more questions. She’s not sure what she was expecting, but if he’s calmed enough to entertain queries she might as well take advantage of his loquacity while she can. 

“Is that where– are you from Mandalore?”

“I wasn’t born in Mandalore. I was born in Concordia," he grimaces like he’s bitten down on something sour. “They're the same country now.” 

Geography class had never been her thing, but she remembers something about the region, far to the south of Ebrya. Reports of a refugee crisis and an authoritarian regime perpetuating atrocities. It had occupied people’s outrage for the better part of a few months when she had been studying for her LPN. “There was a civil war there, right? Maybe ten years back?” She tries to drag her memories on the news reports to the front of her mind. One thing does stick out. “We sent peacekeeping troops there to help, right?” 

This is apparently not the right thing to say, because his hand tightens on the wheel and his jaw shifts again. “Something like that.” 

She feels like she’s said something wildly offensive, but can’t track it. Maybe he’s angry about her being cavalier about the topic? Or maybe he wasn’t on the peacekeeping side, some part of her suggests. 

Deciding to avoid that particular landmine, Senha tries to bring them back on topic. “So you think they arrested him because you’re both Mandalorian?”

He inclines his chin. “It’s more than likely.”

A thought occurs to her that might explain his anger, and her stomach drops a little. “Do–” she hesitates, unsure how to ask. “Do you know him?”  

“We served in the military at the same time. Stationed in the same region. Different units. In Concordia.” He swallows, as if trying to rid his mouth of an unpleasant taste. “And he has beskar, so they would’ve found him through the registry.” 

Well shit, that explains the anger. A friend of his arrested for something he did? And he's unable to step forward and defend him without risking his own arrest? She suddenly feels guilty for her annoyance at him. “I’m sorry.” 

He gives a twitch of his shoulder that could indicate any number of things. 

Something else sticks in her mind though, and she frowns. “What’s...beskar?” 

Din’s hand tightens reflexively on the wheel. “You asked me what was in that crate in the back?” She nods. “It’s a type of metal. My body armor is made from it. You saw it the other night, when you stitched me up.” 

Senha sits up a little straighter. “And he has the same type? Were you wearing it when you went back to get Samir? Would they have recognized it from a security camera?”

She can practically see his shoulders rising towards his ears as the questions leave her mouth, and it’s so clear that he would be happier doing almost anything other than having this conversation. She bites her tongue. Slow down.  

“Yes. It’s very unique to Mandalorians.” 

Now they’re getting somewhere. Even if it isn’t a pretty picture. “So they saw a guy wearing the armor and just assumed one was as good as another?” 

For some reason this seems to bring his anger back to the surface, and the laugh he lets out is harsh and humorless. As if she’s hit on some sore spot beyond her own meaning. “More or less, yes.”

“Alright but they’re gonna figure out pretty quickly that he didn’t do it.” And start looking for you again.

“That won’t matter to them.” 

This just seems a little too cynical. “If he has an alibi, they can’t hold him.”

He sets his jaw. “Never stopped them before.” 

She can’t help but press a bit. It’s like a scab she’s got to pick off, regardless of what nastiness she knows she’s going to find underneath.  “But there are laws to prevent that.” 

“Those with power and money decide which laws apply, and when they’re suspended. The moment they see an invader as a potential threat to their neat world, those laws just become words on a page. Applicable only to those they decide are worthy of their protection.” His words could be taken as patronizing, but for the note of resignation in his voice. And that more than anything rouses her curiosity. He truly believes this. What has he seen that’s made him so sure that things are this broken?  

“Why would they see you as an invader? You came here seeking asylum, right? As a child?” 

The bitter tone in his voice is acrid, almost like he’s biting off the words. “Ebryians look at anyone from outside the country as invaders. They tolerate us because legally they have to. We work in their communities and serve in their military and pay our fucking taxes. But the fact that we refuse to hide who we are – that’s enough to paint us as threats.” 

Her first instinct is to reassure him that she doesn’t see him as a threat, but to be honest, she’s not there yet. Although that has a lot more to do with what she’s seen him do rather than where he’s from. 

“Did you–” Senha stops. There is no way to ask this without sounding like she hasn't already passed judgement. 

He looks over at her again, and the enmity in his eyes alone is almost enough to make her swallow her question back down. “Did I what?” 

She’s not sure what’s worse at this point, asking or not asking. On the plus side, she’s fairly certain he wouldn’t put Samir at risk by reaching over to snap her neck at seventy-five miles per hour if she really pisses him off. No, he’ll pull over and put the hazards on before he does it.  

 “Just– I remember hearing about there being a coup. Were you– did you fight there?” And were you perchance involved in overthrowing the government of a sovereign nation? Because you do seem to have that specific skill set that screams ‘violent extremist’. 

“It wasn’t a coup.” 

This is moving quickly into the T-word territory but she resolves to at least hear him out. If he checks all the boxes, you can always take the kiddo and book it. “What was it then?” She feels less like she’s drawing him out now, and almost as if he’s daring her to continue asking. It’s not a pleasant feeling at all. 

Din resettles his hand on the wheel, watching the road ahead. “Ebrya took advantage of the political chaos in Mandalore to strip the resources of Concordia and massacre anyone who stood in their way.” 

“That’s...” Senha begins to argue before she stops. Because what are the chances that the vague bit of news you heard almost a decade ago wasn’t right? What are the chances that his anger is justified? That what you thought was true isn’t the case? 

She can hear the hesitation in her own voice as she phrases her question a bit more diplomatically. “I thought Ebrya sent troops there on a humanitarian mission.” 

Again, it’s like he’s waiting for her to ask. Daring her to raise that stone and look underneath. “They sent in their military to work with the local guerrilla forces to topple the authoritarian regime that ran Mandalore. When Kyr’tsad found out Ebrya was planning to rig the elections, they took back the government for Mandalorians to decide on their next leader. And Ebrya used that as an excuse to commit mass slaughter against anyone in Concordia who would stand in the way of making it their puppet state.” 

He’s almost breathless when he finishes, as if he’s unused to saying so much. His voice is hard, and her heart aches at the unfiltered pain in it. This didn’t happen a decade ago for him. He feels it daily. As if he can hear her thoughts, and needs to make her understand, he continues in that bleak, rigid tone. 

“I was there. I watched choppers loaded with heavy ordinance and incendiaries being deployed into the mountains to burn out villages housing Kyr'tsad fighters that had nothing to do with the coup. Fighters that had been part of the Ebryian task force to take out the old government of Mandalore.” He turns his face away from her, into the narrow current of air from the cracked window as if he can’t breathe. 

Senha is still trying to process what his words mean. What the implications are. “Ebryian task force?” 

“Yes,” he grinds out. “They recruited us to fight with our brothers. Those who had sworn the same Creed we had. Who spoke the same language we did. Wore the same armor we wore. We earned their trust, fought by their side. And when it became more profitable for Ebrya, they pulled us out, and turned on them. Made them into the enemy.”

He finally turns to look at her, and if anything seals it for her, it’s his eyes. They’re haunted, and she gets the impression that he isn’t seeing her.  

Guilt floods her. She doesn’t even know why, because she had nothing to do with any of it, but that sense of bone-deep shame is pervasive. The tendril coils around her sternum tightly again, but this time it feels self-inflicted. “I didn’t know.” 

His tone is heartrendingly dismissive. “There’s no reason for you to know. It’s not exactly something they publicize.” 

The words indicate a reprieve, but somehow they just make her feel worse. 

Naturally, Samir picks this moment to screech at the absolute top of his voice, and Senha and Din both flinch at the sound. Kneeling on the seat, Senha leans over to meet the boy’s watery eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” Din asks, the apathy in his voice replaced with concern. 

“He’s alright, just doesn’t like the car seat.” Senha strokes a hand over Samir’s hair but he flails in the car seat, fingers plucking uselessly at the harness. “Never known a kiddo who does. They’re like little prisons.” 

Din glances back for a moment before reaching a hand out to clumsily pat the boy’s chest. “Sorry, Sam’ika, but that’s non-negotiable. Udesii, ad'ika.” 

Contextually, Senha can guess that he’s trying to reassure the kid, but Samir categorically rejects the idea in favor of screaming again, and Din winces. Senha unbuckles her seatbelt and he looks over as he draws his hand back up to the wheel. “What’re you doing?” 

She climbs over the center console and into the seat behind Din. “Going to try and distract him.” Sitting forward a bit, she picks Basa up from where Samir has thrown him. “I know, little man, this is no fun.” The toddler takes the dragon from her and promptly throws it again, scrunching his face up as he lets loose another wail. Patiently, she picks it up and settles the purple stuffy on her lap before smoothing her hand over his forehead. Samir hyperventilates as he thrashes again for a minute before sagging back into the harness. 

Din looks back, his eyebrows drawn in a worried frown. 

“This is normal, I promise." She reassures him "He’s alright.” Senha picks up Basa and pretends to make the dragon bite the baby’s feet. “Right?! This is normal!” Samir pauses in his wail at her sing-song tone as she walks the dragon up his legs. “Just a regular day, out on the hunt for a Samir-snack…” The toddler whimpers but reaches a hand out to grab one of the dragon’s floppy wings. “And I think these toes would do nicely!” 

She can see Din sighing in relief in the rear-view mirror as she pretends to examine Samir’s tiny socked feet closely and the boy giggles. 

Maybe they’re going to be alright. 

Chapter Text

“State Department, Cultural Affairs Southern Regions Division. Gary Finn speaking.”

Sil’s glad it only took three calls through two layers of departments to get this number. “Hello, my name is Special Agent Silvia Fess, with the Domestic Investigations Bureau, Counterterrorism Division. You got my email with credentials and the case background, and asked me to call you?”

“Of course, Special Agent. I wasn’t expecting you to call on the secure line.”

“Well, as I said in my email, it’s a sensitive matter. And just Sil is fine.”

“Alright, Sil. What can I help you with?”

“I’m tracking a suspect. My perp attacked and shot up a lab, killed a bunch of people, and stole something. He was wearing some type of foreign kit, and I was hoping you could help me track it.”

The response comes too quickly. “You’re looking for a Mandalorian?”

“How did you know?”

“Because that kit would be one set of Concordia Reinforced Steel armor, right? Beskar?”

“Yes…I take it the item is not as rare as I was hoping?”

Sil can hear the man sigh on the other end of the phone. “Depends on how you define ‘rare’. After the war ended down there, the new Mandalorian government declared beskar a national cultural treasure. They demanded we return it, even though the sets are owned by individual persons, some of them Ebryian citizens. It would be like the Gauls demanding we return all their wine.”

Sil frowns, about to interrupt before he continues. “But, new government and all, we wanted to play nice, so the Administration caved. We banned the sale of beskar as cultural artifacts, and forced all the owners to register their existing items.”

“So, the armor my perp used is probably registered?”

Another sigh. “Yes and no. See, they’re cultural artifacts. So if the owner dies without legally signing it over to someone, it becomes state property. Most of the items owned by Ebryian citizens of Mandalorian heritage are passed down by will, but sometimes somebody dies too young, or something happens. And--can I level with you, Sil?”

“That would be a pleasant change in pattern from everyone else I’ve spoken to about this...”

In the brief pause Sil can imagine the smile she hopes that inspired. “The thing is, when we get it, it’s supposed to go back to Mandalore. But some Ebryian Citizens, again, Mandalorian immigrants, have successfully set up foundations that own and manage the items on behalf of whole groups of them. Nothing strange there, right? People all over have private museums, but sometimes--things go missing.”

“What?”

Sigh number three. “Yeah, as if things aren’t complicated enough with their government. I can’t even have a meeting without a half-dozen different mining company representatives present.”

Clearly, Gary needs to talk this out, and Sil is willing to bite. “I lost you, why does Cultural Affairs care about mining companies?”

“After the war, as part of the economic redevelopment package, a bunch of Ebryian companies were granted exclusive mining rights throughout the country. The companies were supposed to hire and train locals, and then turn over everything five years after the agreement was signed, but let’s just say contract law isn’t exactly as strong down there. At this point, mining fees fund half of the Mandalorian Government.”

It’s not the easiest thing for Sil to follow the man’s meandering logic path, but she’s starting to get an idea for what the driving force behind this is, and it’s not a pretty picture. The diplomat plows on. 

“As far as Mandalore is concerned, Ebrya is those mining corps, which means I can’t even get a visa approved for Ebryians with Mandalorian heritage to visit family there unless they have connections in Mining or Demolitions. The damn corps don’t want to discuss anything that might impact their bottom line, and the new administration here isn’t willing to spend the capital to get out from under their thumb. It would be easy for us to kick them out of the picture and get back to our real jobs if we had any kind of forcing function, but that’s what you get being priority number two in a government that only counts to one.” 

She hears another sigh before Gary continues. “Honestly I’m glad you called. I haven’t had much to do recently. Not really that there’s much I can do right now anyway.” He mutters that last bit with more than a little bitterness. 

Sil reels the man back in gently. “So...what does this have to do with my perp’s armor?”

“Yeah, sorry. Well, of course they’ve cut back on our staff here, so it’s all done by contractors now, right? Whenever someone, usually a Mandalorian, dies without a clear heir identified for the beskar, we get it. And of course, that means it’s shipped back to Mandalore through these contractors. And well, sometimes there are ‘paperwork’ errors. Things don’t always make it back to Mandalore.”

“Are you saying people are stealing armor from the State?”

“That would be a very bold claim, Agent. I am certainly not, as the Ebryian State Department, informing the Domestic Investigation Bureau of possible criminal activity by third parties working on behalf of the government. Obviously any such statement would come from our IG office to the designated DIB liaison through the appropriate legal channels.”

Sil smirks, translating his wording to mean, “Yes, but I’m being stonewalled by higher ups.”   

“Of course Mr. Finn. I would never seek to put words in someone’s mouth, forgive me. But there is a black market for Beskar then?” 

Translation: “I hear you, how can I help?”

“Yes. It’s literally worth more than its weight in gold, if you can get your hands on it. But we all come down pretty hard on anyone trying to do that. These days, any purchases are made by direct commission, billionaires looking for bragging rights, that kind of thing. Not the type who’d buy it to use, unless there’s a billionaire out there running around playing at being an action hero.”

“So, you’re saying my suspect owns their armor?” Gary makes an affirmative sound and Sil narrows her eyes, thinking. “Is there anyone who owns armor who wouldn’t be on the registry?”

“Did you check with the Department of Defense?”

“Should I?”

“Yeah. They created a bunch of foreign legion units during the war. All Mandalorians, almost all with their own gear. Given how chaotic things were after the war, it’s possible one of them might've missed being registered. It would be an easy enough thing to check, just compare the lists and see who doesn't show up. But DOD hasn’t let us look through their files yet.”

Sil grins. Defense is notorious for not playing well with others when it comes to their files, but she’s sure she can get a copy of the unit records to compare to State’s registry. “And if I could get you those records…”

Gary’s voice is smug. “Well, I would have to run the cross-check anyway. No reason I couldn’t give you the updated list, with a few useful annotations.”

Translation: “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”

“Perfect. Let me make some calls and get back to you,” Sil says. They exchange a few pleasantries and she puts down the phone, feeling unusually satisfied for having just spent an hour talking to another agency. It’s always a relief to speak to professionals, and ones who actually give a damn at that. The door of the small office opens and a tall, dark haired man comes in and tosses a file on her desk. The prominent crows feet at the corners of his eyes are overshadowed by the heavy frown he currently wears. 

“Hey, got something you may want to see.”

As the only DIB agent in the area, Payne’s stationed out of the Ganister office to liaise between the DIB and the Substance Control Agency on drug smuggling across the border. She’s only spoken with him a few times, and never for long, but he seems oddly likable for a cop around here.

She pulls the file towards her as she stands, watching him turn to his own desk and grab his gun. As he shoves it into the back of his pants, she’s amazed that he doesn’t seem to bother with a holster. How does he keep it from falling out?  

“What’s the problem?”

“You’re gonna want to see this.” He jerks his chin towards the door to suggest they walk and talk. “One of my contacts just reached out. There’s been a shooting, home invasion went bad.”

She stands, conspicuously sliding her own weapon into her shoulder holster. “And how does this involve us?”

“The victims are Mandalorian.”

* * * * * * * *

Cara hates having to come into the office for more than a few hours. Usually, her unofficial role as Greef’s enforcer lets her work behind the scenes and avoid time spent behind a desk, but even bounty hunters have to pay taxes, and she sure as shit isn’t going to do that on her own time.

Normally if she has to slip into the office for a few minutes, she just uses Greef’s computer, but he’s been uncharacteristically busy with those two 'special jobs' as he had called them. Landmines seems a more accurate description, but then again, most people don’t treat armed landmines as a financial opportunity.

So instead, she’s using Greef’s secretary's computer located on a small desk in the corner of his office. It takes only one glance at one of the more shithead members of the Guild to end any potential 'new job?' jokes.

She’s just about done when one of the hunters rushes into the back office looking for Greef, a worried look on his face. He’s about to say something when two other people, a man and a woman, enter behind him. She recognizes the man from a few other times she’s seen him around. She’s fairly certain he’s a liaison with one of the local law enforcement agencies, but he’s never given them any trouble, which means Cara’s never had to interact with him more closely. 

The woman is almost the opposite to the casual “jeans and a button down” environment around her. She’s tall and dressed in business attire. If she’s also law enforcement, she’s definitely from out of state. 

“Agent Payne, what brings you to my humble establishment today?” Greef begins, as usual playing everyone’s best friend. He waves for the other hunter to leave, who nods and walks out of their office. He doesn’t make any similar request for her, and Cara takes it as a request for her to stay. Being in a small room with a bunch of Feds isn’t exactly how she wants to spend the afternoon, but at the moment at least they’re ignoring her. As long as it stays that way, she’s fine just being Greef’s witness. 

She can tell she is watching a show. Greef must know exactly why the cops are here, and given the 'special jobs' he has become so fond of lately, she assumes it’s because some hunter fucked up.

Agent Payne waits until the door closes to give the illusion of privacy before responding. “Greef, you know why I’m here. Things got outta control. Tell me you’ve already called your people back.”

In the few times she’s seen the agent around, this is easily the most wound up he’s been. He spares her a look and there’s anger, and perhaps a little betrayal in his eyes. She can’t help but wonder how much worse things could be than what Greef told her, because it’s obvious the shit has hit the fan in a big way.

Greef is not as observant as her in this fact. “Agent, I have always fully cooperated with your agency, haven’t I? We are all on the same side here.”

Payne moves in closer, the woman still hanging back by the door. Experience has him fully aware of how thin the walls are, and he lowers his voice, “Greef, the job you called me about. You closed it, right?”

Cara knows exactly which job Payne’s talking about. When she’d come in that morning, Greef had been making notes on it using the fucking white-boards in his office. She had asked if this was his way of declaring insanity, or if he just actually wanted to go to jail. Greef had complained that there was too much information for him to coordinate everything from his computer. Not even resisting rolling her eyes, Cara had grabbed the nearest person and told them to go buy Greef a pair of the largest monitors they fucking had before erasing the boards. Looking back, she’s pretty damn sure that in that moment she’d saved them all from a few years in prison.

Greef takes a bit too long coming up with a non-answer for Payne, and the man hangs his head for a moment before looking back at the Guild rep. “Goddamnit, Greef. Do you know what that hunter did?”

Lowering his voice in an unsuccessful attempt to keep the conversation between the two of them, Greef mutters, “That’s why I called you, Payne.” Cara knows that Greef occasionally informs the DIB agent on potential problems in the interest of saving his own skin, and the Guild’s respectability. Most of the other hunters would likely have a less philosophical opinion of his snitching, however.

“Two kids, Greef.” Payne braces his hands on the man’s desk and glares at him. “Your fuck-up hunter killed two kids. Now tell me who put out the goddamn bounty.” 

Cara freezes, because this is so much worse than what she had anticipated when the news of a hunter arrested on unknown charges had come earlier today. Based on the expression on his face, Greef is taken equally by surprise. 

Undeterred, Payne continues. “We just spent six hours booking your hunter with the DA. He’s looking at first-degree murder, Greef, which means you have the potential to be looking at some form of accessory. Be smart and help us.”

Greef is many things, but first and foremost he’s a survivor. If a threat to his comfortable positions arises, he’ll cling to whatever’s closest at hand to keep himself afloat and out of deep waters. “Agent Payne, I have already cooperated with you as required by law. But I cannot just turn over confidential business information without-”

The woman steps up and speaks at last. “Ok, Payne, I got this. You, Karga? Let me make this real clear. I do not have time for any bullshit on this. If you want to play hardball, I’m more than happy to call a judge right now and have the entire fucking Guild under your jurisdiction shut down.”

Greef opens his mouth to speak but the woman continues, pulling a phone out of the pocket of her suit jacket. “And imagine this. Thanks to modern technology, he can digitally sign the suspension order and send it to me right now. Along with a warrant for whatever the hell we need from here. So you can either give me what I want, or I will take everything .”

The Guild rep makes one final swipe for a piece of driftwood. “Agent–”

Without looking at him, the female agent unlocks the phone and dials a number. In a true panic now, Greef holds out both hands and comes around the desk. “Alright, alright. I can give you information on the Client.” 

The agent locks the phone but doesn’t put it back in her pocket. Instead, she fixes Karga with a phenomenally unimpressed stare and waits. 

“It wasn’t a normal guild job. It was a…special service. Direct commission.”

Payne rubs his forehead, one hand on his hip. “Greef, I told you you had to stop pulling that shit.”

The Guild rep leans back against his desk, crossing his arms defensively. “The Client placed out two contracts-”

“Both of which are now closed.” The female agent cuts him off. As much as she’s threatening Cara’s paycheck, she has to admit that she kinda likes this one.

“Of course,” Karga reassures her. “The one that sparked the...incident involved the acquisition of specific items.”

“Items? I thought you ran a Bounty Hunter’s Guild not a Thieves Guild, Greef.” Payne growls, the anger in his voice just barely controlled.

Greef winces a little at that, Cara had given him the same line when she had heard about the job. And that was before she’d known about the one for the kid (and by association, for Din). Karga had kept that one close to the chest, likely because he knew what her reaction would’ve been had she known he’d accepted it. 

“I informed the client that while I would not put a bounty out for items. However, for the right price, I would pass along certain items my hunters brought in during the normal course of their duties- items I would not be required to hand over to the authorities, I assure you- to him.”

Payne clearly isn’t having it either. “Well, you’re done with that now. Give me the file, Greef.”

“Again, Agent. It was a direct commission, all I have is their contact information.” Greef turns to rifle through the papers on his desk, turning back before the female agent can continue her call. “--which I am happy to turn over. Here.” 

Payne looks at it for a moment before he sighs. He waves over the other agent. “This look familiar to you?”

Her eyes narrow, and she turns to Greef. “You said there were two bounties? Was the other for a person?”

“Yes. It was a routine-”

“Who was it for?”

* * * * * * * *

“Have you recovered the asset yet? I have a team standing by.”

“I am afraid the situation has become more complicated. There has been a change in plans.”

There’s silence on the line. 

“The bounty hunter was able to locate the asset, but it appears he was unsuccessful at retrieving it.”

“The Mandalorian got to him?”

“Unfortunately, yes. The recovery of the asset was interrupted by the same Mandalorian who originally retrieved the asset. I have sent cleaners to their last known location.”

“Where is he now? The Mandalorian? I would assume he has the asset with him.”

“That is my thought as well. I have our people looking for his phone, but he appears to keep it deactivated. However, he did contact one of his guild contacts early this morning. Disposable phone, but we got the general location. It also appears that the local Guild is no longer willing to cooperate with us, for any price; the authorities stepped in. With the appropriate assets under my direct control to find the Mandalorian, I believe I can still recover the asset. I would like to request you send in the Scout Squad.”

“Approved, just handle it.”

“I’ll take care of it, sir.”

* * * * * * * *

Vasilly has never been to Ebrya before, and up to this point, the country has not impressed him. This part of it, at least, is dusty, subject to inconvenient, unpredictable storms, and the coffee is abysmal compared to what he can get back home in Dosoledorph. But the job is here. Someone needs something scouted, which means he, Fredrich, Lars, and Alexei are stuck here until the job is done. 

An older man with sunken eyes walks up and Vasilly recognizes him as Hans, their contact for the mission. He meets Vassily with a firm, Suebian handshake, his smile thin and all business. “Vasilly, it’s been too long. I am pleased to see another friendly face in this unpleasant country. I trust the trip was not too taxing?”

“Akcenco hospitality is always appreciated, Hans. You have a target for us to scout?”

Hans pulls a folder from his briefcase and hands it to Vasilly. “An asset was stolen from this facility. Both the local police and local bounty hunters have been unable to retrieve it. One hunter was able to get close enough to ID the target yesterday, but was killed before he could recover it.”

“You bring us here to hunt a thief? Hans, this is so unlike you.”

“The target is a Mandalorian.”

There is a brief pause through the assembled men. Fredrich nods and turns to walk away. “I shall collect the scouting gear. We can be ready to leave in one hour.”

Vassily takes out the briefing and passes copies to his remaining two men. He spends a few minutes reading before looking up at Hans. “And the child, you need it back alive?”

“The asset is extremely valuable. The doctors have said their work will be much more difficult if the child is dead. Is this a problem?”

“No. What about the Mandalorian?”

“Kill him, and anyone he has told about the asset.”

“Understood: a stealth mission. Do not concern yourself, Hans, I shall scout out this Mandalorian for you, and when we find him, I will remind him why his people now fight only each other for scraps.”

Chapter Text

They head north-west, into the mesas and towards the high desert. It’s colder here, spring hasn’t come as quickly as it has down in the valley, and they can see snow on the mountains in the distance. 

The hours go by fairly quickly the second day, and Senha would say they’re making good progress, if she had any idea where it is that they’re going. Samir alternates between sleeping, looking out the window, and, understandably, complaining. Thankfully, her babysitting bag of toys and books provides some level of distraction, and Senha spends most of her time in the back seat. Everyone seems more comfortable this way. 

Late in the evening of the second day after fleeing Ganister, during one of her stints back up front, she jerks awake at a light touch on her shoulder. The constant motion of the truck’s engine and the road under the tires has ceased. After so long with it as background noise, it’s now so quiet she almost feels as though she’s been deafened. Rubbing her hand over the indentation in her cheek from the stitching of the seat, she sits up. 

“Where are we?” 

“Train station south of Schist. Figured we could both use a rest.” 

Senha looks around blearily, her mind fighting to pick out something familiar in the unusual. They’re parked in the dark corner of a lot with about ten other cars. A neat brick building stands about a hundred yards away, illuminated by lights around its base. 

“Not a bad idea.” The words scratch in her dry throat and she swallows as she turns back to check on Samir. The toddler is asleep, his mouth open and his hand closed lightly around Basa’s tail. 

Din tilts his chin towards the back seat of the cab. "You want to sleep back there with him? More room to stretch out."

"Where are you going to sleep?" Senha asks, unbuckling her seatbelt. 

"Here." He unfastens his own seatbelt. 

Senha raises an eyebrow. The man is a hair under six feet tall, with most of that height in his legs. "Doesn't look very comfortable. You sure you don't want to sleep back there?" 

Din shrugs one shoulder awkwardly. "Not really room for me to stretch out back there either. And I want to be able to get us moving again quickly if need be."

Probably worried I'll take the truck and hightail it to the nearest police station while he’s asleep, she thinks wryly, but she sighs. If he wants to let his limbs solidify into a seat-shaped fossil, that’s his problem. 

Opening the door to the cab, she stifles a shiver at the cool night air. The temperature has definitely dropped, and the wind’s picked up. She slips into the back seat quickly, trying to keep the warm air from escaping. 

"Plus," she says quietly to Samir, unbuckling the sleepy child from his car seat, "this way I get to cuddle with you and Basa, hm? Sounds to me like I get the better end of this deal." 

The boy is tired enough that he just murmurs something unintelligible in response and wraps his arms around Senha’s neck as she lifts him out of his seat. She passes the car seat up to the front to make some more space, murmuring thanks as Din takes it from her. 

Shifting herself to lean back against the door behind the driver's seat, she groans quietly as she stretches out her legs for the first time in hours. She yawns as she pulls the sleepy child into her lap, and tucks Basa between her arm and the seatback. Samir curls further against her in sleep and Senha drops a kiss on the crown of his head. 

“There’s a blanket, under–” Din twists around, reaching back under the bench seat. 

Leaning down to help, Senha feels around until her hand comes across worn cloth. Calloused fingers close over hers for a second before Din pulls his hand back, muttering an apology as she pulls the blanket out from under the seat. It’s an old car blanket, but fortunately not one of the old school itchy variety, and as she spreads it over herself and Samir (assisted occasionally by Din, who clearly wants to help but seems almost wary of making additional contact with her), its warm weight is welcome. 

She settles back against the door. It’s far from the most comfortable place she’s slept, but the ability to stretch her legs out and the instinctive calm brought by a sleeping child in her arms is already pulling her down into the dark. She feels a gentle hand tugging the blanket down to cover her feet, and opens her eyes again to see Din watching the sleeping boy in her arms. The line between his prominent brows is back, and he looks tired beyond physical exhaustion. 

“He’s alright.” Senha’s not sure when her brain decided reassurance was required, but the words bring his gaze up to hers. In the dim light from the parking lot, his dark brown eyes look almost black, and the focus in them makes her stammer as she continues. “I– I just mean, he’ll be alright. With all the change. Kids are resilient.” 

Din doesn’t reply for a long moment, but he does reach out to run the back of his hand along the baby’s exposed arm before covering it with the blanket. He draws in a breath as if he’s about to say something before he turns to face forward again. 

“Get some sleep.” 

Senha slouches down, trying to get comfortable against the hard plastic of the door. "Could you wake me up before we get going again, please? I'd like to go inside and use their bathroom to brush my teeth before we leave."

"We really shouldn't–" he starts to say, before he sighs. She can see his shoulders fall a bit as he replies. "Alright. Guess it can't hurt." 

"Thanks," she murmurs, already half asleep again. Shifting to lean her head against the grey fabric of the seat back, she listens to Din do some maneuvering of his own in the front to get comfortable. Good luck with that, buddy. 

She sleeps fitfully, waking every few hours to the sound of a train horn and the clacking of wheels on rails. Samir blessedly sleeps until the sun is just starting to come up, and when he stirs he seems content to cuddle with her while she strokes her fingers along his back. Her eyes are still closed, head tilted back against the cool glass of the window, when she hears Din shift in the front seat. 

“Senha?” He says, voice raspy with exhaustion.

“Hm. ‘m awake.” She hums, circling her head on her neck to ease the kinks out from the night’s rough sleeping arrangement. “You want to take him inside to get cleaned up while I brush my teeth? He could probably use a birdbath.” 

Samir’s eager to be passed over to his caretaker, and pats his fingers happily at the corner of Din’s mouth before looking around the nearly empty parking lot. At least one of them is in a good mood. Luckily, the station is open twenty-four hours, and both Din and Samir emerge a few minutes after she does with damp hair. The baby looks less than pleased after his impromptu bath, but toast with banana and peanut butter wins him back fairly quickly. Senha’s worked with enough kiddos over the years to know that Din is exceptionally lucky to have found one that is consistently and easily bribed. 

Of course, the downside to this comes when Samir decides that the peanut butter would go better in his hair than on the toast. Din makes the fatal mistake of bending within reach and gets tagged in the moustache with a fingerful. Senha can hardly fault the kid for trying to share, particularly since she hasn’t seen the man eat a thing since they left Ganister. 

She hears Din let out a now-familiar sigh as he cleans the kids hands and now-sticky curls, and then his own face, with a wet wipe, but it’s clear this isn’t new behavior to him. 

Honestly, Senha’s got to give the guy credit. From what she’s been able to drag out of him, he had some experience with kids when he was younger, but nothing outside of an uncle’s capacity. Which usually ends at handing the kid back to mom or dad when they start to cry or need to be changed or cleaned up. Din is checking all the major boxes, and he seems to have adapted to the situation with a damn sight more grace than some biological parents Senha’s seen. 

It’s a cranky morning for Samir, who is extremely displeased to be stuck back in his car seat for the second day in a row. In the past two days, Senha’s seen the independent nature he’d been starting to show vanish again. He’s needy, constantly turning in his seat to reach for one of them and resorting to whimpers or all out cries when he doesn’t find the contact he’s searching for. 

When turning in her seat to distract him doesn’t yield any relief, Senha finally packs up her bag and moves to the back seat for the remainder of the morning. The boy still gives regular glances back up at Din, and the man reaches back every now and then to pat his shoulder or run a hand over his head. Each time it’s with a murmured reassurance in the language she’s heard him speak to Samir in before, which she realizes must be his mother tongue. She almost starts to ask him about it, but thinks better of it; maybe he deserves a break from the questions for one morning. Instead, she cracks open the pop-book that’s become one of Samir’s favorites, and settles in to read it once again. 

* * * * * * *

He’s not sure exactly how badly off they would be without Senha, but Din can say with certainty that his head would be splitting, and his stress levels would be completely through the roof. And that there would likely be a lot more screaming going on. 

When the kid had begun those breathy cries the day before, Din had prepared himself for a long and unpleasant drive. By this point, he’s learned the only thing that really stops a tantrum with any level of consistency is physical contact, and that isn’t going to happen at seventy five miles per hour on the highway. And he can hardly pull over every twenty five minutes to give the kid a cuddle, as much as he understands it’s not something that Samir can help. Having someone, particularly someone who’s experienced, be able to sit back there and occupy the kid takes more pressure off him than he realized. The fact that Samir clearly trusts her only adds to the advantages. 

It had taken him longer than he liked to fall asleep the night before, unable to relax with essentially a stranger sleeping behind him. Just getting used to the sound of the kid breathing in the room with him (and fairly soon after, being tucked up against his side) had taken a few days. Add to that an entirely new person, and Din’s comfort level has been stretched so far beyond the norm that he’s surprised he slept at all. Between that and the slightly invasive conversation yesterday, he’s grateful to blend into the background today. 

Senha does most of the talking, whether it’s reading from a book or playing, but he hears the kid replying more often than not. Some of the words almost sound close to recognizable sounds, particularly the ones he repeats after Senha, but none of them are quite there. Din can’t reasonably say he has any idea whether the kid should be speaking full words at this point, but he supposes it’s good he’s at least communicating. 

Halfway through the afternoon, the temperature gauge begins to rise on the dashboard, and a knot develops in his gut. It continues to rise over the next hour, and his fears are confirmed when he pulls over to check and sees a slip of steam rising from under the hood. It doesn’t take more than a few minutes to figure out the issue is with the coolant pump, which explains the temperature gauge. As he shuts the hood and gets back into the driver’s seat, Senha sits up from where she’s slouched over in the back, both her and the kid having fallen asleep. 

“Somethin’ wrong?” Her voice is bleary. 

Din just grunts in reply, trying to curb his annoyance. 

She looks around, blinking. “Where are we?” 

“Few hours west of no damn place.” He mutters, more to himself than to her. He drums his fingers on the wheel but realistically, there’s no way he can even get the truck to limp  along without risking the whole thing overheating and damaging the engine. “Issue with the coolant pump.” 

“Okay.” She rubs her face and squints at him. “Do you have Triple-C?” 

Din gives her a look in the rearview mirror. Roadside service hasn’t ever been in his income bracket, and isn’t likely to be now, given their current circumstances. 

“So that’s a no. Uhm. Can we call for a tow?” 

He sighs, having gone through the same thought process himself. He’d bitten back a particularly foul curse at the burner phone’s shitty signal. “No service. I saw a sign a few miles back though, there should be a town up ahead. Best bet is for me to try and hitch a ride, and call from a gas station. Stay here.” Not waiting for a reply, Din gets out of the car and puts his hood up. 

He feels extremely vulnerable standing with his thumb out, and his irritation grows like an itch as five cars pass him without slowing down. The truck door slams and Senha comes around the front, stretching. 

“No offense, but I kind of doubt someone is going to stop for a guy with his hood up.” 

Issik, he’s been clenching his teeth a lot recently. “Then I’ll walk to the gas station.” 

“That could be miles, Din.” 

He drops his hand and doesn’t quite manage to keep the glare from his face. “You got a better idea?”    

She raises her chin towards the passenger side. “Go stand over there. And try to look non-threatening.” 

Fine. If she’s got another option, he’s willing to hear it out, even if he’s not happy about it. Din stalks over to the other side of the truck and leans against it, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Non-threatening usually means you don’t look like you’re planning to murder whoever pulls over to help, by the way.” Senha calls over, and he sighs and drops his arms to his sides. Non-threatening. He can do that. Taking a long, calming breath, he tries to force the tension from his body. The success of his attempt is debatable. 

She extends her hand with her thumb up and smiles warmly. About a minute later, a full-sized black van with tinted windows pulls up behind them. Din mutters something rude under his breath but pushes himself off the truck and moves towards the back. 

As it rolls to a stop the driver’s window rolls down, and a voice rings out over what sounds like polka music. “Hello little lady!  I saw you there and said, ‘Frederich, we cannot just drive past when there is someone needing our help.’ Did something happen to your car?”

Senha moves up to the window, grimacing. “The coolant pump in our truck went out, can you believe it? I keep telling my boyfriend he’s got to be more careful about getting it in for regular service but–” She’s surprisingly quick with the lie, and if she’d chosen just about anything other than that specific lie, Din would’ve been impressed. As it is, his irritation grows by leaps and bounds. 

The man nods sagely. “Ah yes, of course. Ebryian parts are always catching fire, such poor engineering. Do you not have, what is it in this country, the Triple-C’s? Is that him there? You, stop sulking and letting your lovely girlfriend take care of things. Lars, make some room back there for these nice people.”

Din can feel a tension headache coming on as Senha jogs back over to him. 

“'I keep telling my boyfriend he’s got to be more careful about getting it in for regular service’?” he hisses. 

“Look, I had to say something,” she says, opening the door to the cab and unbuckling Samir from the carseat. He reaches for her, looking interested at the change of venue. “Come on, it’s just for a few miles. It can’t be that bad.” 

“It really can be. You don’t know these guys. And they’ve got a child-molester van.” 

Senha slings her bag over her other shoulder and shuts the passenger door, giving him a cheeky grin. “Good thing we’ve got a trained killer with us, huh?” 

Din growls as she tugs Samir’s hood up over his head and walks back to the van. Unfortunately, he doesn’t see a better option here and he follows her, every instinct in him screaming that this is a terrible idea. The unctuous tone of the man in the passenger seat only strengthens the feeling. 

“Oh, you have a baby with you as well!  Then it is good we stopped, this dust is very bad for the little ones!”

The side door slides open to reveal a roomy interior with two large men sitting inside. They have both obviously shuffled to one side to make room. He sees there are four men in total, none looking older than forty. Aside from the talkative one in the front, they are all tall and heavily muscled. He balks at the idea of trapping himself (not to mention Senha and the kid) in an enclosed space with them, but pushes past it. It’s only a few miles. 

As Din reluctantly helps Senha and Samir up into the van, the smaller man turns to them from the passenger seat. “Please get in, we will make room. Now, where do you need transportation to? And why do you not have the Triple C? I was told everyone in Ebrya had the Triple C? I am just visiting and have the Triple C.”

Din feels a tiny blossom of hope. “Any chance you could–”

And then it dies on the branch. “Oh no, I am afraid it is a very limited plan. Only for this vehicle. And is this not supposed to be the country of the independent man? I would not want to shame you in front of your companion.”

Senha squeezes his arm as he opens his mouth to reply, her voice smooth and full of smiles. “No, we couldn’t possibly impose on your hospitality. Just to the nearest gas station is perfect. We can call a tow from there.” 

“Of course. Frederich, we should continue. I do not think anyone would want to salvage that old thing, but out here in the wilds between civilization, who can say.” Din feels her hand tighten on his arm as he tenses. The smaller man turns to face forward again, gesturing grandly to the driver. “Now, please make sure your seatbelts are on and you have a good hold on the little one. I will not have us stop to help only to be negligent now.”

A few minutes later they’re rolling down the highway. Senha is squeezed in between Din and one of the other men with Samir tucked onto her lap and Basa the dragon clutched to his chest. As the music continues, Din has a miniscule hope that perhaps the rest of the trip will be spent in silence. Sweet, uncomfortable silence. 

This hope also dies an early death, as the man up front apparently has some medical condition that prevents him from being silent for too long. He cranes around in his seat to look at Din more critically. 

“And anyway, you should not feel bad. That piece of vlychorgh looked older than me, no small feat! It is no surprise it would break down. This is why you should always buy Suebian engineering. Look at this van, proud Suebian product, guaranteed to probably not break down!” With difficulty, Din keeps his face level as the man ends with a smile and a conspiratorial wink at Senha. There’s nothing wrong with his truck.

At this point, Din does start to take note of more specific details. The man has a point, it’s a very expensive van, not something you just get as a rental, and certainly not to drive around the backwater of Ebrya. He casually turns his head, making it look like he was checking on Senha and the kid, and hazards a glance to the back. It’s full of luggage, but even with his quick glance, Din can see several rifle cases under the duffel bags. His heart begins to pound.

“I know, I know, my dad always said the same thing,” Senha says, her hand loosening on Din’s arm. “We’ve been saving for another car but you know how expensive kids can be.” 

“Unfortunately I do not, but Lars, you have a few little ones, don’t you?”

The large man sitting on Senha's other side moves just enough to remind Din that he's not a statue. “Yes.”

“And, please excuse me for being rude, but you two make such a touching couple.  And you say he is only your boyfriend.” The short man in the front turns to focus his narrowed gaze directly on Din. “Why have you not married this beautiful woman? You have a wonderful child with her? Are you afraid you will not be able to support her? Oh wait, from the car… tell me, my dear, are you the, what is the term here, ‘breadwinner’? You must know how important it is for a man to support his family. Lars, how would you feel if your Grettle was supporting you?”

The big man rumbles another response. “I would kill myself, Vasilly.”

“Ah Lars, always such a drama queen! But still. I support women’s liberation, but you should think of his needs, my dear. Oh, but excuse me, I am rambling and speaking out of turn. Please forgive me, it is not my business.” He makes a motion as if turning a key at the corner of his mouth, but the smile on his face is altogether too smug. 

Senha’s hand tightens on his arm again and Din suspects he’ll have a hand-shaped bruise before they get out of this. That or his tongue is going to bleed from how hard he’s biting it. 

Senha must be picking up on the sense of imminent bloodshed of some kind because she changes the subject at lightspeed. “I hope we’re not making you go too far out of your way here. I’d hate to think we’re disturbing your vacation, especially if you’re from out of the country.”

As Vassily reassures her in far too many words, Din takes another opportunity to look around, and his eyes catch on the folded papers on the center console of the front seat. His palms start to sweat when he recognizes the logo on them. Looking over the men in the car he notices the tell-tale bulges of holsters under their coats. All four are clearly carrying.

He starts automatically calculating the odds of their survival in a car with four hunters, and whether they improve if he grabs Senha and Samir and throws all three of them out of a vehicle moving at highway speeds. The numbers don’t look great to him either way, and adrenaline floods his system when he looks over to the man on the far side of the van and sees him staring back. Din knows the look in the man’s eyes, and it’s too clever by half. 

“Interesting necklace you have,” the voice shakes Din out of his trance. His hand flies to his shirt, where the mythosaur pendant on its black cord has slipped out. 

“Just something I picked up somewhere.”

The man’s face gives away nothing. “Mm, very… martial.” Din re-evaluates the odds of being able to push Senha's head down, pull his weapon, and take out the two in the back with them. Unfortunately, they’re packed in tightly enough that it’s more likely she and the kid would end up as hostages. They've already been close to that position once, Din will be damned if he puts them in it again. 

He’s saved from the spiral as they pull off at the exit and into the parking lot of a gas station. Din has one hand on the door handle and the other gripping Senha’s elbow before the van comes to a complete stop. 

“Oh, you should wait until we come to a complete stop before moving the baby!” Vassily twists around again, “but here you are, safe and sound. I hope they have the proper emergency vehicles here. I am glad we could help, my dear! Good luck with the remainder of your journey!”

Senha bubbles with thanks as he helps her out and Vassily waves delightedly at Samir before the van pulls back out. Din’s heart is pounding and he’s breathing as if he’s just run from something. 

“Okay, that was incredibly awkward but not as bad as–” Senha says, looking over at him, her voice betraying a hint of fear when she sees his expression. “What’s wrong?” 

“Do you have any idea who that was?” He asks, looking around for a payphone. He sees an ancient one on the side of the building and strides over, pulling Senha along with him. He knows his grip on her arm is too tight, but he’s still got adrenaline coursing through his system and he wants them both close enough to shield them if necessary. 

“Should I?” She replies, bewildered. 

“They were hunters. Sent by PhenoVisage.” He snatches the receiver off the phone and drops in two quarters, glaring back at the road as he waits for the line to connect. 

“What? How do you– what?” 

“I saw the logo on the papers in the front, and they were all fucking packing. They had rifle cases in the back. And I’d bet my ‘piece of shit’ truck the bags on top of them were full of tac gear.” 

“Information, how can I direct your call?”

“I need a tow service at the Canto station off highway sixteen near Chert.” Din snaps. He looks back at Senha as he waits. 

“But, they didn’t– if they were hunters, how did they not recognize the kid? Or you? Or me?” 

The operator puts him through to a tow service and Din gives the address for the gas station. He almost cusses the man out when he says it’ll be twenty minutes for a pickup, but manages to bite it back, knowing that's a minor miracle. He’s starting to wonder whether his tongue will be permanently damaged by the end of today. Hanging up, he strides back out to watch the highway, half expecting to see the van returning for them, but there’s nothing. Senha trails close behind him, holding the kid tightly. 

“Samir’s hood was up, they never got a good look at his face, and I think you threw them off with your boyfriend story. PhenoVisage must think it’s only one of us with the kid.  They aren’t looking for a couple.”

“So we’re safe?”

“No. One of them saw my amulet. They know I’m Mandalorian, or they’ll figure it out pretty quickly. They obviously know we’re heading west, and they know we’re stuck in the area until we can get the truck fixed. As soon as the loud one shuts up long enough for someone else to get a word in, they’ll be coming back.”

* * * * * * *

Somehow, their luck holds. The tow truck pulls up and they pile into the cab. The ride back to the truck is spent in taciturn silence, and Din limits himself to looking behind them once every two minutes but sees no sign of the black van. 

The driver finally speaks up after they’ve got the truck loaded on and are headed west towards Chert again. “Where you want me to drop you?” 

“Can you recommend someone for repairs? We’re not from the area.” 

“There's a couple folks. There’s a dealership, they’d likely be quickest, but they’re also the priciest. Got a couple mechanics that run the spectrum in cost. I’d recommend Peli’s. She does good work and she ain’t gonna overcharge you.” 

“That’ll work, thank you.” 

In Senha’s arms, Samir strains towards Din, and she passes the child over. He’s clingy, as if he’s picking up on their tension and Din smooths a large hand over his back. The itch on the back of his neck intensifies to the point where he allows himself to look back every minute. So what if the driver thinks he has a nervous tic. 

“Where you all from?” The driver asks the question more to Senha than to Din, but he answers quickly, throwing out the first city name he can think of in the eastern reaches of the country. 

“Tufa.” 

“Long way from here.” The driver comments. Neither of them reply. 

The drive isn’t more than twenty minutes, but it’s the longest twenty minutes of his life. Din breathes a sigh of relief when they pull up in front of a garage with a neatly lettered sign reading “Automotive Repair.” Smaller letters underneath read “Peli Motto, Master Automobile Technician.” 

As the truck is unloaded from the wrecker, Senha follows Din and Samir into the small office. Inside, a large black and white cat sits on the counter, watching them with narrowed, yellow eyes, tail wrapped around her front paws. As the bell rings over the door, a tabby pads out from behind the desk and sits to watch them as well. This one has a distinctly annoyed look, as if they’ve interrupted some very important task. 

“Help you folks?” A woman in an oil-stained jumpsuit walks through the door from the work bay, cleaning her hands with an old rag. “Madame, off the counter.” The black and white cat stretches luxuriously before leaping lightly down to the floor and slinking off to join the tabby. 

Din shifts Samir in his arms and tugs the boys hood further over his face. “Coolant pump went out in my truck.” He nods to where the wrecker is just leaving. 

The mechanic squints out at the vehicle with deep brown eyes lined with prominent wrinkles.  “What is that, a ‘96 Crest? Don’t see many of those anymore.” She scratches at her riotous brown curls. “You know, if it’s leaking I’ll have to replace the timing belt too. Gonna take a couple days. I don’t just keep parts for the 501-ST around. Might be able to get ‘em from a shop a few towns over though.” 

He suppresses a sigh of annoyance, because of course they don’t have the parts in stock. This is just how today is going. “If you can get the parts, how long will it take to fix?”

The mechanic huffs out a breath through her nose. “Well, I’ve got a couple other folks ahead of you in line, but if I can get the parts tomorrow, I can have it ready by closing time Wednesday.” 

Din taps his fingers against his leg. It’s Monday afternoon. That means two full days of staying ahead of hunters who know they’re stranded in the area. Still, their luck has held this long, if they can hole up for the next two days…

“Alright. Can you recommend anywhere to stay in the area?” 

The mechanic leans over the counter and points down the road. “There’s a motel about a half mile down that way. Ain’t fancy but it’s clean. I can ask my tech to give you a ride down there, if you like.” 

“Thank you.” He nods gratefully. “There’s a crate in the back of the truck. Alright if I leave it there?” It’s not his preference, but it’s bolted down well enough to make it almost impossible to open or release without the right tool, and it’s better than having to deal with the details of moving it if they have to leave in a hurry. 

She gives him a hard look. “We recommend you don’t leave anything of value in the vehicle, sir.” 

“I’ll take the risk.” 

The mechanic shrugs, her expression changing to one of polite apathy. “Your call. I’ll tell my tech to leave it be, but the garage isn’t at liability if something gets stolen. Let me get you an estimate for the repairs.” 

After getting the paperwork, Din turns away with the familiar impulse to count the cash he’s got. He knows they’ve got close to enough for the repairs themselves based on the estimate, but they’ve now got to worry about lodging and food costs for two nights, as well as the possibility that the repairs may go over to estimated cost. All under the nose of four hunters who will have almost certainly figured out by now that their quarry is stranded. 

Before they head out, Din digs a baseball cap out of his bag and tugs it low over his face. The three of them and the mechanic’s assistant squeeze into an ancient sedan and this ride, at least, is blessedly quiet. 

* * * * * * *

The room is exactly as the mechanic described it; plain, old, but clean. Ish. Two beds sit parallel, with a desk and chair opposite them. His first instinct had been to save the money on a second bed, but he’s keenly aware that he’s traveling with a woman who’s spent a grand total of about thirty hours with him, most of them in particularly unusual circumstances. Sharing a bed is out of the question. As much as he knows they’re going to be running close to the red with repairs on the truck, providing her with this small measure of comfort is worth the money. 

“There’s a grocery store just up the road,” Senha reports, looking up from the map provided by the front desk, now spread on the bed in front of her. Samir’s been granted his markers and a notebook of Senha’s as a distraction. 

Din moves to his bag and digs out an appendix holster, pulling his shirt up to attach it. “Stay here with the kid. I’ll be back in an hour.” 

Senha looks up sharply. “Whoa, whoa. What makes you think it’s better if you go?” 

He looks back at her but continues attaching the holster to his belt. “I don’t think they got a good look at me or Samir. Can’t say the same for you, as much as he was talking to you.” 

She stands, and Samir looks worriedly between them. “Okay, but you’re the one who can protect him best. I should go, you should stay.” 

“If they catch you, they could find out where we’re hiding.” 

“First of all, thanks for the big vote of confidence. Second, you’re the one who can protect him. Maker forbid, if they do get their hands on one of us and figure out where we’re hiding, better you than me protecting him. You saw the extent of my fighting prowess back at the apartment.” 

Din pauses, thinking. She’s not wrong. While she’d acted quickly with the pepper-spray back in Ganister City, and had even managed to get ahold of the hunter’s weapon, she clearly had no idea what to do once she got it. Making a mental note to rectify that particular issue once they’ve got two seconds to breathe, he sighs. 

“Alright. But you go straight there and back, okay? Quick as you can. Do you have a jacket with a hood?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Get it.”

Senha digs a jacket out of her bag and shoves her arms through the sleeves before zipping it closed and drawing the hood up over her hair. Din steps closer and tugs the hood further forward, throwing her face into shadow. 

“Keep your face down. It’ll keep you out of cameras for the most part. And don’t use your card, cash only.” 

Senha exhales through her nose. “Just because I don’t know how to dispose of a body doesn’t mean I’m a complete back-birth.” 

He steps back to look at her. She looks nondescript, just another girl heading to the grocery store on a Monday night in early spring. It feels like sending a lamb into a lion’s den, but there are a million (alright, it’s a small town, maybe closer to a hundred) places the hunters could check first. Realistically, she’ll be fine and they can hunker down here without issue for the next two days. But it doesn’t sit well with him to send her out there while he stays hidden behind a locked door, even if his gut tells him she’ll be fine. 

“You need to be here to protect him,” Senha says as if she can hear his thoughts. “You’re in the best position to do that. I’ll fly under the radar more easily than you will anyway.” 

“You sure you’re comfortable doing this?” 

“Yeah, I’m good.” Her eyes betray her, flicking quickly away from his. He hesitates for a moment before turning to his backpack and pulling out her powered-off phone. He scribbles the number for the burner phone on the border around the edge of the map and tears the scrap of paper off to hand to her along with the phone. 

“If something happens, call me.” 

Senha looks up at him, phone in hand. “Won’t they be able to track us if I call you?” 

“Yes, but I’m assuming that if you call me it’ll be an emergency.” 

She bites her lip before tucking the phone into her back pocket. “Alright.” 

“It’ll be fine,” he reassures, his voice sounding more certain than hers. “Just keep your head down, get in and get out quickly. Don’t draw any attention to yourself.” 

“I won’t.” 

The door closes behind her with a snick, and Din and Samir look at each other. The boy scrambles to his knees and holds his arms out, looking worried. Din picks him up and the boy latches on like a limpet. He holds the child a little tighter against him, feeling tiny hands clutch at his collar.

“She’ll be back before you know it,” Din says quietly, trying to convince himself as much as the boy in his arms. “She’ll be back.” 

Chapter Text

The coffee here is abysmal. Vassily looks down at the half-empty cup of Sundeau he’d purchased in the last town. He cannot understand it. They have Sundeaus everywhere back in Suebia, but somehow here, in the country where the roastery originated, the quality is terrible. Much worse than back home. Vassily cannot understand how these Eybrians seem to take such pride in paying more for inferior products, but it appears to be the national pastime in this country.

He moves to open the window to dispose of the offending cup before Fredrich motions from the driver’s seat for him to stop, “Vassily, do you not remember what happened the last time you opened the window while I was driving? A bee got into the car. I had bees in my driver's compartment and it was very uncomfortable. I do not want more bees in the van.”

Vassily shrugs and places the offending cup back in the cupholder. Sighing dejectedly, he looks over to the center console where their briefing papers sit. The Scouts had spent the previous day pulling information through Akcencko’s various sources, and had at last been able to determine the identity of the Mandalorian. The man was a Concordian-born refugee granted asylum as a child, and who had served in Ebrya's military during the mess in Mandalore a decade back. The most recent photo they have is from his time in service and while Vassily seriously doubts the man still resembles this fresh-faced, closely-shaven, twenty-one year old recruit, it should at least be of assistance in making the final identification. 

The man had been heading west when Akcenko pinged him calling one of his associates back in Ganister City. From what they had found, the man has no connections in that direction and Vassily had concluded that, like any primitive, he seems more concerned with putting distance between himself and danger than heading towards any apparent destination. Mandalorians are reliant on mutual support to be any kind of threat; alone and without any apparent help, this one appears to be running like any frightened rodent.

Looking up, Vassily sees a young woman in a green jacket standing by the side of the road, her thumb out in the local sign of requesting a ride next to a very distressed looking truck. He throws a hand out towards his driver, “Frederich, pull over!  We cannot just drive past when there is someone needing our help!”

The large man simply nods, puts on their hazard lights, and pulls the van up behind the pickup truck. As Frederich lowers his window, likely looking out for any potential bee invaders, Vassily calls past him to the woman, “Hello little lady!  I saw you there and said, ‘Frederich, we cannot just drive past when there is someone needing our help.’ Did something happen to your car?”

The young woman moves up to the window, a pretty flush of embarrassment on her face as she tucks a lock of brown hair behind her ear, “The coolant pump in our truck went out, can you believe it? I keep telling my boyfriend he’s got to be more careful about getting it in for regular service but--” She lets the sentence hang, clearly trying to save face for her apparently-oblivious companion.

Vassily nods sagely, “Ah yes, of course. Ebryian parts are always catching fire, such poor engineering. Do you not have, what is it in this country, the Triple Cs? Is that him there?” He beckons the young man over encouragingly, “You, stop sulking and letting your lovely girlfriend take care of things. Lars, make some room back there for these nice people.”

The two men in the back shift over to make room without complaint. Vassily doesn’t need to give Lars any reminder to quietly shift any conspicuous gear out of sight.

The young woman heads back to the truck where her companion is brooding, apparently upset at being reduced to requesting assistance. Vassily can understand the sentiment, but the point of civilization is for people to help each other. Anyone who tries to stand alone just makes themselves that much of an easier target to be removed. 

A short conversation later and the woman reaches into the truck and takes out a bundle. As she hoists the bundle onto her hip and the details of a small face become visible, Vassily almost glows with pleasure. A child! This is certainly his good deed for the day, for it is a proper young family they are helping! He cannot resist his joy as the young woman and the baby crunch their way over the gravel to the van, her companion trailing behind them.

“Oh, you have a baby with you as well!  Then it is good we stopped, this dust is very bad for the little ones!”

Fredrich toggles the automatic sliding door to allow the young family entrance. Alexei and Lars have already shifted as much as they can, but Vassily notices some slight trepidation on the man’s face as the door opens.

Obviously, his concerns must be assuaged, “Please get in, we will make room. Now, where do you need transportation to? And why do you not have the Triple C? I was told everyone in Ebrya had the Triple C? I am just visiting and have the Triple C.”

The man looks up quickly, his face still mostly obscured by his hood, “Any chance you could--”

“Oh no, I am afraid it is a very limited plan. Only for this vehicle. And is this not supposed to be the country of the independent man? I would not want to shame you in front of your lovely companion.” Vassily decides to withhold his remark that it would be proper to show one’s face to people assisting you. It is clear which of these two is the keeper of manners for the couple. 

The young woman lays a gentle hand on her companion’s arm before replying for them both. Vassily’s initial assumption of her manners is confirmed by the polite warmth in her voice, “No, we couldn’t possibly impose on your hospitality. Just to the nearest gas station is perfect. We can call a tow from there.” 

“Of course. Frederich, we should continue. I do not think anyone would want to salvage that old thing, but out here in the wilds between civilization, who can say. Now, please make sure your seatbelts are on and you have a good hold on the little one. I will not have us stop to help only to be negligent now.”

A few minutes later, they’re rolling down the highway. The young couple is squeezed in beside Alexei and Lars with the little boy tucked onto the woman’s lap, a purple dragon toy clutched to his chest. 

Vassily looks at the GPS, and notices they are several miles from town. While he is sure that the gentle music of his homeland is sufficient for normal travel, he feels like a poor host for not providing a better distraction to the young couple. In addition, the man still appears to be very put out by the entire situation, and really, Vassily cannot allow that. 

“And anyway, you should not feel bad. That piece of vlychorgh looked older than me, no small feat! It is no surprise it would break down. This is why you should always buy Suebian engineering. Look at this van, proud Suebian product, guaranteed to probably not break down!” Vassily ends with a smile and a conspiratorial wink at the woman. She gives him a kind smile, but the poor boyfriend seems to still be bothered by the idea of being indebted to others and is playing it off by looking around a bit too casually.

“I know, I know, my dad always said the same thing,” the young woman says, her hand still placed comfortingly on her boyfriend’s arm. She really does have a pleasant smile, it’s almost a shame that she’s chosen such a taciturn, scowling young man as a partner. “We’ve been saving for another car but you know how expensive kids can be.” 

“Unfortunately I do not, but Lars, you have a few little ones, don’t you?”

 “Yes,” Lars replies, never one to waste words.

“And, please excuse me for being rude, but you two make such a touching couple.  And you say he is only your boyfriend.” Vasilly turns his gaze to the boyfriend, hitching an expression of mock disapproval onto his face, “Why have you not married this beautiful woman? You have a wonderful child with her? Are you afraid you will not be able to support her? Oh wait, from the car…” A thought occurs to him and Vassily tries to phrase the question gently, “Tell me, my dear, are you the, what is the term here, ‘breadwinner’? You must know how important it is for a man to support his family. Lars, how would you feel if your Grettle was supporting you?”

Vassily notices the slight smile as the huge forward scout joins in on the joke, “I would kill myself, Vassily.”  The Joke is that Vassily knows Lars is being serious, but there’s no reason to make their guests feel more uncomfortable.

“Ah Lars, always such a drama queen! But still. I support women’s liberation, but you should think of his needs, my dear.” He sees her hand tighten on her companion’s arm and realizes he may have overstepped the boundaries of polite societal discussion in his desire to pass on valuable advice. “Oh, but excuse me, I am rambling and speaking out of turn. Please forgive me, it is not my business.” Vassily makes a motion as if turning a key at the corner of his mouth, while giving the young couple a disarming smile to let them know it is all in good fun. 

Unfortunately, the young man seems determined to maintain his offense (surely at the situation at large, rather than some good natured ribbing meant only to put him at ease), but the woman seems to understand and graciously moves in to Vassily’s aid. “I hope we’re not making you go too far out of your way here. I’d hate to think we’re disturbing your vacation, especially if you’re from out of the country.”

“Oh no no no! We are actually here for work, not pleasure. You are not out of the way at all!  We are traveling west anyway, and while Frederich told me it would be faster to take your...interstate, I think you call them, I told him that would be unacceptable!”

Vassily turns to Frederich with a jovial smile. “Is that not what I said, Frederich? That sometimes, we Suebians must take the scenic route, even if it sacrifices efficiency.” He turns back to the young woman and her baby, who is now chewing on one of the wings of his dragon. “Also, Lars back there, he is the man sitting next to you, my dear, he has five little ones of his own, you see, so he is very good at time management! We have plenty of time to make our destination, and it is my pleasure to be able to help a fellow traveler!”

Frederich pulls them off the highway in the direction of a gas station, and before the car completely stops, the man has already moved to open the door.

“Oh, you should wait until we come to a complete stop before moving the baby!” Vassily twists around again. The young man’s behavior is truly strange, it’s as if he cannot bear to be in the car a moment longer! “But here you are, safe and sound. I hope they have the proper emergency vehicles here. I am glad we could help, my dear! Good luck with the remainder of your journey.”

The woman bubbles her thanks as the man at least has the common decency to help her and the child out of the van. Vassily is so beside himself with glee over the lovely family as they pull away that he almost does not notice Lars grabbing the files from the front.  

There is only the delicate sound of their homeland for another ten minutes or so before Lars speaks up. “Boss. That was them.”

Vassily’s brow furrows as he looks back at Lars. “What? That was who? Are they old friends of yours Lars? I did not think you had any friends in this country.”

“The target.” Lars holds the briefing file out to him, folded open to the printed copy of the Mandalorian’s service photo. 

It takes another moment for Vassily to realize what he’s talking about and then he laughs, waving his hand. “Oh no, Lars. That could not be. We are looking for a Mandalorian warrior. Not a young couple with an adorable little boy! The target has no reported connections, there is no way-”

“He was Mandalorian. He was wearing one of their pagan icons around his neck. And I was able to see his face from this angle. He doesn’t look much like this photograph anymore, but I’m sure it’s him.”

Vassily takes a moment to think before responding. “But, then what about the woman?”

“Girlfriend, hired help, victim. Does it matter?”

Vassily takes a moment to look through the file. This would explain why the man did not want to show his face, and if Lars got a good look... He heaves a sigh at the idea of what they must do to ensure there are no loose ends, and it’s unfortunate because the woman did seem like a lovely young lady. “No, she must be removed to maintain stealth.”

Frederich looks over at Vassily as they continue driving through the town, the question of do we turn back? obvious on his face. Vassily dismisses the notion almost immediately, the man will certainly have called a tow-truck by now. In Suebia, that would mean multiple emergency vehicles are already swarming both them and the truck, it’s not like they will still be waiting at the gas station if they turn around now. 

Regardless, their vehicle is disabled, they are trapped here, at least until it is repaired. Looking around, it’s clearly not a large place, perhaps a few ten thousand people, if that. Not many places for their targets to hide. He makes a quick decision. “Fredrich, find us a decent hotel. Lars, Alexei, you two will find them. Once we stop, I have to make a call.”

* * * * * * *

“Sir, it was an active bounty out for a baby. You know how bounty hunters work, nine times out of ten if the client isn’t immediate family it’s at best an abduction situation, at worst human trafficking.” 

Payne watches as Sil paces the room, on the phone with their leadership back in the regional capital of Morrison. Her steps are cagey, almost anxious, and her tone is one he knows well. It’s the “I know what you are saying, but hear me out on this idea,” tone, and it’s one he’s used many times with his own superiors to varying degrees of success. Based on the increasing frustration in her voice though, Payne doesn’t think it’s having the intended effect.

“No, sir. I do not have explicit evidence linking the bounty to my case.” As she pauses to listen, he can imagine the response from some suit who hasn’t booked a perp in decades.

So then, you don’t have proof this is human trafficking, or that it’s involved with your case in any capacity.

“Not explicitly yet, sir.”

Agent, let me remind you that this case has garnered a lot of interest in the Capital. Your job is to find the killer, not go tearing off after every potential wrong-doing this company may or may not have committed.

“I understand that, sir, but I believe there may be a link between the two. The volume of evidence implies that the item the perp stole from the lab is this child. That makes it part of this case.”

And you have proof of that that would stand before a grand jury?

“Not yet, but the company has strongly implied they believe the perp is seeking to sell their stolen property, potentially to a foreign buyer. It could be that the most direct path to putting this guy behind bars is by finding the ‘property’,” she makes air quotes with her free hand and Payne can almost hear her rolling her eyes, “and a lone individual traveling with a kid is going to be a very different search than someone traveling with some tissue samples.”

And if you’re wrong, if this is just some family matter some executive is trying to bury, how much time would that give the perp to sell the item in question?  We have no evidence the stolen item is this child, we do know that the perp killed seven people.

“Given the nature of the second bounty, I think the odds that they’re unrelated are low, sir. The bounties were opened by the director of the laboratory, and he’s only here because of the attack, because of the stolen item. That links his bounties to the attack, which links the child to the stolen property. Like you said, this guy killed seven people, sir, without blinking. If he now has a minor who is more than likely already a victim in a human trafficking scheme, we have a duty to protect that kid.”

You have a duty to find a murderer, focus on that. There are other agents whose job it is to find missing persons. I can’t authorize an expansion of your investigation into an area that could just be a distraction.

“It’s not an expansion, sir. It’s simply a new line of evidence linked to the same crime. I already looked into the facility’s staff: none of them are permanent. Everyone working there during the attack was flown in beforehand for whatever they were doing there. No one brought their families, and none of their families have filed missing person reports. The kid is unrelated to everything except my perp.”

By that logic, you find the perp and we find your mystery child. After that, Child Services can deal with it, and we can add kidnapping to his list of crimes. I don’t want to give the media the opportunity to say that we don’t even have our own investigation in order, and I’m not going to let this investigation turn into a public affairs disaster with the fifth largest company in the world over a damn bounty hunter’s contract.

Sil’s face falls into the public servant’s well-rehearsed expression of hitting a bureaucratic wall, and Payne can’t help but share in a bit of her pain. “I understand, sir. Find the killer and the rest will work itself out. I won’t bother you with this again.”  

She ends the call and looks up at Payne. “Well that went fucking nowhere, just like you said.”

He doesn’t bother to suppress a knowing grimace, leaning back against his desk. “Too many suits looking at this and seeing a simple story. They’re not interested in letting you complicate it with such a small thing as basic human decency.”

Sil gives a muffled huff of annoyance in response. “Well, unfortunately for them, sometimes shit gets complicated. If it were up to me, I’d just shut the bounty hunters down permanently. Talk about corruption all you want, but at least we don’t just work for whoever pays the most. Violence for the highest bidder isn’t justice, it’s extortion under the veneer of civilization.”

Payne raises his hands in a placating motion. “Look, I’ll never say the Guild are saints, but sometimes they have their uses.”

She gives him a derisive stare. “Trigger-happy assholes killing kids something we need more of, in your opinion?”

He lets out a long breath and crosses his arms in defeat. It’s hard to defend the existence of the Guild under the present circumstances, even if he knows they’ve been of assistance in the past. 

“And we need to put a stop to the local bullshit.” Sil continues, changing the subject. “GCPD is on a witch hunt, and they’re going to pull us in sooner or later.”

“You’ve already given them a cease and desist.  If they pull anything else, let Morrison send someone else to deal with them. We need to focus on your perp.”

“We? Don’t you have drug runners to catch?”

Payne smiles. “Well, my number one job is stopping the illicit trade of goods across the border. If PhenoVisage is so concerned about the ‘asset’ being sold to a foreign buyer, that means your perp just became the biggest smuggler around here. Seems to me we have similar interests with this case.”

There's a grateful smile in Sil’s eyes as she leans back against her desk to mirror him, arms crossed. “So, you do want to get out of this shithole town then?”

Payne straightens and stretches. “Hey, there are some good people down here, but it might be nice to eat something that doesn’t only come in red or green.”

Sil snorts. “Bullshit, your blood is green from voluntarily eating that crap. But if you want to help, I certainly won’t refuse the assistance.”

Payne nods. “So, what’re you thinking as a next step?”

She turns to her desk, looking through some papers. “Confirm an identification on the perp. He’s a local Mandalorian, but he’s not registered. That was where the locals went wrong.” She pauses and shrugs. “Well, one of the places where they went wrong.” 

“I thought they were all registered.”

“In general, they are. For the most part, State does a thorough job keeping track of anyone who owns beskar, but apparently they’ve missed a few over the years. Say our perp, who took out six armed guards without breaking a sweat, is in fact not a weekend-warrior accountant or baker. That surveillance footage says professional to me, which supports my theory that he’s unregistered. Say he knows how to do what he did at that lab because he was trained to do that?”

Payne raises his eyebrows. “You think he’s part of some Mando terror-cell?”

 “Wrong kind of training. I’m thinking our Manadalorian is likely a veteran.” Sil smiles, handing him a printout. “And this happens to be Defense’s listing of Mandos who served during the war in Concordia ten years ago. I’ve sent this to State Department to confirm, but I’m pretty sure I’ve already found our perp.”

“Oh?”

“When I cross reference the Mandos who served in Concordia to the locally registered Mandos, cross off the names that show up on both, and search for basic results on ones who aren’t locally registered but did serve, only one name comes up. And that name came up in a web-search, on a local home contractor review website under masonry and stonework.” Sil leans over and taps her finger on a name about a quarter of the way down the list. “Din Djarin, four years in the 501st Autonomous Infantry Battalion, honorable discharge eight years ago. He served, he has the armor, he’s not registered, and he’s local.” She ticks each item off, a hard, satisfied look on her face. 

Payne nods, impressed. There’s digging deep, and there’s what Sil has done. “So we bring this guy in?”

The light in Sil’s eyes burns a little brighter, “Too late. He also works with your damn bounty hunters club. I made a stop by the address they’ve got on file for him. Nobody was home, but someone had definitely been there looking before I got there. Place was a mess when I took a peek inside, but know what I did see: a baby crib.”

“I take it the guy doesn’t have a kid.”

“Oh, he has a kid alright. That kid just had an active bounty out on him until yesterday.”

“So if this guy is running with the kid, you thinking we should put out an APB for him?”

Sil shrugs. “An APB might find him, but it’s more likely it’ll just drive him underground. This guy was embedded with guerilla forces, laying low is what he does. We’ll keep tags on PhenoVisage and the local bounty hunters. If he reaches back out to any of his contacts there, or if PhenoVisage makes another private move to find him, then we move in to scoop him up before they do.”

* * * * * * *

“Hello Hans! It is Vassily, I hope you are well?”

“Yes, yes, I know it's you. Ha ve you acquired the item yet?”

“No, but I do have good news. I know where it is, and we are actively scouting for the Mandalorian. He is trapped in the same town we are currently in, for at least several days. We will certainly find him in the next day or so, and then you will have your asset back.”

“I will not insult your professionalism by asking you how you produced these results so quickly, I am simply glad the quality of your services has not decreased. Do you need additional resources?”

“No, but do you know of anywhere to get good coffee?”

“Excuse me?”

“The coffee in this country is so terrible. Even their Sundeau is inferior. How do they accept that? Now I know why Eybrians are always so cranky.”

“...I am not even sure of your location. Unless you either need additional resources or are ready for an extraction, I would prefer to remain ignorant of the specifics of your profession.”

“Still the troubled constitution, eh Hans? I am sure that the local coffee is only aggravating your condition. But there is still one thing I need. The Mandalorian is traveling with a woman as well. His girlfriend or accomplice perhaps? Our vehicle’s dashboard camera got an image of her as we pulled up, but I need you to ID her.”

“This can be easily done. I am sure I do not need to remind you that this does not change your mission parameters?”

“You do not, but I see that didn't stop you! No, I will make sure that once we locate the child that our presence remains one of complete stealth. There will be no witnesses.”

Chapter Text

“I don’t know when I’ll be back but I’ll have the burner phone. If there’s a problem, call me from the room phone.” 

He’s said this at least five times now, but Senha responds with the same script she's used the last four times. “If anything happens, I’ll call you immediately.” 

Din seems satisfied with it this time, because he doesn’t reply as he moves over to his bag. Digging the dark blue hoodie he’d been wearing the previous day out of his bag, he pulls it on and stuffs a pair of orange-tipped gloves with blue triangles on the backs into the pocket.  

“The job looks like it’s about forty minutes away, but if anything happens I can find a way back quickly.” 

They’ve both been on edge since the previous night. Senha had made it back to the motel room, fingers clenched white around the handles of the bags, and he’d taken them from her before forcing her to sit down. Hands shaking, she’d told him about seeing two of the four hunters, showing a picture on a phone and requesting information about a woman, traveling with a man and a young boy. 

She’d ducked behind a display of cereal boxes until they left, but a persistent tremor had started in her fingers and spread to her entire body as she paid and hurried back to the motel. It had been a constant struggle not to sprint away from the road at the sound of every car passing. She’d been so sure that the next one would be the one to pull over, and that she’d turn to see one of the hunters reaching out to drag her inside the van.

After he’d asked her for the third time to recount every detail she could remember, Din had brought her a glass of water but had said nothing else. His calm exterior was betrayed by the clenching of his fist at his side, though he’d been careful to keep his distance after she’d flinched hard as he stood a bit too quickly. 

As if he knows what she’s thinking, Din stops in his preparations to look over at her. “There’s nothing tying us to being here, and if they’d followed you last night they would’ve already hit us. You and the kid should be safe here.” 

She doesn’t love the conditional in the statement, but she appreciates that at least he’s honest. The baby in question is awake, but still in his dinosaur pajamas, eating cheerios and occasionally offering one to Senha. She’d almost made the mistake of accepting one before realizing that they’re the ones he’s already sampled and determined not to be to his liking. After that, she’d politely taken them and now has a small handful of sticky pieces slowly turning to goo in her palm. 

“Here.” 

She starts when she looks back up to see him holding out his gun. “What? No. What am I supposed to do with that?” 

“Ideally, shoot anyone who threatens you or the kid.” He motions for her to take the weapon. 

“I don’t know how to use a gun.” 

Din sighs and takes a step towards her, pointing the weapon towards the floor. “Come here.” She slides off the bed and steps gingerly to his side. He indicates a tab on the right side of the weapon’s grip. “Safety is on right now. Push the tab in to take it off. Point, pull the trigger. Aim for the largest center of mass. Your aim won’t matter so long as they’re close. You’ve got ten shots.” 

Din holds it out to her and she brings her gaze up to his, ready to argue that shooting someone is very much not what she signed up for here. His dark eyes are steady, quietly confident where she is most definitely not. It’s ridiculous, but something about it makes her want to be worth the confidence he has in her. 

Samir may not be biologically his, but she’s seen enough the past few weeks to know this boy is everything to him. She’s protected him before, but it’s one thing to pepper-spray a guy and another to know exactly how many shots she has to try and kill someone who’s threatening them. She’s also sure he knows that just as well as she does, and that he wouldn’t ask if he saw another option. 

Pushing past a deep sense of unease, she curls her fingers around the weapon and takes it from him. It’s heavier than she would’ve thought, and she hefts the cold weight of it in her hand as she looks back up at him. “Where should I keep it?” 

“Within reach. And away from him” Din nods towards Samir. He looks down at his watch and curses. “I need to go, I’m going to miss my ride.” 

A million other questions crowd her mind, but she can’t seem to articulate any of them. She knows she should be asking them now, knows this could be her last opportunity, but her throat is tight enough that just drawing breath feels difficult. There’s an awkward silence as she resettles the weapon in her grip. 

"If there’s any problem, call me right away."

Sixth time. She nods again. “I will. We’ll be fine.” 

Din gives her a long look, the fingers of one hand twitching at his side. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Just--stay here." Crouching in front of Samir, he murmurs the usual phrase under his breath, touching his head lightly to the boy’s forehead and stroking his cheek before straightening. There’s a rush of chill wind from the outside, and then he’s gone.

The room somehow feels so much larger with just her and Samir. It’s not that Din has a large presence. In contrast, he’s been politely obvious about giving her space since they arrived, waiting for her to move before he does, staying cautiously far enough away from her that it’s obvious he’s trying to alleviate any potential concerns about his intentions. He’s telegraphing his movements in a way that tells her he’s trying to put her at ease. 

She doesn’t know why that makes it worse, especially since the previous morning she’d had genuine and well-placed fears about the man killing her and dumping her body in the desert like he’d done with the hunter’s, but it does somehow. But even with the gun in her hand and a locked door and closed curtains between them and the outside world, having him gone jacks her anxiety up to a new level of nausea. 

The heating unit in the corner kicks on with a low hum, startling her. Samir’s watching the door with worried eyes, cheerios abandoned as he unconsciously kneads one of Basa’s wings. He looks over to her and there's a bright sheen of tears in his eyes. 

“Oh no, little man. He’s coming back, don’t worry.” Setting the gun down on the dresser, she hurries to the bed and pulls the boy into her lap. He curls up against her stomach, clutching Basa. “He’ll be back. He just had to go out to--” Senha stops, unsure how to finish the sentence. To work? To take care of us? Was this an “us”? Three people who barely know each other, thrown together by the strangest circumstances she can think of to protect the boy in her arms, whose last name she didn’t even know? 

As she comforts him, she bites back a curse. She’d never asked him anything useful before he’d left. She doesn’t even know what to do if the hunters do find them here. Does she just take Samir and run? Does she grab anything from Din’s backpack? Does she go to the garage? To the police? Does she take the gun? Is that illegal? She’s almost positive that it is, in fact, very illegal, even out here. Should she call him at any point to check in, or will that unintentionally activate some panic mode in him? 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid for not walking out without a backward glance when Din had come back to his apartment two weeks ago with a knife wound in the back and had asked her politely to leave. Stupid for taking Samir to the park in broad daylight. Stupid for not locking the door when she’d come back. If she’d done any of the above, they’d all still be back in Ganister City. Samir would be safe, she’d be suffering through her last semester of clinicals and classes, and Din would be out getting stabbed on his off nights. 

Except she knows that’s not true. 

“I’m sorry, little man, I’m so sorry.” Senha whispers to the boy in her arms. Samir meets her own wet eyes with tear-stained cheeks and she pulls him closer. “We’re going to figure this out.” She can’t tell if the trembling she feels is from her own body or Samir’s, but she can feel him crying too. “I promise we’re going to figure this out.” 

Dimly, over the sound of her own choked sobs, Samir's murmuring something against her. When she deciphers the cry for his mother, the only person really capable of comforting him, she just cries harder. She and this boy whom she has no claim over and cannot protect, in a dingy motel room, surrounded by nothing but dust. Alone. 

She wishes Din were there. 

* * * * * * *

He stands to stretch, his legs aching from the prolonged crouch he’s been in for almost an hour. Scuffling sounds and the occasional bang can be heard from the roof, where three others are laying shingles. Din looks over at the box of uncut orange tiles sitting on the rough cement floor and rubs a hand over his left shoulder. Tiling has got to be one of his least favorite jobs, but he’d been relieved the previous night to find the job listed under the ‘short notice’ heading on the local results for a contracting website. At least it pays better than digging, even if it isn’t any easier on his knees. 

The floor’s half-set at this point, and he’s just about ready for another round of cutting before he can continue. Before that though, he can afford ten minutes to check in with Cara. The quick look he’d taken at the news that morning on the grainy motel TV hadn’t given him any valuable information. Din knows that reaching out at all is risky, burner phones aren’t infallible, but remaining in the dark isn’t an option. At least he hasn’t received any calls from Senha, so things are hopefully quiet back at the motel. He doesn’t want to consider the other possibility for the silence.

“Are you guys okay? ” Cara’s voice is muffled when she picks up, and he can hear her moving around. “Hang on, I’m at the office.” 

“We’re alright. Ran into a small problem.” 

“The agent? ” 

He stops just outside the house. “What?” 

“Some agent from the DIB showed up here yesterday, almost shut the Guild down entirely. She had Karga turn over a ton of files.” 

Din’s heart stops. “Does she know--” 

“Karga didn’t mention you specifically, but she gave off that vibe of being a little too smart. I don’t think she’ll be in the dark for long. And she knows about the bounty on the kid. Thought she was going to shoot him on the spot when Karga told her...” 

He blows out a breath. Apparently the world is destined not to let him catch a fucking break, but he focuses back in on why he called. He’ll worry about the DIB later. 

“We were tracked here by a hunting unit. Three hunters with a Suebian handler. Didn’t recognize them from the Guild usuals.” 

“Even if they are Guild, that agent had Karga close out both of the bounties. The one on the kid and the one for beskar.” The phone shuffles as if she’s got it balanced between her shoulder and ear, and he can hear muted typing sounds. “And...yeah, the details for the kid have been wiped from the system. Any hunters still tracking you would know the Guild bounty's been rescinded and that they’d be operating out of contract.” 

“Fuck.” Great, someone else has thrown their hat into the never-ending ring for the kid. 

“I have no idea who they’re working for, but they aren’t local Guild hunters. Can you lose them?” 

“We’re stranded. My truck broke down on Monday. Won’t be fixed until tomorrow, and we’ve got four professionals breathing down our necks.” 

“I mean, how professional can they be? They haven’t found you yet.” 

He squeezes the phone hard enough that he can hear the plastic creak. “That doesn’t mean they’re stupid, just that we've been lucky.” 

“I know, I know. Look, I can come get you, but it’d take me two days just to get up there.” 

“I know.” He thinks for a minute, turning a spacer over repeatedly in his fingers. “We’re going to try to get out of here tomorrow, but I don’t know how that’s going to go. If something happens--there’s a woman with me as well.” 

“What? How many people did you pick up?” 

“It’s--she was babysitting the kid when everything went to shit. She’s helping me look after him. If something happens to me--” 

“Tell her to call me. I’ll make sure they both get somewhere safe.” 

He breathes a sigh of relief. That’s one thing sorted. “Thanks. Anything yet on the ID card?” 

“Nothing yet, but it’s only been a few days. Din, be careful.”

“Working on it.” 

“That’s what I’m afraid of. ”

* * * * * * *

Black clouds build from the east that afternoon, and by the time Din and the other three workers haul themselves back into the truck for the ride back to Chert the wind has kicked up and small raindrops are starting to fall. The rain picks up as they drive but it feels good and Din tips his head back, letting it rinse the sweat from his face and neck. His shoulder and upper back are aching, the scar-tissue of the old injury pulled tight from the motions of spreading and combing mortar all day. 

Lightning forks its way across the sky just as they pull into the parking lot, and they all hurry to jump down and get under cover. By the time he pulls the key out of his pocket and unlocks the door he’s soaked and chilled. Some small part of him does appreciate how miserable this will make life for the hunters, though. It’s possible to track in bad weather, but even Din will usually wait out a storm. With a bit of luck, it’ll rain most of the night. 

He breathes another sigh of relief at seeing Senha and Samir when he comes in, the stiff wind ruffling loose pieces of paper on the bed before he closes and locks the door. There’s blue ink on her fingers and a smudge of blue on Samir’s nose. The boy scrambles to his knees when he sees Din. Something that’s been out of place all day settles back into position left of his sternum as the kid buries his face in Din’s neck. 

“Everything quiet here?” He asks, looking down at Senha, who’s gathering up the colored pages and capping the markers. 

Before she can reply, Samir pushes himself back upright and babbles at him, waving the uncapped marker excitedly. 

“That right, Sam'ika?” Din asks him, grinning. Damn, but he'd missed the little curly-haired terror. He narrowly catches the marker before the kid can turn his cheek into his next artistic achievement and caps it before handing it to Senha. It feels almost normal, and it’s achingly welcome after the past few days. 

“All good here.” She smiles, slipping off the bed to stack the drawing supplies on the desk. “He’s already eaten, I was going to give him a bath pretty soon.” 

Din runs a hand through his hair and grimaces at the chalky grit that comes away on his fingers. Between the rain and the mortar dust, he’s in desperate need of a wash. “I can bathe him with me. Sink’s too small anyway.” 

“Alright. You hungry?” 

Now that she mentions it, he’s fairly certain his stomach has started trying to digest his spine. “Starving.” 

“Sandwich okay?” 

He nods wearily in thanks and heads for the bathroom, stopping at his bag to grab his and the kids pajamas. 

Not wanting to bet on the cleanliness of the bathtub, he’d bathed the kid in the shower with him the previous night as well, and had been more or less able to get both himself and Samir clean without too much trouble. 

Tonight, however, is a different case entirely. The kid squirms in his arms until he puts him down, and immediately sets out to touch everything in sight, eschewing shampoo, soap, or anything closely approximating cleaning. 

Finally, Din kneels down on the plastic floor of the tub and holds the kid with one hand while soaping him up as quickly as possible. Samir keeps up a running commentary of half-coherent complaints and wriggles like a fish in his grip with no success. Finally, the toddler gives up and just howls as he allows Din to wash his hair. 

“Everything okay in there? ” Senha’s voice is muffled through the door but the worry in her voice is obvious. Din curses. He’s sure he was never this much trouble with Razan. Samir takes the opportunity to let out a piercing screech made louder by the tile walls. On second thought… N’eparavu takisit, buir. 

“Osik.” He looks down at the pouting toddler between his knees. There is no way he’s going to get to wash his own hair, much less any other part of himself thoroughly without a complicated restraint system. “Can--hang on.” Picking up the now-clean and hiccuping child, he steps out onto the thin mat and grabs a towel from the rack over the toilet. Hitching it around his hips, he shifts Samir to his other arm. “Could you maybe take the kid? He’s really--he’s not happy.” 

“Yeah, I can tell.” 

Din snags another towel and burritos the kid as best he can when the boy is shoving the towel away from himself with both hands and feet. “Ad'ika, would you stop it for--I’m trying to--” He drops the attempt at reasoning with a one-year old and fumbles for the towel at his waist to tuck the edge in before he shuffles to the door. Cracking it, he sees Senha’s concerned expression. “He’s clean, but I can’t--” Samir flails wildly in his arm and he’s forced to use both hands to keep him from braining himself against the door. Feeling his own towel start to slip down, he wedges the corner of his hip against the sink and prays to Issik it’s enough to keep it from falling off entirely. “Can you take him?” 

Senha reaches through the open door and scoops the squirming toddler out of his arms. Din immediately reaches to secure his own towel. The last thing he needs is to traumatize his babysitter-childcare provider-accomplice via accidental flashing. “Thank you. I’ll be out soon.” 

She nods, somehow having bundled the kid into compliance. “Take your time,” she replies with a smile, shifting Samir in her arms and turning back to the room. Din closes the door again and leans his forehead against it for a moment, breathing a long sigh. The sound of running water cuts across his thoughts, and he pulls the towel off and steps back under the rapidly cooling flow. 

* * * * * * *

Din can feel his stomach growling as he sits down at the desk and shifts the coloring materials aside. Senha's thrown together a sandwich and managed to bargain a banana from Samir, and he wolfs them both down. Until they’re in a more stable position financially, lunch will have to be a distant memory for him. 

There’s a sharp crack and boom of thunder from outside, and Samir grabs Basa in one hand and clings to Senha with the other. She hugs the kid into her side and wraps an arm around his back as she murmurs assurances to him. 

For at least the eighteenth time, Din feels an acute sense of relief that she’s there. He knows his instincts aren’t all that bad when it comes to the kid, and he’s learning quickly. But Senha’s pulling from years of experience with her own younger siblings (three, as he’d discovered the previous day before the breakdown occurred) as well as countless other people’s children. 

She’s also proven herself to be quick at thinking on her feet. Her point the previous day about not knowing how to fight isn’t strictly incorrect, but it also isn’t lost on him that when he’d rounded the door to his bedroom in Ganister he’d found a determined woman staring down a disabled hunter with his own weapon clenched tightly in her hands. Senha is far from helpless. She’d come apart a bit at the seams in the aftermath, but who didn’t their first few times? 

He’d chalked up her willingness to come with him to how much the incident with the hunter had shaken her, but the longer this goes on, the more he wonders how much of her continued determination to stay has to do with Samir. Surely she isn’t this protective over all her charges, is she? How easily she pulls the boy into her lap, the way she seems unruffled by even the worst tantrums, there’s got to be something beyond just a job, right?

The way she looks at Samir is so similar to the way he’s seen other parents look down at their foundlings or creedborns in the Tribe, before it had all gone to shit. She just seems to know what to do, and some small corner of him burns with envy at it. It’s overshadowed by gratitude though, and some sense of longing that he doesn’t have the time or energy to place right now. 

It’s almost eight o’clock, and Samir’s getting that heavy-eyed look that means he’s fighting sleep. The previous evening, Senha had handed the kid off to him and disappeared for a shower, taking longer than he would’ve expected of someone so practical. He suspects it was in part to give herself time to come down from her ordeal at the grocery store, which was enough to shake even someone well-used to this kind of situation. Regardless of the reasoning, it had afforded him plenty of time to go through the kid’s normal bedtime routine, including the lullaby, without an audience. 

Tonight, Senha shows no signs of disappearing to give him any privacy as she passes the sleepy child over to him. Instead, she curls up in the armchair in the corner with a book and settles in to read. 

Swaying slowly with Samir in his arm to continue enticing the baby towards sleep, Din chances a look over at her but she either doesn’t notice or is ignoring him. He sighs. If she’s staying with them, this is going to happen sooner or later. He can hardly ask her to leave the room every night just to avoid someone hearing him sing, for Issik’s sake. 

He crosses to Samir’s bag and fishes out Foxy and the Fabulous Fruit Bats before returning to his bed. Yesterday he’d made the mistake of not pulling back the covers before he’d settled in to read and sing, and as a result had needed to apply a high degree of care in moving the sleeping baby under the covers without waking him and going through the whole exercise again. Tonight, he pulls the blankets back ahead of time and sits back against the headboard with the boy cuddled up next to him. Samir plops Basa down on Din’s stomach and sticks his thumb into his mouth, leaning into his side as he gazes tiredly at the familiar illustrations. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Din sees Senha glance up when he starts reading, but she looks back down at her own book soon thereafter, a small smile on her face. Resolving to ignore any further reactions, he makes his way through the book, glancing down occasionally to register the boy’s slowly closing eyes. Is it possible the kid will be tired enough from the stress of the past day to not need the lullaby? Hope growing tentatively, he reads through KC Kas's masterpiece twice, and leaves the book open across his lap after the end of the second reading, not moving a muscle under the heavy weight of the sleeping toddler. 

Five minutes go by, then ten, and there’s only the sound of pages turning in Senha’s book across the room, and the heavy rain outside, broken by the occasional low rumble of thunder in the distance. With miniscule movements, Din begins to extract himself from under the sleeping toddler, carefully substituting himself for a few firm pillows, and pausing every few seconds to verify the kid’s continued slumber. 

When he finally eases himself off the bed and backs away, he lets out a satisfied breath and hears a muffled snort behind him. The knowing smile on Senha’s face tells him she’s been observing the entire operation and is familiar with it herself. Din looks back at the sleeping boy again before sitting down at the desk and pulls the map towards him. 

There are a number of highways that connect just west of Chert, and any of them are a good bet for their next switch-point. He’s still not sure where they’re going, but it’s got to be someplace large enough to allow them to get lost in the crowd with some decent-paying jobs. There’s a few possibilities, all of them at least two days drive. Even with the pay from this tiling job and what little they’ll have left after paying for the truck repairs, they’ll be running close to the wire on fuel and food, but if they’re careful they should be able to make any of the possible locations. 

Sitting up, Din rolls his shoulder and grimaces. The scar tissue has knotted itself into one tight lump, and he can feel it pulling whenever he moves. Sleeping on it will only make it worse, as will another day of work tomorrow. 

“You alright?” Senha asks quietly. 

“Just stiff. Old injury.” 

She shuts her book and unfolds herself from the chair. “Where?” 

“It’s fine--” 

Senha raises an eyebrow and folds her arms. He supposes he should know after the stitching incident that she’s chronically unable to back down when it comes to her occupational field, or truthfully much of anything else, and he sighs in a defeated sort of way. 

“My shoulder.” He says, rolling it again. 

“Can I take a look?” 

“Sure.” He resists the urge to look around at her as she moves behind him and lays one hand flat along his shoulder. Her fingers move across the plane of his upper back and she finds the stiff muscles fairly quickly. 

Senha clicks her tongue in annoyance. “This is really tight.” 

“It gets like that.” 

“Have you seen a chiro for it?” 

He grunts as she presses a knuckle experimentally into the muscle next to his spine. “Sounds expensive.” 

“They’re expensive because they work,” she murmurs, tracing the path of the muscle and scar tissue to where it disappears under his scapula. “I can loosen it for you some, if you’d like.” 

She digs her thumb into the muscle and Din has to hold back a groan. “You--” he manages, “you wouldn’t mind?” 

“Not if it’ll keep you from sitting like you’ve got a steel rod in place of a spine. Makes my back hurt just to watch you. And being back in the car tomorrow will just make it worse.” She works both thumbs into the muscle, and Din leans forward to rest his forearms on the desk. When she hits a particularly tight spot he lets his head hang, the relief of the loosening muscle like a drug hitting his bloodstream. 

Senha pulls his left arm back so it's bent behind him and angled slightly up. There’s a moment of instinctive alarm at the position, but her hand is gentle on his wrist, she’s not trying to restrain him. She shifts a little closer and her fingers slip under his shoulder blade, into the space the angle the position makes and allowing her to get at the heart of the knot. When she pushes her thumb across it, a ragged moan slips out before he can stop it. Din feels his cheeks heat, but Senha just hums approvingly. 

“That sounds like the right place.” 

She occasionally brushes against his back as she adjusts the angle of his arm to lift his scapula higher, and at one point he feels her hair fall across his shoulder before she tucks it back behind her. He lets himself drift for a while under the feeling of her strong fingers kneading into muscles long frozen into place. Neither of them say anything when she shifts his arm back down and continues up to work on his trapezius muscles and his neck. He’s too preoccupied with preventing more embarrassing sounds from escaping him, and he’s a little afraid she’ll stop if he says anything. 

It feels like several hours but is more likely fifteen or twenty minutes when she rests her hands on his shoulder. Her voice by his ear is almost intimate. 

"Better?" 

Din's not sure what word to use but ‘better’ falls fantastically short. He settles on a safe option. “Much. Thank you." 

She smooths one hand down his spine before she moves back to curl up in the chair again, pulling her book towards her. Din sits up, stretching slightly to test the mobility he’s regained in the last fifteen or so minutes. He wonders vaguely whether he can ask her to do that again sometime, but immediately banishes the thought. He’s already asked for more than enough from her. She looks up, and catches him watching her. He lifts his chin towards her book to provide some cover for himself.

"What're you reading?" 

Senha lifts the cover to reveal the words ‘Medical Surgical Nursing, Vol II’ in block print. “Textbook. Trying not to fall too far behind.” 

“How far along are you?” He immediately berates himself. It’s a degree not a pregnancy, di’kut.

“I’m on my last semester, actually. Or, I was. Guess we’ll see.” She smiles a little sadly and some of the tension slips back into his shoulders. Before he can say anything, she flicks her eyes up to his. “And before you apologize, I chose to come. This isn’t your fault.” 

He shakes his head, back to the same conclusion he’s hit up against repeatedly since they left Ganister. “I should’ve been more careful.” 

She puts the book down on her lap. “More careful than what? You changed roads every fifteen fucking seconds on the way here. You turned off our phones as soon as we left." Closing the book altogether, she leans towards him, keeping her voice low. "You killed a guy for trying to take Samir, rolled him up in a rug, and dumped him in the desert. In what universe is that not being careful to the point of paranoia?”

Something about her defending his actions angers him more than if she’d attacked him. “And it wasn’t enough because there are hunters in the same goddamn town as we are. They weren’t more than thirty minutes behind us.” 

Senha huffs a derisive laugh. “Oh well, I guess it couldn’t have possibly been that they’re professionals with a support network being paid Maker knows how much to find us, could it? No, clearly that makes too much sense.” 

The sarcasm in her quick disregard of the situation ignites the anger that’s been simmering just below the surface this entire week. He knows it’s just how she deals with stress, but before he can stop himself the words pour out of him in a hissed whisper. 

“You don’t know anything about what makes sense here. I fucked up, okay? And you can’t pretty it up or fix it by trying to pretend it’s anything other than what it is. I’m supposed to be protecting him, and so far all I’ve been able to do is worsen one situation after another. Including yours.” Her eyes are wide now, and he knows his voice is too loud. “You think you have any idea what you’ve been thrown into? You don’t know the first thing about how much danger you’re in, the type of people that are after us, or what drives them. I do. No amount of trying to frame this nicely is going to keep you and Samir alive, so stop trying to excuse mistakes that I should’ve seen coming a mile away.” 

As he pauses to catch his breath, he realizes he’s on his feet, practically leaning over her. Senha’s pressed as far back as she can get from him. He sits back down, and right on cue, there’s a sniffle and a thin cry from Samir on the other side of the room. 

“Fuck.” Din runs a hand over his face. Senha takes the opportunity to bolt out of her chair and cross to pick up the crying baby, not even trying to hide her desire to put distance between them. 

Great work, shabuir, terrify the only person besides Cara who’s trying to help you.  

He turns to apologize, but she’s looking at him with dark, wary eyes as she sways with Samir against her shoulder, and any possible words turn to ash in his mouth. What would he even say? I’m sorry, feels hollow and has been said a million times in the past week. I'm not going to hurt you, she likely wouldn’t believe him on that one. We’ll get out of this, he knows better than to promise that at this point.

In the end, he says nothing and hates himself a little more for it. Before he switches off the light and gets into his own bed, Din looks over. Even asleep, Senha’s got her back to the wall rather than to him and she’s on the far side of her bed, her arms curled protectively around the kid. 

He’s got to find a way to fix this. 

* * * * * * *

The day is shaping up to be scorchingly hot and humid, and Din can already feel that he’s going to be soaked in his armor by mid-morning. After three years, the Ebryian Mandos are on even footing with the Concordian Mandos in most things, but the sheer weight of the heat here still surprises them sometimes. 

The locals are oblivious to it as they move between the market stalls, bickering good-naturedly over pricing in the local dialect. A little girl holding her mother’s hand smiles up at Din and the others, and Atai wiggles her gloved fingers at her. A second later, Jari strides over to help a man struggling with a crate of mala fruits, and Din turns to catch what Cair's saying. 

The air around them erupts and the audio sensor in Din’s helmet mutes itself to protect his hearing as he’s slammed backwards by the impact of the explosion. There’s still a light ringing in his ears as he opens his eyes, his HUD tries to adjust to the smoke around them. Sitting up slowly and taking stock of his body, he hears civilians start to scream around them. Din scrambles to his feet and sees Matas and Cair doing the same, scanning around for the source of the blast. The market has been decimated and bodies are strewn around it, nearly all civilians. A shock goes through Din when he recognizes Jari’s distinctive dark red helmet laying among them, and he starts over towards her. Matas shoots an arm out to grab him.

“Wait, could be a secondary charge.” 

He stops, knowing the truth in his vod’s words. It wouldn’t be the first time the New Mandalorians targeted civilians to attract the guerillas. Instead, Din focuses on checking the civilians laying closest to him. The sound of groans and crying rises, and he pulls his med kit out of his bag. 

From his left, a woman screams and when he looks over his stomach turns to ice. It’s the woman with the jade eyes, but there’s no blood on her shoulder now. Instead, it’s covering her hands in a glistening scarlet sheen. All the breath leaves his lungs when he sees what she’s clasping. A small boy lays face down, his clothing torn and more blood pooling under him. 

Din’s legs nearly give out as he stumbles over, dropping to his hands and knees beside the woman and turning the boy over carefully. His light brown eyes are glassy and unfocused, and there’s blood matted in his curls. Din feels like he’s breathing through shards of glass as he meets the woman’s gaze. It’s hard, and there are black cracks fracturing their color.

“You said you’d keep him safe,” she accuses, “you said you’d protect him.”

“I’m--” Din manages to choke out before she shoves a pistol into the hollow of his throat, and pulls the trigger. 

He jerks awake with a yell, his breath catching in his throat. There’s sweat dripping off him and he’s shaking uncontrollably. It’s been months since he’s dreamed about the attack in the market. 

“Din?” Senha whispers from a few feet away. Din shakes his head, eyes closed, trying desperately to draw in deep breaths. He hears her slide out from under the covers and the bed beside him dips as she sits down. When he opens his eyes, he almost chokes to see Samir asleep against her chest, his eyelashes long over his cheeks. He reaches out wordlessly and Senha passes the sleeping baby over, her face worried. 

Samir snuffles against him as he settles back into sleep, and Din feels his mind quiet from a clamor as he inhales the warm baby-scent of the toddler’s hair. Senha’s hand comes to rest lightly on his back as he unconsciously matches his breaths to Samir’s, and he feels tears prick his eyes when the boy snuggles into his neck in his sleep. 

He leans back against the headboard, listening to the sounds of the rain outside and the distant rolling of thunder. He’s not in Concordia. There’s no blood or fire or civilians dead on scorched stone. Slowly, he takes note of the sensations around him. The rough material of the sheets against his feet, the warm weight of the baby against his chest, and the slight creak of the bed as Senha shifts next to him. 

He opens his eyes and sees her studying him, brown eyes worried. 

“Sorry. Nightmare,” he croaks.

She makes a sympathetic sound. “You want to talk about it?” 

“No.” Din strokes a hand over Samir’s back. 

Senha nods, but her fingers fidget in the blanket at his side as she falls quiet. He lets the silence sit between them, focusing on the boy in his arms instead. She shifts again and he’s reminded of the way she’d shrank away from him a few hours ago. And yet she’s here now. Still trying to help, even after he’s done all but physically push her away. 

Before he can overthink it, Din reaches out to cover her hand with his own. Senha turns her palm up to lace their fingers together and strokes her thumb over his scarred knuckles. The touch is grounding, like Samir’s weight on his chest. She meets his gaze with so much compassion - not pity - in her eyes that the words he couldn’t find earlier come freely.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, “for what I said earlier. And--if i scared you. I shouldn’t have taken that out on you.” 

Senha shrugs, the motion only half visible in the darkness. “I pushed you.” 

He shakes his head at her. She's still trying to let him off the hook, but he can at least react appropriately this time. “That’s not an excuse. It was inconsiderate of me.” 

“I mean,” she sighs. “You aren’t wrong about me not knowing what’s reasonable here. And I shouldn’t have been so trite about it. I just--you’re so ready to take on blame for all these things that, as far as I can see, you have no control over.” 

Din sighs and extricates his fingers from hers. “Not having control over a situation and walking directly into a trap are two different things. I should know better than to do the second.” Particularly when he’s seen the results of the second more times than he can count. 

She pulls her legs up onto the bed and leans on one hand, tilting her head. “You mean the polka van and the Friedrich Squad?” 

He almost snorts at her description. “Yes. But beyond that, I should’ve known better than to stay in Ganister with him. I should’ve told you not to take him outside. I should’ve--”

“That’s a lot of ‘should’ves’.” Senha interrupts him gently. “Hindsight always gives you perfect vision. You did the best you could with the information you had on hand. But you’re also trying to handle all of this by yourself. On not much sleep, and a lot of really shitty coffee. Samir’s your responsibility, I get that. I respect that.” She nudges his leg lightly with her elbow. “All I was trying to say before is that you’re not responsible for whatever happens with me. Maybe I didn’t feel like I had a choice at first, but I’ve had plenty of choices since then and I’m still here. You couldn’t make that decision for me, and you certainly can’t take ownership of it from me now. So, maybe quit blaming yourself for everyone else’s choices, and let me help.” 

Leaning slightly towards him in her oversized pajama shirt, her hair loose around her shoulders, and the familiar worried line between her eyes, he doesn't doubt her sincerity. It just heightens his respect for the quiet courage she’d shown that morning, and every day since she’d stood down the hunter in Ganister. There’s been several occasions when he’s seen her nearly make a move to protect the kid from him, not least of all after he’d heard the news broadcast about Paz. The idea that she’d think Samir needs protecting from him doesn’t feel great, but in retrospect, the fact that she’s stayed out of a desire to protect the kid is worth that respect. In spite of her courage, he's noticed a tightness around her eyes the past day, and her movements have been more hesitant, the strain of their situation obviously catching up to her. Between the two of them, it’s not that surprising that it all bubbled over. 

“I will.” He nods. “I’ll do everything in my power to keep you both safe, but you need to start trusting me on things. I know what I’m doing--even if it doesn’t always seem like it.”

She breathes out a laugh and nods. “Okay. No more interrogations. Promise.”

Din breathes a sigh of relief at seeing the lines of tension in her body fade. He’s never really had any issue with the idea of others viewing him as a threat, it’s come in handy more times than he can count as a hunter. But with Senha, it just turns his stomach. The wariness in her eyes, the instinctive effort to put space between them, and her unconscious search for an exit -- it all feels opposite to what he wants, and he can’t put his finger on why it feels so wrong. Just that seeing her laugh and feeling her close settle the knots in his chest.    

Leaning forward, Samir still tucked against his chest, he closes his eyes and rests his forehead on hers in a mimic of the kov’nyn he gives the kid each time he leaves. Their faces are close enough that he can hear when she inhales at the touch, but she doesn’t pull back. Instead, after a beat, he feels her other hand come up to rest on his shoulder, her thumb stroking a comforting line along his collarbone.

* * * * * * *

Senha’s first thought when he lays a warm palm across the back of her neck and leans in is that he’s going to try to kiss her. 

Which. 

She won’t say it would be the worst thing in the world, but it also seems a little out of nowhere given everything that’s happened today. It’s not until he lays his forehead against hers that she realizes he’s doing the thing he does with Samir. 

Which still doesn’t really explain things, but it does make some part of her feel both better and worse. There’s a stupid sting of rejection that has no business complicating the situation further, particularly because she isn’t even sure what the thing he does with Samir before he leaves means. 

Still, even if she’s not sure what it means, she can hazard a guess that it’s a request for comfort of some kind, and she automatically brings her free hand up to rest on his shoulder. His apology had been almost oddly formal compared to his low-volume rant earlier, almost as if he felt like they’d stepped back in their understanding of each other. In reality, how riled he’d gotten at what was in the most technical sense a defense of his actions is extremely telling. 

Either way, the headbutt thing, as weird as it is, means something. It’s not something that she can discuss right now though, because she’s remembering for the eighteenth time today that they’re supposed to have a plan in place for getting the hell out of here tomorrow, and as of yet, there is no plan. Or at least, no plan that he has shared with her. 

“Can we--talk about tomorrow? Do you have a plan or...?” 

Din draws back and lets out a breath, shifting Samir to the curve of his arm. The boy barely moves in his sleep, but he does curl one hand around Din’s index and middle fingers. “I’ll be done earlier tomorrow, just have to grout and wash. I’ll go straight to the garage and get the truck, and then come back here and pick you both up. I’ll call when I’m leaving the garage. Can you have him and everything ready to go by four o’clock?” 

Senha nods. “We’ll be ready.” This is a plan. She can do this. 

Din seems to hesitate, shifting his legs under the blankets. “If you don’t hear from me by five-thirty, there’s someone I want you to call. A friend I trust, Cara. She’ll come find you. Do what she tells you, she’ll make sure you’re both safe.” 

“What? I--” 

“This is important.” There’s quiet authority in his voice, and she stops, chewing her lip. “If you don’t hear from me by five-fifty, you call Cara. If she tells you to call the police, you call the police. If she tells you to stay put, you stay put. She tells you to tell someone it was all my idea and that you’re concerned others might be after you because of what I dragged you both into, you do it. Okay?” 

She squints at him, because in no world is she going to throw him under the bus for this. “What you dragged us into? I’m not go--” 

Din puts his hand on her knee and shakes it slightly, reigning her back in. “Senha, I need you to promise me. If you don’t hear from me by then, it’s because I’m not able to protect you both anymore. ” 

Oh. 

He continues, his hand still warm on her bare knee. “Don’t trust anyone but Cara. The money they were offering for him...it’s more than enough to buy anyone’s morality.”

She sighs. “Alright. If we don’t hear from you by five-fifty, I promise I’ll call your friend, and that I’ll do whatever she tells me to.” 

Din squeezes her knee before letting go. “Good. If everything goes well, I’ll pick you both up here sometime after four. We’ll have to move quickly.”

“We’ll be ready.” 

He nods gratefully, and looks down at the boy in his arms, brushing a hand over his hair. It feels like a good place to leave this, before she gets in any further over her head. “I’m gonna head back to sleep. Do you want to keep him with you?” 

Din looks up, his fingers still held captive by the boy’s small hand. “Yes.” 

Senha leans forward to kiss the crown of Samir’s head and, after a moment of hesitation, leans in to brush her lips over Din’s cheek. If the headbutt means what she thinks it might mean, this feels like the right response. Just to make sure they’re on the same page. Nothing more. Cheeks burning slightly, she slides off his bed and pads back to her own, the blanket rasping in the darkness as she pulls them back.

“Wake me up if you need anything, okay?” 

His whispered thanks is barely audible over the rain outside, but it’s there as she slips between the now-cool sheets. She lays awake for a long time, the rain outside doing nothing to lull her into sleep. She brushes her fingers over her lips, and the sensation of Din's cheek and the hunter's hand overlay each other until she has to fight to breathe. Closing her eyes, she goes back over his instructions for tomorrow. They have a plan. They can do this. They'll figure this out. 

Chapter Text

It’s another busy morning in the courtroom. District Judge Marcus Dinehart eyes District Attorney Zintgraff and Detective Rolands, who sit across the room from a man staring straight ahead as if ignoring everyone else in the room. Dinehart however, cannot ignore the woman and two young girls sitting quietly behind the man in the gallery. The two little girls remind him too much of his own grandchildren. With as much determination as Zintgraff is spending averting his gaze from them, Dinehart suspects this is part of the defense lawyer’s plan.

Still, he can’t let it distract him from the facts at hand. “Counselor, if we weren’t already overbooked I would ask what definition of ‘as soon as possible’ you use that apparently translates to ‘one week from my request.’ Given the fact that we’re in a hurry, I’m going to break standard procedure and let the defense speak first.”

The defense lawyer stands as Dinehart nods to her. Her red hair is coiled neatly in a bun again, her only adornment a small silver pendant on a black cord, which almost feels at odds with her otherwise corporate appearance. “Thank you, your Honor. I would like to request that, given the time my client has been held without cause, he be immediately released.”

Dinehart isn’t expecting her to beat around the bush, and her brevity is a relief. He turns to the DA. “Counselor, my understanding is that this is the first time Mr. Viszla has been brought before a judge. That would make it nearly twelve days since his arrest, is that correct? In light of this fact, do you have any reason why I should not dismiss this case out of a lack of proper procedure alone?”

Zintgraff stands. “I do, your Honor. Mr. Viszla was arrested as part of the GCPD’s investigation into a domestic terrorism incident. Under the PTSD Act, we have fourteen days to build our case. As you said, that time has not elapsed since his arrest.”

The defense lawyer interrupts, her eyes hard. “Your Honor, the Ganister City Police Department and the Hesperium District Attorney’s office were handed a cease and desist order from the Domestic Investigations Bureau ten days ago. This line of reasoning is not only false, it is a violation of my client’s constitutional rights as an Ebryian citizen.”

Dinehart picks up a piece of paper from the bench, holding it up as he turns to the DA. “Counselor, that order was delivered to me. Would you care to explain yourself here, son?”

Zintgraff is only a few years younger than the judge, and hardly a ‘young man’, so the barb has the intended effect of letting him know he’s on thin ice with the generally genial judge. “If you read the specifics of the order, your Honor, it was a directive from the DIB for us to cease our investigation as of Monday the sixteenth. Mr. Viszla was arrested on Saturday the fourteenth, and the order does not require my office to cease an active prosecution. I am simply doing my job, sir.”

Dinehart’s eyes narrow as he takes another moment to reread the language in the order. Zintgraff is certainly using an…unorthodox interpretation, which the defense is quick to point out.

“With respect to the DA’s interpretation, my client was arrested on a non-business day. Long standing precedent established in Darmok vs. City of Tanagra makes it clear that in cases of arrests made during non-business days, issuance date takes precedence over service date of those arrests.”

Zintgraff is quick off the cuff here. He, just as everyone involved in this, is clearly familiar with Darmok vs. City of Tanagra. “While that would be true, your Honor, the arrest warrant was actually signed on Friday morning. According to Tembra vs. Shaka, such orders do not retroactively override an issued warrant. Had the DIB objected to the arrest, they would have specified that in their order. As they do not, Mr. Viszla’s arrest under the PTSD Act stands.”

This is quickly turning into a judicial pissing contest. “It was also established in Jalad vs. State of Pueblo that following the issue of such an order, while the arrest stands, a local agency cannot continue to utilize authorities originating from the Preventing Terrorism in States and Dependencies Act, as the prosecution has done. I hold that my client has been held inappropriately. With the issuance of a formal cease and desist, only the federal government can press charges, or take action against my client under the PTSD Act. As DA Zintgraff has made clear, they have not.”

Dinehart nods. “I am familiar with the cases, and the precedent set. I find myself agreeing with the defense here. I ask again, does the prosecution have any legitimate reason I should not immediately release Mr. Viszla?”

Rolands speaks up, which seems to surprise everyone. “We do, sir. As you know, Mr. Viszla was arrested for resisting a legal search of his residence. One of my officers was injured in the resulting fight. My man is still recovering from injuries inflicted by Mr. Viszla.”

Dineheart notices the defendant shift his arms where they're crossed over his chest, his first reaction the entire hearing. Rolands continues. “Given the circumstances of his arrest, and the continued tensions with the Mandalorian refugee community in Ganister City, we’d like to hold Mr. Viszla in protective custody, for his own safety.”

That gets everyone’s attention. Protective custody is generally used on cooperative witnesses or on victims, but it’s technically an allowable procedure for other circumstances. “Are you saying you have reason to believe that Mr. Viszla is facing a threat to his life?”

The District Attorney takes over. “That officer was in the hospital for nearly a week, sir. I think it speaks to the professionalism of the force that Mr. Viszla, despite his actions, was arrested without any loss of life. I would like to move that Mr. Viszla remain in protective custody of the county until the details of his attack on the GCPD officer are resolved. There are a lot of people out there right now that are angry about the attack, and while the DIB has not moved to prosecute Mr. Viszla, they also haven’t moved to exonerate him.”

This is new, and that in and of itself was concerning.  Normally GCPD wouldn’t admit something like this, but given how this case has exploded with the media, and the incident shortly thereafter of that Mandalorian family killed in their home… Dinehart looks over to the two little girls. He’s heard too many details already about what happened to that other family, and he would not, could not , be part of letting that happen to the two angels who just want their father back. Dinehart grimaces. “Given the situation right now, is it your professional opinion that Mr. Viszla or his family will be in danger if he is released before a formal trial, Counselor?”

“It is, Your Honor. I feel he may be a target, and that both he and his family are best protected if he remains in the custody of the state.” As if Zintgraff senses Dinehart starting to give way, he rushes on. “The DA’s office will have the formal charges for the attack on your desk before the close of business today. I think we can all agree that a formal trial will provide the best opportunity for Mr. Viszla to make his case.”

The defense lawyer speaks up. Her voice is remarkably steady and Dinehart’s impressed at her restraint, given the argument the DA is making. “Your Honor, if GCPD or the DA truly had this belief, they would have started from that position, not tried to use it as a last-ditch effort to keep my client incarcerated.”

“It was our intention to keep our fears for Mr. Viszla’s safety from the public record, for his and his family’s protection--” The DA begins in honeyed tones, but the defense lawyer shoots him a glare.

“--And as his legal representation, both he and I are required to be part of any discussion regarding his or his family’s safety. You have no standing to act unilaterally for my client.”

Zintgraff’s smile is brittle. “We do when it endangers the wellbeing of the people of the city, Counselor.” He turns back to Dinehart. “Your Honor, short of the DIB coming in and formally dismissing this case, Mr. Viszla is our responsibility, both his prosecution and his protection. In this case, it is within our rights to act in the benefit of public safety. I acknowledge mistakes were made, but people have died as a result of the emotions surrounding this case. My responsibility is to their safety over Mr. Viszla’s convenience.”

Dinehart knows they’re playing him, but they’ve also tailored their game exceptionally well, given the circumstances. He cannot in good conscience put this man back out on the street knowing it might bring something down on those two little girls or other families in the refugee community. Sighing heavily, he nods. “Very well, motion to keep Mr. Viszla in protective custody is granted.” He gives the DA a hard look. “I will see that case on my desk by noon , Counselor, or I will dismiss this case, and require a public announcement from your office acknowledging that Mr. Viszla will not be charged.”

“Adjourned.” He bangs his gavel. As he does he sees the defense lawyer whisper something to the defendant before walking out. He suspects he knows where she might be heading, and for Zintgraff and Rolands’ sake, he hopes he’s wrong.

* * * * * * *

“Hey Payne, you know a--Cara Dune?” Sil asks, looking over to her new temporary partner.

Payne sits back and stretches his long arms over his head. “Never met her personally, but she’s one of Karga’s enforcers, liaises with the larger National Guild. Not a person to fuck around with. Why?”

“Here,” walking over to his desk, Sil hands him the printout. “Our perp just pinged in a conversation to her.”

Payne looks over the sheet a moment before looking up to Sil, eyebrows raised. “You bugged the entire fucking Guild chapter?”

Sil allows herself a small smile. “PTSD’s a powerful act-”

One of the junior agents pokes his head into the room. “Excuse me, Agents, somebody wants to speak with you.”

“Who is it?” Payne asks, assuming it’s for him.

The young man glances back over his shoulder. “She’s a lawyer? Said it’s about the PhenoVisage case.” 

Payne looks to Sil, who shrugs. “Send them in.”

The junior agent exits and a minute later a tall, stoic-looking woman wearing a dark blue suit walks into the room. The woman gives Payne a cursory look before focusing her attention on Sil. “Are you the agent in charge of the ongoing investigation into the attack of the PhenoVisage Laboratory?”

Sil nods. “Silvia Fess, Domestic Investigations Bureau Counterterrorism Division. And may I ask who you are and why you're here?”

The woman stretches her hand out, and Sil is surprised to find a firm, calloused grip. “Margreta Reid, Hammer and Forge Associates. I am the legal representative for Paz Viszla, the man whom the Gannister City Police Department arrested and is wrongfully holding in relation to your investigation. I would like him released.”

Sil furrows her brow at this. “We haven’t asked GCPD to hold any suspects in relation to that case, and their authority was transferred to DIB a week ago. If they’re holding someone in relation to the attack, they’re out of bounds.”

The woman’s chin dips slightly at Sil’s words, the movement minutely approving. “I am glad we both agree on this. Unfortunately, the local DA has now convinced a judge that my client requires an explicit statement from your office to be released.”

“That’s ridiculous, who was the judge?” Payne speaks up from his desk.

The lawyer ticks her gaze over to him, her face a polite but closed mask. “Judge Dinehart.”

Payne’s face arranges itself in an identical expression as Sil’s. “I know him, he’s a good guy. He wouldn't let them hold your client over a procedural nicety like this.”

She nods curtly. “In this, you are correct. GCPD has implied that my client is in danger due to the public’s reaction to your investigation. Given the violence, they convinced Mr. Dinehart that holding my client would protect his family from potential vigilantes seeking revenge.”

Sil holds up her hand. “Wait, are you saying there have been more attacks? That people are specifically targeting the local Mandalorian community because of this?”

There’s just a hint of surprise in the lawyer’s eyes before the mask returns to her face. “I assumed you would be watching the local community well enough to know the answer to that question.”

Sil hears the underlying inquiry in the woman’s smooth voice and narrows her eyes. “As I’m sure you know, racial profiling is illegal, and I am afraid the details of my investigation are confidential.”

The woman’s gaze is steady, she doesn’t seem to mind that Sil’s caught on to her intentions. “Agent, the press release made it quite clear that your key lead in this case is the armor that the attacker wore. It would be insulting to both of us to imply you are not investigating potential suspects with access to such a rare item, and recognize that the overlap with people not from Concordia is miniscule at best.”

Sil fights to keep her curiosity off her face. “And you have interest in this larger community?”

The lawyer tilts her head. “I was born in Concordia. Like many, I came to Ebrya during the war and was granted asylum.”

“So you keep in touch with the greater community then. You would know if someone new had arrived, or an old face had left?” In spite of her best efforts, some of Sil’s interest bleeds into her voice. 

The lawyer meets Sils gaze with the look of a sniper ranging a target. “Unless you can provide a warrant, I am under no obligation to answer any questions, Agent Fess.”

Sil leans back against her desk, arms crossed. This woman definitely knows more than she’s letting on. “I didn’t say you were.  But if someone has disappeared, someone from a marginalized part of society -- someone who lashed out on their own -- wouldn’t helping me find them keep more innocents from that same marginalized community from winding up like your client?”

The lawyer gives her a long look, and there’s a wariness in her eyes that feels at odds with the stoicism she’s shown up until now. Some marker that she’s seen first hand what Sil is insinuating. “I have found it is the way of the many to blame tragedy on the few. I do not see how further exploiting my people will change that.” Now Sil is sure they aren’t speaking hypotheticals. They’re both talking about Din Djarin, even if they won’t say his name, and for some reason this lawyer is protecting him on nothing more than what seems to be a basis of shared nationality. 

“Then help me remind people that there isn’t an us and them here. There’s just a murderer, and seven dead bodies.”

She shrugs, the mask of steady calm back on her face. “If you think that will bring us together, Agent Fess, then I both admire and pity your optimism.”

Sil decides to throw caution to the wind. “He has a child. He killed seven people and now he’s out there somewhere with a one-year old boy. If nothing else, help me protect that child.”

There’s a flash of something like victory in the lawyer’s eyes for just a moment before it’s replaced by a determination as steady as bedrock. “If that is true, and if this child needs protection, you will find no better guardian than a Mandalorian. Now, can we speak of my client?”

Payne speaks up, reminding both of them that they aren’t alone, and clearing the air like a dry wind off the mesa. “You said he’s being held in custody for his own protection?”

“The only thing the police are protecting is their shattered pride. Their statement to the judge was one lie based on another: they claim that my client severely wounded one of their officers.”

“Cops tend to get jumpy when one of their own goes down.” Payne says. “If he put a cop in the hospital, your guy is lucky to be alive.”

The woman eyes Payne with the barest hint of derision. “Agent, my client is a Mandalorian trained in the Fighting Corps. That officer was not 'severely injured', unless you think his fashion choices imply brain damage,” she says, passing a picture to the agent.

“What is that?” Sil moves over to look over Payne’s shoulder. The picture is of a middle-aged man at a barbecue in an admittedly ugly shirt. 

“Officer Pendleton, the man my client supposedly put in critical condition.” The lawyer’s voice drips with sarcasm. “This photograph was provided to me three days ago. If it is not sufficient evidence for you, he is very active on social media as well.”

Payne takes out his phone, browsing for a minute before looking up at them both. “Fuck, he got out the day after the arrest. Looks like a few stitches and some bruising, at most.”

Sil’s eyes narrow, and she looks up at Payne. “Giving false testimony to a judge is a felony offense. As is ignoring a cease and desist order. And targeting his community is just going to drive our perp further underground.” 

“And while your suspect continues to evade you, my client sits in prison and his daughters are without a parent.” The lawyer interjects, voice quiet.

Sil nods. “A situation I was not aware of until now. Whoever your client is, he was never part of my investigation. I’m looking for a murderer, not a father.”

“And now…” The lawyer lets the words hang in the air, but there's something almost expectant in the tilt of her head. 

Sil heads back to her desk, shaking her head. “Now, GCPD and the DA just violated federal law in a way that could impact my case. I tried pulling them out of the fire, but if they keep pouring fuel on it, I think maybe it’s time to let them burn.”

As she picks up the receiver of her desk phone, Payne waves her off. “Sil, let me take care of Rolands. If you go drag a cop out of Central it’ll be all over the news in an hour. Let me work this, I know just the judge to call.”

* * * * * * *

A year ago, Rolands had turned down an offer to go private security. Months like this one made him wish he had taken it. Instead, he’s stuck at the station twenty minutes after he’s supposed to be off-shift, explaining to the Mando’s wife and their two brats that protective custody means no visitors.

At least the damn lawyer isn’t here, and it looks like his gamble on the injury had worked out. Of course, it had only taken a call to a friend over at the hospital to make sure the appropriate records were sent to Dinehart, and a call to the officer to tell him to take it easy, spend some time with his kids, and just don’t take any pictures for a week or so.

He turns back to the whining woman. “No, ma’am. I’m sorry but there are no exceptions.” 

“But-” The woman starts and Rolands is getting awfully close to losing his temper when a familiar voice speaks behind them. 

“Udesii, vod. Ni gana narudar.” 

As he turns, the defense lawyer steps up to them, a fierce look on her face as she lays a protective hand on the woman’s shoulder. Behind the lawyer, he sees Payne and about a half dozen other DIB agents in their blue jackets. 

As they approach, Rolands motions to the desk sergeant. “Get the Captain. Now.” Looking worried, the man nods and runs off. Rolands just hopes he’ll be back with enough bodies to remind the DIB pukes where they are.

Still, he feels a cold sweat break out as Payne approaches. He stops a few feet away, watching Rolands with tired eyes. “Bob, how about we take a walk?”

Rolands realizes this is worse than he initially thought, but this is his terf, and he’ll be damned if some Fed wants to escort him off to be shot like a dog. “I’m sorry, Agent, I don’t remember us having an appointment. As you can see, I’m a little busy right now.”

Payne moves closer, hands on his hips, just as the desk sergeant returns with the Captain and about a dozen of his men. Every cop in the building has suddenly found an excuse to be here, to remind the Feds that this is their town. They should be smart enough to know who runs things around here. Rolands feels more than a little smug as the Captain steps up beside him, his voice clipped as he addresses the agent. “May I ask what business you and your men have in my police station?”

As Payne’s agents gather behind him, Rolands sees that damn lawyer being escorted back to the holding cells with a folded piece of paper in her hand. If she thinks bringing in the DIB now will help, then she’s a day late and a dollar short. Even that old softie Dinehart won’t override his own order without another hearing.

Payne puts a hand out to his side, silently telling his agents to stand down. “Captain, ten days ago your department was served a formal cease and desist order from the Regional DIB Office in Morrison. It has come to our attention that one of your detectives, and potentially an unknown number of accomplices within this department, deliberately and with full knowledge of their actions violated that order.”

Rolands doesn’t bother to hide his sneer. His Captain is well aware of the nuances of the situation, having gotten several earfuls from the Mayor before they made their arrest. Still, something about the situation twists something in Rolands’ gut. Payne is a drug-sniffer, not some corruption snitch. This type of operation reeks of that new woman. He scans the agents standing behind Payne but she’s not among them. She’s too damned protective of her case to let some second-tier liaison officer like Payne handle this for her, and his suspicion grows.

“Agent, that is a serious allegation,” the Captain drawls, crossing thick arms over his chest. “As you know, our department is in full compliance with all federal orders. If there’s a problem, then perhaps Morrison could send-”

One of the other agents hands Payne a small sheaf of papers, and he passes them over to the Captain. Rolands’ smug satisfaction is fading quickly now. This isn’t like Payne, the man works with people, not paperwork. This is how that female agent works. 

The Captain flips through the papers for a moment before letting out a slow breath and looking to Payne almost sheepishly. “Well… everything seems to be in order here, Agent.” He hands the paperwork to Rolands, of all people, and steps back, motioning to the officers gathered behind them. The group murmurs as the Captain moves to the side of the room and leans heavily against a desk, rubbing his forehead. Looking around, Rolands realizes that he is now very much alone with the Feds.

He finally glances down at the papers clutched in his sweaty hand. There are several individual documents, including both a federal and county arrest warrant. He just manages to hold in a gasp when he sees the name on the bottom of the warrant: Robert W. Rolands. His eyes dart to the signature at the bottom: Marcus Dinehart.

Payne takes a step towards him. “Detective Robert Rolands, you are under arrest for failure to comply with a federal order, violation of the PTSD Act, three counts of perjury, and falsifying medical records.” He pulls a pair of cuffs from his belt and Rolands is so shocked that he doesn’t even struggle when the man turns him and cold metal encircles one wrist. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights as I’ve explained them to you?” 

Hearing the familiar words, Rolands comes back to himself, craning his neck as the cuffs click closed over his other wrist. “You can’t be serious, Payne! Some crazy merc isn’t smart enough to just sit down and shut up, and I’m the one you're coming after? That asshole’s lucky he’s alive!”

Payne moves close, slipping Rolands’ sidearm from his holster and handing it to an agent behind him. As he does, Payne snarls into his ear. “And it’s fuckers like you that make people think they’re gonna get shot by the cops.”

As the agent jerks him upright, Rolands realizes this is not some elaborate joke. “Payne,” he whimpers, gasping. “You know how it is. This is just the cost of keeping the streets clean…”

“People like you make my job so much harder. If you weren't so busy cleaning the streets of anyone you don’t like, maybe you’d realize that. But don’t you worry, you’ll have plenty of time to think about exactly what business it is you’re in pretty soon.”

Payne grabs his shoulder and looks around for help. As one of the Feds moves up to his other side, Rolands notices that the officers gathered around the room are watching his ordeal silently. Their gazes are not the much hyped fraternal glare of police outraged that one of their own is being taken away. Instead, it’s an almost relieved look of at least it’s not me.

As he’s yanked upright, he hears a squeal from one of the brats. Payne stops, letting him turn to see the two little girls jump into the arms of a big man in ill-fitting issued sweats; the Mando. That alone would be enough, but behind the man he sees them, the Agent and the Lawyer: bitches both.

The agent is pushing a cart with a crate on it, and stops when she reaches the Mando. “When we got your release signed, we also found this was taken during the arrest. I thought you might appreciate it being returned first.” Pulling the top off the crate, she reaches in and brings out a blue helmet with a black glass visor. 

The Mando looks over, the joy in his eyes from holding his kids replaced with something almost like pain. Payne, still holding Rolands' arm, calls over to the female agent. “Hey, remember the form! I’m not facing an audit from this!”

The other agent nods, and hands a clipboard to the Mando. “Mr. Viszla, I just need you to sign for this, and then you are free to go.”

The oaf looks over the form as if it’s written in a foreign language, heck maybe he can’t read Ebryian. He looks back at Sil, his expression wary. “I already signed one of these.”

The female agent gives him an embarrassed smile. “Yes, when you first registered your armor. This signifies you taking back ownership of it. It was declared property of the State when the police confiscated it during your arrest.”

“It never stopped being my armor.”

Her voice is gentle. “And this will make that formal, Mr. Viszla.”

The man looks slowly from the form in his hands to the agent before he speaks, his voice low. “I killed for this country. I signed my culture over to you so my girls wouldn’t have to live the life I’ve had to lead. What was that for, if you disregard it whenever it suits you?”

Rolands is sure this is the most the man has spoken in his entire fucking life. He can't resist calling the man out on his righteous bullshit. “You kill for anyone with a checkbook, you sand rats are--” Payne shuts him up with a hard jerk on the cuffs at his back and Rolands winces.

“Want me to add a hate crime to your rap sheet, asshole?” Payne hisses. “Because you’re well on your way to being the kind of example they teach in police academy.”

But the Mando’s looking at him now, and from his face Rolands knows he’s gotten through. He looks about to make a stupid move before the lawyer-bitch leans in and murmurs something to him in their gibberish tongue

The man nods slowly, and signs the paperwork. Payne motions to the other Fed and they march Rolands out to a parked SUV. Outside, the Feds are keeping back the growing crowd of onlookers. Rolands can see at least a few phones out.

As the door slams shut he turns to squint back inside. He can’t see any of his former brothers, just the Mando with his two kids and his wife, and the Lawyer staring right back out at him. Her face is an emotionless mask, and she doesn’t break her gaze until the SUV finally pulls away. 

Chapter Text

The phone rings. 

Both Senha and Samir stop and look over at it. It rings a second time and Senha stands, one hand hovering over it. If it’s Din, he could be telling them he’s on his way back. If it’s someone else…

Her eyes dart to the alarm clock. It’s only two-thirty, too early for Din to be calling. The phone rings again, the sound shrill in the otherwise quiet room. Samir’s looking at Senha now, and some corner of her mind that’s unfocused on the situation hates that he’s accustomed enough to this anxiety for his response to be stillness. 

It rings again and she picks it up, bringing the receiver hesitantly up to her ear but saying nothing. There’s silence for a moment on the other end of the line and then an older woman speaks. 

“Hello?” 

Senha swallows over the lump in her throat. “Yes?” 

“This is the front desk. There’s a package here for you, for a--Senha Rohdin?” 

They know my name, she thinks, blind terror tightening her throat further. She fights it down, trying to think of what Din would do if he were here. Get more information, some part of her whispers. 

“Who--does it say who the package is from?” 

There’s a muffled conversation on the other end of the phone, and Samir crawls towards her as she sits down on the bed and wraps her arm around him. Someone replies in a deeper voice before the woman comes back on the line. 

“The delivery man says it’s from--the Mandalorian? They wanted to deliver it to your room but I told them--”  

At the words ‘the Mandalorian’, Senha’s gut clenches. There’s no way Din wouldn’t just call her directly. It’s time to go. She hits the speakerphone button and puts the receiver down on the bedside table. 

“No, no, I can come pick it up.” She assures the clerk. Unwrapping Samir from her side, she grabs her day-bag and dumps everything out of it onto the bed. The baby huffs worriedly and she strokes his hair in reassurance. They need time, for fuck’s sake. An idea comes to mind. 

“Actually, I did want to ask. I’ve--I need to get a prescription filled while we’re here. Is there someplace in town you can suggest?” 

“Of course. If you go down about a mile and a half there’s--” 

Senha makes the appropriate conversational noises as she sifts hurriedly through items. She pulls out a few changes of underthings and her jacket, and does the same with Din’s clothing. Thank the Maker, he’d washed out some of his and Samir’s things and hung them to dry in the bathroom the previous night. Her packing is interrupted every few seconds to soothe the increasingly worried child. The last thing she wants is to reveal to anyone waiting on the other end that Samir’s there with her. 

“--And if they aren’t open, then you can always try--” 

Blessing talkative hotel clerks everywhere, Senha stuffs the necessities for Samir into the bag and zips it shut before grabbing Din’s backpack from the desk. She looks at the gun for a moment before checking the safety and throwing it into the backpack, along with their remaining food and Samir’s drawing supplies. The boy whimpers and stretches his arms out to her. 

“Excuse me, sir? You can’t--sir!” The woman’s voice is indignant and Senha snatches Basa up from the bed and shoves him in the backpack as well before zipping it all shut. Samir starts the short, huffing breaths that proceed a crying fit, and she wraps Din’s heavier jacket around him. 

“Hey, hey, we’re gonna get out of here, okay?” she whispers, pulling on the backpack before picking him up. “Time to go, little man.” She slings her day-bag over her other shoulder and shifts the toddler in her arms. 

“Bas?” Samir whines, fighting to free his hands from the jacket. 

Senha hefts him up to press a kiss to his cheek, and then touches her forehead against his in a mimic of his routine with Din. “I’ve got him, buddy, but we need to get out of here first, okay?” Samir seems comforted by the gesture and quiets in her arms. 

Looking around, she can't see anything critical that she's forgotten. The majority of their things are left on the bed but she reasons if things don't go entirely to shit, they can come back.

Cracking the door, Senha listens hard but hears nothing. When she peers out, there's no one on the catwalk outside or down in the parking lot. Trying not to think about who might be lingering in wait for them, she hurries out of the room and down the side stairs. Just as she's about to turn the corner, she hears the thick accent of the man from the van and backpedals quickly. Samir is quiet as a mouse in her arms, and she slips down the nearest open breezeway as Vassily's voice is answered by one of the others. 

Samir makes a small sound and Senha shushes him. The voices come from just around the corner and she darts past a cleaning cart into the open door of a room to her left. The maid looks up, alarmed, but Senha holds a finger to her lips and then mouths the word 'help'. 

Male voices sound outside in the hall and the maid looks to the door and back at Senha. Please, Senha mouths, turning so the woman can see Samir's face. The maid wavers for a moment before she ushers them into the bathroom. “In here.” 

Senha hides behind the bathroom door with Samir clutched to her shoulder. A second later, the maid's cart rolls into the doorway, effectively blocking the entrance to the room. The voices are right outside and she squeezes her eyes shut and holds Samir close until they fade. 

She waits another minute, and it lasts an eternity before the cart is moved and the maid motions her out. 

"Thank you," Senha says, grasping her hand, "thank you." 

"Go. They went upstairs." The maid whispers, pushing her towards the door. 

Senha doesn't need to be told twice. She shifts Samir more securely in her arms and sprints for the backlot of the motel without looking back. 

*        *        *        *        *        *        *

Master Automobile Technician Peli Motto likes to consider herself a fairly sharp woman. And in her own shop, she’s acutely aware of every detail going on - from the spark plugs her assistant is replacing to where the shops' two cats are most recently wrecking havoc. So when she turns from the memo pad where she’s jotting down inventory numbers and yelps in surprise at the sight of the young woman standing by her right elbow, she’s more than a little annoyed. 

It takes her a moment to recognize the woman from the couple who’d dropped off the old Crest on Monday afternoon. The man isn’t with her, but she’s got that cute little curly-haired boy wrapped in a jacket in her arms. 

“Here for the truck, right?” Peli says, with perhaps a bit more bite than necessary. She hates being surprised.

"Yes,” the woman replies, out of breath. Looking up again, Peli notices she’s got a hand clutched to her side as if she has a stitch. 

Did she run here or something? “You alright?” 

“Yep,” the young woman hitches on a smile that might convince a ninety-eight year old blind man but no one else. “All good.” 

Peli narrows her eyes. It’s none of her business, so long as they pay. She lifts her chin to indicate the truck out front. “Well, I replaced the coolant pump and the timing belt. There’re several other issues that could use fixing but you all were pretty clear you just wanted that done so,” she shrugs, “your call.” 

The young woman nods, still trying to catch her breath somewhat awkwardly. 

“Lemme get the invoice for you.” Peli leads her around the corner to the front of the shop. Shooing Madame off the neatly-organized stack of invoices in the office, she extracts the one for the ‘96 Crest and brings it back out to the counter.  

The woman in question is at the glass-fronted door, looking nervously up and down the street. She doesn’t notice Peli until she clears her throat to get the young woman’s attention. She starts and steps back to the counter, a flush in her cheeks.

“Let me know if you have any questions.” Peli says. As the woman looks over the invoice, Bella, the shop’s perpetually annoyed-looking tabby, leaps gracefully up onto the counter to investigate. With a sigh, Peli automatically picks up the curious feline and tips her back down to the floor. Looking highly miffed, Bella lifts her tail high and stalks off into the garage to hunt crickets. 

“This looks fine.” The woman says finally, and slips the bag off her shoulder before trying to pull the backpack around to her front. The boy in her arms huffs as he’s shifted around.

A quiet, lightly accented voice speaks from the doorway. “Would you like me to take him for a moment?” They both turn to see Peli’s slender assistant hovering shyly. 

“Oh, actually. If he’ll let me--” the woman says, and Reese steps forward, unable to hide her delight. “Want to say hi?” 

The boy blinks up at Reese with solemn dark eyes as he’s passed over but he’s quiet. Peli grins as her assistant smiles down at him. The girl has a soft spot for babies. The woman pulls the backpack off her shoulder and rifles around in it for a moment before she pulls out a stack of worn bills. 

Peli lifts her eyebrows slightly at this, but hell, it’s better than a check. She takes the stack of bills from the woman and Reese reluctantly hands the boy back over. He immediately latches on to the woman again, the worn blue jacket he’s wrapped in falling over her arm. Peli pulls the keys for the Crest off the rack behind the counter and starts to hand them over before she sees the expression on the woman’s face. She almost looks afraid as she reaches for them. Something about this whole situation just isn’t right…and smarts be damned, but the Maker made Peli with a heart too soft for her own good. 

“You need anything else?” She asks as she hands over the keys. 

“Do you--” The young woman pauses to shift the bag back onto her shoulder. She sounds anxious. “Do you have a phone I could use?” 

“Sure. Back here.” Peli beckons her around the counter and into the tiny office. She switches on the dust-covered lamp and shuffles the stacked piles of invoices and orders out of the way of the old landline. 

“Thanks,” the woman breaths out, letting the bag slip off her shoulder and onto the floor next to the desk. She digs a scrap of paper out of her pocket and moves the baby to her other arm to dial. 

Peli leaves the room but lingers just outside the door. It’s not that she thinks the girl is up to anything nefarious, but there’s a tightness around her eyes that doesn’t sit right with the mechanic, and that baby is just so quiet. Where is the man they came with? And why doesn’t she have a cell phone? 

There’s silence for half a minute before the woman lets out a string of colorful expletives. When she speaks again, her voice is low and worried, but Peli can still make out what she’s saying. 

“It’s me. They found us. We got away and back to the garage but I’m--look, you just need to get here. The truck’s done so we--” the woman stops to draw in a hasty breath, “--we’re just waiting on you. Please hurry.”

The receiver is set back in the cradle with a quiet click. Peli manages to hold her patience for about five seconds before she peers around the doorway. 

The woman is leaning back against the desk, the boy pulled close to her chest as she looks blankly at the floor. Peli’s boots scuff the worn cement and the woman looks up. They stare at each other for a moment, and there’s genuine fear in the woman’s eyes. The mechanic curses her soft squishy heart again as she leans against the doorway, one hand on her hip. 

“You all in some kind of trouble?” She asks gently. The woman just swallows and looks away. 

Oh yeah, they’re in trouble alright. How much and with whom, remains to be seen. 

“We--” The woman stops. “We’re just trying to get somewhere safe. We don’t want any trouble.” 

The line comes straight out of a sob story, but the tremor in the young woman’s hands makes Peli think maybe this one is legit. Still, no reason not to press a little. 

“You owe somebody money?” Better to get the most likely possibilities out of the way first. 

The woman looks up quickly. “No. No, nothing like that. We just--” She shifts the boy higher up on her shoulder and he curls a hand into the collar of her jacket. If it’s an act, it’s the best one Peli’s ever seen. “There are people trying to find us. To take him from me. And we can’t--the authorities can’t help us.” 

“And that man with you?” 

“He’s protecting us.” 

Peli hmphs. That makes a little more sense, given the man’s jumpiness on Monday. “The ones looking for you, do they know you’re here?” 

“No, I don’t think so. I’m just waiting for him to get back and we’ll be gone.” 

The mechanic looks at her for a long moment, and her eyes move from the young woman’s haggard face to the baby. Heaving a hefty sigh, Peli crosses her arms.

“Here’s what we’re going to do.” She jerks her chin out towards the front of the garage. “I’m going to ask my assistant to pull your truck into the bay. That way if they’re looking for your vehicle, they won’t see it right out there. You and your boy stay back here, and we’ll keep an eye out for anyone who looks like trouble in the meantime. Sound alright to you?” 

“Thank you,” the woman stammers. “I can’t--thank you.” The relief in her voice is palpable.

Peli nods firmly and wipes her hand off on her coveralls before holding it out. “Peli Motto.” 

“Senha Rohdin.” The woman, Senha, turns slightly so the side of the baby’s face is visible. He watches her warily out of one warm brown eye for a moment before tucking his face back into the woman’s shoulder. “This is Samir.” 

Some part of Peli wonders how far they’d come before breaking down, and how far they have yet to go. She shakes her head before that particular train can leave the station though, she’s already taken in one in need, and Senha seems set to make her own way. At least you can ease this one’s path a little. 

“We’ll keep an eye out. You let us know when your man is on his way.” 

*        *        *        *        *        *        *

The waiting is so much worse than the running. 

Senha watches the clock on the wall tick agonizingly slowly from three to three-thirty before there’s a hurried knock on the door and Peli’s assistant comes in, not waiting for Senha to answer. She closes the door behind her, and when she turns to face Senha her grey eyes are wide. 

“There’s two men outside. Big men.” 

Senha forces herself to take a deep breath. They’ve been lucky, but it looks like that luck has just run out. “You should leave.” 

The assistant chews her lip and Senha can see her thinking. She takes a step towards the girl, cradling Samir against her chest. “Reese, right?” The girl meets her gaze and nods. “You and Peli need to get out of here. I don’t want you two hurt on our account. You’ve done enough.” 

The mechanic’s assistant nods reluctantly and heads back out to the bay, presumably to get Peli. Senha takes in another deep breath and lets it out slowly before she kneels and tucks Samir under the desk. He looks at her skeptically with an expression so close to Din’s that it almost hurts, and she runs a hand over his soft curls. “We’re gonna be just fine, little man.” 

There’s footsteps from outside the door and Senha looks up quickly. Peli and Reese are standing there, watching them both with identical worried expressions. 

“Is he close?” 

She tries in vain to feel the confidence she injects into her voice. “I’m sure he is. We’ll be fine. We’re just going to hole up back here. But I don’t want you to be any more involved than you already are.” 

Peli lets out a long breath before she nods. “Alright. Go lock up all the bay doors except the ones by the truck,” she says to Reese. Her assistant hurries out and Peli turns back to Senha, fixing her with a strict glance. 

“You look after that little one. And tell your man to get his clutch checked sometime in the next four hundred miles.” She almost sounds annoyed, and Senha smiles in spite of the situation.

“Thank you, for everything. I’m sorry if we’ve brought any trouble on you.” 

Peli raises her chin towards the back wall of the office. “If trouble does come for you, I’ve got a shotgun stashed in the bay. Back of the first cabinet above the workbench to your right. May not be much help but...”

Senha nods. She hopes to hell they don’t get to that point, but it’s another tip of the scales in their favor. “Thank you. I’ll remember.” 

A moment later they’re gone, and Senha’s locked the door behind her. Now all there is to do is wait. 

Which is, as previously determined, awful. 

“Okay. I can do this.” She ticks items off on her fingers. “Kid is hidden. Called Din and told him where we are. He’ll be here soon, and when he does, he’s gonna fuck ‘em up.” She says the last fiercely, unzipping Din’s backpack and pulling out his pistol. “Until then, I can hold us. I’ve got the gun-- Oh shit.” Her mouth falls open as she looks from the gun to the door. “Oh fuck, I’ve got the gun.” 

Scrambling to her feet, she dials the number for Din’s burner phone a second time and almost goes lightheaded with relief when the familiar baritone picks up on the first ring. 

“Senha?” 

“So, slight problem.” 

*        *        *        *        *        *        *

“I’m ten minutes away at most.” He looks around the edge of the truck towards where Chert is unfolding in front of them. “Is there anywhere you can hide?” 

“We’re locked in the mechanic’s office. Din, I’ve got your gun, but the mechanic, she’s got a shotgun in the--” She pauses as if she’s trying to remember, “--Back of the first cabinet above the workbench to your right.”

“Okay. You remember what I told you yesterday about using mine?” 

“Safety off. Ten shots. Aim for the largest body mass.” She recites his instructions steadily. “We’ll be alright. Just get here as soon as you can.” 

“Ten minutes. Less now. Stay hidden as long as you can.” 

“Din," she says, and there’s a note of worry in her voice, “be careful, okay?”

“You too.” 

There’s the tell-tale energy thrumming through his limbs as he recognizes the intersection they pull up to from the tow-truck ride a few days before. Before any of the other men can so much as yell, he vaults over the edge of the truck bed and bolts through the slow-moving traffic to the sidewalk, a move half-remembered from years ago. A few cars honk and one swerves, but he hits the sidewalk running and doesn’t stop, heading for the garage.

*        *        *        *        *        *        *

Senha kneels next to the desk, trying to keep out of view of the window into the hallway. Sheltered under the top of it, Samir leans into her side. He’d been a moment from tears since before Peli and Reese left, as if he’s able to pick up on Senha’s anxiety, but he’s quiet now. His eyes are open, but he seems almost in a trance. His lack of any emotion makes Senha deeply uneasy, but it’s just not something they can focus on right now. Once it’s over. She just hopes he’s exhausted himself.

Din’s backpack is back over her shoulders, and her day bag was thrown helpfully into the backseat of the truck by Peli and Reese on their way out the back. She can feel moist spots on Din’s jacket where her palms haven’t stopped sweating, and her stomach roils with sick fear. She’s honestly not sure how much more of this she can take. 

Her head lifts an inch when she hears a deep, muffled voice from outside the door. The voice is unmistakably male and too deep to be Din’s. Senha hunches down lower, a prickling sensation climbing her spine as she resists peering up over the edge of the desk and out the window into the hallway, afraid of what she might see. 

As someone outside tries the locked door, she strokes Samir’s forehead, rocking him slightly against her side. 

“We’re gonna get out of here, little man, I promise." She whispers. "I promise.” 

Eyes still hazy and half-closed, he’s lethargic as she wraps him more tightly in Din’s jacket and gently pushes him as far under the desk as she can. The knot in her stomach pulls even tighter at his unusual complacency. The door handle jiggles again and she gets to one knee, picking the gun up with sweaty hands. 

There’s scuffled sounds from outside, and her heart climbs up into her throat. All she wants is to crawl under the desk with Samir and make all of this go away. She recoils when something hits the door with a sharp crack.

When she looks up, the large man who’d sat next to her in the van stands in the doorway. He steps into the room, throwing the fire extinguisher he used as an impromptu battering ram to the floor beside him. Senha shifts closer to the desk, coming shakily to her feet. The man stops when he sees her pointing the gun at him, but doesn’t look overly concerned. Instead, he looks around the room, small blue eyes searching the bare furnishings. 

“Where’s the boy?” He rumbles. From his tone, he could be asking about something as benign as the weather. As if she wasn’t pointing a lethal weapon at him. 

“Get fucked.” Senha bites out, tightening her grip on the gun. 

The man looks at her, his expression patronizing. “I know that he is hidden here. And I know the Mandalorian is not here. Just you. I do not think you will shoot me.” He starts to take a step forward and Senha raises the gun higher. He stops. 

“You really want to bet on that?” If he takes one more step towards them, she’ll shoot him. She will shoot this man. 

The man cocks his head to one side, almost curious in a bored sort of way. “You are not the boy’s mother. You do not have to die for him. Turn him over to me, and I will let you walk away from here.” 

She meets his gaze for a long moment, searching those cold blue eyes. “No, you won’t.” 

The realization should terrify her, but somehow it almost makes it easier. If she’s not getting out of this alive, the least she can do is buy Din a few more minutes and force this man to step over her corpse to get to Samir.

He shrugs carelessly, sighing before he speaks in thickly accented Ebryian. “You are right, I will not. No witnesses, so you will die either way. But,” he raises one thick forefinger, “tell me where he is and I will make your death quick. Continue to hide him from me, I will make it slow. Simple choice for you, I should think?” 

He takes another step towards her and her finger pulls tight on the trigger. The gun jumps in her hand and the sound is so much louder than she thought it would be in the small space. Almost on instinct, she pulls the trigger again. 

The man in front of her doesn’t fall as she expects though, just sways backwards like a tree in the wind. He looks back at her and his eyes are almost surprised. Senha breathes quickly, her hands shaking enough that she doesn’t think she could hit him again if she tried. 

She wants to cry when he lets out a bark of laughter and raps his knuckles against his chest and something harder than flesh thunks under his closed fingers. He’s wearing body armor. 

“I did not think you had it in you! But then again, a Mandalorian would not choose someone without courage, yes? Still, I give you one last chance to be smart. Die fast and easy, or slow. I will take the boy either way.” 

“No one is taking the kid anywhere.” Senha grinds out and tightens her hands, taking aim at the man again. 

*        *        *        *        *        *        *

Din sinks to a low crouch as he approaches the garage, slipping behind the rancid-smelling dumpster of the building beside it. There’s one man, the youngest one of the group, leaning against the wall outside the office. The other man isn’t in sight and Din shoves down the most likely location his mind gives for where he could be. 

Shifting to the other side of the dumpster, he sees the rollup door on the back side of the garage is open and throws another quick look to the front. The younger man appears to be cleaning his nails with a knife, paying no attention. Thank manda for rookies. 

Din sprints for the the garage, and puts his back against the rough brick wall, waiting. But there’s no expected yell from the man up front, no footsteps. He slips in through the roll-up door to the mechanic’s bay. He can’t see either of the men from here but artificial light streams in from the front area of the shop. 

Just as Senha had said, the truck sits in the repair bay. As he passes it, he notes that the keys are already in the ignition and her bag is in the backseat. 

Moving carefully through the doorway to the front area of the shop, he stops out of sight of the thick window looking into the shop’s office. He’s hidden in the shadows but the inhabitants of the office don’t seem to be paying him any attention anyway. Senha stands next to an old desk, pointing his gun at the huge man who’d noticed the mythosaur amulet. The man’s body language is relaxed and his mouth is moving. Din searches what he can see of the room but the kid’s nowhere in sight. 

Where the hell is he?  

He forces himself to breathe. If they had Samir already, the man, Lars, wouldn’t be bothering with Senha. She’s hidden the kid somewhere. Smart girl. Din strides back into the bay and jerks open the cabinets above the work bench to the left. His eyes scan quickly over parts and dust and papers, but there’s no shotgun. He curses, and is about to open the next cabinet when two shots ring out in quick succession. 

Fuck.  

Already moving back through the doorway, Din pulls the knife from his boot and flicks it open. It’s far from the best weapon he could have but it’s something. He darts down the hall, and into the office. The huge man, clearly unfazed by the shots, is speaking when Din wraps his left arm around his neck. The hunter twists in his grip and the knife he’d intended to embed into the man’s neck sinks instead into the meat of his trapezius muscle. 

The man curses in Suebian, his hands coming up to latch onto Din’s arm. Knowing his window of opportunity to control the man is closing fast, Din pushes his left foot into the back of the hunter’s knee and pulls backwards to bring him down to the ground. He yanks the knife out and turns to straddle high up on the hunter’s massive chest, forcing the man’s arms over his head. He can feel the hunter trying to reach him with his legs or buck him off but he just holds on, blood from the stab wound on the man’s shoulder smearing the cement floor under them.

Senha darts to the desk, dropping his gun as she kneels. A moment later she pulls Samir out from under the desk, wrapped in his jacket. 

“Go!” Din barks, trying to maintain his grip on the hunter as the man does his best to wrench himself free. “Get him out of here!” 

*        *        *        *        *        *        *

Senha books it out of the room as Lars bucks hard enough to throw Din off over his head but she doesn’t stop. She’s got to trust that he saw her drop the gun by the desk.

The front door opens behind her, and she races around the corner without waiting to see the other man come in. She flinches down at the sound of a gunshot behind her, stumbling through the open door the mechanics bay. A man yells in Suebian as she slams the door behind her and throws the deadbolt, panting. 

The bay doors to the garage behind and in front of the truck are both open but she’s got to count on the locked door behind her slowing them down. Anything to buy them another minute. On cue, she hears a body slam up against the door but it holds. 

She climbs up into the driver’s seat and turns to get Samir into his car seat. Din’s backpack strap gets caught on the arm rest and she yanks it off and dumps it in the passenger seat. She can vaguely hear herself almost sobbing as she buckles Samir in, but the boy is just dead weight in her arms. She’d barely noticed the fact that he hadn’t even cried out at the sound of the gunshots, but now her stomach knots up. 

“Samir?” She asks, checking his forehead and cheeks. He’s not feverish or injured, there’s no blood on him. “Sweetheart?” The toddler doesn’t respond or meet her eyes, but his breaths are slow and steady.

“Fuck,” she whispers under her breath. She’s almost certain he’s in shock, which all things considered might be the best thing right now, but his listlessness is nauseating. Twisting around, she digs into the day bag and pulls Basa out of it. The boy barely stirs as she tucks the dragon into his lap, hardly even acknowledging the stuffy’s presence. 

She can hear yelling behind the door now, and she glances over her shoulder before looking back to Samir. His small fingers lie limp on the soft ridges of fabric along Basa’s back. 

They could leave now, and they’d almost certainly be able to get away. Din had told her to get Samir out of there, she has the number for his friend. She knows he’s trying to buy them time, that he expects them to already be gone. Expects that he’ll give his life for them to have time to escape. And if she doesn’t go back, he will almost certainly die. He’s outnumbered, and she can’t imagine his anger if she were to gamble Samir’s safety for his own. 

But she can’t leave the man behind. She can’t let them take him from Samir. He’s all the kid has left. Senha turns back around in the seat, her decision made.  

“I’m gonna go get your dad before he gets himself killed. I’ll be right back.” 

Hands shaking, she wrenches the keys in the ignition to start the truck’s engine. The sound is lost under the buzzing growing in her ears. She jumps down from the seat and strides over to the cabinets mounted over the workbench to the right. 

Straining up on her toes, Senha jerks the cabinet door open and her relief is like liquid courage at the sight of the old shotgun inside. She has no idea if the weapon is loaded or if there’s anything different about using it. At this point she’s just trying not to think about what she’ll do if he’s dead when she finds him. If he was dead they’d be on you already, some part of her reasons. 

She can see her hands shaking but she can’t feel the tremors anymore. Instead, a low level of electricity runs just under her skin to match the roaring in her ears. Not giving herself any more time to think, Senha throws the deadbolt back and slams the door open with all her weight. 

Halfway through its swing, the door strikes something hard and there’s a muffled curse. In front of her, the younger hunter stumbles backwards clutching his face and bent over slightly. Something savage and hot blooms in her chest as she brings the shotgun up, planting her feet.

Through the window to her left she can see Din and the big hunter grappling, but she tears her eyes away. She can’t focus on them, she has to keep her focus on the man in front of her. Her job is to keep him from getting through to Samir until Din handles the other guy. 

Please, Maker, let Din be able to handle the other guy. 

Blood drips from between the younger man’s fingers as they curl over his nose and mouth. He starts to bend for the expensive-looking gun on the floor between them before noticing Senha and the shotgun pointed at him. He very slowly, very deliberately straightens, moving his hands away from his body. She raises it higher and the man meets her gaze, his eyes bright with anger. 

And she can’t do it. 

Even knowing that if the situation was reversed she would be dead, knowing Din would have done it in a heartbeat, Senha cannot pull the trigger on an unarmed man. 

After a moment, a dark grin crosses the man’s face. He knows she can’t shoot him. He lowers his hands back to his sides and cocks his head at her. “Did you think you were gonna come back here and rescue your man? Gun me down in a blaze of glory?” He takes a step towards her and Senha backs up instinctively. “Do you even know how to use that?” He sneers, nodding towards the weapon she’s holding. 

There’s a muted roar and she looks over through the window to see Din slam his forehead into the big hunter’s nose. The other man’s head snaps back with a cry. The hunter in front of her moves so quickly she doesn’t even have time to look back before he rips the shotgun out of her hands. He turns it on her and Senha freezes. Chuckling to himself, the younger man wipes blood from his face with the back of one hand and moves in until the barrel of the shotgun rests at the base of her throat. 

“Still feeling brave, whore?”

Senha’s back hits the metal door. The man grins, runnels of blood painting his teeth from a split lip. He motions with his chin to the door behind her.

“We’re gonna take a little walk while my associate finishes taking care of your boyfriend, and you’re going to show me where you hid the kid. I might even let you say goodbye before I put you down.”

Senha has a moment to think of the little boy in the truck behind her, his eyes blank and unfocused. And the man fighting for his life in the office to her left. She’s failed both of them. 

There’s one shot from behind him and the hunter’s body jerks. The right side of his head is gone, disintegrated into a small cloud of gore. He’s close enough that hot, wet droplets spatter onto her face and neck, and she flinches. Something doesn’t compute as the man’s body slides down the wall beside her, the shotgun clattering on the cement floor. 

Din limps around the corner. “Where’s the kid?” His voice is tight with pain.

Still processing the change in her fortunes, Senha blinks and rubs at the hollow of her throat. The buzzing in her ears is lighter now, but she feels numb. “In--in the truck.” 

Stepping closer, Din wipes something off her cheek with his thumb. “Did he hurt you?” His voice is gentler now and, mixed with the gesture, feels so out of place for what just happened that it jars her out of her haze. 

She shakes her head, turning to look at him. The right leg of his jeans is covered in blood, the fabric sticking to the outside of his leg. “You’re--” 

“It’s fine, just grazed me. Can you drive?”  

“Yeah. I can…” She shakes her head again, it feels like she’s surfacing from deep underwater. “What about the other guy?” 

“Not in any shape to be coming after us. But we need to get out of here.” 

She leads them back into the mechanics bay. Din makes his way gingerly around to the passenger side and hoists himself in, grunting quietly in pain. Climbing up into the driver’s side, she leans back to check on Samir. The boy still breathes slowly and his eyes are half open, he almost seems asleep. Her throat is tight and her eyes burn, but she doesn’t know how to help him other than to get them all the hell away from here and somewhere safe and quiet. If a place like that even exists for them now.

Din twists around in his seat. “Is he alright?” 

“I--” The sob she’s trying to hold back makes her voice wobble. “I don’t know. I think so, I think he’s just in shock. He’s not injured. But the running and the gunshots--” Her breath starts to come faster and her hands start shaking again. Din closes one hand over hers and squeezes lightly.

“You kept him safe. We’ll figure the rest out later. Right now we need to get out of here.”  

Senha turns back around and fastens her seatbelt mechanically before shifting the gear lever down into drive. The belt digs into her shoulder from her perch on the edge of the seat, but it’s irrelevant. Far away. 

The route she’d studied that morning comes back hazily and she fixates on remembering the next turn over and over until they’re on an old highway outside of Chert. 

In her peripheral vision she sees Din’s head constantly moving, looking back and around, but he says nothing. Senha’s heart has stopped beating altogether, like it’s hiding in her chest. Afraid to make a sound, just like Samir. She feels more like a droid than a human as she shifts through and the tires keep turning over cracked and aging pavement. There’s a low rumble of thunder and drops of cold rain begin to splatter against the windshield. 

*        *        *        *        *        *        *

Seeing Senha disappear around the corner just ahead of the younger hunter, hearing the door slam and the man’s growl of frustration, Din had felt a flood of vicious satisfaction. It didn’t matter what else happened, they would escape. He’d already outlived his own luck several times, if this was the occasion where his luck fell through for himself, he was ready to give it away. 

And then, when he’d heard the young hunter spit curses and seen Senha through the window with her back to the door and her jaw set, all that relief had turned to rage. He vaguely remembers slamming his forehead into Lars’ nose with an impact that left him dizzy. He remembers using the opportunity to get his hands around the man’s throat. He’d wanted to squeeze until there was no chance the man still drew breath, but he’d seen the younger hunter yank the gun from Senha’s hands as she looked over, and he’d been forced to leave the older hunter unconscious and bleeding. 

Senha’s wide brown eyes and the bit of gore on her cheek had pulled him back to center. She hadn’t shied from him when he’d wiped it off, touching her as gently as he could. 

She’d come back. With a clear escape available and Samir safe in her arms, with a locked door between them and danger, she’d come back. Hands shaking, facing someone she was smart enough to know had significant advantages over her, she’d come back. 

For him. 

The reasoning gets twisted and tangled inside of him as they speed down the old highway. The hunters, the child, Senha, his tribe, Concordia. It all spirals together in a haze of exhaustion and relief and pain until he can barely think over it all. He’s trying to focus on keeping an eye out for anyone following them, but the urge to look to Samir is building in him like rising water. 

When the highway stretches empty ahead and behind them, Din finally gives into the urge, turning in his seat and looking down at the boy. Samir’s eyes are mostly closed, and he’s got one hand on the purple dragon in his lap. The feeling of drowning immediately gives way, and Din is lightheaded with relief. They have at least managed to keep him safe. He lets out a long breath and leans down to touch his forehead to the boy’s. 

To his shock, Samir jolts, screaming. Din reaches out, trying to find the source of his pain, but the boy jerks away from him, thrusting his hands out to push Din from him. He cries in high-pitched, frantic sobs as he tries vainly to curl himself away. Din’s heart is pounding as he searches for an injury but there’s no blood, nothing that would make the kid scream like this. 

“Sam’ika, udesii. Udesii, ad’ika." As he speaks, he tries to trail his fingers down Samir's temples in the gesture that usually calms him. Whimpering, the boy cowers away from him and something in Din’s chest cracks apart. The last few days, weeks, the last decade breaks off like the side of a mountain tearing loose, slowly ripping him apart from the inside and leaving jagged tracts of ruined ground behind. 

“Ni ceta,” his voice breaks. “Ni ceta, ad’ika. Ni ceta, ni ceta. Gar morut’yc. Gar morut’yc, ori’haat.” Samir continues to shrink away from him, hyperventilating and thrashing frantically when he tries to touch him. Din finally just hunches over the back of his seat, his chest aching and his leg on fire and hot tears streaming down his face. 

Senha’s hand touches his back on and off as she shifts through gears and drives into the rain. He has no idea where she’s going but he doesn’t really care. There’s nowhere for them at this point. His tribe is scattered, Razan is gone, Matas…

He has no idea how much time goes by before his breathing returns to something normal, but when he raises his head again, the rain has stopped. The sky is starting to settle into the purple of dusk and there’s nothing around but high desert. Peering over the back of the seat through salt-crusted lashes, he sees Samir looking back up at him. 

The fingertips of one of his hands rest lightly on the boy’s shoulder and Samir doesn’t shy away from it now, just watches Din quietly. Moving slowly, Din lifts his forefinger and smooths it against the toddler’s cheek. Samir turns into the gesture, and Din stifles a choked sob of relief. He starts to pull himself over the console and into the back seat, intent on just holding the child, before a bolt of pain in his thigh reminds him of his injury.

Instead, he lets out a ragged breath and leans down to touch his forehead to Samir’s again. When a small hand comes up to brush his cheek this time, Din doesn’t bother to hold back his tears, though he’s surprised he has anything left in him. 

“Ori’haat, Sam’ika. Gar morut’yc, ner ad’ika.” The words are raspy, barely more than a whisper as he brushes shaking fingers down the boy’s temples. Needing the contact of his hand on Samir’s shoulder, he sits back up slowly and takes stock of himself. His head feels like it weighs at least ten pounds more than usual, and his throat and lungs ache. The blood on his jeans has dried sticky and stiff, and a dull spike of pain pulses in the torn skin underneath. 

There’s a sniff from the driver’s seat and he turns to see tears sliding down Senha’s face. She’s perched on the edge of the driver’s seat, not having moved it from Din’s position. Her small hands are clenched tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white. She stares resolutely ahead, but he can see her chest rising and falling rapidly, and there’s a tremor in her arms and shoulders. Flecks of dark brown stain her cheek and neck and shirt, and the smear across her left wrist shows where she’s unconsciously wiped at her face. 

“You alright?” He asks hoarsely. 

“Yeah.” She sniffs. “You’re the one who’s been shot.” 

“You’re crying.” 

She swipes a hand over her face and looks at it, surprised. “Oh.” Pulling her jacket sleeve down over her hand, she wipes her other cheek with it. “I’m alright. Though we should find a place to pull over so I can check that.” She nods over to his leg

“We should keep moving.” Din says quietly.

“It won’t take long.” 

He almost argues before he gives in, realizing that this is something familiar he can let her do. He nods tiredly.

Fifteen minutes later, they pull off onto a gravel access road that winds upwards onto one of the mesas. Senha finally stops the truck behind a large stony outcropping and cuts the engine. There’s just the sound of the wind through the open windows, and she leans back in the seat for a moment and just closes her eyes. She looks haggard, and the circles under her eyes from the past few days are more pronounced than ever. Din can’t imagine he looks any better, and Samir’s cheeks and ears are pink with exhaustion. 

They are, in a word, a mess. 

When Din steps out of the truck, Samir immediately starts hyperventilating, and sits up in his carseat to try and reach for him. Din opens the back door just meaning to comfort him, but instead he finds himself unbuckling the boy from his carseat and burying his nose in his hair. 

Coming around from the other side, Senha lays a hand on his back and motions with the medical kit in her other hand towards the back of the truck. “Let’s see what we’re working with.” 

It’s so close to the same words she’d used two weeks ago when she’d stitched him up. He’d told her to go that night as well, and she hadn’t obeyed him either. Every decision we make impacts our future in ways we can’t fathom, Din'ika, Razan’s voice murmurs as he helps her ease his right leg out of his jeans and sits down on the tailgate. Samir has his face buried in Din’s neck, and he’d rather Senha cut his leg clean off than put the boy down. 

She’s quiet as she works, cleaning the deep graze and applying an antiseptic to it before wrapping a bandage over the gauzed area and helping him redress himself. 

“I’ll check it again tomorrow morning. You got lucky, though you're gonna have a scar.” She says finally, rummaging in the med-kit and coming out with a bottle of pain-reliever. “You want--” 

Her words cut off when Din stills her hand with his own and lowers his forehead to hers.

“I told you to go.” All the anger he’d felt seeing her return is gone, drained away, leaving him raw around the edges. “You were supposed to leave.” 

“I know.” Senha’s voice is soft as she shakes her head slowly, her nose brushing against his. “I couldn’t.” She leans into him more heavily for a moment before she reaches out to stroke the back of her hand down Samir's arm. “He alright?” 

“As much as he can be, I think. Can you take him?” Din asks, and she puts the bottle of pain relievers down on the tailgate next to him.

He hears a hitched breath from her as she pulls the child close but she says nothing as she presses a kiss to the tiny brown curls at the crown of his head. Din wets a pad of the gauze and captures her cheek in one hand, dabbing at the dried blood on her face. He can tell the instant she realizes what he’s doing. She stops swaying with Samir and looks ill. 

“Ni ceta, cyar’ika.”

She tilts her head into his palm as she rubs circles into Samir’s back. “What does that mean?” 

“There are two ways to apologize in Mando’a.” Din continues his task, turning her face gently to one side to clean off a smudge by her ear. “One is for small things. N'eparavu takisit, ‘I eat my insult’. The other is ni ceta.” 

He cleans one last fleck of blood from just under her left eye and lowers the gauze to his lap. “It means ‘I kneel’.” 

Senha’s lips part in surprise and she pauses long enough that Din feels a flush start to crawl up the back of his neck. He twists to put the used gauze to the side. 

“How--” Senha asks hesitantly. “How do you say, ‘I forgive you’?”

He turns back and swallows. “Ke’lamot. It means 'rise'.” 

She steps closer and her hip presses lightly against his leg. Samir is asleep against her shoulder, two fingers in his mouth. Din barely breathes when she leans forward and rests her forehead against his. 

“Ke’lamot.” She’s close enough that he can feel her breath against his cheek as she exhales the word, and he closes his eyes. She can’t know what this means, but he lets himself believe for a moment that she does. They stay like that for one, two heartbeats before she pulls away and reaches for the bottle of pain relievers. “Take one at least. You need it.” 

He starts to shake his head. “It’s just a graze--” 

“You were shot.” Senha says, and while her voice is mild, the familiar sharpness in her gaze settles him. “So you’re going to take a damn painkiller, get back in the truck, and sleep for a few hours while I drive. Please.” 

Din just studies her for a minute. Her eyes are irritated from crying, and her hair’s largely come down from its neat bun. She looks tired beyond words, but there’s so much fight left in her even now. Mandokarla, some part of him whispers. 

Taking the medication from her with a crooked smile, he dry-swallows it before reaching to take Samir back, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a smile. “You don’t know where we’re going.” 

She raises her eyebrows, crumpling the trash from the dressings in her fist and closing the medkit up. “Why don’t you enlighten me then.”

Sliding off the tailgate and back to his feet, Din shifts Samir in his arms. At this point, there’s only one possibility that will offer the safety they need. He doesn’t even know whether it’s open to them, but he has to trust that the offer still stands. If you ever need a place, vod, you’ll have it. Aliit ori'shya tal'din. 

“We’re heading north.” 

Chapter Text

Payne is going over his notes when Sil walks into their shared office. He starts to ask her a question before noticing she’s carrying a day bag and a small sheath of papers.

“Going on a trip?” he asks.

“We are,” she says, tossing him the packet of papers. Damn, she had actually printed out his itinerary. “You familiar with a town called Chert? West of here?”

Payne shrugs. “Never heard of it. Is it instate?”

“No, about a hundred miles west and north of the state border, up in Almandine. I just got a message from the local office there. Police report got flagged and forwarded to me. I think it involves our guy.”

“Oh?”

Sil leans back against the desk, looking thoughtful. “Apparently his truck, from the description and plate numbers, was in a mechanic’s shop up there right before a band of thugs showed up and shot up the place. Owner wisely fled before shit got started. Got back to find the perp’s truck gone, a bunch of bleach thrown over blood, white matter, and bone fragments.”

He puts the packet down on the desk, eyebrows raised. “Office up there didn’t get a statement from the owner?”

“That’s from the statement the local office took, but if he was there, I’m thinking she might know more than she’s saying. So we,” Sil nods to him as she stands, pulling the strap of her daybag back over her shoulder, “are going to hop a quick flight up there to have a word with her.”

Payne stands and grabs his jacket, resigning himself to being along for the ride. “What about the Guild enforcer? Weren't you all gung-ho to have a talk with her?”

Sil turns back to him, a satisfied glint in her eyes.“Oh, she left town this morning on her way to Ibiza for the weekend. I had her passport flagged and asked the transportation authority to detain her at the airport. We’ll have a chat with her when we get back.”

* * * * * * *

Cara had been relieved to receive a short text from Din the day before. It didn’t say much, only that they’d made it out, were headed somewhere safe, and were going dark. She’d be lying if she said her relief at being off the hook for an impromptu rescue effort was single-minded though. Sure, the tickets are refundable, but she’s been looking forward to this trip with her baby sister. The sister in question, who has managed to keep herself on the more reputable side of things in contrast to her older sibling, is in desperate need of a weekend to relax, and Cara is intent on making sure that happens.

She’s on autopilot as she hands over her tickets and passport to the immigration control authority. The immigration officer reads the document carefully before his eyes move back up to hers. He gestures to his left. “There seems to be an issue with your passport, ma’am. If you could please follow me?”

Cara is about to argue the point when she notices that the number of transportation authority officers that just happen to be nearby, deliberately not watching this one interaction, is well over a half dozen. The other passport control lines are even going slower, as if to keep the general flow of traffic away from the area. Whatever this is, it’s premeditated, and these guys are serious about it, which means it’s likely in her best interest to cooperate for the time being. She follows the imigration officer out of line and over to one of several doors along the sides of the large hall. 

Inside, instead of another uniformed officer there’s a man in plainclothes looking over a file. Standing as Cara enters, he takes her passport from the immigration control officer and flips it open. The door closes and he motions for her to take a seat. 

“Ms. Carasynthia Dune? I’m afraid your sister is going to have to organize her own social calendar this weekend. We have some questions for you.”

* * * * * * *

It’s one of several thousand small independent garages across Ebrya. One large repair bay with an attached office and small reception area. Sil and Payne are in the reception area facing down the disapproving scowl of the owner, an older woman with a riot of brown curls barely contained by a band. A large black and white cat has already been exiled to the small inner office for trying to do everything in its power to knock Payne over via blunt force trauma to the shins.

“Look, I already told the other cop what happened.” The woman says for the third time, her arms crossed firmly over her chest. “If you all are finally getting off your butts to do something, you should be going after those big guys, not bothering me.” 

“I understand that, ma’am, and we appreciate your cooperation,” Payne replies, all polite respect. “We just have a few follow-up questions to ask.” 

The mechanic casts an eye towards the repair bay, where her assistant is elbows deep in an old sedan’s transmission. “Fine, fine. But can we hurry it up a little? I’m burning daylight here.”

“You told the officer that the perpetrators were interested in one of your customers, rather than any property of the shop?” 

“Yes,” she nods. 

“A man, early-thirties, and a baby boy, correct?” Sil interjects.

The expression that crosses the woman’s face is one Sil has seen too many times in those with a more than healthy distrust of authority. Her suspicions are confirmed when the woman tightens her arms over her chest. “Look, unless you got some kind of warrant, I’ve said my piece. Now if you'll excuse me, I’ll have to ask you to either bring in a car for service or get lost.”

Payne responds before Sil can. “Ma’am, we don’t want to waste your time. To be honest with you, that customer of yours is who we’re trying to find. And the little boy with him.”

The mechanic squints at them, brow furrowed. “But she--” She abruptly stops. 

“Sorry, she?” Sil replies urgently.

The mechanic looks at her for a long moment. “The baby’s mother. She came here with the baby first that day. She said that man was protecting them. They were waiting for him when those Suebians showed up.” 

Only years of training and experience stop Sil and Payne from making complete fools of themselves as they exchange glances. Payne speaks first, his words slow and careful. “Just to confirm, the woman was the boy’s mother, and said that the man was protecting them?”

The mechanic sighs, exasperated. “Well, what else would you call someone willing to protect a child with her life, the weekend babysitter? If she’s not the kid’s mother, she’s family of some kind. Why are you so interested in finding them and not the thugs who shot up the place?” 

Sil sees an opportunity to potentially leverage the situation in their favor. “Ma’am, right now there are some very powerful and dangerous people looking for that woman and her child. But me and my partner can’t help them if we don’t know where they are. Anything you can tell us might help us find them and keep that baby safe.”

The woman looks down for a moment, her index finger tapping against her bicep, before she meets Sil’s eyes again. “Look, I don’t know where they went, okay? When those Suebian thugs showed up, she told me and my assistant to get ourselves out. Said she didn’t want us to get hurt, and that she had to wait for the man to come back. We took her advice and got the hell out of there. Came back to find them and the truck gone, and brains splattered all over my damn wall.” She exhales hard through her nose. “I’m not going to stand here in my shop and let you treat me or them like the bad guys here. You want to do something useful, get to finding those Suebians looking to kidnap a kid and kill his mother.”

“Is that what she said they wanted to do? Kill her and take the boy?” Payne asks. 

The mechanic shrugs. “She sure as hell seemed to think so. And from what I saw, I’m glad I got out before they all started shooting one another. Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of a concrete floor?”

Sil raises her hands placatingly. “Yes, I understand ma’am. Did you happen to get her name?”

The suspicion is back in the woman’s eyes. It’s such a simple question, but the ignorance implied in its asking clearly makes her suspicious. Sil rushes to regain the upper hand of trust. 

“Ma’am, I’m not trying to get them into trouble, I’m trying to get them out of it. But right now I’ve got very little to go on. If you just give me the mother’s name or where they were headed, that’ll make it a lot easier for me to help her.”

“I already told you, I don’t know where they were headed.” She hesitates for another long moment before running a hand through her hair and sighing in defeat. “She said her name was Senha Rohdin. If that helps you put whoever is hunting her behind bars, good. And if you use that information to hurt that little baby, well--there are consequences beyond this world for actions like that.” 

“All I’m trying to do is to get this family out of danger, ma’am. Thank you for your cooperation. We won’t take any more of your time.” She motions Payne to follow her and exits the garage.

The two are quiet until Sil pulls away, and Payne looks over at her. “Well, that certainly throws a wrench into things. This is the first we’ve heard of a woman with him.”

Sil keeps her eyes on the road, trying to make sense of the information. “First this guy turns the kid over to PhenoVisage under the commission. Then he goes back for him. I was thinking he’d found a higher bidder, but if this woman is the kid’s family...what if he took a commission from her to get him back? Or had a change of heart and he’s trying to get them to safety to make up for taking the commission in the first place? And then that lawyer...” Sil recalls the look of victory, almost relief, in the woman’s gaze when Sil had told her there was a child involved. You will find no better guardian than a Mandalorian. 

Payne inclines his head, his voice dubious. “If she’s the kid’s family, wouldn’t she have filed a missing-person’s report when Djarin took the kid in the first place? And if he took a commission to get the kid back, we should’ve seen something in the Guild records about her hiring this guy to recover the child. That doesn’t make sense either.”

“Speaking of the Guild, the Suebians.” Sil gives him a quick glance. “More of your bounty-hunter friends?”

He shakes his head. “No, there’s no Suebians in the Guild here. Those aren’t local hunters, which means…”

She nods grimly. “Which means we’ve just confirmed that the kid is the asset, and that there’s potentially another party looking for him.”

“You don’t think PhenoVisage paid for a team of their own? That they’re worried we’ll find the perp and the kid first?”

“It could be them, but it could also be an entirely new party looking to get their hands on him. The lab director was pretty clear that this kid represents some significant medical advancements.”

“Did he say what specifically was so special about him?” 

“No, just--something about genetic reconstruction or regeneration.” Sil squints, trying to remember the man’s exact words. “He said the kid was the only complete sample remaining.” 

“Maybe we look at that angle then. Go back to the lab director and figure out what makes the kid so valuable that there could be multiple groups of hunters after him.” 

Sil shakes her head in frustration. “We can’t, remember? There’s too much attention on this case. HQ won’t authorize anything unless I give them irrefutable proof. That means I need more than circumstantial evidence. I need something more solid than a bounty record linking the kid to the company, and some physical evidence showing the kid is with the perp. Until then we can’t touch PhenoVisage and nobody else can either.”

“Or you need the perp. If he knew what was going on there, he might be willing to testify in exchange for a plea bargain.” Payne suggests. “If we find Djarin, maybe we can take down this whole house of cards.”

Sil looks back over at him as she pulls the car into the rental car return. “And perhaps finding out where Ms. Rohdin comes into all this is the first step to knocking it down.”

* * * * * * *

To most who see it, the message appears innocuous. 

A series of symbols running along the center of a page in between mundane notices about upcoming events and tutoring opportunities, looking more like a creative border design than discrete characters. It’s reposted to online forums and message threads. Printed and tacked up on notice boards at community gathering spots and beside yellowing photos behind the counter at specific restaurants. The image is downloaded and shared across group chats and shown on phone screens to next door neighbors and daycare providers. And in a coffee shop in the small town of Minette, a barista copies the symbols onto a sheet of paper in heavy black marker, and posts the paper in the front window of the shop next to the live music events calendar. A man with closely cropped black hair stops a few minutes later and takes a picture of the message with his phone before continuing on his way. 

To the right people, the message is short but informative. 

“Verd and ad’ika being hunted. If they find you, help them. Shelter them, protect the child, and return word.”  

1,500 miles south, Margreta Reid waits for word on the man who has kept to himself for the last six years. The foundling who has never failed to send support for the tribes and who has never reached out for help from those he has served. Whom she had feared had gone beyond the possibility of return and who now carries the most precious thing a mando’ad can have in their possession. 

Foundlings are the future. 

Chapter Text

Six months after they lost Jari in the attack on the marketplace, the war ended. The authoritarian regime toppled, its architects were placed in prison cells awaiting trial and public elections were organized for the first time in nearly twenty years. Din and the other Ebryians prepared to ship back home. 

Except Ebrya didn’t feel like home anymore. 

As Din boarded the helo, he told himself that he wouldn’t be gone long. With the war over and a new, freely-elected government of the people, he and Razan could pack up and come home. Back to the mountains Razan had told him stories of as a child, and that Din had roamed on patrols these last three years. Back to their own people and language. Back to the colorful houses perched on dark stone. 

One corner of his mouth lifting at the thought of it, Din rested his head back as the helo lifted unsteadily off the makeshift landing pad. They had at least twenty minutes to the Red Command exfil site, plenty of time for a nap, and he’d more than learned to take rest where he could get it over the past three years. 

The heavy sound of low-flying aircraft woke him and he blinked a few times, his HUD flickering to life. 

“Din.” Matas shook his shoulder roughly, startling him. “Din, wake up--”

“What?” He squinted through the visor. Matas had one hand on his shoulder and was craning his head to look behind them, out the window of the helo. 

“Fucking--vod, look.” There was something desperate in Matas’ voice that brought Din out of his daze. The other Mandos on the helo were clustered around the windows and he could hear them murmuring. 

He sat up to peer out the window, and at first he thought his HUD was malfunctioning. 

Thick black smoke rolled up past them and dim shades of orange and yellow painted the ground below. “What--?” He muttered, toggling the setting to infrared. Red heat signatures from hundreds of fires burned across the landscape, and his breath caught in his chest. 

“They’re burning the mountains.” Vas whispered incredulously, his voice raw. “Why?” 

Din grabbed the set of earphones off the hook and jammed them over his helmet, not taking his eyes off the outlines of trees burning below. “Lapis 1, what the hell’s going on down there?” 

There was a crackle of static before the pilot answered. “You didn’t hear? Word is Kyr'tsad staged a little coup this morning. Bombed the Parliament and tried to take the Capitol. Seems they weren’t interested in the idea of a democratically elected government. Red Command offered to help take out their stronghold, cut them out at the root.”

“But--” Din cut off his sentence as Matas gripped his arm hard. His friend looked over at him, and Din could read the tension in his body as Matas shook his head firmly.

There was a break in the smoke and ice shot through his veins. The flames he’d seen as dull outlines in his thermal vision were vivid in their ferocity, and were spread as far as he could see. 

There was another roar of a strafing engine above them and a moment later something exploded off to their left, hot flames licking up the lush hillside. They knew these mountains like the backs of their gloves, could name each peak and settlement nestled within their valleys. As the flames incinerated forest and scorched heavy stone, he recognized the distinctive outline of Dral Osaath and a groan escaped him. Families were housed at Osaath, creedborns and foundlings, gathered to escape the violence. 

“Bastards. Fucking--” Matas’ voice was thick with rage. “Rhoroc was right. They knew--knew this was coming.” 

“Vod, we have to--” His friend jerked away from the hand Din laid on his shoulder. “Listen to me! We have to get back to the exfil point.” 

Atai’s voice broke. “They’re killing--” 

“I know.” Din could hear the rage in his friends’ voices, it was echoed in his chest, something hot and red and rotten. “We get back to base and we report this. This can’t be sanctioned.” 

Matas snapped his head up to Din, and he could feel the intensity of the man’s gaze through the black glass visor. “Not sanctioned? You heard the pilot. Red Command volunteered for this. You can’t believe this isn’t exactly what they had planned.” 

“I have to.” Din ground out through his modulator. “Until we know more, I have to believe that they wouldn’t do this. They brought us here to help free Mandalore. Why would they burn it?” 

Matas just shook his head. There was no answer that made sense. 

“Nicom and Larra, the others…” Atai whispered. 

Din swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. There was no telling what had happened to their vode who had chosen to remain behind with their Kyr’tsad brethren, but if the mountains were burning it was nothing good. 

“We need to stay calm.” He said finally. “We get to the exfil point, and we report this. We’ll figure out who’s responsible. Someone will pay for this.” 

* * * * * * *

The dark blue of the sky is just beginning to lighten when he wakes, and the truck is quiet. They’re behind an embankment off the main highway, and he can see the occasional flash of headlights on the road above them. Still wrapped in his jacket, Samir is heavy and warm against his chest. The slow light of dawn illuminates the outline of Senha’s curled form in the driver’s seat, her head tilted sideways against the headrest. She’s turned as if she’d fallen asleep looking back at both of them. 

He hadn’t even attempted to put Samir back in his car seat after Senha had treated the graze on his thigh, but instead had settled himself across the backseat, feet hanging off the bench. Samir had held onto him far too tightly until he finally fell asleep, and Din had followed him into unconsciousness as the painkillers took effect. 

He sits up carefully, trying not to rouse either of them, but Senha jerks awake with a sharply drawn breath. 

“Are you okay?” She sits up and swipes some loose hair behind her ear. 

“Just shifting. I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

Senha turns to peer out at the vanishing stars. “No, we need to keep moving.” She turns back to them. “How’s he doing?”   

“Still out.” Din looks down at the boy sound asleep in his arms. One small hand is bunched in Din’s shirt and the other is curled tightly around one of Basa’s wings. 

“Good. He needs the rest.” Senha lets out a tired breath and starts the truck with a low rumble. “We’ve probably got another three hours worth of gas, but we should stop so I can change the dressing on your leg before then. Try to get some more sleep?” 

Din nods and lets his head fall back against the window as they pull off the dirt road and back onto the paved surface of the highway. He feels like he could sleep for another year at least, but he knows he needs to check the map to keep them on track. He’d shown Senha the vague area they were headed for the previous evening, but finding the waypoint would require some careful searching. Regardless, tomorrow should put them there.

And once they get there...Din has no idea. 

The instructions Matas had given him so long ago to find his family and the Arkose Tribe are reassuringly cryptic. The locations of Mandalorian coverts have always been held close to the chest. Beyond that, having a known location means additional confusion if the covert has to uproot and move to a safer spot. Better to identify a waypoint where those searching can be vetted and, if determined to be true mando’ade , given the covert's location. Except mando’ade searching for a covert usually came from other communities, from known Tribes. What would be the reception of a lone verd, a foundling from another Tribe with no ties left, not even an alor to answer to, accompanied by a child and an aruetii? 

Still, there is no other place to turn. If they’re turned away at Arkose, there are no other options. He can work himself into the ground trying to keep them ahead of the never-ending string of hunters, but that’s no life for the kid. No security, none of the peace and stability that the boy so desperately needs with the trauma of his recent past. And he can’t expect Senha to remain with them indefinitely. He’s already broken the terms of their agreement, to protect her in exchange for her help with Samir. It’s another debt he can’t repay.

Settling himself against the uncomfortable contours of the door behind him, Din sets his jaw. This will not fall through. He’ll do whatever he has to do to get them to safety tomorrow. If that means putting aside the last tattered vestiges of his pride and begging the alor of the Arkose tribe to give them some form of sanctuary until he can figure something else out, so be it. He’ll offer everything he has for their safety, up to and including the contents of the crate tucked in the back. 

He hopes it will be enough. 

* * * * * * *

It’s all a little surreal. 

She’s more in tune with Samir and Din’s daily routines than she’s been with anyone in years . The closest she’s been was when she’d become the de-facto caretaker for three younger siblings at seventeen. Knowing what they needed before they articulated it themselves had become second-nature, and there’s something comforting in falling back into that routine that makes this whole situation easier. 

Senha pulls over just about the time Samir is starting to fuss from both hunger and a full diaper, and Din takes care of him while she verifies what they’ve got left. She’d been able to collect a few more things for Samir than she had for herself or Din, but their food situation is concerning. As long as they don’t have much further to go they’ll be alright, but anxiety flares in her chest all the same. 

The knot tightens further at the redness at the edge of Din’s graze, and a heat burns under the skin around it. They’ve got very few actual medical supplies on hand, barely enough to keep it clean, and the mildest of topical antibiotics. The discharge around the edges of the wound are what finally push her to voice her thoughts as she wipes off the excess ointment and covers the injury with fresh gauze. 

“Another day or two and this stuff won’t be cutting it.” She nods to the tube she’d replaced in the medi-kit. 

“There’ll be medical care at the covert.” He doesn’t seem overly concerned with the prognosis as he pauses, tilting his head. “You could always cauterize it.” 

Oh my fucking god. 

Senha barely holds the words back, mindful of the impressionable toddler in his arms. Instead, she fixes him with the dirtiest look she can manage. “No, I couldn’t. Because this isn’t battlefield meatball surgery and I, for one, have seen enough dead people in the last week to last a lifetime. I’m not about to see another one walking around too stupid to know they’re dead.” 

She goes back to stuffing the dirty bandage in the makeshift trash bag and tries to ignore the way Din’s mouth ticks up at one corner. “I’m delighted your sense of humor made it out with us but seriously, no cauterizing. Gonna throw that thing out the first chance I get,” she mutters to herself.  

A smile still plays around his lips as she takes Samir to allow him to tug his jeans back up over the clean bandage. “Thank you.” 

“Hm.” She wipes a spot of peanut butter from beside the boy's mouth. “How far are we? From the--what did you call it?” 

“The covert.” Hefting Samir back into his arms, Din moves around to the back seat to buckle the boy into his car seat. Samir isn’t pleased about the confinement or losing his cuddle buddy, but the man tucks Basa into his arms and murmurs something that seems to settle him. As Din steps away though, the boy turns his head to follow his caretaker around to the driver’s side. “Probably another day to the waypoint. From there, hopefully not too far.”

“You sure you don’t want me to--” Senha starts, but Din shakes his head. 

“You drove all night. I can take over.” His tone, while laced with weariness of his own, is firm and Senha’s too tired to argue the fact that he’d been shot less than twenty-four hours earlier. 

Climbing into the passenger seat and toeing her sneakers off with a sigh, Senha settles herself sideways on the seat and reaches back to rest a hand on Samir’s chest. He curls a hand around her fingers and she wiggles them against his grip. His eyes are already half closed, his pacifier in his mouth and Basa clutched in his other hand. Despite the sleep he’d gotten the previous night with Din, the delicate skin under his eyes looks dark and puffy.  

Senha hasn’t often wished for textbooks, but at this point she’d give her little finger for a phone with internet or a resource text on child psychology. She doesn’t know enough to help Samir, and it twists her stomach. Din has more than kept up his half of their agreement, to protect her in exchange for her help, and she's failing miserably. At least forcing herself to stay awake the previous night to drive and give them both some rest had been concrete, but now there's nothing. 

She wants to get into the back seat and hold Samir, because so far cuddles and skin contact seem to be the only things that help, but she’s half-afraid to take her eyes off Din for fear that he’ll drive until he’s dizzy from blood-loss. It had been worth the disapproving look in his eyes when he realized she’d quietly left herself out of the distribution of breakfast to see him eat an extra half a slice of bread with peanut butter and the last few bites of Samir's banana. She’ll be damned if she’s going to take food for herself when she’s not holding up her end of the deal.

She shifts her gaze to the man beside her. The hollows in his cheeks are more pronounced in the growing daylight and there’s a smudge of dust at his temple from the sand he’d rubbed on his bloodstained jeans. The fingers of her free hand itch to wipe it off. She curls them into a loose fist in her lap and looks out at the high desert before them. 

* * * * * * *

They rattle over washboard gravel for a few minutes before smooth pavement hums under the tires again. Senha’s oddly quiet, but he’s not sure whether that’s more from her promise to stop questioning their every move or sheer exhaustion. There are deep shadows under her dark eyes and her movements changing the bandage on his leg had been slow, as if every motion cost her energy she didn’t have. She’d brushed off his suggestion that she eat something, and summoning the energy to argue right now is out of the question. He’ll force the issue later if necessary. 

“When we get to the waypoint, I’ll have to speak with someone and verify who I am. If it goes alright, they’ll take us to the covert. We’ll be safe there.” 

Senha looks up from her slow stroking over Samir's curls. “How do you know about this place?” 

He swallows hard. "My-- someone I served with told me if I ever needed a place, that I would be welcome.” 

She nods slowly. “Have you been there before?” 

“No.” 

Senha bites her lip. “When’s the last time you talked to him?” 

“About seven years ago.” Closer to eight now, his traitorous memory reminds him. 

“Oh.” She lets out a breath. “But--he’ll be there.” 

“His family’s there.” 

She draws in a breath and he looks over. Her eyebrows are pulled together and he realizes what her assumption must be. Din shakes his head. “He’s alive, as far as I know.” 

“So then…?” 

How does he explain that every year he’d received word from Matas’ family had been more difficult than the last? That at a certain point the tantalizing, perennial hope of his release had become a crueler thing than the imprisonment itself? When Matas’ face had become blurred in memory, just like Razan’s, just like those of his Tribe from before, he hadn’t searched to restore them to clarity. Instead he’d focused on what he could do, until being mando’ad became an endless cycle of work and trips to the post office and a dull metal amulet on a worn black cord. 

Until Samir. 

Senha interrupts his thoughts, taking his silence for reticence. “You don’t have to say, I’m sor--.” 

Din lets out a breath. She's asked for so little, he owes her this at least. “He served with me. Joined up the same time as I did.” 

“And they sent you to Mandalore?” 

“To Concordia. They dropped us in the middle of the mountains to embed with the local fighters. Kyr’tsad. Ebrya called them ‘Death Watch’.” 

She draws her socked feet up on the seat under her, leaning her head against the headrest as she watches him, the low static of the radio the only sound between them. Her other hand is still captured in Samir’s grip, and his small chin has sunk down to his chest in sleep. Din searches for the words to explain and Senha is patient through the long silence. 

“They didn’t trust us at first. Didn’t matter that most of us wore beskar or were born there. They even spoke a different dialect. But they were desperate.”

It had been a rare night when they could relax unarmored, eating something someone had cobbled together from something slightly tastier than boot leather. That particular evening, Rhoroc and Miru had given each other a look over the fire before standing and calling for silence. 

“Ner vode. My al’verde reminded me tonight that it’s been just over a year since they dumped your sorry shebs into our camp and made you our problem.” 

There were chuckles from around the circle and Rhoroc gave them a lopsided grin. 

“You were all aruetii when you first came to us. Being born here doesn’t make you mando’ad, you know that better than most. Being mando’ad is a decision you make with every step on your path, every breath you draw, and every drop of blood you shed. You’ve each walked this path, breathed this air, and shed blood to uphold the Resol’nare. This is the Way.” 

The phrase echoed around the circle from the gathered warriors, as solid as the bedrock of the mountain beneath them. 

Miru and Laen each carried a crate into the firelight and set them down with dull thumps. 

“Jari and Matas, k’olar.” There were jeers from the Concordians but they were good-natured, the atmosphere excited. Matas gave Din a dubious look and Din raised his eyebrows back at him as he stood to join Jari in front of Miru and Rhoroc. 

“Part of the Resol’nare is the wearing of our beskar'gam. And I’m not sure I can continue to watch Laen physically cringe whenever she sees that shuk’yc osik you both wear.” Rhoroc folded his arms and lifted his chin towards the two crates. “Thought she’d cry crocodile tears when I told her she could move ahead with them.” 

Jari and Matas each moved to open the crates and there were cries of ‘Oya!’ from around the circle as Jari straightened, the firelight reflecting off the dark red metal and black glass of the helmet she cradled between her palms. She looked over at Rhoroc and Miru in shock, then back down into the crate at the set of newly forged beskar armor. Matas pulled out a similar helmet, in dark grey, and turned it in his hands, a wide grin on his face... 

Din takes a breath and resettles his hand on the steering wheel. “The steel in our armor comes from a specific ore you can only find in Concordia. It’s not forged like regular steel. Our Armorers use techniques to make the steel lighter and stronger. Makes it more valuable as armor.”

“That’s the beskar you talked about.” 

He nods. “After Ebrya helped overthrow the old Mandalorian government, they made arrangements with the new government to be given exclusive mining rights in Concordia. They stripped the place.” 

In the protests before the Purge, photos had been circulated of the mines. Entire mountain tops blown off to get at their ore-rich hearts, the resultant dirt and debris poisoning the rivers and streams of the area, making them run orange and thick with chemicals from the processing operations. 

He’d thrown the piece of cheap tin awarded to him for injury in combat into the grey river that ran through Ganister City, and had left Ebrya shortly thereafter, cutting himself off from any news broadcasts about the situation. Ran’s crew hadn’t given a shit about environmental justice in some backwater country halfway across the world, and Din had leaned in hard. Later, it just hadn’t seemed to matter that much in the face of everything else.

“And your friend?” Senha’s voice pulls him back to the present. 

“After they shipped us back, Matas was--” Din struggles to find the right words to describe the anger in Matas, the incandescent rage at how they’d been used, and what was being done to their home and their heritage. “He got really involved in the protests here. My buir saw what was coming, I think. He kept me busy enough that I didn’t have time to be involved. But Matas wanted to go back...” 

“We have every right to fight. You know there are still clans hiding out in the mountains. They need us, vod!”

Din put a hand on Matas’ arm, his voice low and urgent. “You know what they’re doing to Kyrt’sad supporters here. You’re putting your entire family at risk pulling these stunts. The Tribe comes first. This is the Way.” 

He jerked his arm out from under Din’s hand. “The Way to what? Scrape and grovel to survive? Act grateful that we’ve been allowed to stay, so long as we remain in the shadows and fit into their archetype?” Matas narrowed his eyes. “Those are the words of someone who’s given up. A hut’uun.” 

“He took his armor and went back.” Din says at last. “The army picked him up at the border to Concordia and arrested him.” 

“Arrested him? For what?” Her voice is uneasy, as if she already knows. 

“Collaboration with a terrorist organization, and theft of cultural artifacts.” 

“Theft of--”

“His beskar’gam.” Din grinds out. “His armor.” 

He can’t quite remember the shape of Matas’ eyes, but he remembers the frantic call he’d received from Matas’ family, and the fight he’d had with Razan when it was all over. 

“His family found out from one of the Concordians. They recognized his name on a list and reached out. He’s been held in an unlisted prison for the last seven years, along with any other mando’ad that decided to go back.” 

“But he’s an Ebryian citizen, isn’t he? How can they hold a citizen of another country?” 

Din finally looks over at her. “Ebrya allows them to hold him. Because he fought with Kyr’tsad.” 

Senha says nothing, and she’s silent for long enough that he thinks she’s fallen asleep. When she speaks again, the words are almost lost under the road noise. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Din glances over at her. Her cheek is pillowed against her arm and she blinks a few times before her eyes flick away from his and up to his forehead. “You’ve got--”

She gestures towards her own temple and Din rubs the back of one hand over the side of his face. Senha lifts her head. “No, just over your--” He wipes his hand across his eyebrow and temple and she nods. 

She settles again but when he glances over from time to time, her eyes are open, staring into nothing.

* * * * * * *

Senha wakes just as the truck engine shuts off, sitting up and looking around blearily. It’s dark again, but her body clock had given up the ghost sometime between when they’d switched out last and now, and she can’t tell if it’s closer to dusk or dawn.

“Where are we?”

Din’s voice is rough with exhaustion. “Probably about 7 hours from the waypoint. Just need to sleep for an hour or two.” 

She pushes herself to sit up and stretches, looking around at the moon-lit landscape. Far off in the distance, the headlights of cars on the main highway disappear where the road turns into the mountains. “We anywhere near a main road?” 

“No. Should be safe out here.” He grunts in discomfort as he shifts and she wishes they had more than the tiny cab to stretch out in. 

Actually.  

“Safe enough to stretch out a little?” 

He blinks at her slowly. “What?” 

“You’ve hardly slept since we left Chert. And the few hours of rest you got were sitting up. What if we slept for a little longer?” 

“We don’t--”

Senha rushes ahead. “You need sleep. You got shot yesterday, remember?” She means it as a joke but the last two days have run together so much that she’s honestly not sure anymore. 

Din rubs his eyes hard. “It was--” 

“If you say it was a graze one more time, I swear you’re sleeping outside the truck.” Don’t fucking fight me, for once.

Miraculously, he drops his hands back to his lap and looks over, eyebrows lifting, waiting.  

Senha tilts her head towards the back of the truck. “We can stretch out in the back. Sleep for five or six hours and get a fresh start at sunrise before it’s fully light.” 

Din cocks his head in that very specific manner she’s come to recognize as him weighing risks. When had she started picking up on that level of detail with him?  

“You said we should be safe out here. Wherever--” she gestures vaguely out in front of them at the empty desert, “--here is.” 

He heaves a long breath. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.” 

“Oh,” Senha blinks, not having expected him to give in that easily. “Well--good. I’ll get Samir.” He nods tiredly and she slips her sneakers back on.  

The rain the previous day had brought with it temperatures that feel more suited to late winter than halfway through spring, and Senha suppresses a shiver as she reaches in to unbuckle the toddler from his carseat, murmuring quietly to him when he lets out a displeased mutter at the interruption to his sleep.

Din gives her a boost up onto the dropped tailgate, Samir cradled carefully in her other arm. She almost stumbles as she ducks under the cover and sees Din move to steady her before she recovers herself with a whisper of thanks. He pushes the car blanket up towards them before closing the tailgate and pulling himself up over the top of it, zipping the cover closed behind him.

It takes a few minutes of shifting in the darkness for Din to unlatch the crate in the corner and return with an old sleeping bag. As he unzips it and lays it out, there's a light smell of age and campfire smoke and gun oil. The gusting wind rattles the canvas of the cover against the support struts, sneaking in through the cracks at the corners. 

She starts to flip the car blanket open with the intent to wrap it around the sleepy boy in her arms before Din takes it and shakes it out. He’s achingly gentle as he takes Samir from her and bundles him up in both jacket and blanket. Another few awkward moments of shuffling and they’re laying side by side on the sleeping bag. Senha can feel the cold seeping in through her thick jacket, and she can’t imagine how cold Din must be in just his shirt. 

It’s dark enough that she can just see the outline of his profile as he leans up to press his forehead against Samir’s. The baby reaches a hand out of the blankets and catches hold of a lock of the man’s hair, his drowsy babble in the form of a question. Din’s response is drowned out by the next gust of wind, but he looks over at Senha a moment later. 

“There’s--” he clears his throat. “He wants me to--” Din stops. Senha shifts onto her side, intrigued by the tint of embarrassment in his voice. 

“He wants me to sing." He says finally. "Usually we, uh--there's a song he likes.”

Senha bites her lip to keep from smiling and a warmth spreads in her chest that she hasn’t felt since before they’d left Chert.

“Well,” she says, “you can hardly say no when he asks so nicely.” Din doesn’t answer and she dips her chin, trying to catch his eyes in the darkness. When she can’t find them, she sits up. “I’ll be outside.”

A hand closes around her wrist. “No, it’s fine.” She looks down, hyper aware of calloused fingertips firm against her pulse. 

“You sure? I don’t mind.” 

Din shakes his head, the motion barely visible. “It’s freezing out there. Stay.” He tugs lightly and Senha settles back down beside him. She brushes against his arm as she does and it’s a starkly icy contrast to the warmth of his hand. 

She reaches behind her and grabs the edge of the sleeping bag. “Speaking of, scoot over some so we can share this.” 

“Keep it, you need it more than--”

She is officially done with the chivalrous bullshit. “You’re his body heat and you’re already half-popsicle, scooch.” 

He lets out a heavy sigh but obligingly shifts to the edge of the sleeping bag to allow her to pull her half over all three of them. It does a reasonable job of covering them, leaving just the left side of Din’s body open to the chill air. It also forces his right arm up over her shoulder and they shift for a minute or two with murmured apologies until they find a comfortable position. Senha settles with a hand on Samir’s back, Din has one arm curled around her back and the other hand stabilizing the baby on his chest. 

There’s silence for a minute outside of the breaths of wind and the light creaking of the cover’s frame in the heavier gusts until Samir shifts, mumbling. The man smooths a hand over his back and hums deep in his chest. The child quiets and there’s silence for another moment before she feels him take in a deep breath. 

His voice is low, and more gravelly than lyrical, but there’s a clear melody. He pauses in between each line to draw in another breath and, although the words mean nothing to her, she’s close enough that she can hear him roll the vowels as they leave his lips. As he sings, she can see his other hand brushing gently down Samir’s back, over and over. Senha closes her eyes and focuses on the sound of the lullaby over the wind. Din’s chest rises on each inhale under her cheek and and the edge of his jaw brushes her temple as he exhales the words into the dark. 

Chapter Text

The agent approaches the front door of the small, suburban home. She’s young, and while she’s been in the business long enough to no longer be considered a rookie, she still retains that fresh-faced, charming look that screams innocence and trust. Three quick knocks on the door, a half distracted shout of “one moment!”, and then the door is opened. He’s an older man, in his fifties, with the unique vibrancy some people maintain when they are living, if not their best life, then something close enough so as to cause more smiles than frowns.

“Hello?” It's both a question and a greeting. She isn’t one of his neighbors, and her suit makes delivery or political canvasser unlikely.

“James Rohdin?” The agent begins, her hand slowly moving not to take his in a handshake but to the billfold in the breast pocket of her jacket.

“Yes…”

Before the word is fully out of his mouth, the hand is up and the billfold is out. It’s a utilitarian one, standard issue, probably the original that she got with her badge. She’s too young to have purchased or been gifted a more elaborate one, or to need a replacement. It’s plain but that just serves to emphasize the flash of metal that appears as she flips it open. “Mr. Rohdin, I’m Special Agent Bates, Domestic Investigations Bureau, Hostage Division. Do you have a moment, sir?”

The first sign of worry appears on his face. This man has no record with any police, no political involvement beyond semi-regular voting, he doesn’t even like yelling at the other team at his youngest daughter’s soccer matches. And now there is an agent of the law at his home mentioning hostages and wanting to talk. “Yes--yes, of course… would you like to come inside?”

And this is where Sil realizes things go wrong. Even from scanning the transcript in front of her she can tell everything about this meeting is wrong. Agent Bates has only worked for the DIB for three years and isn’t even a full-time member of the Hostage Division. She’s a part of the DIB’s financial crimes unit, and has spent the last two years compiling cases against “respectable citizens” for fraud, money laundering, and sanctions busting. Two years of learning that the nicest people could fund the nastiest activities and do the worst things for a slightly larger bank account. She’s on a 120-day detail to Hostage, and now, Sil suspects because she’s young, pretty, and has a chipper voice, is speaking to a soon-to-be very distressed father about his daughter, who by all appearances has been caught up in something horrible. Another seemingly nice person with a dark secret for Agent Bates.

Sil had wanted to go herself, but with all the other open ends to investigate, Payne had convinced her to let the local unit handle it. After all, if this woman is a hostage, it’s best to let the Hostage experts deal with it. Funny how that had worked out.

“Thank you,” Agent Bates says, stepping inside. She follows him to the kitchen, used but clean, perhaps with the beginnings of the evening’s meal laid out. Mr. Rohdin’s wife, Senha’s mother, had died years ago and he’d never remarried, so there were likely the tell-tale signs of that loss. Old photographs and nick-nacks from before that he’d never let himself give away.

“What can I do for you, ma’am?” 

She looks up, that friendly face shifting to the professional look she has likely used with a dozen family members before revealing that their significant other bankrolls something other than the local soccer team. “Mr. Rohdin, when was the last time you spoke to your oldest daughter?”

“Senha?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is she in trouble?” Concern deepens the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

The agent’s face is polite, perhaps even friendly, but clearly not reassuring. “Well, sir, she might be. I’m afraid your daughter’s name has come up in connection with one of our investigations in Ganister City. The local office attempted to reach her, but she hasn’t been answering her phone and she hasn’t been to her apartment in days.”

Sil could have told her this is the wrong approach, as his answer makes obvious. “You’ve been watching her apartment?” The response is now more angry then worried. Clearly Mr. Rohdin is not taking kindly to the implication that his oldest daughter has garnered such attention from the law.

“Agents in Ganister paid a visit to her residence and attempted on multiple occasions over the past week to reach out to her--”

The concern changes to wary suspicion. His face registering that he has allowed the Agent into his house, and perhaps wondering how many of his rights he might have already given away. “Does my daughter need a lawyer, Agent?”

“Sir, please--I’m here on her behalf. We think she may have gotten caught up in something with some very dangerous people.”

This attempt to calm only leads to more incredulity. “Dangerous people? My Senha? Agent, my daughter doesn’t have a violent bone in her body. She’s a nurse, she helps people-”

Cutting an interviewee off might be the right move when discussing a wife angry that her vacation home is about to be seized, but not for a father receiving news that something has happened to his eldest child. “We believe it’s possible your daughter has gotten caught up in something that’s beyond her control. When did you last speak to her, Mr. Rohdin?”

He shuts down just a little at this. The man who spends his summers coaching the kids’ swim team and winters helping at the local community center is not prepared for a universe of 'things beyond'.

At least she realizes her mistake and continues quickly. Unfortunately, she’s the one who keeps speaking. “Your daughter’s name was given to the DIB in connection to an individual of interest we are currently searching for--”

He looks at her, some of the fire restored to his eyes, though it’s tempered with fear. “You mean a criminal, don’t you? You don’t need to tip-toe around it with me. My daughter’s been taken hostage by someone. That’s what you're telling me?”

Bates takes a moment to re-center herself but seems to be annoyed that her dramatic reveal has been ruined. “We cannot confirm or deny any details at the present time, sir. That’s why I’m here. Did your daughter mention any last minute trips? Has she been behaving oddly lately?”

Sil knows that the final statement is the wrong thing to say entirely. Mr. Rohdin pounces on it. “Behaving oddly? You’re not suggesting that she’s involved of her own volition?”

Bates steps in before he can fill his question with answers neither of them need. “Right now, sir, we just need to know if there’s a simple explanation for her being away from Ganister for the past week. A spur of the moment trip with friends, perhaps?”

This is going extremely poorly. Bates should never have been sent alone. Withholding these details wouldn’t be problematic if Senha was laundering the family’s charity fund, but in this case it’s just making things worse. All Bates is doing is establishing a giant canvas for Mr. Rohdin to paint his worst nightmares on, and letting his imagination run wild with it.

His next answer makes it clear that the nightmares have moved to the next stage, the fall from grace. “Agent Bates, answer my question. Who is my daughter with and what did they do?”

Bates barely prevents a sigh from escaping her. “Sir, I’m not at liberty to disclose the details of an ongoing investigation-”

“If you don’t tell me what trouble or danger or, or--damn mystery my daughter has fallen into, then I am done. You can come back with a lawyer, and I can guarantee that I will be getting one and coming for my daughter.”

“There’s no need for that, sir.” She pauses for a moment, weighing the benefits of the minor violation with losing any remaining intelligence she can get from this conversation. At least she makes the right decision here. “The DIB is investigating a man we believe to be connected to multiple murders and the robbery of a research laboratory near Ganister City. He was seen two days ago in a small town north of the state border. Witnesses identified him as being involved in a shootout there while repairing his vehicle. Your daughter and a one-year-old infant were also mentioned as being with him. By name.”

The father is quiet for a moment and Sil can almost see the blood draining from his face as he puts the pieces together. “A shootout? Is she--is--”

“From all reports, she’s alive, and is explicitly reported to be protecting the infant. Can you confirm that the infant is hers?”

The man sags into a chair at the kitchen table and rubs work-worn hands over his face, “No, that can’t be right. Senha isn’t married, she can’t have a baby. I just saw her over the holidays… I would have known if...”

Sil can see how the agent thought this might be a useful line of questioning. A more experienced agent would have shut up and moved on immediately. “Sir… has your daughter acted in a way you might describe as unusual the past few years?”

He looks at her, disbelief and a little anger in his eyes, “What are you asking, Agent?”

Again, the agent decides to let a bit more slip. In this case, however, it is absolutely the wrong decision. “The suspect is a Mandalorian. We don’t know why your daughter would be traveling with him, but the witness stated the Mandalorian was protecting her and the child-”

He cuts her off, anger flaring back up at the insinuation and clipping his gentle tone, “Agent, my daughter wouldn't have a relationship, a child, without telling me. I can’t tell you who this child is or why my daughter hasn’t been home for the past few days, but I find your implication that she is involved with a murderer insulting.”

The agent backs off, seeing the flashing red warning sign in the rearview mirror, “Sir, until two days ago your daughter had no connection to our suspect. We have no reason to believe she’s anything but a victim here. Anything you can tell us could only help us find her and get her to safety more quickly. The man she’s with is suspected of doing some very bad things, and has a history as a mercenary. Sometimes people make different decisions in their life then we would expect. Is it possible your daughter thinks she has to stay with our suspect, or feels some obligation to him or the child?”

The fire is dying, replaced by panic at the possibility of a good person with a big heart finding room in it for someone unworthy, and in this case, dangerous. His voice is hoarse as he meets her eyes again, “Obligation?”

Sil hopes none of this ever makes it into court records, as it would make the father’s testimony at best inadmissible. She does have to give it to the agent, she combines the perfect gentle tone with what Sil is sure is a sympathetic expression.

“Sometimes good people think they can help bad people find the way back to the light. Sometimes they’re willing to sacrifice themselves to help someone who they don’t think can help themselves. It’s a noble action, no less so if someone takes advantage of it.”

The man buries his face back in his hands and takes a shuddering breath, “Moonbeam, what have you gotten yourself into…” He looks up at the agent again, his face distraught. “I… I don’t know, Agent. She’s always been selfless, always thinking of others…”

“If someone is using her good nature against her, sir, help us find her. Help us get her back to you.”

He nods, only half paying attention, “Of course, Agent. Whatever you need. Just please… find my daughter.”

The agent pulls out a small stack of papers and a pen, “We’re doing everything we can to get her back safely, sir.”

Sil throws down the rest of the transcript. Even if she wasn’t disgusted by what the DIB had done to this poor man, they already have a tap on his phone. There’s nothing else to be learned here. Despite the delusions of Bates, the story of the wide-eyed innocent nurse misled by the ruthless foreign mercenary stinks to Sil. It’s more likely that she’s just one more innocent in the sights of whoever is gunning for Din Djarin, and she’ll be in danger until Sil catches up with them both.

* * * * * * *

Allison Stone, host of the top-rated special interest show on the right-leaning Lion News Network, silently prepares herself as her director completes the countdown. The crowd reaches a crescendo in their applause and the cameras rocket to her in fanciful zooms.

Fixing them with flinty grey eyes, she speaks grimly, “Good evening. Tonight, on Fire and Fog, we bring you a new story related to the crime wave threatening our nation. As with every story we bring our viewers, I intend to shine a searing beam of light to vaporize the fog around another pressing matter in this great country, and leave you with only the fire of truth.”

“Tonight, is the next threat to Ebyra already living side by side with us? Have we already allowed ourselves to not only be invaded, but occupied by a culture dedicated to our destruction? Has the weak government of this nation under the previous administration not only let this fifth column into the very heart of our democracy, but legalized arming and equipping them better than our own law-abiding citizens so that when the time comes, you are already out-gunned? Tonight on Fire and Fog, the Beskar Menace: is it smoke or is there fire?”

Allison turns to a side camera before continuing, “Now, we all know that the previous administration was soft on immigration, but recent events show just how much that weakness is hurting ordinary Ebryians today. To help shed some light on this issue, I would like to introduce my first guest tonight: Dr. William Campre, Professor of Kronosian History at Roxbury State University. Thank you for joining me tonight, Professor.”

The camera pans to a man in his late fifties in the tell-tale slightly ill-fitting suit jacket of senior university professors the world over, “Thank you, Ms. Stone. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

“Thank you, Professor Campre. As you know, we’ve invited you here tonight to discuss the Mandalorian peoples.” The screen behind them shows ancient warriors in armor recognizable by their distinctive helms. Allison opens with an innocuous question, “We know Mandalorians are not native to Kronos, so what led to them coming to the continent?”

The professor nods eagerly, “Well to begin with, Mandalorians aren’t a traditional ethnic group. More a mixed culture and religion that is only loosely tied to the area we today call Greater Mandalore. It’s believed that they settled there because of the remarkable ore present in the mountains of Concordia: beskar steel.”

“And why is this beskar so important to the Mandalorians?”

“Well, it’s what enabled their military prowess. Stronger than titanium, but lighter than aluminum. It was beskar armor that allowed the Mandalorians, under a series of leaders ironically called the Mand’alor or ‘sole ruler’--”

“Their messiah warlord?” Allison interrupts, her derision barely masked.

The professor raises his eyebrows, “Oh, the Mand’alor was much more than that. You see, Mandalorian religion is tied directly to warfare. The entire culture consists of small tribal groups, each based around a core of warriors. Mandalore never mobilized for their crusades, as is often portrayed in some of the more fanciful portrayals of the period, because they never needed to. If a Mand'alor rose up who could unite them, they were prepared for war at a moment’s notice.”

“Wars that always fell on the people of Kronos,” Allison comments dryly. “You mentioned Mandalorian crusades? How devastating were they to the people of Kronos?”

“Initially they were disastrous, but the different kingdoms in Kronos closest to Mandalore, Suebia in particular, eventually developed a series of fortified cities that could withstand them. Mandalorians were never empire builders. Force them to fight too many battles at once and they would have no choice but to retreat. The crusades were about treasure, not conquest. And also to reinforce their numbers through recruitment.”

“Recruitment?”

“If they found children, often orphans of either the vanquished or more likely, the people they had just slaughtered, they would bring them back after the crusade and raise them to be Mandalorian. Adoption holds a place of great importance in their culture. ”

Allison sits forward, looking appropriately concerned, “So they used child soldiers?”

The professor supplies precisely the answer she’s hoping to receive, “Not until the Mandalorian civil war. By that time, the power of the Crusades had been broken. Around a hundred years ago the nations of Kronos simply developed better technology than Mandalore could.” The screen shows lines of Mandalorian warriors being cut down by firing lines and cannons. “The Suebian General Reven faced the last great Mand’alor, Mandalore the Ultimate, and broke their power. Mandalore has been a backwater on the world stage ever since.” The screen behind showed a painting of the aftermath of the battle. A pile of beskar armor stands behind a lone kneeling Mandalorian and a single Kronosian military general wielding a red-steel saber.

The host let the camera linger on the scene of Mandalore defeated before moving on to the meat of her interview, “So, the civil war?”

The screen switches to scenes of modern war and the professor straightens his glasses, “Yes. About thirty years ago, Greater Mandalore erupted into civil war over alleged human rights abuses perpetrated by the ruling regime. After about a year, it became obvious that neither side could actually win against the other, and many of the best and brightest fled the region as refugees.”

“Refugees that previous administrations granted asylum to in Ebrya, correct? With little to no vetting?”

The professor’s brow furrows at that, “Refugees that we allowed in under long-standing Ebryian tradition, and established international law.”

The camera pans back to Allison, who gives it a knowing glance, “Because international laws have always helped Ebrya.” She turns back to her guest, who is looking more and more like he’s regretting accepting the offer to appear on the show. “Now, Professor, the war lasted almost two decades, correct? And in that time thousands of Mandalorians were allowed to settle in this nation.”

“Yes. The war ended about ten years ago, after Ebrya agreed to intervene in order to stop it from spiraling into a multi-generational conflict.”

The camera switches back to Allison while behind her the screen shows signs of Ebryian soldiers in the war, "Ebrya, acting to prevent the establishment of a failed state that would foster terrorist attacks against the western world, intervened and in a few short years ended the civil war with Ebryian might. We brought peace to a nation that had known only war.”

The camera doesn’t move back to the professor as he tries to speak up, “Well, of course the reality is a bit less cut and dry. Ebrya was able to end the war but--”

The screen behind Allison switches to scenes of unrest, some likely even from Mandalore, “And afterwards, did they thank us for saving their country? How did the final chapter of the civil war end?”

The professor looks a bit distraught as he begins speaking, “Well, it turns out in the end that Ebrya had been brokering a peace deal between a group of Mandalorian traditionalists in Concordia and a larger, populist, movement: the New Mandalore Movement. When the fighting ended however, the traditionalists, a group known as Kyr’tsad, or ‘Death Watch’, turned on the new unity government.”

Allison jumps on this, “So in the end these extremists just couldn’t live in peace?”

The man shrugs, “We still don’t know for sure what happened. We do know there were clear signs of election tampering, and that Death Watch wasn’t disarming as they had agreed under the unity government, but the Ebryian response was so swift-”

“So powerful and decisive, you mean?” Allison adds in quickly.

“It was decisive,” the professor agrees, though he shows none of the same pride as his host in that fact. “Death Watch is now categorized as a terrorist organization in most countries, and both the group and any civilians perceived to be helping them were destroyed in Mandalore in a little over a week. Of course, this led to protests back here over the decision to--”

“So you’re saying Ebryian citizens were protesting our armed forces defeating a terrorist group attempting to overthrow the legitimately elected government of a nation? One that we had just freed from civil war?” The host’s voice is incredulous.

“Again, it’s not that clean.” The professor reiterates doggedly. “The worst fighting in the war, as well as a number of humanitarian atrocities, took place in Concordia. As Death Watch originated in Concordia, so many of the refugees in Ebrya had connections to that area--”

Allison interrupts him with a plastic smile. “Thank you, professor, but I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for tonight. Thank you for this most illuminating conversation.”

A few lines of farewell, a commercial break and the show returns to the host alone on the stage. “Welcome back. We just finished a very interesting conversation with Dr. William Campre of Roxbury State University. We ended on the revelation that many of the Mandalorian refugees fled the brutal terrorist group known as Death Watch during the civil war. But what does all that history have to do with a threat in Ebrya today?”

The screen behind her changes to a map of the country, which zooms down towards the south-west corner. “Two weeks ago, Ganister City, a small metropolis on our southern border, was shocked by a horrific crime. An act of domestic terrorism committed not by some 'radicalized psycho', but by a professionally trained killer.”

News broadcasts from Ganister City overlay the map, reporters from outside the manicured grounds of the PhenoVisage laboratories.

“That killer? A Mandalorian,” the screen now shows the outline of a menacing looking figure in armor. Sensing the nervous energy growing in the audience, the host raises a hand. “Let me be clear, men like this one who came over brought their way of life with them, and for a Mandalorian, that means war. And, for a Mandalorian, war means beskar armor.”

The screen now goes to showing the surveillance footage of an armored figure moving through a laboratory. “Video footage released by the GCPD clearly shows a Mandalorian attacking and killing multiple armed guards. Their weapons had no effect on him because he was wearing beskar. And why was someone capable of such horrific violence allowed such an advantage not available to law-abiding Ebryian citizens? Because the past administrations created this danger through their weakness.”

“Beskar is not seen as the dangerous tool of murder it is, but a ‘cultural artifact’ under Ebryian law. That means if you came from Mandalore, you can own armor that allows you to go up against SWAT teams and come out unscathed.”

The image changes to a map showing dots all across the country, “At least our government requires these Mandalorians to register their cop-killing armor so you can know if your neighbor is an armed extremist that will always out-gun you in a fight. And this is not a hypothetical. The two most common occupations for Mandalorians today? Mercenary and bounty hunter.”

The screen returns to Allison, who fixes the camera with the same grim expression she’d held at the opening of the show. “Now, are some of these refugees good, upstanding members of Ebryian society? Of course. But can we really let a few good people act as a shield for those who would take advantage of our good will? Is it reasonable that a government that should be working to protect its people would instead turn to potential criminals and offer them an overwhelming advantage?”

The theme of the show begins to play and Allison stands, walking to the center of the stage. “Next time, we’ll be speaking with experts to find out what the administration is doing to right this wrong, and what we can do now to protect ourselves. The Beskar Menace: are we on the eve of the second coming of the Mandalorian crusades, and are they already in your neighborhood?”

* * * * * * *

Cara had spent a night in lockup before someone decided to talk to her. Some nobody had come to explain to her that under the law, they were able to hold her for forty-eight hours in connection to an ongoing national security investigation, but that for the moment, she’s being held only as a witness, and no charges were being filed against her, yet.

As she sits in the small interrogation room, she isn’t surprised when the female agent from before enters, alone this time. She looks tired as she sits down across from her, and Cara feels a miniscule sense of satisfactuon. 

After a moment of collecting her papers, the woman looks over to her and extends her hand, “Ms. Dune, my name is Special Agent Silvia Fess. I’m sorry you had to be kept here for so long, but I’m afraid I’ve been unable to see you before now.”

Cara pointedly does not take her hand. If this Agent Fess had wanted to play nice, she shouldn’t have arrested her while en-route to her vacation, “Look Special Agent, if it’s all the same to you, my sister is still waiting for me so let’s just get it over with.”

The agent retracts her hand and nods, “Ms. Dune, I’d like to ask you some questions about a man named Din Djarin. He’s an associate of yours in the Bounty Hunter’s Guild, is that correct?”

“Yes, and let me just stop you there, Agent Fess. I am fully aware of my rights. I’ve seen the news, and know why you are asking about Din. If you want to talk to me, I’m afraid I’m going to need a lawyer present to provide me representation. It’s nothing personal, and I am willing to cooperate once my own legal rights are accounted for, but until then I’m afraid I have nothing to say to you.”

The agent pauses for a moment, looking Cara in the face. Their eyes stay locked for a moment before the agent speaks, “That is your right, Ms. Dune, although I thought it was clear that you are not under any investigation.” She sits back. “I’m going to be honest with you. I know Din is your friend, and I think you’ve got some idea how much trouble he’s in right now. I’m sure you don’t believe me, but I think there’s more to this than a murder spree, and I need to find Din Djarin to put the pieces together. I was hoping you could help me with that.”

Cara leans back herself, her voice acrid, “Oh, I’m very willing to help, Agent Fess, once I have a lawyer. No offense, but I try to look before I leap.”

Something changes in the agent at this, a cold light forming behind her eyes as she folds her hands on the steel table between them, “As I said, Ms. Dune, that is your right. But before you make your decision, let me be very plain about what you are getting yourself, very formally, involved in. Mr. Djarin is accused of committing a domestic terrorist attack. That means that I have the full power of Ebryian law behind me to find him and bring him to justice. I believe you can help me, and already I know you have helped him. I assume you know what that makes you, Ms. Dune?”

Cara shrugs, but dread stirs in her stomach, “Without a lawyer here, I’m afraid I really can’t say.”

The agent's voice is razor sharp, “To be clear, what that means is that your friend didn’t just break the law, he declared himself an enemy of the Ebryian State. Anyone who willfully assists him is also deemed an enemy of the State. I think that Djarin stumbled into something, and that the child and the woman with him are caught in the middle of it now. Im trying to reach them before the next group of killers do. You help me right now, for five minutes, and I can ensure that you’re on a plane to your sister in an hour.”

This agent seems to have put the pieces together extraordinarily well, her statements too precise to be guesses. Still, Cara can’t imagine Din, of all people, would appreciate being snitched on, “Look, Agent Fess, I understand what you are saying, so I’ll save you some trouble. I don’t know anything that can help you. Now you can save yourself some time and let me go now, or we can wait until a lawyer is here so I can explicitly tell you all the things I do not know.”

The agent looks at her for another long moment before nodding slightly, “I believe you, Ms. Dune.” Her tone is disturbingly dismissive and the curl of dread tightens a bit further in Cara’s stomach. “However, I’m afraid if you aren’t willing to help me then I need to take you off the board so you can’t help him.” She takes in a breath before standing. The door opens and two uniformed officers enter.

The agent turns back to Cara, her eyes and voice flat, “Carasynthia Dune, you are under arrest for assisting a suspected terrorist engaged in illegal activity against the Nation of Ebrya under the Preventing Terrorism in States and Dependencies Act. You have the right to remain silent. From now on everything you say and do will be recorded, and may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you by the court. You do not have a right to outside communication aside from communication with your attorney. You will be transferred to a federal prison and held there until a hearing can be arranged for your formal sentencing before a judge. Due to the nature of your crime, we are legally allowed to hold you for fourteen days before seeking such a hearing. Do you understand your rights as I have stated them, Ms Dune?”

“Yes.” Cara says, and handcuffs close around her wrists. As the officers lead her from the room, the agent watches her with piercing eyes, clearly asking if she thinks it was worth it.

Cara just hopes it is.

Chapter Text

She expects to wake cold, the last remaining bits of warmth from the previous day having bled into the ground and been carried off with the wind. Instead, she’s almost stiflingly warm from the weight plastered along her back. Curled in her arms, Samir has her shirt fisted in one hand as he murmurs in his sleep.

Almost in response, there’s a mumble from behind her and the arm over her waist tightens. A warm breath raises goosebumps on her neck before Din turns his head. The sound of the wind is heavier this morning, and the icy draft that slips in at the corners wrenches her out of sleep as she raises her head fully out of the cocoon of the sleeping bag.

She can feel Din’s frame stiffen as he wakes and realizes just how closely aligned he is with the curves of her body.

“‘M sorry,” he rasps, pulling his arm back until his hand rests on her hip. “Didn’t mean t’...”

“It’s alright, I don’t mind,” she says, ignoring the flutter in her stomach as his voice reverberates through her. "Kept us both warm.”

Samir chooses that moment to squirm his way to the top of the sleeping bag. His hair is in disarray as he drags Basa out with him, gazing blearily up at her. The toddler yawns hugely and tucks his head under Senha’s chin. The action is so casually sweet that she wraps both arms around him and pulls him against her, dropping kisses over his frizzy curls. He giggles sleepily and nuzzles further into her and, Maker, it almost hurts how good it feels to hear him laugh after the last few days.

Propping himself up on one elbow, Din reaches over her to brush the back of his fingers down Samir’s temple. He’s close enough behind her that Senha can feel the small sigh he lets out as the boy relaxes back into sleep. There’s a wistful note in it, and she’s sure he’s wishing the same thing, that they could just stay here a bit longer in the peace and warmth and solitude. Instead of worrying about what comes next or what fresh dangers are waiting for them.

Before she can overthink it, Senha turns her head, and Din’s still close enough that his nose grazes her cheek. She half-expects him to pull away, but after a half-second of hesitation cracked lips drag across her cheek. She doesn’t pull away, intensely aware of the rise and fall of his chest against her back as his lips brush across her own. It’s barely more than a breath over her mouth but unmistakably there. His nose bumps hers gently and when he kisses her again there’s more intention behind it.

Senha lifts her hand to cradle the side of his face, her fingertips nestling in the thick brown waves above his ear. Din kisses her once more before resting his forehead against her temple, his arm pulling her back against him as he speaks.

“We need to go.”

Senha presses one last kiss to the corner of his mouth before turning back to the boy in her arms, half-asleep again.

“Time to get moving, little man. Big day today.”

* * * * * * *

“Do you think it’s safe?”

Din doesn’t reply, he doesn’t have a good answer and he won’t lie to her. They’ve been watching the coffee shop for almost twenty minutes now from down the street. For all intents and purposes it appears to be exactly the type of local business found in the small towns in this part of the country, and would certainly meet the normal definitions of ‘safe’. After the past few weeks, however...

Two women come out of the shop carrying disposable cups, talking as they pull their collars up against the wind. Senha shifts next to him, “Should we come with you?”

Din lets out a long breath, debating. Finally he turns to face her, “Yes. It’s best to be upfront with them.”

He sits for another minute, trying to ignore the knots in his stomach as he watches the small shop. Senha puts a hand on his arm, her thumb rubbing slowly over his wrist. The light tremor in her fingers isn’t lost on him.

“You alright?” She asks.

“Yeah,” he lies, and gets out of the truck.

Senha follows, unbuckling Samir from his car seat as Din comes around the passenger side. The baby is still wrapped in Din’s jacket from the previous evening, and he shakes his head when Senha offers it to him. The bone-deep shiver he’s staving off in tightly locked muscles isn’t from the cold.

Cradling the baby in her arms, Senha licks her thumb and rubs it over a smudge on Samir’s cheek as Din smooths his curls into some kind of order. They both realize what they’re trying to do at the same time and Din tugs the jacket collar up a little higher around the boy’s face before he turns to the coffee shop. His pistol is tucked into his jeans, the cool weight of it reassuring against his side. His other hand rests on Senha’s back, though she doesn’t seem to need any encouragement to stick close to him.

As Din reaches for the door handle, his eyes catch on a design in black posted next to a concert calendar in the window and he stops. The symbols’ meaning is dragged to the front of his mind as if through molasses, but he still remembers.

“What is it?” Senha steps closer into the shelter of his body, her voice tight.

He blinks, trying to focus past the buzzing in his ears, “It’s...a message. About us.”

“What does it say?”

“It--it says to help us.”

“That’s good, right?” The hope in her question is tangible.

Din honestly doesn’t know what to say. Surely the fact that other mando’ade know about his situation and are spreading the word to protect them is a good sign, but he can’t fathom how they would know. There’s no one keeping track of his whereabouts enough to connect him to the PhenoVisage deaths and Samir’s rescue. Is there?

“Din, there’s someone--”

He takes a step back, pulling the door open to allow the couple behind it through. The man nods to him and Din automatically nods back, but his mind is racing. Who had put out the message?

“Should we go inside?” A note of longing joins the hope in her voice at the smell of coffee and cinnamon emanating from the open door.

“Yeah.”

She slips in ahead of him as he looks around, the chill from outside fading in the warmth of the shop. There’s a low murmur of conversation and the soft tones of music from speakers set in the corners. The place looks old but well-kept. Cozy, and entirely at odds with everything about the last few weeks.

His hand still hovering at her lower back, Din guides them to a small table in the corner. Senha sits with Samir on her lap, both arms tucked around him tightly. Din pauses for a moment with his hand on her shoulder, grounding himself. A row of small flags hang from the ceiling over the counter, and his heart stops at the black mythosaur on a yellow background about halfway along the line.

“Stay here,” he says needlessly. Senha nods as he turns away towards the counter.

Waiting in line behind a woman who looks a few years younger than Senha, Din hangs back a few feet, self-conscious of the half-scrubbed bloodstain on his jeans and the fact that he hasn’t showered in nearly three days. He’s sure that the only reason he can’t smell himself is that he’s become accustomed to it by this point.

When the woman moves away, Din steps up to the counter.

“What can I get started for you?” The young man behind the register asks briskly, looking up at him. His eyes flicker over the week’s worth of stubble, his t-shirt stained with Maker-knows-what, and his lack of jacket despite the temperature.

“I’m--I’m here about the message in the front window.” Din replies haltingly. “I’m looking for the Cyzan family.”

The barista’s eyes jump back to his, “The message in the--oh. Oh.” His mouth opens slightly and he looks behind him, “Um, grab a seat. I’ll get--”

The young man hurries into the kitchen and Din turns back to Samir and Senha in the corner. Her head is bent down to speak to the boy, who has his arms folded over hers, Basa tucked in between her knees. She looks up as he sits back down.

“So?”

His eyes gravitate back to the flag above the counter, “Now we wait.”

A few tense minutes later, a woman with silver hair coiled neatly at the nape of her neck comes out of the back. The barista discreetly indicates their table and Din sits up straighter as the woman makes her way over to them. A braided cord of yellow and black disappears under the woman’s worn blue sweater, and Din’s heart lodges somewhere in his throat.

“You’re looking for the Cyzan family?” Her voice holds the lightest hint of an accent. The same accent he’d heard every morning in his buir’s greeting to him.

“Ibac ni,” he says, lips numb as he lifts his chin towards the notice in the window. “Ni bal ner ad’ika.”

The woman’s eyes widen, “Osik. Su cuy’gar, verd. Gar kar’tayli aliit Cyzan?”

“Lek. Matas bal ni--” He stammers, the Mando’a embarrassingly clumsy on his tongue. It’s been years since he’s spoken more than a few words here and there, even lately with Samir. “Verde tome vaal--” He can’t remember the damn word and an ugly flush crawls up the back of his neck.

The woman takes pity on him, “Udesii, ad. You’re alright.”

Reaching under his shirt, Din pulls out the beskar amulet on its black cord. The woman reaches out and turns it over in her fingers. “Matas told me I could find his family here.”

She hums in acknowledgement, inspecting the mythosaur totem carefully, “It’s possible to find them, if you know the Way.” Meeting his gaze with significantly more warmth in her smile, she releases it and lays a hand on his arm.

“Olarom yaim, mando’ad. Let’s get you and your aliit somewhere safe.” She offers Senha and Samir a smile as well, “You’re parked close by?”

Din nods, humiliation competing with relief as the woman leads them out of the shop.

* * * * * * *

The woman is Din’s battle buddy’s grandmother, as it turns out. She and Din speak half in Ebryian, half in what Senha’s assuming is Mandalorian on the ride to... wherever it is they’re going. The woman looks back at her at one point and asks a question that she can’t understand. Senha just looks back at her, nonplussed, and an apologetic smile flashes across her face before she turns back.

Din mentions her name at one point, but she can’t understand the rest of what he’s saying. She’s curious as hell but it’s clear that they’re moving into entirely unknown territory, at least for Senha. She might’ve reached a point of understanding (and potentially something more, given that morning) with Din but she’s entirely blind to their next steps. It’s not a feeling she loves.

Samir is anxious, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of Din and looking back to Senha with wide eyes. She leans over to lay her forehead against his. He babbles to her quietly, and she rubs her thumb over his cheek.

“Almost there, sweetheart.”

Out of her peripheral, the woman looks back at them both but Senha keeps her eyes down. Until someone addresses her directly, it seems safest to melt into the background.

Still leaning over with her eyes closed and one of Samir’s small hands curled in her hair, Senha feels them start to take turns off the highway. The hum of smooth pavement gives way to gravel and anxiety curls in her chest. Untangling Samir’s fingers from her hair, she gives him a last kiss on the cheek before raising her head. She has a deal to uphold.

Looking up, she catches Din’s gaze in the rear view mirror momentarily. He doesn’t look outright relieved yet, but the strain around the corners of his eyes isn’t quite as tight as it had been back at the coffee shop. Senha gives him a quick smile that he returns before his eyes shift back to the windshield.

Ahead of them, a series of buildings come into view over a hill, resolving themselves into a set of single-story houses with a large, grey two-story building in the middle. The town is nestled into the shadow of rocky, brown foothills. The houses aren’t large, but they’re neat and each is painted a different shade, the colors vivid against the muted backdrop of the high desert. They make a left past the two-story building, a black and yellow flag flapping on a pole in the fading colors of the afternoon.

Anxiety climbs into her throat as they pull into the carport of a small house near the two-story building. It’s painted the same faded shade of orange and pink that’s coloring the sky in the growing dusk.

“Well,” the older woman says, unbuckling her seatbelt and casting an encouraging look back at Senha and Samir. “Let’s get you inside and cleaned up.”

Din makes it around the car before Senha can finish unbuckling Samir from his car seat. “We’ll be safe with Matas’ family,” he says hurriedly. “Azalia remembered me.”

He hefts Samir up into his arms and Senha feels oddly ineffectual. The toddler’s tiny brow is still furrowed and he hiccups as he strains to look around for her. Senha lets herself fall a step or two behind, trying to calm the pounding of her heart. She can’t help but wonder what they were talking about in the car, and what Din had told the older woman about her. Shaking her head, she hurries to catch up with Din and Samir. Din turns as she comes up next to them, offering her a tight smile.

“His parents will like you.”

Trying to stay positive, she returns his smile as they move towards the front of the house. A middle-aged woman with more grey than brown in her dark hair comes out the door to meet them, gravel crunching under her feet. Heavy wrinkles line the corners of her eyes, and they deepen further as she smiles.

“Din,” Striding to them, she envelops him in a hug. Din accepts the hug awkwardly and the woman pulls back to give him an affectionately critical glance. “It’s been a long time.”

“I know.” Senha can see his shoulders slump. “I’m sorry I haven’t--”

The woman waves him off. “You’ve been living. It’s what we’ve all been trying to do.” She dips her chin to examine Samir, who hides his face partially against Din’s throat, watching her out of one warm brown eye. “Azalia said you were bringing your ad’ika, and a friend?”

Din strokes a hand over the boy’s back. “This is Samir.” The child turns to bury his face in Din’s shoulder and the woman chuckles before she turns to Senha, putting her hand out.

“Iska Cyzan. Welcome to Arkose.” There’s no trace of suspicion in the woman’s voice, and a small flame of hope sparks in Senha’s chest.

“Senha Rodhin.” She replies, taking the offered hand and giving her a shy smile.

Iska tips her head towards the front door, “Let’s get you inside, you both look exhausted.” As she speaks, the older woman, Azalia, and a middle-aged, black-haired man come out of the house, carrying two tarps. The man grins when he sees them.

“Su cuy’gar, ad.” He shifts the tarps to his other arm to trade forearm grips with Din. Letting go, he nods to Senha and continues out to the carport.

As Iska opens the screen door, Senha glances back to see the two of them throw the tarps over the truck and tug them down to cover the license plate. Whoever these people are, they’re clearly unphased by the idea of hiding someone.

“Alright then,” Iska says, looking back to them as she leads them into a small living room. “Food first, or shower first?”

Senha doesn't even want to imagine how much of a mess they look, but she flushes at the thought. Din answers, clearly sharing her thoughts. "The kid could really use a bath. But we don’t really have..." He trails off awkwardly.

The woman, Iska, waves her hand dismissively, "You can borrow clothes for the time being. Shouldn't be too bad a fit.” Din nods gratefully.

As Iska bustles around to pull out extra towels, some of the tension starts to ease out of Senha’s shoulders. For all of Din’s tense discussion of needing to verify his identity, everyone they’ve met thus far seems to be bent on nothing more than looking after them. It makes her wonder why he’d assumed their greeting would be anything different...

“You mind if we pull the same thing we did at the motel?” Din interrupts her thoughts, his voice low as Iska leads them down a hallway.

It takes her a moment to realize he’s talking about the handoff they’d performed with Samir, “Sure.”

His hand squeezes her shoulder lightly in thanks as Iska opens a door to their right to reveal a small bedroom. Dust motes float in a ray of late afternoon sun through the window, falling onto the thick quilt covering the double bed. An old desk and chair sit under the window.

“It’s not much, but it’s what we’ve got. Do you three mind sharing?” There’s a question in her voice that makes Senha flush slightly, but Din speaks up quickly.

“Vor ent'ye. You’ve been more than kind.”

Iska waves a hand dismissively. “Gedet’ye, it’s the least we can do. We’re just glad you made it. We’ve called the al’baar’ur, about your leg. Figured it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get you all checked before you get some sleep.”

Din gives a stiff nod, looking mildly guilty. Senha, on the other hand, lets out a relieved breath.

“Thank you,” she says as the woman slips past her to leave a pile of towels on the bed. Iska lays a hand on her shoulder as she moves back to the door, and that tendril of hope in her chest that they might finally be safe grows tremulously.

“Go ahead,” Din says after Iska leaves, handing Senha a towel. “We’ll wait.”

“Are you sure?” Senha asks, every inch of her rejoicing at the possibility of hot water, soap, and most importantly, removal of the bra she’s been wearing for the last three days.

“Lek.”

With her extremely limited grasp of his tongue, she assumes this means ‘yes, cleanse yourself so we can enjoy the sleep of the recently almost-deceased’. She doesn’t bother asking for clarification.

When she pulls the shower curtain back ten minutes later, feeling infinitely more human, there’s not only the towel but a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants folded neatly on the sink. Squeezing the excess water out of her hair, she steps onto the mat, a genuine smile coming over her face for the first time in far too long.

* * * * * * *

The baby-juggling goes significantly smoother this time, and before too long he’s passing a clean and wet-headed Samir off to Senha. She politely averts her eyes from him, and he’s not sure how this morning changes things between them, or if it even changes anything at all. A thought hits him as he’s pouring shampoo into his palm that makes him stop. His stomach sinks.

What if she hadn’t actually wanted it?

What if he’d taken her instinctive complaisance at waking up with him wrapped around her like a spider on a fly as consent?

He hasn’t seen fear in her eyes directed at him since that terrible moment when he’d almost lost it in Chert, and she’s been sticking much closer to him the past few days, but what choice does she really have?

Din curses as he roughly scrubs the shampoo into his hair, furious at himself. He knew the power dynamics here were delicate and he’s gone and made a mess of things in his selfish desire for comfort. With another bolt of guilt, he remembers that he’d told Iska they could stay in the same room. He hadn’t even consulted Senha before answering, thinking instead that naturally they’d all feel safer together.

“Osi’kyr,” he mutters, slamming the water off as soon as it runs clean of suds and jerking the curtain back. He’ll sleep on the couch tonight, and they’ll figure something out for the remainder of their time in Arkose. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he pulls the door open and peers down the hall before striding quickly to the bedroom.

Senha looks up as he enters and they both pause for a moment. She looks back down to finish doing up the snaps on the borrowed onesie Samir’s dressed in.

“Give me just a second and then you can have the place to yourself.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch tonight,” Din blurts out.

Senha looks back up at him, her expression surprised. “Oh. You don’t… It’s really fine.”

“I shouldn’t have--” he cuts himself off, acutely aware of the fact that he’s stormed in here wearing a towel and nothing else. “I’m sorry for telling Iska we could share the room. You and Samir should sleep here, I’ll take the couch.”

Securing the last snap, she picks Samir up and sits down on the bed. The boy stretches out his hands for Basa, and Din automatically plucks the dragon off the desk and hands it to him as she replies, “I...I really don’t mind. That couch didn’t look particularly comfortable. Especially with your shoulder, you shouldn’t be--”

Issik’s teeth, why is she making this so hard. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Her eyebrows pull together before they raise in understanding. “This morning.”

Din lets out a breath, because at least they’re getting to the point. Samir whines and Senha shushes him, resettling him in her lap.

“I completely understand. I--we can just forget it happened. Especially given where we are.”

The last part of her sentence gives him pause. “Where we...are?”

Senha shrugs, the casual nature of the motion somewhat ruined by the fact that she won’t meet his eyes. “Yeah, I mean… Look, everyone gets confused sometimes. It’s really--it’s fine. I just feel bad that I didn’t realize before. I never would’ve, if I’d known”

Din is now truly confused. “Realize...what?”

She finally brings her eyes up to his, and he’s horrified to see the shine in them as she straightens a wrinkle in Samir’s onesie. “Well, that you’re...you know, gay?”

It takes him an uncomfortably long time to put the pieces together and when he does he almost gapes at her. “You thought I meant I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable because…”

“Because we’re staying at your ex-boyfriend’s house?” Senha finishes, clearly trying not to cry. “I’m--” her voice breaks, “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I took advantage like that.”

“Wait, wait. Senha, I’m--” Her anguish is so far from what he’d been prepared for that a laugh entirely inappropriate for the situation bubbles up in his chest. “I...like both. Guys and girls.”

“What?” Senha says, looking quickly back up to him. Samir’s looking from one to the other, aware that something’s going on but entirely unsure of what it is.

He can feel another laugh catching in his throat, but he has to at least hold it together long enough to explain. “Matas and I were together, but we ended things before he went back to Concordia.” He leans back against the desk, one hand still keeping his towel tucked securely in, “So you thought….”

“I thought you were gay and confused and that I’d been acting like a complete predator!” Senha bursts out, and claps a hand over her eyes before burying her face against Samir’s. The baby whimpers, clearly concerned at her distress.

Din gives in to the laughter, because of everything the last few weeks has thrown at him, this is the most ridiculous by far. It’s a hoarse sound, more rasping than anything else, but it feels good.

Dimly, he can hear Senha laughing as well, and even Samir joins in with a curious hiccuping giggle. When he finally looks up, wiping his eyes, Senha’s hosting a dark flush but she at least doesn’t look on the verge of tears anymore. Samir’s cuddled in her lap, looking up at him with a wide grin on his face and it hits him.

They made it.

Senha shakes her head, coming to stand with Samir on her hip.

“Okay, so let’s just agree. Neither of us are making the other one uncomfortable, and nobody’s sleeping on the couch. Deal?” She brings her eyes up to his, the edge of her mouth twitching into a smile.

Din nods once, “Deal.”

She shakes her head again, laying a hand on his shoulder and raising up on her toes to tap her forehead gently against his. Din brushes their noses together before he pulls back. She’s still smiling and the relief makes him almost lightheaded. He leans down to give Samir a soft kov’nyn as well, a tiny hand grabbing at his ear excitedly in response.

“I’ll be out soon.” Din straightens, nodding towards the door. Senha slips past him and out the door, and only after it clicks shut does he finally let go of the towel.

* * * * * * *

The doctor barely has time to listen to Samir’s heart and lungs before Din emerges and there’s a flurry of activity. Senha’ relief strengthens at the knowledge that these people seem as concerned about potential sepsis as she is.

And that no one suggests cauterization as a method of treatment. Even as a joke.

“While they take care of this, why don’t you come with me and we’ll see about getting something warmed up for you three.” Senha starts as Iska speaks from just behind her shoulder.

The woman tips her head towards the kitchen, an encouraging smile on her face, and Senha follows her with a quick glance back at Din. He’s chatting with the doctor, and Samir seems satisfied simply to be in his arms for the moment, head laid down against Din’s shoulder and two fingers in his mouth. The kid is going to sleep hard. Truth be told, she thinks, they all will.

Dark red tiles line the floor of the kitchen, and a small table with four chairs is tucked neatly into one corner. Iska pulls a pot of soup out of the fridge and puts it down on the old stove with a light clang.

“Sounds like he was lucky to have you there,” Iska says, twisting the knob on the burner. Gas flickers to life under the pot and Iska turns back to her, “With the graze, and all.”

“I couldn’t clean it as well as I would’ve liked.” Senha repeats, guilt putting a sour taste in her mouth. “We didn’t have any supplies or clean clothes or--”

Iska raises her eyebrows, “He’s alive, isn’t he?”

Senha lets out an uncomfortable laugh, “Barely.”

“You all made it here safely, that’s what’s important. Rest will help.”

Senha nods, a yawn making its way out before she can stop it. Iska makes an approving sound before she turns to lean back against the counter, folding her arms. She looks worried, and Senha blinks to refocus herself.

“That bruise looks nasty.” Iska nods towards Senha’s right side.

Twisting her shoulder to see the outside of that arm, she’s surprised to find a ugly looking bruise spreading down her forearm, “Oh, I didn’t even--”

The woman continues gently, “I also noticed a few on your wrist. Do you know how you got them?”

The questions have a familiar feel to them but it takes her exhausted mind a minute to realize why. They’re the same questions Senha’s been trained to ask when she sees unexplained bruising on people in vulnerable situations.

"Oh, no! No, it's not--” Holding out her left hand, she turns her palm face down to expose the yellowing bruises around her wrist. “These are from a hunter who found us in Ganister City. And I used my arm to slam a door into someone’s...face.” She trails off.

Iska’s still looking closely at her but there’s the slightest smile on her face, and no small amount of surprise, “Into someone’s face?”

Senha looks down at the bruises again, “Yeah. Not exactly what I thought I’d be doing when I took this gig.”

Breathing out a laugh that sounds suspiciously relieved, Iska turns to a pantry and pulls out a loaf of dark bread. She starts to cut thick slices of it, the crust rasping against the serrated blade.

“I can only imagine. When did you leave Ganister City?”

Senha leans back against the counter, “About a week and a half ago. Feels longer but...”

Iska wraps the bread in a cloth and puts it into the oven to warm, “It always does.”

* * * * * * *

The high of realizing their survival is wearing off by the time the al’baar’ur finishes redressing the graze on his thigh and checking Samir’s vitals. The low-level anxiety plaguing him since he’d turned the truck north has resurfaced and he knows that the later it gets, the more pressure there will be for him to provide answers to very reasonable questions. In addition, there’s a throbbing behind his eyes that only promises to get worse.

The al’baar’ur, Ator, releases him and Samir, having pronounced the boy to be exhausted and mildly dehydrated but otherwise in good health, and packs his bag up with a promise to return in about an hour with antibiotics. Din thanks the man, but his mind is on the conversation ahead of him.

The image of Ullin and Iska setting out bowls of soup and bread on the small kitchen table while Senha clutches a mug of tea in both hands just makes him feel worse. It just compounds the knowledge that every kindness they’re receiving is one given under false pretenses. He wonders if Azalia would’ve laid her hand on his arm and smiled so warmly if she’d known he had turned Samir over for blood money. Whether she would’ve welcomed him home if she’d known what his actions could bring down on them all.

He highly doubts it.

Senha seems to sense his anxiety but he plays it off as exhaustion and it’s accepted by all with compassion that he doesn’t deserve. Even the familiar spices on his tongue, as much yaim to him as Razan’s brusque cuff on his shoulder after a long day, do nothing but drag him lower.

When Samir is visibly falling asleep in Senha’s arms and she’s held back at least three yawns of her own, Din lays a hand on her back. She meets his gaze with half-lidded eyes, looking for all the world as comfortable and secure as she has since he met her.

“Sleep?”

He nods, “Go ahead, I’ll be there soon.”

She bids Ullin and Iska goodnight, thanking them profusely on her way out the door. They wave her off and turn their attention back to Din. He straightens, trying to find the best place to start.

“It’s good to see you.” Ullin rumbles, completely throwing off his train of thought.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Din starts, and then stops. Why is this so difficult? “I need to--There’s something you need to know.”

“The deaths at the laboratory. The demagolka.” Ullin nods gravely. “We know. You did what was necessary to protect your foundling.”

Din shakes his head, “It’s more than that.” The words are like stones in his throat and he swallows hard around them. A gentle hand comes down over his own and he opens his eyes to find Iska watching him with worried eyes. They’re an unusual shade of amber, and with a jolt, he realizes they’re the same shape and color as Matas’ eyes.

“You need to rest, ad.”

“You need to know,” he tries to continue, but the words just won’t come. They’ve never come in Ebryian and he can’t remember the right combination in Mando’a through the pulsing headache.

“Gar shuk meh kyrayc, verd.” Ullin says. “Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow. There’s no chatter about you on any wavelength. And we’re watching tonight, just in case. If anyone comes looking, we’ll know long before they hit our boundaries.”

Iska squeezes his hand. “Rest.”

Another day, he would have had the strength to resist giving in, to push through and report and ensure that they know the extent of his crimes and the danger he’s bringing with him. But in the face of their kindness his resolve crumbles and his fatigue rears its head and he nods like the coward he is.

When he opens the door to the bedroom, the light from the hallway falls over Senha and Samir’s faces. Closing the door before the light disturbs them, Din draws back the thick quilt. Samir shifts, his limbs splayed out in the relaxed form that only children assured of their safety take. Senha is curled on her side, one hand resting on Samir’s chest. She stirs as Din slips in beside them and she reaches out to touch his arm lightly before she relaxes again, as if verifying he’s close by before she can rest.

Laying on his back and looking up at the dark ceiling, Din closes his eyes. Whatever happens, it’s worth it for them to have this peace. They deserve this. Trying to focus on blocking out the spikes of pain in his skull, he breathes in measured paces. The pain fades slowly, until all he hears are the slow, deep breaths of the two sound asleep behind him.

* * * * * * *

“Din,”

He blinks in the dark. Senha’s hand is still on his arm but her grasp is tight now as she jostles his shoulder.

“Din, wake up.”

Curled between his arm and his side, Samir whimpers.

"What is that?" Senha’s voice is uneasy.

As Din slowly surfaces, he can hear what she’s talking about. A sound echoes out in the night beyond the house. It starts low but travels upwards in pitch before cutting off in a ragged cough. It’s repeated by multiple voices, over and over, until it’s an eerie fever pitch of sound. It echoes louder, as if the creatures making it are surrounding them, closing in.

Senha shrinks back towards him as he sits up, trying to track the sound. As quickly as it came, it retreats, the echoes fading back into silence.

"What was that?" She whispers.

“No idea.” He lowers himself back down. "We'll ask Iska and Ullin tomorrow."

Senha's outline remains upright and filled with tension, looking towards the window. Din reaches out, catching the cuff of her shirt between two fingers and tugging lightly.

"Go back to sleep."

His eyes are closing again but he can almost feel her turn to look at him.

"You think it's safe?"

He nods, Samir's quiet snuffling snores lulling him back to unconsciousness. "'Safe, cyar'ika. Gar morut'yc."

She remains sitting up and he runs a hand down her arm to squeeze her hand.

"We're safe here.” He murmurs. “I've got you." She settles back down a few moments later, though she's much closer than before.

He turns on his side, wrapping an arm over her and Samir and feeling blindly until he finds her face in the darkness. When he does he rests his forehead against hers, brushing his nose over her cheek.

"Nuhoy, cyar'ika. Gar morut'yc."

Chapter Text

In the tiny office she shares with Payne at the local DIB center, Sil sits back in the ageing desk chair and rubs her hands over her face. Payne himself had poked his head in about an hour earlier and wordlessly motioned her out to watch the interview airing live on Lion News Network. It isn’t the kind of content either Sil or Payne would watch given their preference, but under headquarters policy all agency televisions have been required to broadcast LNN since the new administration took over.

She had been able to watch the show for about a minute before looking away in disgust. At some level, every case like this has a messaging element. Normally, Sil could ignore this element and let the public affairs experts do their job while she did hers. In the hour since the interview had aired, however, Sil has been treated to a half-dozen requests for information, demands for input into communications plans, and even a request to hold a press conference. She’d barely avoided laughing out loud at the last one. Despite her best efforts, it looks as if the interest in the case has spiraled into the political arena, and is now just more ammunition in the unending culture wars that occupy Ebryian politics.

Sil closes her email in an act of self-defense and curses. Every moment she spends reassuring the general populace that no, their neighbor is not plotting the overthrow of Ebrya just because they happen to be an immigrant, is another moment for Din Djarin to dig himself further underground. Another moment where some other interested party could track him and his unfortunate companions down before Sil finds them.

Her phone rings and Sil sighs as she looks over and sees the Capital area code on the number. Grimacing, she reaches to answer the call. The conversation lasts barely five minutes, but it solidifies to her that she really needs to do something before this situation gets entirely out of her control. HQ wants her to travel to the Capital to play public relations and assist in the formation of a taskforce on this potential “Mandalorian problem”. Apparently, either no one has been reading her reports or this latest series of garbage from Lion News Network has short-circuited their brains. There is no larger problem, just a man in over his head who has managed to anger just about every hornet’s nest in the dark underbelly of Ebryian capitalism.

She’s managed to deflect them with the argument of results being a better strategy than sheer panic, but she is less sure that the line will work in a week. Assuming something new hasn’t replaced Mandalorians on the top of the ‘things you didn’t realize you should fear’ list by then... Before then, she either needs to find Djarin or find some way to re-open her investigation into PhenoVisage and what the hell has led to all this. Lucky for her, Sil’s fairly certain she knows just the person who might be able to help with at least one of those.

* * * * * * *

The lawyer looks up from her computer when Sil enters the offices of Hammer and Forge Associates on the third floor of the rented building. The woman’s mouth immediately tightens, and Sil guesses she’s planning on having a word with the security guard downstairs at the next opportunity. Sil herself had found no problem in taking advantage of the fact that the front desk has no loyalty to the occupants, especially when shown a badge.

“Ms. Reid? Agent Silvia Fess, from the Vizsla incident. I hope I’m not intruding.”

To her credit, the woman covers her displeasure quickly with a polite mask, “I remember. To my knowledge your agency was no longer involved in Mr. Vizsla’s case, and my client has been cleared of all charges.”

“This is about Din Djarin.” It’s a risk to be so forward, but this woman knows more than she’s letting on and Sil is running out of time to play games.

The lawyer manages to keep her expression almost entirely neutral at the name but Sil catches the faintest twitch of a muscle in her cheek as her jaw shifts. Perhaps it’s enough of a surprise that Sil knows the man’s name or perhaps it’s the fact that she would share that knowledge with her. Either way, Sil is now sure she is talking to the right person.

“What about him?”

Sil continues, her voice hard, “He’s killed seven people, potentially broken up at least one family, and is currently being turned into a political bargaining chip for the Ebrya First movement. I know that you know exactly who he is. I think we also both know this is more than a bounty gone wrong. More to the point, a bounty isn’t why seven people are dead and a father is panicking on national television about his daughter being brainwashed to breed a generation of fifth-column warriors to invade this country.”

Apparently the lawyer is lucky enough to work in a place that did not shove Lion News down everyone’s throat as the incredulity on her face doesn’t look faked, “What?”

“This went live a little over two hours ago.” Sil responded, taking out her phone.

She has the offending interview cued up already. The screen shows television persona Allison Stone sitting across from a distraught man in his early fifties, “It must have been over the last year. She was more distant, but we all thought it was just her work and classes.”

“But now?” Allison’s reassuring voice still makes Sil want to hurl.

“Now… I don’t know.” The man looks into the camera, his voice breaking, “Senha, moonbeam, if you see this, please know we love you. And please, if the man who has my daughter sees this, we just want her home safely…”

Sil stops the playback, “I’d bet money that by tomorrow it’ll be the top story on every major network. Local nurse abducted by a murderer with ties to terrorists, and a desperate father seeking the safe return of his daughter. If you want to see the rest, it gets worse.” Sil can almost see the wheels turning behind the lawyer’s eyes as she follows the path of logic being laid out. “My case is becoming propaganda against your people. What happened to Mr. Vizsla? To that other family and those two kids?That will happen in every Mandalorian community across the country. People will be targeted and brought in for questioning. Harassed.”

When the lawyer meets Sil’s gaze again, her eyes are cold, “And you suggest you can stave off this inevitability?”

“I know you can help me find Din Djarin. I don’t think the kid he took from PhenoVisage is Senha Rohdin’s child, but I do know that both she and that child are in danger and will be as long as they’re with him. I need Djarin in custody because I think he knows what’s really going on here, and I need his testimony as proof. Help me find him so I can figure out what the hell is really going on here.” Pausing to catch her breath, Sil waits for the lawyer to respond. She isn’t naive enough to believe she’ll be completely swayed by this argument alone. Sil just needs to keep her at the table.

“And what? You think that once you arrest him, those responsible for this,” she gestures to Sil’s phone, still sitting on the desk between them, “will disappear? Because one man tells a different story?”

“No, because there is a system that-”

The corner of the lawyer’s mouth twists wryly. “You are embarrassing yourself. The people you claim to be fighting, the ones you want my alliance against, use your system as their shield. You cannot defeat them from the inside.”

Sil isn’t expecting that, and she’s left speechless long enough for the lawyer to continue, “You are correct, however, in that at this moment they control the story. Without a different narrative, the situation will become more dangerous.”

Even as she’s still trying to recover from her surprise, the words are significantly more positive then Sil had expected. It almost feels like a potential offer for an alliance. “So you’ll help me, then?” She asks hopefully.

The lawyer tilts her head, “No. But I will help my own people and through that, perhaps we can help each other. I have no desire to see Din Djarin become a symbol used to incite hatred against Mandalorians in this country. Your media has already cast his role, it is too late to change it. What I can help you do, however, is give Ebrya the one thing it loves more than a boogeyman.”

Sil pauses for a moment before catching on, “People aren’t going to be interested in a bounty hunter killing a few security guards if it comes out that the corporation involved has committed medical malpractice and is complicit in human trafficking. And once it’s out, they won’t be able to prevent the investigation.” She chews her lip, thinking. It’s not a bad plan, but for once Sil doesn’t have the appropriate resources to make it happen. Not from inside the system. “We would need someone capable of getting their hands on evidence. And a way to get that evidence to the public. Someone credible.”

“If I assist you in bringing this story to light, there will be no record of my or any of my people’s involvement.” It’s not a question.

Sil shrugs, “Of course.”

The woman narrows her eyes, but they each know this game. A bit of ambiguity protects them both. “Very well, agent. I will be in touch.”

“I look forward to it,” Sil replies before turning to leave. She holds her breath until the glass doors of the office suite click shut behind her.

As she exits the building, she fishes into her bag and pulls out a handful of papers. Tearing up the prepared warrant, Sil honestly hadn’t expected the lawyer to be so helpful, particularly after her experience with the Guild enforcer a few days prior. In the end, the lawyer would likely feel that Sil hadn’t held up her side of the bargain, but that wasn’t her problem. Din Djarin was still responsible for the deaths of seven people. The fact that there was a greater evil involved didn’t give him license to play judge, jury, and executioner. When he had to explain himself before the first two to hold off the third, he would understand that.

* * * * * * *

“Hello Hans, it is Vassily. I am afraid that I am calling with bad news!”

“I have already seen the reports. Is this about your man?”

“Well yes, that is a problem as well. Lars was quite injured by the Mandalorian, and finding a discreet doctor in a place like this is... expensive.”

“An expense I am sure you will forward to us. Am I correct in believing that you have failed to locate the asset, then?”

“No, no, not failed. We are still scouting. That is not the bad news I have called you about.”

“Then the rumor that someone was killed is accurate?”

“Oh, do not worry about that. Alexei was an moron. No. We will find the Mandalorian, do not worry. I already have the feelers out, sooner or later we will find him, and you will have your property back.”

“Then this problem?”

“Have you heard of the Ospresso? The tiny capsules with the coffee inside? Those little capsules are very complicated, but it is the closest to proper coffee that I can find in this god forsaken land. The young man at the store said to just insert them, but we have found that if you do not balance it just right the entire drink is ruined. If this is how these people must struggle for a beverage, it is no wonder they are so persistent! In any case, it is making us all very irritated and you know how that lowers our performance.”

“...”

“Oh Hans, do not worry! We will find your property, but with such poor resources, it may take Lars some time to recuperate. In any case, we will be in touch when we have need of you.”

The line goes dead, and there’s a heavy sigh. “Sometimes I wonder who is working for whom here...”

Chapter Text

Ruusaan Cyzan, age 18

When she’s home, Ru is the first one up in the morning.

Her window faces east and her blinds stay open at night, so the first light of the sun falls across the wall above her bed. In the winter months, a light on her bedside table simulates the slow dawn to push back the icy darkness.

She showers and dresses with care to avoid disturbing the other members of the household. Green eyes look back at her in the mirror as she pulls her hair into a long tail high at the back of her head. At eighteen, she’s grown into the lankiness of her frame, gaining one final inch of height in the last year to be taller than her buire. Her ori’vod had been taller than their buire, but she's not sure if she’d be eye to eye with him now or not. She's not sure she'll ever get the chance to find out.

The light moves slowly down her walls as she packs for the week. Her motions are automatic at this point; the same clothes go into the bag as the week before, slip in the hygiene kit, zip the bag closed. By the time she throws a jacket on top of the bag, there are sounds from the kitchen. Outside, a car starts up as another early riser in the tribe heads out for the day. More than likely it’s Soz, heading to Minette to open the shop.

Before she leaves the room, Ru stills and closes her eyes against the early rays of sunlight, “Gar suum sa’haaise, ni mirsche’tayli bal kar’tayli gar. Ni partayli gar darasuum.”

As she speaks, she extends the index and middle fingers of each hand to touch her eyelids before drawing them out to her temples, and finally down to meet at her sternum.

You are beyond my sight, so I hold you in my mind and my heart. I remember you always.

She picks up her bag and jacket, and leaves the room, shutting the door softly behind her without looking at the photograph on her bookshelf.

It’s the same as the one in her ori’vod’s room, taken just before he’d deployed to Concordia. In it, Ru, barely seven years old, is perched on her ori’vod’s broad shoulders. Her small hands are dwarfed in his, and she still remembers him looking up and telling her she’ll wear armor like he does one day.

“Ori’haat?!” she asked excitedly.

“Ori’haat, verd’ika.” His tone was serious but his eyes laughed. “Maybe you’ll be old enough to start training when I get back, lek?”

The music on the radio in the kitchen signals that her Bu is still home. If it were just Bui, it would be the farm report, but Ullin’s well aware that his riduur prefers to start her mornings with music and always adjusts the dial before she comes in for breakfast.

Iska is just sitting down with a cup of coffee when Ru comes into the kitchen. Ullin hands her a mug of behot as she sits. It’s stronger than coffee and not something she has every day, but she’s got a three hour drive ahead of her before a full day of work, and she needs the extra stim today.

The conversation as they eat is normal, mostly questions about her remaining classes and how things are going with the round of new programmers they’ve just hired. Her buire know she’s being trained in the more grey areas of the company at this point, but they don’t ask any questions. They’ll wait for her to initiate that conversation, in the same way that they wait for her to speak to them about anything that unsettles her. It’s something that she’s both grateful for and resentful of at times.

She finds she’s not that hungry this morning, even knowing that the behot will sit uneasily on her stomach if she doesn’t eat. Her Bu frowns slightly as Ru stands, pulling her jacket on.

“Nu kai’tome, cyar’ika?”

Ru shakes her head, dragging a smile onto her face. “Got to get on the road. Munit tuur.”

Iska accepts the lie, but Ru still feels some level of guilt and tries to put her unspoken feelings into the mirshmure’cya she gives them both. “I’ll be home late Friday, lek?”

“K’oyacyi, cyar’ika.” Ullin says, drawing his thumb from under her eye to her temple.

“Darasuum.” Ru replies, and the smile she gives him comes more easily. Grabbing her bag from beside the chair, she escapes out the front door to the small four-by-four her buire bought her when she’d begun making the weekly trips to Caliche. She swings by to pick up another programmer, Aria, who also commutes each week from Arkose to the offices in Caliche.

In another six months, Ru will be done with the certificate program and have the choice of whether she wants to stay in Caliche, continue the commute, or come back to Arkose full-time, as some others have chosen to do. The draw of the tribe close by is strong, but she knows she’ll have support in whichever choice she makes.

She’s still not sure which path she’ll choose. As Aria yawns in the passenger seat and Ru turns onto the highway and away from the rising sun, she banishes it from her mind. It’s not a decision she has to make today.

Ullin Cyzan, age 59

This new schedule is going to drive him insane.

The idea of alternating shift days between technicians is good in theory; it reduces the number of days in a row that they spend in the data center. But he’d rather just get the week done all at once and have a proper few days off in between than this piddly one here and one there. They inevitably feel too short. Still, anytime he points this out to his riduur, she reminds him that technically, he doesn’t have to work anymore.

Which is true.

But.

Sitting at home every day isn’t exactly an appealing proposition. He supposes he could pick up some crazy hobby like underwater basket weaving or whatever the hell it is Tim Orkaiss has gotten into his head this week, but just...no. Retirement makes people loopy, Ullin’s convinced of it. Azalia manages to keep it together through sheer force of will alone, and the occasional shift at the coffee shop.

No, for the time being he’ll keep working on the server team. It’s not hard work, he just needs to keep the system running and perform the routine checks to verify everything’s working as intended. Occasionally, if things get interesting, he might need to run a file that the team in Caliche sends over to test the health of the system. But the team in Arkose is fully mando’ade, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t ease the weight on his soul to have the tribe close on a daily basis.

The jobs on the server team are usually reserved for those with young ade or ageing buire to reduce the possibility of a long commute or the grueling working conditions that are the reality of their remote location, but Ullin is one of the original technicians. In addition, he has a reputation on the team as the go-to person to cover a shift if an ad is sick or needs to be picked up from school early, and it keeps him busy. Busy is good.

If Ru was around more it would be different, but his youngest ad is gone during the week. She’d finished high school the previous year and a month later had sat down to tell them she’d been hired by Numar Cyber Enterprises, conditional on her completion of a certificate in entry level computer forensics from the vocational school in Caliche.

There’s no shortage of pride in him for her hard work, but he’d worried at first that her distance would isolate her from her aliit and the tribe. Numar being what it is, she’s far from the only mando’ad there, and she seems to have established herself firmly in the community in Caliche. It’s some small solace, in light of everything that’s happened.

His eldest ad… He stands automatically and moves to the coffee pot to top off his mug. It's easier to think about his eldest when he’s moving.

Ullin is fairly certain Ru doesn’t realize how often she makes the sign of the Remembrance for her ori'vod. They’d taught her the signs and the words to help her cope with his disappearance, and back then she’d performed the motions almost desperately, obsessively. When she woke, before meals, after meals, before school, after school, before bed, and a million times in between.

It’s lessened in her adulthood from the full motions to a simple, reflexive swipe of her finger from under one eye to her temple from time to time. Like she’s wiping ash or dust from her cheek. Innocuous to anyone who isn’t familiar with it, chief among them the aruetiise who work for Numar. It’s a layer of armor that his youngest can wear to protect herself when she leaves the community, and he’s grateful for it.

After Iska leaves for her day, he switches the radio from the music his riduur prefers to one of the local talk shows. The humming of the refrigerator provides a backdrop to the commentator’s voice as he returns to the kitchen table again, pulling the laptop towards him and clicking through new emails.

There’s an email from two mando’ade he knows regarding the message that’s been circulating through all the tribes in the western regions for the past few days (the same message that Ullin himself had brought back to Arkose a few days ago), and he sends a quick response back. When he sees the header on the next email, he puts his coffee mug down before his hands can start to shake.

[Official Documentation] Update on case No. 533

He receives an email similar to this one about once every six months. Sometimes more frequent, sometimes less. The first few years it raised hopes when they came more frequently, but they’ve learned it doesn’t translate to any changes and now each one is received the same way.

Even so, the sense of dread that comes with opening each one is as familiar as breathing. The quiet voice that wonders if this communique will be the one that ends their hopes and frees them from the cycle.

Just open it. Just read it.

It won’t change what already is.

He clicks into the email and skims the usual block of text reiterating that the following information is provided under the auspices of diplomatic agreements between the countries of Ebrya and Mandalore, and under no circumstances should be distributed beyond the immediate relatives of the individual referred to in case No. 533. The same header is in every email they’ve received. He scrolls past the disclaimer to the text, rushing through it in search of deviation.

Appeal of charges and/or sentencing: Denied

Request for contact outside of legal representative: Denied

Additional changes in individual/case status: None

His hand still trembling slightly, Ullin picks up his mug and takes a slow sip. The first two statements are the same as they’ve been the past four times that they’ve filed appeals. The last statement is the one that allows the tribe to maintain hope.

K’oyacyi, ad.

Iska Cyzan, age 56

She doesn’t remember very much about the first year.

Everything became mechanical. Eat, sleep, go to work, teach, come home, repeat. The college had discreetly offered her time off from teaching, but what would a few weeks do? It wouldn’t bring the taste back to food. It wouldn’t bring the air back to her lungs. It wouldn’t bring the light back to the sky.

There are other aliite in the tribe who lost ade to the war, their bodies laid to rest either back in Concordia or given to the sky in Arkose. Those who did return are irrevocably changed, in some cases physically, in some cases mentally, and in many cases, both. The tribe closed around them all, insulating itself for a time while healing took place across the community. With a few exceptions.

Iska knows she shouldn’t be jealous of those families who have laid their lost to rest. Their reality can never change, their loved ones are marching on. But it’s difficult not to feel condemned to perdition when hope waxes and wanes like the moon each year. In the first few years, the smallest bits of news could take her higher or lower than any drug, and inevitably they are always left in the same position as before.

Even through the haze of her grief, she could see the impact her detachment was spreading through her aliit and the tribe itself. At the end of that first year, she had gone to the forge, unsure if she was looking for answers or absolution or just a way to numb the pain of remembering. Of not knowing.

Her buir had guided her through the ritual, deep lines of worry in Azalia’s face when she’d raised the cup to Iska’s mouth and helped her to lay flat after drinking the contents. The lights of the forge had danced across her vision as she closed her eyes, tears of exhaustion seeping out from under her eyelids and slipping into her hairline.

When she’d returned to her senses the following morning, the way had been made clear to her. So long as he lived, so does the hope that he would return to them. And if that hope was taken, it would mean his soul was marching on with those of their ancestors. There was no other option. In the meantime, life did not stop. Iska has a responsibility to herself and to those left behind.

The six or so months after her reawakening had been a strange time. She’d only seen just how much the tribe had stepped up in her absence once the despair lifted from her vision. Her tribe, and her riduur. Ullin had seen what she had been unable to see past her grief, that their aliit still lived even with one of their own beyond their sight.

In some ways, the days have gotten easier since then. Her youngest, their only foundling, has not yet forgiven her for the lost year, and Iska can no more ask that forgiveness from her than she can take back that first year. If it comes, it will come when her ad is ready to give it, and when Iska herself has earned it.

The loss of him is obvious in every stitch of the lives in the small orange and pink house on the corner, but the moments when his absence doesn’t feel like an abscess have started to increase. It’s taken time, but the steel of the tribe has become tempered with community and remembrances and a quiet awareness of the shared pain between them all.

She slowly learns how to find the slightest taste in food again, to see the dullest hint of colors in the houses around theirs. In the height of summer, she can feel the barest warmth of the sun on her face. The ache in her chest has begun to feel more like an old friend than an tormentor at this point, and she is content in the knowledge that she can live the rest of her life with it if necessary. At its core lies a portion of her soul that will always live outside herself, wherever her eldest lays his head to rest. Until he marches on or he returns home.

Azalia Cyzan, age 77

She doesn’t recognize him at first.

It’s not that surprising, the last time she’d seen him had been close to a decade ago. He’d been twenty-one and looking terribly young standing next to his buir. The basic training graduation had been the last opportunity for any of them to see their ade before they were sent to training and deployed. Her bu’ad had eagerly introduced them to the politely serious young man.

He hadn’t given any open indication that the two were involved, but Azalia had been around long enough to know what that specific look between verde meant. The aliit had agreed it was good that their headstrong eldest would have someone to watch his back. After, when he’d come home, he mentioned there’d been a falling out of some kind but was quick to assert that it wasn’t the young man’s fault. Just that there was a world between them, and much of it was in flames.

To walk the way of the Mandalore is to walk the razor’s edge between isolation and extinction.

It isn’t until they’re headed to Arkose in the verd’s battered truck that he gives his name, and she recognizes the strong jawline and aquiline nose. His features are complemented with a wealth of lines now, too many for someone as young as he is, and his hair has grown out from the short battle cut that he and her bu’ad had worn the last time she’d seen him. Still, she feels no surprise at the fact that he is the same verd mentioned in the message. In fact, now that he is here, sitting beside her, it seems obvious that it would be him.

The more she questions him, the more sure she becomes that Din Djarin has been led to this point for a distinct reason. He is haunted, by far more than the ordeal of the past few weeks, and he seems slow to grasp the fact that tribes up and down the region have been watching for him. Worrying over his fate.

“Who sent the message?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she watches the aruetii comfort the ik’aad, “Gar alor.”

The space between the verd’s breaths is enough of a red flag that she turns her head to look at him. Twin lines are drawn deep between his eyebrows. “Ni… ner tsad nu’cuiyir jii.”

Azalia frowns at this. The Ganister tribe was harder hit by the Purge than many others in the region, but as far as she knows it still exists in some form. “Gar dar’tome be’tsad?”

“Dar’tome? Separated?”

His eyes flick back to the aruetii and the ik’aad every few seconds in what she’s sure is an unconscious motion. The child reaches for the woman like she is aliit, but the message makes no mention of her and she’s not mando’ad. It just adds to the questions in need of answering. She meets Azalia’s gaze for only a moment before dropping her eyes again. There’s more than a touch of prey in this one as well.

It’s been years since she’s seen it but the marks of utreemanda are clear on all three of them, deepest in the verd. She would bet credits to beskar that it’s been festering for years. But if it has, why had his tribe not noticed and acted accordingly? Had they lost so much that their ability to see it had faded?

She could say that they have all been walking wounded since the Purge, since they lost an entire generation to war and conformity, but she knows it’s been far longer. The sickness in this verd and the cracks in her own aliit have occurred in so many over the decades. The fissures cannot be erased, but they can be illuminated and filled with something that strengthens them in spite of the damage. Others have found the way, and now it has come to them.

The question of where to house them never even crosses her mind. There is private space available for mando’ade passing through, but these three have been solitary for too long already. Her own aliit, her own tsad, must be the wounded healers now. The depth of the cracks within her aliit will be the measure of their ability to help these three.

The Way cannot be found alone.

End of Part I

Chapter Text

Part II

By the time her phone rings for the third time in an hour, Sil is beginning to wish she could just chuck it into the river. She looks over at the caller ID, the area code is from the Capital. Again. Two calls she can let through to voicemail, a third not so much. Cautiously, she swipes across the screen to answer, “Agent Silvia Fess.”

“Agent Fess, good morning! Vince McKenzie, with the Bureau’s Communications Office. Have you had a chance to review the read-ahead I sent you yesterday evening?”

Sil is confused as to what this man is talking about. She’s only just gotten in and her machine is still booting up. She hasn’t even opened her email, “No, I haven’t seen it yet. I was in the field yesterday and haven’t had a chance to check my mail this morning. We’re two hours behind the Capital out here.”

“Oh… I’m sorry, Agent. Is there something wrong with your phone?”

Sil’s confusion only grows, “My phone?”

“Yes. Are you not able to access your emails remotely?” The supercilious tone is all Sil needs to know this man has never worked a day in the field, and sees himself as better for it.

“I have to apologize, Vince, but I’m currently on a case. If you could please get to the point?”

“Of course, Agent. I just wanted to confirm you’re prepared to meet tomorrow about the communications plan, and see if you needed any help getting into the building. I sent you the calendar invite with the room num--”

Sil balances the phone between her ear and shoulder as she types in her email password, “Sorry, but I think you may have the wrong person, I’m currently on active assignment. I don’t work at HQ.”

“I realize that, Special Agent, but given how quickly the message has been moving on your current assignment, leadership thought it would be best for you to come back here for several weeks to ensure we’re all on the same page.”

Sil begins scrolling through her emails as the conversation continues, desperately trying to figure out what the hell this man is talking about, “Vince, I spoke with my director just two days ago. He agreed that the best place for me to be was out here doing my job. I’d just get in the way of you doing yours back in Chandrilla.”

The silence this remark brings gives her time to come across what she was desperately hoping not to find, an update from her boss in Morrison late the previous evening. He never worked that late, and from how the wording, he seems as surprised by the turn of events as she. His message is linked to a forwarded message, and she sighs when she sees the number of individuals at HQ that are copied on the original message.

J,

Sorry to send this so late, but new orders have just come out of the Director’s Office. Looks like the Lion News cycle isn’t letting up on the Mando thing. Administration has assigned a Comms person specifically for this issue to work with Public Affairs. They want the lead agent back at HQ for at least a few weeks to work through the Comms plan in person. We suggested remote interviews, but PA wants better control of the message. The ticket (itinerary attached) has already been approved by the Deputy Director of PA, so have your agent on that flight back tomorrow. Best case scenario this blows over in a few days but either way, Leadership wants to make sure we are all on message for this one.

Respectfully,

Brandon Knox

Assistant Director

Domestic Investigations Bureau, National Security Branch, Counterterrorism Division

Sil sags back in her chair, her face twisted in disgust as Vince continues speaking, “The Administration has developed a vested interest in this case since Lion News ran that special, and leadership wants to make sure we’re getting the right message out to the public. Now, when you get in tomorrow, I’d like to go through our Comms plan with you to make sure you are up to date with-”

This is getting ridiculous, “Up to date? I’m the lead investigator on this case. How much more up to date can you be?”

Vince lets out a little chuckle that puts Sil’s teeth on edge, “Well, of course you know the investigation side of things, Agent, but with all these eyes, it’s my job to make sure the entire Bureau is speaking on message. The Executive Assistant Director and Deputy Director will be jointly hosting a press conference tomorrow afternoon. You’ll be part of that, so please remember to bring something appropriate to wear…”

At this point Sil tunes the man out, making the expected affirmative noises as her mind races on how to respond to this. It's too convenient for this to be a response to something she did, it’s more likely exactly what it looks like; HQ being more concerned with keeping tabs in the Capital-bubble than their staff doing their jobs.

The conversation continues, something about keeping in mind to wear a dress because skirt-suits are seen as too aggressive right now. Sil doesn't bother asking about pants. Instead, she spends the time sending out a few last minute requests and filling out some emergency transfer paperwork. If some HQ idiots want to pull her off the front line, she can at least take advantage of DIB’s last-minute protocols for this sort of thing.

She’s just about finished when Payne finally wanders in. While he looks presentable, he’s wearing an expression that’s a mix of tired and satisfied and she’s guessing his date the previous evening went better than expected. Sil wonders where he finds the energy for it all.

He glances over as she gets up to retrieve something from the printer, her voice chipper, “Morning, partner. Was starting to wonder if you’d be in before ten.” She taps the papers on her desk to straighten them before looking up at him, “I have good news and bad news. Which would you like first?”

Payne gives her a suspicious look over the rim of his Sundeau cup, “You might not be aware of this, but it's generally considered rude to confront someone before they’ve had their first cup of coffee.”

Sil nods, “Bad it is, then. I’ve been called to Chandrilla for a few weeks. Apparently leadership thinks they need me on a shorter leash for a while because of that Lion News story.”

Payne’s mixture of surprise and disgust perfectly matches her own from twenty minutes ago, “What’s the good news?”

She hands him the stack of papers, allowing an impish grin to cross her face, “You have just been formally reassigned. Congratulations, Special Agent Payne, you’re working counterterrorism now."

Payne puts down his coffee to take the papers, a heavy line appearing between his eyebrows as he scans them. He raises his gaze back to hers and grimaces, “Tell me this doesn’t mean I’m working directly for you.”

Sil grins, “No moss growing on that stone, buddy.”

Payne rubs a hand over his face and lets out a muffled groan, “How.”

Sil begins packing up her things, the itinerary gives her about four hours before her flight leaves, “The PTSD Act is a powerful piece of legislation, Payne.” Pulling her jacket off the back of her chair, she continues, “While I’m being put through my paces in the Capital, I need you to keep things moving on the investigation here.”

Her partner drops his hand from his face at the serious tone in her voice, “Sil, I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I chase down smugglers-”

“Exactly. My gut says the kid Djarin took from the laboratory was smuggled into the country. I may have been told to focus on finding Djarin, but since I’ll be busy, and the only agent I could find who’s available on such short notice happens to have a background in illicit smuggling…”

Payne looks at her, “You’re sure I’m not going to get my ass chewed out over this?”

“Payne, if they didn’t want us to do this they shouldn’t have given me the legal authority to perform the investigation.” She buttons up her jacket and shoulders her bag, “Look, whatever PhenoVisage is up to, and whatever Djarin got himself involved in, stinks. The official story is that he’s trying to sell some state-of-the art bio-tech to the highest bidder. We know that’s bullshit, but say I bring in a smuggling expert to track down his likely buyers. And say said expert just happens, as part of his very complete investigation to make sure this very top-secret technology doesn’t leave Ebryian soil, to discover that PhenoVisage lied to us and is involved in human trafficking and medical malpractice?”

“It lets us tie the two pieces together in a way that HQ won’t be able to ignore.” Payne gets up nodding, “Alright, I’ll start digging, but get back here quickly, alright? We still need to search Dune’s house, and I’d rather not do that by myself.”

Sil gives him a wry smile, “I’ve played all my cards getting you into this position. I’m a little tapped out on bureaucratic miracles, but I’ll do my best.”

Chapter Text

Ullin isn’t a priest, not even close, but he suspects this is probably how priests feel taking confessional from one of their flock.

At least two hours before he’d expected to even hear signs of stirring from the back bedroom this morning, Din had entered the kitchen carrying Samir. The difference in the expression on the face of man and baby had Ullin stifling a grin into his cup of coffee. The instigator of the early waking hour is clear here.

Still, the man looked marginally better than he had some eight hours before, and when he began to speak more seriously, Ullin had poured a second cup of coffee and sat back to listen. Din spoke with the determination of a man with a story to tell, or sins to confess. As he explained how he had come to find Samir, Ullin thinks it's likely both.

“Half a million...” Ullin murmurs, eyeing the foundling on Din’s lap. The boy is currently occupied with feeding bits of toast to his purple dragon stuffie. The fact that his offerings are ending up largely on the floor seems only a minor concern to him. Ullin waves Din off the second time he leans down to pick up the discarded pieces.

“Yeah,” Din lets out a heavy breath. While Ullin has no intention of inflicting any further guilt on the man than he’s clearly already inflicting on himself, he gets it. He can’t imagine a situation where he would trade his ade for any richs in the galaxy.

It also makes Azalia’s theory all the more credible. If he’s become disconnected from his tribe and has been living without any sort of aliit all these years, it’s a miracle that he’s managed to hold onto any semblance of jatne manda at all.

Still, Ullin wants to watch the trio a bit more before they take any action, and maybe get the perspective of a few others in the tribe. It wouldn’t go amiss to contact his alor and see what she has to say, either. It may well be that the situation is more complicated than any of them are aware.

In fact, Ullin would put down money that it is.

“I went back, about an hour later. I knew--” Din cuts himself off, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he shakes his head. Personally, Ullin considers it a good sign that he recognized the flaw in his logic so quickly. And truth be told, he’s unsurprised that it took an ad’ika to set the alarm bells ringing. They have that effect on most situations, for better or worse.

When Din describes the foundling healing him, however, Ullin thinks maybe he’s heard wrong. Din must see the skepticism in his eyes, because he rushes on, “Ori’haat. I know it sounds insane, but he did it twice more.”

This revelation brings a number of questions to mind, foremost among them whether the boy has given one too many kovnyne in combat, but Ullin files them away for now. Based on his body language, Din has about another twenty minutes of energy before the exhaustion catches back up to him and Ullin would prefer he gets the whole story out before they hit that particular wall. This business of magical babes is going to have to wait for another day.

One with Azalia present. And more coffee.

“N'epar nu pirur,” Ullin rubs his face and sits back. “Go on.”

By the time he reaches the point where Azalia had spoken with them in the coffee shop, Din's voice is beginning to sound hoarse. Ullin swallows in sympathy as he falls silent at last, one hand stroking unconsciously down Samir’s back.

“I’ll relay the important details to the al’traat,” Ullin says, leaning forward to brace his forearms on the table. “Though… I don’t think they need to know about the initial bounty.”

Din looks up quickly at that. Rather than looking relieved though, the man almost looks guilty. The expression deepens the line between his eyebrows, traveling well-worn paths down to tug his mouth into a pained frown. Ullin suspects he’s lived with it so long that he'd struggle to recognize his own face without it at this point.

“In any case,” he continues, “you and your aliit are welcome here as long as you’d like.”

Din shakes his head firmly, “I just need to get my feet under me. Figure out our next steps, then we’ll be gone.”

Issik’s saggy undies, it’s like he expects them to charge him rent or something. Tilting his head, Ullin fixes him with the same look he'd give one of his own ade when they're being obstinate and hopes that by itself will be enough.

The message must translate because rather than argue, Din gives him a crooked smile and dips his chin in thanks, “Vor entye.”

“There is no debt,” Ullin replies automatically. He has a feeling this is going to be a cycle. “What do you need?”

“Me’ven?” Din's voice is confused. Samir shifts in his lap, the side of his face pressed firmly into Din’s sternum as the man trails his fingers slowly through the boy’s messy curls. His bright eyes dispel the idea that he’s tiring though. In fact, in typical child fashion he seems to be gaining energy as quickly as the lines of fatigue are returning to Din’s shoulders.

He’d better finish this up quickly and get the man back to sleep. “What do you need, ad? You, your foundling, your cyare?”

As soon as the word is out of his mouth he realizes that he may have misjudged the situation a little. A flush creeps up Din’s neck, “Oh, she’s--we’re not--”

Haven’t quite had a chance to come to terms with that one yet, I suppose, Ullin thinks, but he holds his hands up before the man can dig himself too deep a grave, “Nu’takis, wasn’t my place to assume.”

Din shakes his head, “Naas susul. No harm done.” Even so, the slight flush remains. If he wasn’t thinking about it before, he is now.

Samir comes to his buir’s rescue, sitting up on his knees and whispering something unintelligible. He looks back over at Ullin with curious eyes. It’s a good change from the previous evening, when the toddler had been visibly worried anytime both of his caretakers weren’t in the same room. The foundling would benefit from some playmates his own age, but Ullin’s not sure he would tolerate being separated from Din for long at the present moment. Maybe in another few days, he thinks, kids bounce back quickly.

Adults, on the other hand, require some more delicate handling...

Without waiting for a response, Samir makes his own decision and turns onto his front to slide himself over the side of Din’s leg towards the floor. Din leans down to stabilize the boy but doesn’t outright stop him. Once he’s got both feet on the floor, the toddler steadies himself against his buir’s leg before looking back up. He raises his hands expectantly, “Bas?”

The corner of Din’s mouth ticks up as he hands the purple dragon to the toddler. Tucking the stuffie firmly under his arm, Samir uses the table leg as support as he ambles towards Ullin. It’s impossible not to grin at the sheer level of concentration on his small face, and Ullin moves his chair back and props his elbows on his knees to bring his face closer to the child’s eye level.

At this, Samir stops, a hint of nerves showing themselves in his brown eyes. He looks back towards Din, who lifts his chin encouragingly, “He’s alright, Sam’ika. Morut’yc. Go on.”

Samir turns back towards Ullin, still looking very unsure. Life is tough when you’re less than two feet tall.

“Me’bana, verd’ika?” he asks as the boy continues to study him. Ullin raises his gaze to Din, “He speaking much yet?”

Din shakes his head, stifling a yawn, “Little words here and there. He understands more, I think.”

“Might be everything he’d been through. It’ll help him to be around the other ade here. Bet he’ll be a chatterbox in no time.” Ullin winks, and Samir dips his chin towards his chest but continues his shaky steps towards him.

Whether by his buir’s encouragement or a touch of kotepyc on the part of the foundling, Samir finally comes to the conclusion that Ullin’s a safe bet and extends his arms up in the well-known gesture.

Settling the foundling and his dragon-guardian more securely on his knee, Ullin turns the subject back before they get too off track, “I’m guessing you’ll need clothes at the very least. What else?”

Din blinks, the motion just slow enough to betray his exhaustion. “Any work you can give me, we’re pretty low on funds. And I promised Senha I’d find a way for her to contact her family once we were safe. She hasn’t been able to speak with them since we left Ganister.”

That’s an easy fix, though he’ll need to speak with the tech on duty first. “Pakod, won’t be a problem.”

“I don’t want to bring down any heat on the tribe, though.” Din emphasizes. “Might be more than just hunters after us.”

Ullin appreciates the line of logic the boy’s thinking along, but he holds back the slightest smirk at the implication. Instead, he tips his chin down and raises an eyebrow, “You worried that we can’t protect our own?”

“Nu draar. I just…” Din rakes a hand through lengthening brown hair that’s just beginning to show a few greys. “I don’t want anyone else harmed on my account.”

Ullin tilts his head, “How about you let us worry about that? You’ve got enough on your plate.”

Din doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push the point further.

“As for work, there’s plenty to be had, but the al’baar’ur might have something to say about you doing much on that leg until it’s looking better. Not to mention your nurse friend in there,” Ullin lifts his chin in the direction of the bedroom. “You just focus on resting for now.”

He has a feeling the man is about to argue the point but a yawn interrupts his protest before it can materialize. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Ullin wraps an arm around Samir and taps the dragon on the snout, “Why don’t I wrangle your ad’ika for awhile so you can get started on that healing business?”

Predictably, Din shakes his head, “I’m alright.”

Ullin is beginning to think they’re going to have to physically drug the man to get some rest. Maybe playing nice isn’t the way though. Some caught in the ramikadyc mindset need a more heavy handed approach.

“Longer you take to rest, the longer it’ll be before you’re back on your feet.” Ullin gives him a critical look. “And you look like osik nadalyc, ad. ”

“Vor’e,” Din mutters, dragging a hand through his hair again. Still, he doesn’t immediately argue the point.

Ullin piles it on, whispering conspiratorially to Samir, “What’d you think, verd’ika? Want to give your buir a break and hang with me for a while? He’s gonna be boring anyway. Probably snores like a freight train.”

When Samir gives Ullin a shy smile and leans into him, Din seems to realize he’s fighting a losing battle. He stands, emptying a handful of toast crumbs he’s accumulated from the baby onto the plate, "You sure you'll be alright with him?”

“We’ll be fine.” Ullin assures him, “Maybe we’ll even go for a walk and find some clothes for you that aren’t pajamas.”

Din snorts at this but crouches down to give Samir a mirschmure'cya. Ullin doesn’t bother to hide his grin as the foundling brings his stuffie up for one as well. Din, like any good buir, obliges him.

Ullin notices he’s still favoring his right leg as he makes his way stiffly towards the door, and he makes a note to nag the young man about the pain medication he’d forgone earlier.

Samir watches the empty doorway until the door to the bedroom closes before turning to look up at Ullin. His expression is just the slightest bit anxious, and Ullin knows a distraction is in order if the little one’s buir is going to get any more sleep.

“Well, Sam’ika. Now that breakfast’s out of the way, what say you and I go for a walk?” Ullin shifts the boy to his other arm as he stands and Samir latches onto his collar. “I have a feeling your buir and his not-cyar’ad would appreciate something that fits a little better than what we’ve got here, and there’s a few people around that we can tap. What do you think?”

* * * * * * *

The wind plasters Din’s shirt against his body and tiny specks of dirt pepper his skin as he looks out over the scrub of the desert. It smells of dust and iron and wood fire. Someone’s burning juniper off in the distance, just far enough away that he can’t see the smoke. Clouds the color of flagstone roll slowly over the land, leaving the barest outlines along the ground below them.

When the wind falters, the air is hollow. The insects are silent, and the scrape of stone under his boots is muted. There is nothing but the cracked, dry earth, stretching endlessly to a curving sepia horizon.

“Din?”

He turns at Senha’s voice. Samir squeals excitedly at the sight of him and twists in her arms to get down. Senha kneels to let the toddler reach the pebbled ground, a smile softening her eyes. The boy wobbles for a minute before finding his balance, and she whispers something to him and nods towards Din. Samir giggles and begins to take unsteady steps towards him. Still smiling, Senha stands to watch them, the wind whipping her hair around her face.

Din nearly steps forward to catch the boy twice as he stumbles but each time Samir regains his balance, his face screwed up in concentration as he navigates his way past twisted scraps of wood bleached to the color of bone. The baby looks up when he reaches Din, rubbing a small hand against his cheek as he grins. The corner of his mouth curving into a smile, Din reaches out to brush clear the streak of dust that remains under the boy’s eye.

But when his thumb meets the baby’s soft cheek, it gives under his touch. The wind picks up and ash flakes from under Din’s fingers. His smile fades, his stomach clenching as he reaches out with his other hand to take Samir’s arm.

It flakes away into ash, torn away by the wind.

“Sam’ika,” Din whispers, but the boy is disintegrating before he can even get his arms around him, fading into flutters of grey that land in Din’s hair and nose and mouth. “Senha--”

He looks up, blinking ash out of his eyes, and she’s gone. He scans the horizon around him frantically, but there’s no sign of her. Just the pewter clouds rolling overhead and the flint of the rocks around them. Even the faint smell of juniper has disappeared.

“Senha!”

He stands, his hands filled with dust. Scorching cinders line his throat and every breath he draws is agony. He tries to call for her again, but her name is choked off before it passes his lips.

And all around him, there is nothing.

“No. Gedet’ye, please, no.” His voice cracks and every breath he pulls in tastes of smoke. “I can’t…”

He closes his eyes. This is just a dream. Just a nightmare. He’ll open his eyes and wake up with Senha and Samir next to him, safe in Arkose. There’s no fire. No ash. No blood.

This isn’t real.

* * * * * * *

The first time Senha hears her name, it barely breaks the haze of sleep wrapped around her mind. She’s stretched out on a soft surface rather than crumpled up in a seat or laying over the uneven ridges of a truck bed. She’s clean, and for the first time in several days the smells of dried sweat and copper don’t fill her nose when she breathes in.

The second iteration of her name cuts through the warmth. It’s a broken cry colored with fear, and it takes her mind another beat to recognize the voice.

“Gedet’ye, no. I can’t…”

Din’s voice is strangled as his face twists against the pillow, his fingers twitching and curling into tight fists. He heaves a breath and it rasps through his throat.

Senha sits up, laying a hand on his arm, “Din. Din.”

Seemingly unable to hear her, he turns his head, a muffled groan catching in his throat. She cups his cheek in one palm, “Come on, sweetheart. It’s just a dream.”

He pulls in another one of those awful rattling breaths and Senha curses. She slips her index finger behind his ear and presses hard into the hollow where his jaw meets his neck before leaning close, “This isn’t real.”

His hand snaps up to grab her wrist as she applies the pressure and he sits up in a jerky motion, panting. One hand still cradling his cheek, Senha strokes her thumb down his cheek in front of his ear and presses her other palm flat to his chest. The bones of her wrist creak from the force of his grip.

Din turns his head towards her, his eyes wild, “Senha.”

He lets his hand drop from her wrist and she smooths damp hair off his forehead, “You’re alright. It was just a dream. You’re safe.”

She barely holds back a squeak when he wraps an arm around her back and pulls her against him, his breaths still stuttering. Sweat moistens her cheek where it rests against his throat, and she feels more than hears the words fight their way up from his chest, “The kid… Vai… where…”

Maker, he sounds terrified. Every line of his body is a wire under tension and there’s a minute tremor in his hand.

“He’s with Ullin,” Senha keeps her voice gentle. “You woke up earlier and told me Ullin said he’d watch over him for a few hours so we could get some more sleep. He’s safe.”

“Morut’yc?” He asks, his voice almost cracking, still laced with uncertainty.

“He’s safe. We’re all safe. We’re okay.”

Her heart is still pounding from the abrupt awakening but she keeps her hand steady as she continues to card her fingers slowly through his hair. Din keeps a tight hold on her as his body relaxes incrementally, and eventually the grip he has on her becomes comfortable rather than desperate. Senha keeps her body soft, and her breaths slow and deep.

The minutes tick by until he finally untangles his fingers from her hair. His chest rises as if he’s about to say something, but the words die in a twitch of his hand against her back.

“It’s alright,” Senha assures him, her heart breaking at the frustration in his silence. “We’re all okay.”

Before he can speak, there’s a knock on the door. Ullin’s voice is muffled as he calls through it, “Got a few things for you both.”

Senha feels the long breath Din lets out in the motion of his chest under her cheek. Real life has returned. She sits back up and Din swings his legs over the side of the bed. The set of his shoulders is still tight, but he doesn’t hesitate to push himself up and open the door to Ullin with a murmured greeting.

The black and silver haired man unshoulders a bag and hands it to Din. “Clothes, jackets in case you want to wash yours, some hygiene things,” he lists off. “Hope you don’t mind, I got your ad’ika into his new things--”

He’s interrupted by a delighted shriek, and Din reaches down to catch Samir in his other arm before he can faceplant into the hardwood. As he straightens with the boy, Senha can see how quickly he’s breathing. For his part, Samir wraps both arms around Din’s neck with a delighted babble. He’s dressed in unfamiliar clothes, but Basa is present and accounted for.

Coming around the bed, Senha rubs Samir’s back as she takes the second bag from Ullin. The toddler turns his face towards her, his voice content as he sighs, “Na.”

She keeps a hand on Din’s back as she leans in to kiss Samir’s nose, pushing back the oversized knit cap he’s wearing, and something settles back into place in her chest when he extracts an arm from around Din’s neck to catch hold of her fingers.

“Sorry, but...” Ullin clears his throat reluctantly. Din looks up, but it’s Senha that Ullin focuses his gaze on, “there’s something you need to see.”

Chapter Text

Attorney-at-law and alor of the Ganister mando’ade Margreta Reid walks up to the neat blue house. She had last spoken to the Vizsla family just after the DIB released Paz from jail, and the revelations about Din Djarin, as well as the opportunity the DIB agent gave her, have led her to decide it is past time for this conversation. That doesn’t make it any easier.

It’s a nice house. The more narrow-minded in the community might say that even in exile the Vizsla name carries certain advantages but the alor knows the truth. Paz has worked long and hard for what he has, and he’d nearly lost it all in the past month. She knocks in a precise pattern that will be familiar to the occupants, and the door opens a moment later. Instead of the broad-shouldered man she expects however, she looks down to meet the bright gaze of a girl with puffy braids, no older than nine.

“Jate tuur, Shaiya. Is your buir home?” She says in a slightly soft tone that doesn’t imply patronization. As she speaks, she signs the words.

The little girl smiles broadly and gives her the mando'a sign for affirmative before running off into the house. A minute later she sprints back, Paz striding behind her, his face set in an uneasy frown. The last few weeks have had a difficult effect on all of them.

“Alor, su’cuy. Me’bana?” Paz Vizsla’s face relaxes somewhat on seeing her, and he stands far back enough to allow her entrance while remaining close enough to guard the portal to his home.

“Su’cuy,” she replies, entering. “Oro’nas, vod. All’s well.”

He closes the door behind her, “Is this about him?”

So, he had been expecting it then. “Yes.”

They say nothing else as Paz leads them to his kitchen. While some men have workshops, garages, basements, or man-caves, Paz has his kitchen. Nearly every appliance has been replaced by the polished steel of the most modern versions on the market, and the place is spotlessly clean, with wide counters and a massive oven. From the smell emanating from it, she’s arrived mid-bake. She also takes note of the concealed weapons, all located at least a foot outside of the reach of Paz’s eldest. The man may be a baker, but he is also a Mandalorian and a Vizsla at that.

For just a moment, her gaze lingers on the cake stand sitting prominently next to his stove. That simple piece of glass had ignited his career a few years ago. Paz notices her gaze and cleans off the smudge of a small handprint from the glass surface.

She remembers when Paz had won the popular, televised baking competition, how the entire tribe had celebrated when he’d opened his own bakery a year later. Victories had become rare following the Purge and, while it was unlikely a new ballad would be written over Paz’s conquests of pastries and cakes in the Tent, it had helped breathe some life back into the tribe. As if to remind her why she is here, she also distinctly remembers who had not attended that celebration, among many others.

They move to sit at the kitchen table and Paz waits respectfully for her to begin. This may be his house, but she is still the leader of the tribe.

“We need to talk about Djarin.”

“There isn’t anything to say,” Paz says firmly. “You know how we decided to live after the Purge. This isn’t Concordia, we needed to change to survive. We did. He wasn’t ready to do that. And after he left… don’t pretend you didn’t know the kind of work he was doing with those mercenaries.”

The alor ignores the last statement; neither Paz nor she are in any position to judge, “There is adapting, and there is forgetting who we are-”

She cuts off her sentence as Paz’s younger ad, Laorn, walks into the room carrying a tray with two ceramic cups on it. The pigtailed girl carefully places the tray on the table and puts a steaming cup in front of each of them before watching expectantly. Not sure what she’s waiting for, the alor looks to Paz for an explanation.

“You showed up right before tea time,” he replies, as if the answer should be obvious.

“Could it--”

“It’s tea time,” Paz says firmly. She may be the alor, but Paz is apparently done letting things come between him and his family.

The corner of her mouth twitches as she looks down at Laorn, “Vor’e, cyar’ika. No sugar, please.”

The little girl nods with all the solemnity appropriate for a six-year old at a tea party and drops a sugar cube into her buir’s cup before vanishing back into the living room.

They’re both quiet as they sip their tea. It’s not a blend she’s had before, although the spices in it are familiar. Savoring the warmth, she continues, “My point is that Din Djarin is still part of this tribe. He always has been. And right now, he needs our help.”

“None of the other tribes have heard from him yet?”

“I received word yesterday that he made it safely to the Arkose tribe. They’ve pledged to accept him as one of their own.”

Paz grunts and takes another sip of tea, “They’re one of the tribes that uses an al’traat now, lek?”

“Yes, they choose to reject the concept of a singular alor.” She ignores Paz’s noise of skepticism, “Sharing the responsibility of running the tribe amongst a few appears to work well for them. And we are indebted to the Arkose tribe for protecting one of our own.”

He leans back, “He was stationed with a few mando’ade from there. Should have figured it would be a possible safe haven for him. And they’re in a far better position to protect him than we are. More resources, less surveillance…” It’s anyone’s guess as to whether he’s conscious of the bitterness in his voice. “What do you expect us to do?”

“I believe their safety at this junction is temporary, and-”

Laorn enters a second time, this time with two small plates, each with a cookie. The alor is about to politely refuse when she meet Paz’s eyes.

“Tea is best with fresh cookies,” he says in a level tone.

She accepts the plate from Laorn with whispered thanks and takes a small bite of the cookie. The little girl watches hopefully as she chews. Paz, on the other hand, bites off a mouthful and lets out an obvious noise of delight.

“Jatisyc, sarad’ika. I can taste the lavendar, and the good sugar you used.” He leans down to bump his forehead against hers and taps his index finger on her chest, “But most of all, I can taste what was in your heart and your mind when you mixed it. That always comes through. Isn’t that right, alor?”

His voice is gentle but she doesn’t need to see his eyes to know that her life depends on providing the right answer here, “Nothing is more obvious than something made from the heart. Only a true craftsman can breathe life into something like you did. Kandosii, ad’ika.”

Laorn gives her a million-watt smile and skips away, singing something under her breath. The alor turns back to Paz, “I am relieved to see that they are recovering well. You have worked hard to grow the jatne manda in your aliit.”

“This is the Way,” he nods, a note of pride in his words. “As for Djarin; this arrangement was made when he left the tribe to work with those mercs, and he never requested it be changed when he came back. He distanced himself from us, not the other way around. That wasn’t your call to make, it was his.”

She sighs, dipping the cookie into her tea and taking another bite. It was delicious. “At first perhaps, but he was hardly the first to come back from the war with injuries to more than his body. When he returned later to care for Razan we should have re-evaluated, reached out--”

Paz gives her the same weary look she gives others when they are treading ground that has already been worked, “What is past is past. We cannot live our lives wondering what could have been different. Your job as the alor is to deal with the present, and plan for the future of the tribe. You did the best you could with the information you had on hand.” His voice softens on his last statement and she looks up, eyes hard.

“That never stopped us from taking his script and sending it on to others. Five years, and did we ever ask if he was in need? Did we ever question the health of a verd without an aliit?”

“Five years and he never asked anyone for anything. You know Razan didn’t raise him to be a recluse,” Paz pointed out. “I fought in Concordia just as he did, I saw what the old ways got us. That’s why I supported you becoming alor. After generations of warriors leading us from one glorious defeat to another, it was time for something different.”

“Not something I ever expected to hear from a Vizsla,” she smiles over the rim of her cup.

Paz sits back, resting one muscled forearm on the table, “I’m sure my kinsmen up north would lambast me for it, but I’m tired of violence for the sake of violence. This,” he lifts his chin to gesture to the kitchen, and the two girls playing quietly in the room beyond, “is the only thing I see as worth fighting for anymore.”

Only a fool would doubt the sincerity in his voice. She fingers the beskar amulet that hangs from a black cord around her neck. “We are Mandalorians, Paz, not every enemy we fight can be defeated with guns and blades. That doesn’t mean we shrink away from them.”

“It took me far longer than it took you to understand that,” he replies. She inclines her head in acknowledgement of the compliment. Paz drums his fingers on the tabletop, “What sort of enemy are we facing here? Since you obviously didn’t come for the cookies.”

Still toying with the amulet, she mulls for a moment. Candor has always been the best course of action to take with Paz. “The DIB Agent who assisted in the return of your armor came to find me yesterday. She made an…unusual offer.”

Paz sits forward slowly, “She presumed to think-”

“Not that kind of offer, she was at least intelligent enough to know that I wouldn’t be willing to turn on my own.” The alor folds her hands on the table. “You remember how things were after the war, during the Purge. We could not return to Concordia or Mandalore, but we could not live openly lest we be seen as extremists. Everything that’s occurred in the past few weeks has brought those feelings back to the forefront of everyone’s minds, Ebyrian and mando’ade.”

“Because of what he did.”

She tilts her head, “Djarin’s actions might have been the spark, but the powerful are always quick to strike at the marginalized at the first hint of a perceived threat. We are a convenient distraction, powerless to truly hurt them. Perhaps it will blow over in time, but I fear Din has become a pawn in some larger game. One this DIB agent appears to be involved in as well, whether by choice or coincidence.”

Paz leans closer, “So what, she came to tell you to stay out of it?”

“No, quite the opposite. She wishes me to do what she cannot; strike at this enemy from outside the system.” The alor hesitates, knowing that she is about to take them off the track of hard fact and into the murky world of hearsay, “He has a child with him. The Agent believes the child is what he took from the laboratory, and the reason he has fled.”

He lowers his cup back down to the table, “A foundling? He has a foundling with him?”

“Yes.”

The al’verde sits back, blowing out a heavy breath. He runs both hands over his hair, pulled into a tight bun at the back of his head, and looks back at her, “Well. I suppose that changes everything.”

“It does. The Agent believes that something about the existence of this child is a threat to someone in a position of power. Whoever they are, they’re willing to see Djarin, and anyone else who gets between them and this child, dead for it.”

“So if you help this Agent from the outside, she’ll take them down for what? For justice?”

She smiles at the incredulity in his voice, “I think so. She appears to be a true believer.”

Paz snorts, “Which just makes her dangerous. Need I remind you that this Agent is hell-bent on putting one of our own behind bars?”

“I do not need reminding of that fact,” She infuses her voice with the mildest tone of reproach. “But Din is just a suspect to her. Those in power who are seeking him and the child, they are an insult to her very beliefs. I believe she can be a weapon for us, so long as we are mindful of her motivations.”

“Narudar?”

The alor nods, dotting the last crumbs of cookie from her plate with the pad of her index finger.

“We don’t need their help,” Paz states with his usual certainty. His knee jerk reaction only convinces the alor that she is right in taking this path.

She meets him with a cool gaze, “Aside from me, how many of us truly have influence in society here? What options do we have beyond run, hide, or endure? The past weeks have shown that keeping our heads down does not remove the targets from our backs. If there is a chance to protect our people and help them keep the lives they have built here, I have to take it.”

Paz, like any Vizsla, remains skeptical, “And if this Agent is simply extending her hand to get a better grip before she throws you? This is not our game.”

She stands, her decision made, “It is not ours, but it is mine.”

Chapter Text

“Getting you in touch with your family without giving us away isn’t an issue by itself, but I mentioned your name to my techs and, well… Let’s just say it wasn’t the first time she’d heard it recently.” Ullin grimaces as he leads Din and Senha towards the grey two-story building in the center of town. Samir looks around from his place on Din’s hip, one arm wrapped around Din’s bicep and Basa clutched to his chest.

Outside of the ten or so minutes it had taken him to shower and change, Din hasn’t put the kid down. Samir had seemed delightedly worn out after his morning with Ullin, by the man’s report he’d been loath to leave the creche, but the wave of relief that flooded Din on feeling the boy’s familiar weight in his arms had left him almost lightheaded.

Senha flashes him a worried glance, at least the fourth one since he’d come back to his right mind to find himself clutching her like a child. His humiliation had been further compounded when his apology had died on his lips, his voice failing him as her fingers gently carded through his hair. The part of him that has always been selfish had burrowed into the comfort and instead of drawing back, he’d let himself dig in further. And just as before, Senha had met his greed with patience. The only acknowledgement he’d been capable of was lost in a stupid twitch of his fingers against her back.

He’s got to get a handle on this before he fucks it up entirely.

Turning his thoughts forcibly away from warmth and solace, Din focuses on Ullin and Senha’s conversation.

“...if you hadn’t seen it already. I’m guessing you haven’t.”

Senha shakes her head, looking nervous as she sidesteps one of the large stone planters outside the building. Without seeing her face, Din is sure her brows are drawn together in the familiar worried expression.

Ullin pulls open the door and gestures them in, “Hetha said she’d load it up. It might be best that you see it before you call your folks.”

Inside, the hallway looks like any number he’s seen in the community clinics or centers back in Ganister. A bulletin board with flyers in a mix of Mando’a and Ebryian is mounted on the wall to the left of the doors. There’s a low hum, similar to that of an air exchange system, but no air flows from the vent they pass as they follow Ullin along the worn tile floor and down another corridor.

They pass through another set of doors, these ones steel, and in the back of his mind Din recognizes that they’re reinforced and equipped with jamb and hinge shields. Ullin’s words come back to him, along with his almost amused look in response to Din’s concern about attracting danger to the tribe.

“You worried we can’t protect our own?”

Letting his eyes wander as Ullin leads them deeper into the building, Din begins to notice more details. Judiciously placed cameras monitor each hall, and he’d bet a bounty payout that the glass windows in each room are bulletproof. The building is laid out in a deceptively complicated pattern, with clear hold points. This isn’t just a community center, it’s a stronghold.

“We run a cyber security firm, Numar, out of a city a few hours away,” Ullin tells Senha ahead, “but we’ve got a few teams that operate out of Arkose for more specialized work.”

He stops in front of a door with a covered keypad, his body blocking the numbers as he punches in a code with a series of rapid tones. There’s a heavy, muted click and the humming sound Din heard in the hall grows louder as they enter the room.

He spares a glance around at the five or six workstations and numerous monitors of the room before his attention is drawn to the image of a man on the largest screen. He looks to be in his mid-fifties, with thinning hair and the same warm brown eyes as Senha.

At the sound of the door opening, a brunette in an oversized sweater and thick, round glasses at the console nearest to the screen stands from her chair. She pushes her glasses back up before extending her hand, “Hetha Lien. Ullin said you guys were new here, right?”

Returning her smile tentatively, Senha introduces herself. Hetha’s smile grows as Din trades careful forearm grips with her to avoid disturbing Samir. The boy’s weight has settled to the heaviness of sleep and Din’s fairly certain a damp spot on his shoulder is due to the toddler’s usual naptime drooling. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up at the memory of the boy’s soft cheek turning to ash under his fingers, but Din pushes the memory away.

It was just a dream. Let it go.

Hetha is speaking rapidly to Senha, “-one of those political opinion shows, which normally we don’t really pay attention to because it’s usually just a bunch of whackos but the algorithms picked up on some of the specific words people said and flagged an increase in their use over the next two days in social media so we decided to check it out just in case.” She pauses to draw in a breath, having exhaled the entire sentence in one go. “Anyway, it’s… it’s not exactly pleasant. But if you want to see it, I’ve got it loaded up.”

Senha steps up next to the console, her eyes on her father’s face, “Play it, please.”

* * * * * * *

As she watches the interview, Senha knows she’s going to be sick.

The host has a sympathetic look on her face, but when the attention is on Senha’s father the mask cracks and she glimpses an almost avaricious glee on the woman’s face that makes her stomach roll. Another guest, a sociologist or something, pipes up and Senha’s not sure which is more horrifying; what she’s saying, or watching the color drain for her father’s face as he listens.

Forced indoctrination into a warrior cult? Staging coups? Stealing children?

Ignoring the mention of the arrest of a policeman back in Ganister, Senha focuses on her father again. The only thing she can think is how lost he looks. It’s so close to the way he'd looked after they’d lost her mother, and the old familiar knot in her chest pulls tight.

She wants to tell him none of this is real. That these people are using him, using his suffering, for their own vain ambition. That she’s safe, as a direct result of one of the people the host is referring to as a merciless extremist. The same man who’d woken the previous night when Samir began to fuss and patiently walked him around the small room until the baby had calmed, humming deep in his chest. The description of him as an amoral mercenary selling his skills to the highest bidder is jarringly at odds with the man who had met her eyes and quietly asked her forgiveness as he wiped blood from her cheek on a windswept clifftop.

As the show cuts to a commercial break, Senha turns to Hetha, “Can I- you said I can call him?”

Hetha adjusts her glasses nervously. She obviously doesn’t think this is a good idea. Senha’s not sure she’s wrong, but she has to try. “Yes. I can set up a secure connection.”

“Are you sure?” Din says, moving up beside her and lowering his voice, “You heard what they told him.”

Senha swallows, “I need to talk to him. I can’t let him think-” She has to put an end to this now, if she can. “I need to speak with him. Please.”

Hetha lifts her chin resignedly at the next workstation over, “There’s a headset in the tray under the desk. A dial pad will come up on the screen. When it does, go ahead and put his number in.”

Making her way to the workstation on wooden legs, Senha sits in the chair before the console and slips on the headphones. The dial pad blinks up in front of her a few moments later, and she codes in her father’s mobile number and waits.

* * * * * * *

Hetha almost asks Ullin if he’d prefer she leave the control room while the aruetii calls her buir. Something about how plainly she can read the emotion on the woman’s face feels almost indecent when coupled with the fact that she’s only met her a few minutes ago.

She’d been relieved that the woman, Senha, hadn’t wanted to watch the full interview. The allegations are nothing new, but they still spill hot shame into Hetha’s stomach and color her cheeks. She’s never been quick to anger like some others in the tribe at the accusations, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t impacted by them. Ullin is stone-faced as he takes it in; the armor he wears is crafted from decades of hearing the oldest lies told in the newest ways to match the needs of someone with an agenda.

Din, the other mando’ad, is watching Senha with a heavy line of worry between his thick brows. Ullin had been sparse with details about the three of them when he’d brought the foundling by earlier, but Din’s expression as he watches her is caught halfway between longing and misery. Hetha suspects that he shares her fear that this is a fool’s errand. It’s a small blessing that the foundling has fallen asleep, a purple plush dragon cradled to his chest and his fingers in his mouth. The kiddo has the most sense out of all of them.

“Dad, it’s me.”

Hetha resists glancing over at the aruetii, focusing instead on the signal tracking algorithms currently bouncing their location beacon through six of the eight available hubs. She can’t tune out her voice, though.

“It's alright. I’m okay, I’m safe.”

There’s a pause and a note of panic slips into Senha’s voice when she replies, “What- no, he hasn’t hurt me. He’s been protecting me. He’s-”

Hetha bites her lip in sympathy as the other mando’ad shifts his weight uncomfortably. Her mind offers up a number of possibilities for what the woman’s father is saying, and none of them are pleasant. She sympathizes with Senha’s belief that her father doesn’t believe what he’s being told, but it’s difficult to add weight to fears someone doesn’t already have lurking within them.

“My- what? Dad, he’s not my- I’m safe, I promise.” Senha brings a hand up to her forehead, fingertips digging into her hair as she props an elbow on the edge of the console, “Dad, listen to me, please.”

Hetha drags her gaze away from the woman. There’s a longer pause before Senha lowers her voice, “Don’t say that. What that woman said, you know that’s not-”

A notification pops up on her screen, and Senha’s voice slips into the background as Hetha flips the screen over to the tracker. Just as Ullin had suggested, someone’s trying to trace the origin IP address of the call. Given the sluggish pace the trace is taking through the hubs, she’s almost certain it’s government. Their tech is crap, but their technicians are clever. There’s no sense in letting them get close. Hetha motions to the chief technician and Ullin strides over to study the screen.

“It’s not a quick trace, but I figure…”

Ullin sighs, “No sense tempting anything.”

He steps away and puts a hand on the shoulder of the other mando’ad, whispering something to him. The man nods once and carefully passes his sleeping foundling to the chief technician before he moves over to Senha. She looks up as he comes to stand next to her, and he doesn’t have to say anything for her to know that her time is up.

“Dad, I have to go.” The words come out thick, and Hetha’s sure she’s a short step from tears, “I’m safe. I’ll be alright. Please don’t worry. I’ll call you when I can.”

Her console beeps again and Hetha looks over to see that the trace has made its way through four of the six signal hubs. She glances back up at Ullin, his arms full of sleepy toddler, “I need to cut the connection. It could be the hunters after them.”

Din rests a hand on Senha’s shoulder and her hand comes up to cover his, her fingers gripping tightly enough to turn her knuckles white. She swallows, but her voice is steadier, “I’m alright. I’ll call you when I can. I love you.” Without waiting for a reply, Senha slips the headset off and sets it down on the console with trembling fingers.

Hetha wipes the record of the call, effectively cutting off the trace and putting them in the wind. When she peeks over again, Senha’s eyes are fixed on the frozen image of her buir’s face from the last frame of the interview. She brings her other hand up to cover her mouth.

“You alright?” Din asks, his hand still on her shoulder.

Senha shakes her head, voice muffled, “Think I’m gonna be sick.” She stands abruptly, looking pale, “Where-”

“Second door on the left,” the chief technician answers gently.

Senha bolts for the door, hand still over her mouth. The sound of the door slamming behind her jerks the foundling in Ullin’s arms awake and he lets out a thin cry and reaches for his buir. Din hurries to take him in his arms, smoothing his hand over the boy’s back, but he gazes after Senha with an anguished expression.

Before she really notices what she’s doing, Hetha’s out of her chair and slipping out after her. The door to the bathroom is just swinging shut, and she can hear the unmistakable sounds of someone throwing up behind it. Taking a detour into the small kitchen area, she fills a cup with water before making her way back to the bathroom. She pushes open the door slowly in time to see the aruetii splashing water on her face at the sink.

Hetha pauses as they make eye contact in the mirror. Senha’s cheeks darken in shame as she drops her eyes, and she’s gripping the white porcelain of the sink a bit too hard. Suddenly feeling awkward, Hetha holds the glass out so abruptly that water sloshes over the rim, dripping on the tile floor.

“Figured you might want something to drink, after-” She shrugs, barely catching the glass as it nearly tips enough for more water to spill out, “after all that.”

Senha straightens and takes the glass with a half-hearted grin, “I think I might need something a little stronger than water, but thank you.” Taking a gulp, she swishes it in her mouth before spitting it into the sink. Hetha cringes in sympathy; she’s been there several times and the only thing that really helps is a scalding hot shower and a metric ton of toothpaste.

The aruetii drains the rest of the water before she turns to lean against the sink, “I’m sorry about-” She makes a vague gesture before she closes her eyes, rubbing her forehead with the back of one hand.

“Not your fault,” Hetha shrugs awkwardly again. Typically, the same courage that brought her here has abandoned her now. But realistically, what else is there to say?

Senha lets out a long breath, shaking her head slowly, “That was… bad. I don’t think he believes what they said, not really. He isn’t that kind of person. He’s just…”

“He’s afraid.” Hetha finishes simply. She knows better than most that fear can drive people to do terrible things.

“Yes,” Senha replies emphatically, her whole body taking on the weight of the word. “I thought if I could just talk to him, I could maybe…” She lets the statement hang in defeat. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, if you want to go back, nobody’s going to stop you.” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, Hetha realizes how that sounds, “I don’t mean- you’re welcome to stay here. Seriously. Nobody’s asking you to leave. I just meant, you’re not a prisoner, you know?”

Osik, she’s really done it this time. Her buir has always said she lets her mouth get ahead of her brain and here she’s gone and told Senha she can stay with the tribe without consulting the al’traat or Ullin or anyone else. A promise made by any member of the tribe is upheld by all of them, which makes impulsive decisions like the one she’d just made particularly frowned upon.

"No, I never thought- Everyone's been so kind.” Senha assures her, “I just- need to figure out what I’m going to do." She lets out another long breath and studies the tile at their feet.

She's afraid, Hetha realizes, watching her worry at her bottom lip. And who wouldn’t be? In a new place surrounded by strangers, with the path that’s always led to a safe haven suddenly turned to dark woods?

When he’d brought the kiddo by earlier, Ullin had told her the al’traat had already decided that Din was one of their own now, and was welcome to stay as long as he liked. Senha may not be mando'ad but given the way Din has been watching her, Hetha will eat her keyboard if she’s not his aliit, whether he knows it or not. She, for one, is going to have no part in separating them. And if the al’traat has any problem with that, well, she’ll just have to hope for a bit of kotep’yc when that moment comes.

Reaching out to take the glass back from Senha, Hetha gives her a warm smile, “Ullin told me Din promised he’d protect you. That means that we will too. You have a place with us.”

* * * * * * *

Azalia meets up with Ullin and Din in the hall outside the control room. The foundling is awake and clingy in the verd’s arms, his cheek pillowed on the man’s shoulder. His eyes are hazy with fatigue, and the quiet anxiety in them is the same as what she’s seen in too many over the years in the mountains, when the little ones had learned to be silent before they’d even truly learned to speak.

One of the trio is missing, and Azalia raises her eyebrows in question at Ullin as she settles herself against the wall next to him. He lifts his chin in response towards the bathroom down the hall.

“She saw the interview?” Azalia asks, tucking her hands into the pockets of her quilted jacket.

“Mhm.” Ullin crosses his arms over his chest. “They’ve always been creative with their lies, but they pulled some from the bottom of the chest for this one.”

“The best lies are those with those with the veneer of truth,” she reminds him.

“True,” he concedes. “She called her buir afterwards. Didn’t go well.”

“No? How did she take it?” She’s curious, and anytime the thread of curiosity tugs, Azalia has learned to let it lead her. Two sets of dark, worried eyes follow the conversation, but neither Din nor Samir interrupt.

“Said she was going to be sick. Hetha followed her.”

Azalia smiles. The soft-spoken, kindhearted foundling has always had a solid head on her shoulders. “She’s a good girl.”

“She is.”

The bathroom door opens and Hetha comes out, followed by Senha. The aruetii looks calmer, but the skin beside her eyes is still tight with worry. She moves like she’s suffered a deep injury and in a way, Azalia supposes she has.

Samir lets out a relieved cry and reaches for her, his outburst echoed in the concern on Din’s face. Senha goes to them both and Din hands the child over. The boy wraps an arm around her neck before reaching back for his buir. Din catches his small hand in one broad palm, letting his other hand rest against Senha’s back, and Azalia lets the corner of her mouth tick up minutely. She’s almost positive how this conversation will go, but it needs to be had all the same.

Hetha shifts her weight, the glass held tight between her palms, “Well, I better get back to work.”

Dropping a kiss to Samir’s temple, Senha gives the tech a grateful smile, “I really appreciate what you said.”

Flushing slightly, Hetha returns her smile, “Yeah, of course. I meant what I said.” She reaches out to tap the snout of the foundling’s dragon before hurrying back to the control room. The boy tucks his head under Senha’s chin and yawns hugely. Senha stifles a yawn herself in response, swaying slightly with the foundling.

Azalia would rather leave these three to rest, but there are some things that cannot wait, “I realize the little one needs some rest, but I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”

Senha immediately looks to the verd, tension returning to her shoulders and arms. Azalia doesn’t need to look over to see that her ad’s riduur is giving her a very particular look that says he’s been waiting for this since she’d dropped them on his doorstep the night before. She bites back a grin. It’s good to keep the ade on their toes.

“It won’t take long, my word.” Azalia ignores the barely restrained glare she’s getting from Din now. ‘Not his cyare’, her wrinkled ass.

“Of course.” Senha says finally, her fingers petting lightly over Samir’s curls.

Azalia leads them back to the Cyzans. The short walk feels longer in the awkward silence, but Issik knows this conversation doesn’t need to be overhead by half the tribe, particularly when she’s shunned a deciding role in things. The majority of the al’traat would see no issue with her dispensing advice, but there are some who remain firm in the belief that she gave up any and all say when she’d chosen to step down as alor eight years ago.

At the time, Azalia had believed her decision to step down came principally from her inability to think both in the best interest of her own shattered aliit and the tribe. Once the al’traat was established and they’d begun to learn how they would move forward, it had become clear to her that this path was inevitable for the tribe’s survival after the Purge.

She takes no responsibility or credit for the fortuitous turnout of events at Arkose; she had made her own choice for her own reasons. It’s true, the Way cannot be found alone, but the choice to walk any path must be made by each individual for themselves.

Senha’s choice is as important as Din’s now. There must be something in the air, because as they start up the front walk, Senha speaks up, “Should I go? Would it be safer, if I go?”

It’s an interesting question, and one that changes drastically depending on its context.

Azalia holds open the screen door and motions Senha past her into the house, “Safer for whom?”

She’s fairly certain she already knows. It’s pointless to ask questions about the self when the self comes last in all calculations. Ullin pulls the door closed and the four of them file into the living room.

“For- for them. Is it better if I’m... not here?” Senha replies, and Azalia has to give her credit for knowing that ‘not here’ is far from synonymous with ‘home’.

From what Din had shared with her in the truck on the way to Arkose, the woman is there entirely by an act of providence. Of course, she could’ve pointed out that Din himself is there entirely by an act of providence, but he doesn’t seem ready to deal with that fact at this point. Senha seems to be slightly more aware of the paths laid out ahead of her, even if she is choosing based on those who will not be walking it.

Azalia wonders where Senha would go if she chooses to leave. Would she attempt to return to her life from before, putting the boy in her arms and the man at her side firmly in her past? Has she already begun to realize that any return will entail questions that she may not be able to provide answers to?

Taking her jacket off and tossing it over the back of Ullin’s easy-chair, Azalia installs herself in her usual spot on the couch and motions to the far side, “Sit, girl. That boy’s going to get heavy eventually. I suspect you’ve got enough that you’re carrying around already.”

Senha hesitates before moving to sit across from her, though she throws Din a look across the room as she does so. He keeps his eyes on Azalia, and maybe there’s hope for him yet because he doesn’t look suspicious. More assessing than anything else.

“Should I go?” Senha asks again.

Azalia sits back and lets herself really examine the aruetii at last. She sits straight despite the weight of the boy sleeping against her chest. She’s lean, but Azalia doesn’t doubt she can handle an unruly patient. After all, she’s handled the verd for the past week and a half, hasn’t she? Her hands are careworn, starting to crack in the dry cold of the northern plains, and her nails are trimmed short and neat. They’re strong fingers, steady more often than not. Baar’ur hands.

The theme of baatir continues into her face. Her eyes are just two shades lighter than Din’s and a few shades darker than her bu’ad’s, and the lines beside her eyes could just as easily come from laughter or worry. The strength in them is not something that falls one way or the other. It is substratum, well-acquainted with holding the weight of an entire world overhead.

“I don’t think so, no.” She answers at last.

Senha nods slowly, “Because the hunters will keep looking for them, regardless of where I am.”

“Among other reasons, yes. I suspect that the hunters would target you if you were to leave, and in that case it’s anyone’s guess as to what tactics they might use to gain access to the verd and his foundling.”

Senha bites the inside of her cheek. The idea of being hunted down and tortured for information isn’t an appealing one to anyone, and Azalia lets the girl take a moment to come to terms with the possibility.

“And- the rest of the tribe. Would they be- what would they think?”

Azalia sends out a silent blessing to Hetha; in her kindness she has apparently already given Senha the offer to stay. It’s something that would’ve otherwise been done with some level of solemnity that she speculates would do nothing but make Senha more uncomfortable. Hetha has neatly sidestepped that particular pothole.

“My two cents, for what it’s worth,” Azalia shrugs, because what does she know, “is that Arkose is always bettered by the addition of those who think beyond themselves. The tribe shares this belief.” In general, she thinks, but they hardly need to bring up the few stuffed shirts in the group right now.

Still chewing on the inside of her cheek, Senha considers, dropping her gaze to the foundling. As she does, Samir shifts in her arms, trying to turn further into her, and she resettles him until he snuffles back to sleep. The new angle can’t be comfortable on her back, but Azalia remembers well enough how her own body had ceased to have meaning when trying to settle an ad’ika. It also reminds her that the woman in front of her is likely not even considering the most important element of this decision. It’s not an element she’s likely to consider in the current company.

“Can you two give us a moment alone?”

Senha looks up quickly, her expression changing from soft to apprehensive. Ullin claps Din on the shoulder in an obvious gesture, and Din reluctantly follows him to the kitchen. Azalia waits for the sound of muted conversation from the room beyond before she turns back at Senha. The aruetii is watching her with no small amount of trepidation.

“Do you want to leave?”

Senha immediately starts to shake her head and Azalia holds a hand out before she can speak, keeping her voice gentle, “You heard the interview, you heard what those chakaare think of us. Whatever you may think, it’s important that you understand that you are not a prisoner here. If you want to leave, we will help you get to wherever you feel is safe. But the decision needs to be yours, alone.”

Senha looks down at the foundling, one of his small hands curled tightly around her index and forefingers even in sleep, “I want to stay. If it’s alright. At least until I know they’re safe.”

Azalia sits back. There are times when one’s desires become so tangled with that of others that it’s impossible to see beyond, and there are times when emotions arise primarily from a sense of duty. It’s critical that she ascertain which it is in Senha’s case, “Din told me yesterday that he made an arrangement with you when you fled Ganister City.”

Senha nods, “He said he could protect me from any hunters looking for us, and in return I’d help him look after Samir.”

“And under that arrangement, if you were to be in any way harmed due to the circumstances of your situation, Din would have failed to uphold the terms of the deal.”

“I… suppose he could see it that way.” The tone in Senha’s voice tells her that she knows very well that Din would absolutely see it that way, but that she doesn’t see it that way. Her theory is substantiated by the way that Senha turns her bruised arm away from Azalia’s sight. “But he’s kept his word better than I have so far.”

“What makes you say that?” Azalia inclines her head to the ad’ika. “From what our al’baar’ur said, he seems to be in good health. That sounds to me as if you’ve fulfilled your half of the bargain.”

Senha looks down at Samir. Even in sleep, the boy has one arm wrapped around his dragon and the fingers of his other hand clenched in her shirt. He’s curled into her body, and as they both watch him he frowns.

“You see it too.”

Senha meets her eyes and nods tiredly, and Azalia can see the fatigue that goes deeper than her bones. After all, she’s been affected almost as much as the boy has. She has the benefit of some wisdom to guide her, but when all familiar paths seem to be lost, wisdom is a cold comfort.

“I don’t know how to help either of them.” Senha blinks a few times before looking towards the ceiling, “I know something’s wrong. Samir completely shut down a few days ago during the fight, and Din…”

“This isn’t something you can fix on your own. Something of this magnitude cannot be healed by one person alone.” Azalia tips her chin down to meet the woman’s eyes more directly. “And it shouldn’t be any one person’s responsibility. You understand that?”

Senha looks skeptical, but it’s not in the aruetiise way to acknowledge that the solution to a problem can be spread across a group rather than neatly pulled from one individual.

“What can I do to help them?”

Azalia considers the question for a long moment. She’s almost sure of what she’s seen in them, but given everything Senha has already been through today, perhaps it’s still too early to say. Looking over her, there’s still so much prey under the surface. She wants to help, that’s not in question; everything in her body leans towards Azalia. Her desire to help the boy in her arms and the man in the kitchen beyond is palpable. This goes deeper than transactions and hastily sworn oaths.

“Why do you place a higher value on their safety than your own?”

The surprise on Senha’s face at the question evolves quickly to something unsettled. Azalia’s well aware that losing one’s balance when traveling at speed can be unnerving, but it’s a necessary reminder of mortality. It is what draws attention to the obstacles ahead that will require slow and careful navigation.

Senha casts around for a moment before she replies, “Samir’s a child. His safety should always come first. And from everything Din’s told me, he doesn’t have anyone else right now. He needs him.”

Azalia allows herself a satisfied smile. So often, words are true in only one arrangement. When their order is altered or reversed, they lose their quintessential meaning. In this case, they can be bent and turned, and will still produce a clear truth. It’s possible that Senha doesn’t yet consciously understand the multifaceted nature of her own statement, but it’s more than likely she comprehends it at some level.

“Since you would like to stay, the tribe will help Din Djarin to uphold his arrangement with you. So long as you’re with us, you will be protected as one of our own. As far as how you can help, let me consider several possibilities.”

Senha lets herself relax back against the arm of the couch at last, looking relieved and exhausted. At her movement, the foundling awakens with an annoyed whine and rubs at one eye with a closed fist. He peers around at them all with the rumpled confusion appropriate for one wondering what all the fuss is about.

“Well,” Azalia says, rubbing her palms against her jeans before she stands, “that’s decided.” The minute details can be worked out by the al’traat, and the real work can begin. Senha comes to her feet as well, taken aback by the sudden change in tone.

Grabbing her jacket from the back of the chair, Azalia shoves her arms through the sleeves as she strides past the doorway to the kitchen. Din and Ullin look up from the table with cups of coffee in front of them.

Raising her eyebrows at Din, Azalia jerks her head towards the living room, “They’re all yours.”

Abandoning his coffee, Din slips past her without another word.

“Got’solir ven’jii?” Ullin asks, a slight smile on his face as he carries both mugs to the sink. He’s always been a perceptive one.

“Elek, if they’re feeling up to it.” It won’t be a large gathering, but at this point she’s fairly sure the tribe is ready to resort to eavesdropping to get details on the newcomers.

As Azalia continues towards the front door, the foundling lets out a tired cry and the murmur of voices follows it.

A proper nap is needed all around.

Chapter Text

“Welcome back to This Ebryian Life. For our final segment tonight, we have an update on a story first released three months ago, ‘Hunger in the Heartlands’ by our domestic correspondent, Kuizil Ofiira.”

The scene changes to the show's trademark black background with a reporter in her early forties sitting on a stool. Behind her, a single display screen shows a collage of images including children in hospital beds, a dilapidated school building, and two pictures of a well-dressed woman; one clearly an official government photo and the other a prison mugshot.

“Two months ago, we brought you a story of corruption affecting the nation’s most vulnerable children. Federal funds appropriated to support school lunch programs in some of the poorest rural districts were being diverted with the knowledge and tacit approval of no less than the Secretary of Education. Her close associates received millions in illegally awarded federal contracts, and provided sub-standard and in some cases expired food to low-income school districts, leading to the deaths of three children.”

“Following our investigation, and under overwhelming pressure from the public, Secretary of Education Harlowe Renato stepped down from her post. Yesterday morning, agents from the Domestic Investigations Bureau arrested Ms. Renato for her part in the scheme.”

Footage is shown of a middle-aged Ebryian woman in rumpled business attire being led out of a spacious house in handcuffs by two DIB agents. Her face is a mix of disbelief and insult barely concealed behind the polished mask of a politician.

“The DIB has indicted Ms. Renato and three other individuals on charges that include defrauding the Ebryian government, negligent manslaughter of minors, and lying under oath to Congressional investigators. As this story develops, the public has asked where President Duras stands on this grave issue within his cabinet. Last night, he gave his first remarks on the investigation at a press conference.”

The scene shifts to the Presidential Press Briefing Room, with the President in his customary overly-tailored suit behind the lectern, “Secretary Renato is a loyal civil servant who has been harassed by the media and members of the Ebryian Government who still refuse to acknowledge the legitimacy of this administration.”

A reporter in the audience raises his hand, “Mr President, have you personally communicated with the Justice Department about this arrest?”

Duras turns to the reporter, “Not yet. No, not yet. But she was treated very badly by the DIB, very badly.”

“Will you provide a pardon to Ms. Renato if she is found guilty of the indictment?” Another reporter pipes up.

“We’ll see, won’t we? Because she was treated very badly, it’s just a disgrace.”

The scene cuts back back on the reporter in the studio, “Ms. Renato has not even had her first appearance in court and already the President has left the door open to a pardon. This would not be the first pardon the President has given to his political allies found guilty of crimes, and I emphasize that Ms. Renato has only been indicted, not found guilty.”

“I returned to speak with Dr. Morris Ortiz, chair of the Cooper School of Law at Arkil University, and one of the foremost experts on the Ebryian Anti-Corruption Act.”

The program moves to the reporter sitting across from an older man in an out-of-date suit, “Dr. Ortiz, thank you for seeing me again.”

“My pleasure, Ms. Ofiira.”

“Dr. Ortiz, this morning the President implied that he may pardon former-Secretary of Education Renato, disparaging the actions of his own Justice Department as ‘harassment.’ What are your thoughts on this?”

“I think that, unfortunately, at this point no one should be surprised by the President’s actions. He has shown many times in the past that he sees the federal government as his personal organization, and disparages anyone who disagrees with him. What is concerning is that now the President appears to be proactively signaling to his supporters that he will pardon any misdeeds they perform so long as they remain loyal to him.”

“And is there any historical precedent for executive action like this?”

The professor looks troubled, “None. In the past, presidents have at worst simply distanced themselves from any member of their administration brought up on Federal charges. Although I will also say that usually the expectation is that Cabinet Secretaries would not be committing felonies while in office.”

“And so…”

“Ideally, a president would condemn these actions and emphasize the impartial nature of the Justice Department,” the professor sighs, a motion he is clearly too used to. “But these are trying times.”

The camera returns to the studio and the reporter, still perched on her stool, “Trying times indeed. Is this the justice our founders would have wanted? Is this the democracy they had in mind? We will be keeping up with this story over the coming weeks. Democracy lives in the light.”

The red recording light of the camera flickers off and the woman slips off the stool and heads offstage. As she passes the crew, they exchange quips with familiar ease. Back in her dressing room, she immediately notices the flashing indicator on her mobile phone. Opening the new text message, Kuizil blinks, surprised. She knows the sender well from their time together in college, but it’s unusual for her old roommate to be the one to reach out. Still, given the events of the last few weeks...

Kui, I’m visiting for a few days and wanted a taste of that… food speciality from your neck of the woods. You know the one. Any recommendations, if you’d like to join me tonight?

Kuizil snorts at this; her friend has never put much stock in subtlety. The message is an old code they’ve long used with each other, but it’s usually Kuizil saying she happened to be in the area for an investigation and couldn’t pass up a taste of real hatch chile. She’s never been on the receiving end of a call before, which means her friend needs help. Kuizil clears her agenda for the night, and sends a response to meet in an hour.

* * * * * * *

Margareta Reid sits at a corner table of the small independent coffee house nursing her latte as she checks her phone yet again. Kuizil had told her to meet her here nearly fifteen minutes ago. She hates waiting like this, exposed in unknown territory. She almost regrets not taking Paz up on his offer to have him or another member of the tribe fly out with her but there isn’t any real danger here, nothing worse than a mugger. Sitting with her back to the mural-painted brick wall and a rapidly cooling coffee in front of her, she almost wishes for such a distraction.

Finally, Kuizil walks in wearing some garishly fashionable ensemble that unfortunately fits in perfectly with the other upscale clientele of the coffee house. Looking around, she spots Margreta and waves before walking to the counter to collect a neat porcelain coffee cup and saucer. Apparently she had called her order in beforehand. Some things never change, Margreta thinks, shaking her head with a small smile.

Sliding into the seat across from her, Kuizil twinkles at her over the rim of her cup, “Well, Greta... When I got your message, I just knew I had to drop everything to see what brought you to my part of the country. It’s been what, twenty years? And in all that time, I think this might be the first time the great Greta Reid, Esquire has asked for my help.”

“You know I never liked that nickname, Kui,” Margreta responds indulgently. Rituals are the fabric of society and certain ones must be observed, regardless of their banality. “I’m glad you brought up all the times I’ve helped you out, actually. I’m calling in my favors. All of them.”

Kuizil’s face immediately shifts to a more serious expression and she puts her cup down, “Has something else happened, with your- your people?” Awkwardness frames the end of her question. Even after twenty years, she’s still not quite sure where the lines of discretion and respect lie. In truth, Margreta prefers it that way.

She tilts her head. No use giving away more information than she has to, even to a friend. “Something else?”

The look Kuizil gives her is just a shade away from scornful, “I’m an investigative reporter, Greta. I keep tabs on most of the big news around the country. I read about that Mando you represented in court, as well as the cop currently sitting in jail thanks to you.”

Margreta sits back, hiding her relief. The story about Paz Vizsla was hardly national news. The fact that Kuizil has been keeping track of it is her own way of saying that she’d been ready to help. It’s something she’d hoped for but hadn’t quite wanted to count on.

“It’s...related to the original charges laid on my client, yes. I’ve been made aware that the greater situation isn’t quite as clear cut as some are making it out to be.”

“When is anything?” Kuizil shrugs, but her eyes are sharp. “When I saw the report I thought to myself, how many lone gunmen really exist that would take down a building full of armed guards to steal some tech and trigger a national manhunt in the process?”

“You’re aware then that they think it was someone from my tribe-”

“Din Djarin.”

Margreta goes cold, and something must show on her face because Kuizil’s eyes widen, “So I was right… The DIB has kept everything hushed up, but if you know where to look it’s not too much of a stretch to match a stonemason from Ganister City who’s suddenly popping up on all the national security blacklists. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure he was Mandal-”

Margreta snaps forward, taking Kuizil’s arm, “Kui, how many people know this?”

The reporter pulls back, looking around quickly, “Arthur and Agatha, Greta, calm down. I said I was keeping tabs on things and I did some poking around when things didn’t add up. If I know, I’m sure a few others have figured it out, but after what the DIB did to that cop, no one is eager to be a mudslinger in that mess.”

Letting out an uneasy breath, Margreta settles back in her chair, “But I’m sure that isn’t a concern to a veteran mudslinger like you.”

Kuizil frowns just the slightest bit at this, “Ok, let’s cut to the chase then. What do you need?”

Margreta watches her old friend for a long moment, but she’d known when she boarded the flight here that she would be putting nearly all of her cards on the table, “The organization that was robbed during the attack, PhenoVisage. They are involved with something well beyond the average level of shadow for a genetics laboratory. Even beyond what one would reasonably expect from a multinational corporation like Akcenco.”

Kuizil raises her eyebrows, “And that would be?”

“Human trafficking. Of minors, to be specific.”

The reporter’s only reaction is the slightest narrowing of her eyes, “And how do you know this?”

“Someone passed the information to me during the course of my assistance to Mr. Vizsla. Someone in a position of authority, whom I have no reason to distrust.” Truthfully, she has a book of reasons to distrust the DIB agent on most issues, but this isn’t one of them. The manner in which Agent Fess had let the information slip, the near desperation in her voice... If she had been intending to lay a trap, there were far easier methods with a higher chance of success. The admission had an implausibility that only truth could hold.

Kuizil’s face quickly goes from skepticism at this claim to horror as she puts the pieces together. She lowers her voice further and leans forward, “The baby they said was with the woman and the Mandalorian… He’s the high-value item that was stolen from the lab, isn’t he? One of your tribe went in there and killed those people and took this kid.”

Margreta returns her gaze silently. She’s willing to give Kui enough to get started, but she’s been around long enough to know better than to trust an aruetii fully. Even one she’s known as long as Kuizil Ofiira.

The reporter casts a look around, but they’re far enough from the nearest occupied table not to be overheard, “Look, Greta. I know you aren’t exactly the patriotic type, but I’ve heard about the agent running the investigation into the PhenoVisage case. Silvia Fess? She is not a woman to mess around with. If what you are saying is true, if those assholes are experimenting on kids… does she know?”

“If she did know, what would she be able to do about it?”

Kuizil lets out a humorless laugh, “If half of what I’ve heard about Silvia Fess is true, she’ll raid their headquarters with about a battalion of the DIB’s hostage rescue unit. Do you remember the Domwei Ranch incident? Eight or nine years back?”

Margreta recalls an ideological fanatic that had transformed a remote ranch into a cult training ground. The situation had ended in a particularly bloody shootout with the DIB. “I remember.”

“They holed up for weeks at that ranch, surrounded by the DIB. They had a bunch of young families in there, used them as human shields. They’d take them out for ‘adventure walks’ around the perimeter just to taunt the agents doing surveillance on the compound.”

“What does this have to do with the current situation, Kui?”

“Well, after almost two weeks of watching the place, one of the young mothers managed to slip out and came to Fess. The Feds haven’t released the record of exactly what she said, but Fess called an assault on the place thirty minutes later. Apparently got it cleared at the highest levels.”

Kuizil grimaces in response to the expression on Margreta’s face, “Yeah. It was a massacre when they went in. Most of the people being held in the compound didn’t make it, but the thing is afterwards they sealed off the area and brought in an Army unit.”

“Army?” Margreta frowns, taking a sip of her now-cold coffee, “Wasn’t it a bit late for that?”

“See, that’s the thing; it was the Army’s nuclear response team. The people they send in for things like improvised nuclear devices and dirty bombs. They were there for three days, and when they left they shipped out several trucks worth of… stuff to the Department of Energy.”

“The Department of Energy?”

Kuizil waves her hand, “They run all the mad scientists and doomsday experts that build the nuclear weapons. It’s not important. What is important is that whatever was going on inside Domwei, whatever that mother told Fess, changed everything. The DIB completely backed Fess. Hell, the President gave her a commendation for her actions. You know what her response was?” Margreta waits for confirmation of her concerns and Kuizil delivers, “She said she’d wanted to go in earlier. Said it might have saved lives.”

They’re both quiet for a moment before Kuizil folds her arms, “So. You sure that’s the person you want to throw down with? I’m sure she thinks she’s on the side of the angels, but who wants to admit to working with devils? Who approves taking out almost fifty people and walks away with the President looking her in the eye and saying ‘thank you’?”

“A true believer, one who sees their path and will not be distracted from it,” the Armorer responds thoughtfully. “Such people make dangerous enemies, but they can make powerful allies, so long as your paths overlap.” This visit has been useful if only to help her understand a bit more about what kind of person Agent Silvia Fess is.

Kuizil shakes her head with a resigned air, “Well, my point is she’s never seen a dark castle she doesn’t want to storm. So-” And then it hits her, “Wait a second. You’ve already talked to her, haven’t you?”

“I really must thank you for recommending this place, Kui. The coffee is excellent,” the Armorer responds blandly.

“Well I’ll be damned, Greta. You really don’t mess around, do you?” A grin more characteristic of the cheeky co-ed she remembers comes over Kuizil’s face. “Alright, fine then. So, say said evil corporation is up to something shady. What do you need my help with?”

Margreta puts her coffee cup aside and folds her hands on the table, “To make the people see what is happening here. So long as the public views that company as the victim, no one will support action or investigation against them. And so long as my people are the convenient enemy, we won’t be safe. I need you to figure out what’s really going on there, and what they were doing with the child. Expose them to the public. Then maybe the great and good of Ebrya will do their job.”

“You have been saving up for something good, haven’t you?” Kuizil leans back in her chair. “Alright, I’ll help, but on one condition.”

Margreta isn’t sure she likes the cunning gleam in the reporter’s eyes, but she reminds herself that every coin has two sides, “Name it.”

“To make this stick, I need a face. If you want this story, I’ll need to see the kid.”

Chapter Text

Din pauses outside the bedroom door with his hand on the knob.

If Senha and the kid are both sleeping, he doesn’t want to disturb them. And if the kid is sleeping and she’s using the time to think over everything that’s happened in the past few weeks...

Well, he doesn’t want to disturb that either.

Even so, the floorboards have already creaked under his boots and if Senha’s awake, she’s probably aware by now that he’s outside. He can’t just hover here listening for any sound. Steeling himself, he turns the knob and pushes the door open soundlessly.

Senha’s back is to him, her knees drawn up and her dark hair spread over the pillow behind her. Taking a step into the room, he sees Samir curled against her body, his thumb in his mouth and Basa tucked between them. The babe’s light brown eyelashes lay against round, pink cheeks, and his mouth is slightly open as he sleeps.

From the way Senha’s back expands and contracts, her breaths are too short for her to be asleep. There’s a slight hitch to the movements, and she turns her face into the pillow. Din stops in his tracks.

Had she been crying?

It’s probably better if he leaves them alone. Before he can turn to leave though, Senha's arm tightens around Samir, pulling him closer. The motion stirs the fire that’s been simmering at the base of Din’s spine for the past few days.

It seems like everytime he turns around she’s doing something else to stoke those flames a little hotter. Coming out of the travel center after he’d seen the press release about Paz’s arrest, he’d bet money that she had been a second away from grabbing Samir and booking it. Even without a snowball’s chance in hell at escaping him, her first instinct had been to protect the kid.

Then there was the night he’d lost his temper at her casual dismissal of his mistakes, back in Chert. Before he’d turned out the light by his bed, Din had seen a flash of metal from the pocketknife clenched in her fist. The fact that she’d been ready to defend the child in her arms had brought a rush of heat entirely inappropriate to the situation at hand. It’s the same thing that had turned his blood to magma when he’d spotted her through the window of the mechanic’s office, staring down Alexei with her jaw set and the shotgun held tightly in her hands.

The gods must truly enjoy watching him suffer, because as he wavers on whether or not she’d be best left in peace, Senha extends her hand back towards him. The gesture is unmistakable for anything other than a request for contact. For him.

Staunchly ignoring the tug behind his sternum, Din sits down on the edge of the bed. He catches her hand in his palm, his hip pressing against the warmth of her back. Her fingers are cool and dry as she slips them between his, her thumb tracing slow circles over the joint of his thumb.

He’s not sure what to say now though, and a little nervous that anything he does say will just make things worse. Conversation has never been his strong suit, and nor has comfort. The kid had wormed his way past his defenses without Din even realizing it, and before he knew it there was no world without him.

With Senha, it’s slower. He can still see an edge on the horizon, but he’s got his feet planted a little better in the current. If he goes over, it’ll be because he lets it happen. But the parts of him that snap and snarl at any small scrap also tug at his feet, urging him on without thought for the consequences to either of them.

When he really thinks about it, it only makes sense that her attitude with regards to Samir would meet every damn desire he’d have. Her teeth-baring snarl at anyone who threatened a little one, including him, cuts straight to his core. When she’d laid her hands on him to loosen the scarred muscles of his shoulder, he’d had to forcibly shut down the urge to turn and capture her face between his hands, and drag her into his lap.

Control yourself, the rational part of his brain had ordered and he’d curled his hands into fists to keep from tangling his fingers in her hair when it had fallen across his shoulder.

And just about the time he’s starting to adjust to holding her fucking hand, Senha pulls gently at him.

The force behind it is hardly enough to constitute a proposition, but he’s learned that each minute change of balance brings him closer to that edge. It doesn’t help that the ravenous parts of him are baying to throw himself over and into whatever lies below. They make it too easy for him to indulge in this; spinning pretty lies to justify actions he hasn’t even decided to take.

But with everything she’s given him over the past week, everything she’s accepted without a word of protest… When Din has availed himself, half-asleep, of the same comfort twice now, how can he really refuse her?

The demons in him chatter and howl in triumph as he leans down to pull out the knots in his boot laces, slipping them off his feet before he brings his legs up onto the bed and molds himself against her back. He knows this is a terrible idea, but he’s so tired. So, instead of stopping at that, he tucks his face into the space between her neck and shoulder. Her hair has the same sharp, woodsy smell as the shampoo he’d used that morning, and the muscles in his neck and shoulders relax as he inhales the familiar scent.

Strong fingers slide in between his where his hand lies on her hip, and his initial reason for disturbing her makes a brief reappearance.

“There’s a meeting tonight,” he says quietly. “To discuss our staying here, among some other business. We’re invited to attend.”

Senha doesn’t answer for a long moment, and while the slow drag of her thumb over his knuckles doesn’t give him any indication that she’s nervous, her silence holds notes of anxiety.

“We don’t have to go if you’d rather not. We can stay here,” he says, more than a small part of him wanting her to take the offer and spare them from the attention of others. He knows they’ll have to face it at some point, but the weak part of him wants just one more day to themselves.

“No, we should go,” Senha replies, bringing their joined hands up to rest at her sternum. “Will there be a lot of other people there?”

“Ullin said there’ll be other families there,” he nods, his nose brushing her neck.

Senha makes a small sound of interest, “It’ll be good for Samir to meet some other kiddos.”

Din tightens his arm around her waist and the three of them lay there for another minute without speaking. Samir turns his head and lets out a tiny, snuffling snore. Senha releases Din's hand to smooth her fingers over the boy’s messy curls, and her back expands against his chest as she breathes a contented sigh.

The sun slowly slips down the wall next to the bed, leaving a warm stillness in its wake. It’s an exquisite torture, laying here pretending that this is something he can have. Din knows they need to wake the kid soon, they need to get moving, but he can’t bring himself to interrupt the silence.

Just another minute, he tells himself. Just one more minute.

* * * * * * *

Samir blinks sleepily from his spot on Din’s hip as they make for the central building. The boy is bundled up in one of Ullin’s flannel shirts against the early spring chill of the late afternoon, Basa tucked in beside him to ensure a good view.

This time, rather than entering through the front, Azalia leads them around the back. The cheerful orange and yellow flames of a bonfire flicker from inside a large ring of stones, and Senha jumps out of the way as a group of children, all looking somewhere between five and ten, stampede past them.

“Oy! Ulyc!” A young man yells after the group. They take no notice whatsoever and continue off around the side of the building in a flurry of shrieks. The man gives the Cyzans, Din, and Senha an apologetic look that’s tinted with curiosity, but before he can approach them, his hand is grabbed by a small girl who tows him over to where others are laying out dishes on a long table.

A familiar figure turns from talking with another woman and Senha recognizes the tech from the control room. Excusing herself from her companion, Hetha hurries over with an excited smile, “I wasn’t sure if you’d all be here tonight.”

Senha blinks, surprised at the obvious delight in her voice, “We figured we should probably meet people and all.” Senha sneaks a peek up at Din, who’s looking even more unsure than she feels.

“I’m glad you did,” Hetha says, and her sincerity is obvious. Leaning forward, she continues conspiratorially, “I know everyone’s been pretty curious. Bunch of gossips around here.”

“The al’traat,” Din asks. “Where…?”

“I’ll come get you if they have any questions, ad,” Ullin says, patting Din’s shoulder. “Go ahead and get something to eat.”

He and Azalia head for the back door of the building, and Din watches after them. Senha can feel the discomfort rolling off him, and she shifts her weight discreetly to press her hip against his. It’s probably her imagination that he returns the gesture.

“If you’re not hungry,” Iska offers, “there’s a few people you could speak to about finding some work once you’re healed up.”

Din looks down at the boy on his hip, “I should… but the kid’s probably hungry.”

“I can take him,” Senha says, and Samir cranes around in Din’s arms at the sound of her voice.

“You sure?” His brows pull together into a worried frown even as he passes the toddler over to her.

“Yeah, we’ll be fine,” she reassures him, drawing her thumb across the back of his hand as Din reaches over to straighten Basa’s precarious position. “We’ll stay close.”

He nods once and brings his hand up before aborting the motion and letting his fist drop to his side, “I’ll be back.”

Iska meets her eyes in a knowing look that Senha breaks off quickly, turning back to Hetha. Her self-appointed guide blessedly seems to have missed it and raises her eyebrows hopefully as she tips her head towards the table.

“Food?”

“Food,” Senha agrees fervently. Her stomach has been off most of the day but as she starts to relax, the scent of food reminds her that she hasn’t eaten.

They navigate past a few adults sitting in folding chairs around the fire and chatting on their way to the table. One of them spares them a glance and smiles before turning back to their conversation. The more Senha looks around, the more she sees small, curious glances being taken as they pass. Normally, this level of attention would put her on edge, but for some reason it feels more interested than accusatory here. Remembering the interview she’d seen earlier, Senha swallows back her shame. Maybe they just haven’t seen it yet.

“I’m glad you’re staying.” Hetha’s comment cuts into her thoughts.

Considering the first impression she’d made earlier that day, Senha can’t imagine why, but she returns the tech’s smile cautiously, “Me too. I… I wasn’t ready to leave yet.”

They pause to avoid a collision as two more kids split off from a group arriving and immediately race off to join the growing horde. There’s probably about thirty people who’ve filled in seats around the fire and at the picnic tables further out, and there’s a low rumble of conversation that’s intensely comforting after the past week of so much solitude.

“So, is this common?” Senha asks, lifting her chin towards the fire, “The--”

Hetha nods enthusiastically, “Oh yeah. This is a smaller one, since it’s the middle of the week so a lot of people are still working, but there’s at least one big got’solir every month. The big ones are a lot bigger. It can get overwhelming, if I’m being honest.” She laughs off the admission, but it makes Senha like her even more.

Getting information from Din on anything is like pulling teeth, but with Hetha’s open honesty, she indulges her curiosity, “How many people live here?”

“In Arkose proper? Probably about three hundred. But there’s way more in the areas around town. Some people just like a little more space, you know? And then you get out to Minette and Gneiss, there’s a ton of others out there. But those are probably half and half, mando’ade and aruetiise.”

Just like before, it’s a struggle to keep up with her but the distraction is welcome. “Mando’ade?” Senha asks.

“Oh, duh. Mandalorians. Sorry, not used to translating. Most people around here know the basics at least.” Hetha lays a reassuring hand on Senha’s arm, “Don’t worry, you’ll pick it up quickly.”

Samir perks up at the scent of food as they near the table, balancing himself with a hand on Senha’s chest. It’s so good to see him without the layer of anxiety and timidity he’s shown the past week, his excitement is infectious.

“Hungry, little man?” Senha asks.

Samir looks up excitedly, “Kai?”

Hetha ducks her head and widens her eyes dramatically, “Kai’tome, Sam’ika?” The boy turns to Hetha, his face eager.

Something clicks in Senha’s mind, “Is that...does that mean ‘food’?”

“Close,” Hetha replies, reaching out to take Samir’s hand. “Kai’tome is hungry. Guess your buir’s been teaching you, huh?”

There’s enough light left to see the variety of colors that cover the table, and even for thirty people Senha is surprised at the sheer volume of food. Still, there are kiddos involved, which are not wholly dissimilar to a band of roving piranhas. Most of the dishes look like they’re made to be eaten with the hands, or scooped up using a piece of the soft flatbread that sits in baskets.

As Hetha grabs two plates, Senha nabs a piece and passes it to the grabby toddler in her arms to keep him busy while she follows the tech down the line.

Hetha chatters a mile a minute about the various dishes, and most of it goes in one ear and out the other. Senha wonders how on earth she isn’t out of breath by the time they get to the end of the table. She grabs a few extra napkins for the inevitable mess the kiddo will make.

The tech leads them over to an open place at a picnic table with a few others already sitting at it before she leaves to grab them something to drink. An older woman with a little tow-headed girl on her lap looks up from the opposite side of the table with a smile before resuming what Senha suspects are negotiations regarding vegetables before dessert.

Settling Samir onto her lap and tucking Basa between her knees, Senha shivers a bit at the cold wood beneath her. The sun is nearly down and she’s already appreciating the thick jacket she’d borrowed from Iska. If she’d known they’d be going this far north, she would’ve brought a heavier coat. Then again, it’s not like this is an instance of poor packing on her account...

Speaking of Iska, Senha scans the group until she finds the distinctive white streak in the woman’s light brown hair. She and Din are talking to the doctor who had come by the house the previous day.

“Naa!” Samir’s insistent whine brings her back as he reaches for the plate, his bread long gone.

“Alright, alright.” Senha sets a napkin close at hand preemptively and begins examining the contents of her plate. “Let’s see what we’ve got here, huh?”

Overall, it goes well. Samir tries several items and finds a favorite in a roasted squash dish. It’s a rich, dark orange color, with small green seeds that add an earthy nuttiness to the spice of it. The bread does a surprisingly good job of keeping things contained, and Senha manages to avoid any major spillage incidents with Samir. The names of spices in general don’t sound at all familiar to Senha, but she recognizes some of them by smell. She’ll have to ask for translations at some point.

“Oh,” Hetha turns just as Senha takes a bite of one of the small dumplings on her plate. The tech’s eyes go wide behind her glasses and Senha stops chewing.

It’s at least another second before the gentle warmth that had accompanied the first bite begins to morph into an uncomfortable heat, and a few seconds after that Senha’s entire mouth is on fire. She starts to reach for the glass of water beside her plate only to find that she’s already finished it. Panic sets in.

“Osik,” Hetha sucks in a breath. “I didn’t- oh man. I’m sorry. Hang on. I’ll be right back,” With that she darts off, leaving Senha with the inside of her mouth quickly turning to lava and a burning tickle growing in her nose.

Samir has stopped eating and looks from the rapidly retreating Hetha to Senha with a curious look of his own. Senha carefully puts the remainder of the dumpling down on her plate and very carefully, very deliberately, swallows the mouthful she has. It burns all the way down her throat and her eyes begin to water.

Hetha charges back over with a mug, which she shoves into Senha’s free hand, “Here, here. Drink this.”

Senha takes a gulp and splutters a cough at the contents. Rather than milk, it’s some kind of sweet, fruity liquor, but it takes the edge off the fire quickly. After another cough, Senha takes a sip and holds it in her mouth until the flames subside.

Putting the mug down on the table, she clears her throat and wipes a couple tears from the edges of her eyes. A few other people at the table quickly avert their smiles and continue their conversations, but the smiles seem to be more knowing than ridiculing.

Hetha is watching her with a positively miserable expression, her hands twisted in the hem of her long sweater, “I am. So. Sorry.”

“So,” Senha clears her throat and sniffs. Now that she can properly taste again, she can appreciate that the spices of the food and the fruit in the liquor go together perfectly. “Are shots customary with all of your dishes? Or just the dumplings?”

Hetha covers her face with her hands and Senha puts a hand on her arm, “It’s fine, seriously. Just a surprise. It’s good. You know, when my mouth isn’t actively on fire.” She pokes at the piquant pastry and decides that it isn’t going to be on the menu for Samir’s culinary experiences for the evening. “Anything else I should know about before I dig in?”

“Uh,” Hetha looks over her plate quickly and shakes her head. “Nope. You should be good. I think. And if it’s a little hot, then-”

Senha toasts with the mug in acknowledgment.

Samir becomes infinitely more curious about the contents of her plate following the experience, and Senha’s grateful when Hetha sneaks the remaining dumpling off her plate and pops it in her mouth. She just barely manages not to wince watching her chew and swallow the entire thing, but her new friend doesn’t seem to be experiencing the same gastronomical distress.

Predictably, once he’s eaten his fill and gotten bored with what remains on her plate, Samir immediately petitions to be let down to explore. Senha swings one leg over the bench of the picnic table and lowers him to the ground. He delegates the protection of Basa to her with the appropriate seriousness and turns to find his next adventure. She snags the back of his hoodie before he can make off into the unknown and the boy twists around to scowl at her.

“I don’t think so, buddy.” Senha tells him dryly.

“Do you want me to keep track of him while you finish eating?” Hetha asks, glancing back at the half-full status of Senha’s plate.

“Oh, um…” Senha looks from the plate to the toddler, who despite her grasp on his sweater is now attempting to pick up a stone from the ground.

She feels remarkably safe surrounded by strangers, and she can obviously trust Hetha, but the habit of making sure Samir was close by or with Din had become ingrained quickly. Her stomach twists at the idea of letting him wander, but she can’t watch him every moment forever. And Din had trusted Ullin with him that morning for several hours. Surely this was alright…

“You wouldn’t mind?” She asks.

“Nope. You eat, I’ll make sure we stay where you can see us, okay?”

Senha nods gratefully and sets the toddler loose, watching as Hetha follows Samir make his meandering way around the table. Scooping up something that she’s almost positive is eggplant-related onto a piece of bread, her eyes fall back on Din.

He’s across the other side of the fire, talking with a thickly built man with very short hair. As she watches, Din frowns. His body language is tense, and Senha puts her piece of bread down, wavering on whether or not she should get up and go to him. She’s not even sure whether it’s what he would want. She’s not even sure who the man is.

Her worries are interrupted by a voice behind her, “You doing alright?”

Senha looks up just as Iska slides into the vacated space beside her and folds her arms on the table.

“Yes, thank you,” Senha says. She looks over to where Hetha crouches beside Samir, showing him something in her hand. “Sorry, do you know who Din's talking with over there?”

Iska squints across the fire and huffs out a breath, “Oh boy. That’s Xaolk Vizsla. He’s…” she coughs delicately. “Look, he thinks he and his family are Issik’s gift to the world, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

“Oh.” She sneaks another bite of eggplant and swallows before she voices the obvious, “Why do they think that?”

Iska heaves a long sigh, “Because they’re Vizslas.” She glances over at Senha. “Oh, sorry, obviously you don’t-- they’re an old clan. They were in power for quite a while back in Mandalore, and some of them seem to have forgotten that we aren’t there anymore…They’ve got some very unique ideas about what it means to be Mandalorian.”

“Ah.” Senha fidgets with her jacket cuff for a minute, unsure exactly how to respond without coming off as rude. She’s uncomfortably aware of the fact that she knows next to nothing about these people, regardless of that one geopolitical class she’d been forced to take as an elective.

“Did Din tell you anything about Mandalore? Or Concordia?” Iska asks.

“Not...not a lot. He told me what happened with the military- when they-” Senha cuts off awkwardly.

“The Night of a Thousand Tears,” Iska says, a note of sadness in her voice.

Senha nods. “And he told me about what happened afterwards, a little. He told me about… about your son.”

Iska rests the heel of her hand on her sternum, and Senha’s cheeks flush hot as she stammers, “I’m- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“No, it’s alright. I’m glad he told you. So long as people remember Matas, his soul is with us. And from what we heard, those two did get up to all kinds of trouble down there before everything went sideways.”

“Hard to picture Din getting in trouble,” Senha replies wryly. “He seems to like such a quiet life...”

Iska grins and flashes her a look with intense amber eyes, “Oh, I suspect my ad had quite a bit to do with him getting into trouble back then. Matas has a gift for trouble.”

“I saw the photograph of him and the little girl? In his room?”

“Ruusaan, his vod’ika.” Iska catches Senha’s questioning glance. “His little sister. You want to talk about a matched set of troublemakers… It’s a miracle the covert is still standing.”

Lapsing into a comfortable silence, the two of them watch the flames lick at the wood in the center of the circle. The sounds of conversation and laughter around them sink into Senha’s bones as she watches Hetha and Samir wander their way from group to group around the fire.

* * * * * * *

There’s a whirlwind of new faces he can hardly keep track of, and names that slide past before he can catch hold of them. Nearly everyone has some level of politely curious expression on their face, and Din wonders how much of it has to do with the fact that inevitably some people here will have put together that he is the Mandalorian wanted for murder in Ganister City. And if some people have put it together, he has no doubt that it’s common knowledge throughout the tribe by now. He’d wager that the tribe has been told to give them some space and allow them to adjust, but while he’s grateful for it, the awareness of people watching sets him on edge.

Senha and the kid had been whisked away by the technician they’d met that morning almost as soon as they’d arrived. He’s relieved that they’ve been taken in so quickly, but he’d had to stifle his immediate reaction to keep them all together.

For the time being, he confines the tension to his hands, letting the nervous energy leave him through minute movements of his trigger fingers. It’s the same way he’d released energy when confined to a sniper’s nest before an operation in Concordia, or on a long stakeout with Ran’s crew.

“I understand you’re the reason for the extra protocols?”

Ullin’s occupied talking to another mando’ad a few feet away and doesn’t seem to notice the man who’s approached them.

“Xaolk Vizsla,” the man says, putting his hand out.

Din can see the resemblance now that he has to Paz, the only other Vizsla he’s known. They’re both built thickly muscled, with broad faces. The difference is in the eyes. Din has few memories of interactions with the Vizslas back in Ganister City, but his memories of Paz are of a hard worker, devoted to his tribe. Even an inch or two shorter than Din, Xaolk somehow manages to look down his nose at him. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling, but it’s one that Din has become more used to seeing from the aruetiise than his own people.

“Din Djarin,” he trades forearm grips with the man, and some very small and petty part of him notes that the man’s hands are soft.

“Your clan name?” Xaolk asks.

“I was a foundling.”

Xaolk arranges his face in an expression of pity that makes Din’s index finger tap rapidly against his thigh before he forces his hand to still.

“I heard there was another foundling involved as well…” Xaolk looks around with his eyebrows raised, and Din bites back at curse at realizing he’s let Samir and Senha out of his sight. He’s getting sloppy.

Searching the crowd, he releases a breath when he finds Senha and Hetha crouching beside Samir, who appears to be telling a detailed story to another adult. From the expression on all their faces, he is as nonsensical as he is charming, which is on-brand for the kid.

“And an aruetii as well?” Xaolk continues.

“Yes.” Din doesn’t like the implication in his statement one bit, but he carefully controls his expression as he glances back at the man, “I owe her a debt for helping me and the kid.”

Xaolk makes a sound that could run the gauntlet from concession to skepticism and they both watch as Senha picks Samir up. The babe cuddles into her shoulder and sticks his thumb in his mouth, his eyes beginning to look heavy after the excitement of the day.

“He appears to have bonded quite closely with her.”

"Yes," Din says, some of the knots in his chest loosening as he watches them both. It’ll be time for all three of them to head back soon and get some rest.

Xaolk sighs, "Unfortunate."

Din frowns, "Me’ven?"

“Well, she won’t be staying. Why would she?”

He turns to face Xaolk more directly, “She’s been offered a place with the tribe and has chosen to accept it. She’s staying.”

The man’s expression is nauseatingly paternalistic, "Come now. What possible reason would she have to stay? It's not as if she can understand what it means to be mando'ade. It's not as if she can ever understand the trials our people have suffered, our way of life, our beliefs, anything that we hold as important. How could she?"

Xaolk lays a hand on Din's shoulder and he has to force himself not to pull away. "No, I have faith that now that you’re back among your own kind, you will come to your senses where the aruetii is concerned. For the sake of your foundling if nothing else. Foundlings already struggle so frequently to understand their place in the world, the last thing you want for them is further confusion."

His voice drips with patronizing concern and Din opens his mouth, fairly certain he’s about to say something extremely unhelpful, when Ullin claps a hand on his other shoulder, startling him.

“It looks like your ad’ika’s about ready for bedtime, buir. You good to head out?”

With a feeling that Ullin knows exactly what he’d just staved off, Din nods curtly to Xaolk before he heads over to where Senha and Hetha are talking. Ullin lingers for a moment before he follows, and having someone at his back is both familiar and strangely forlorn.

Senha seems to sense something is off with him at once, and she passes Samir over and lets her hand rest on his tricep as Din inhales the comforting scent of the boy’s hair, overlaid with woodsmoke from the bonfire and spices from the food.

“I’m going to find Iska,” Ullin says, “we’ll meet you back at the house. It’s unlocked.” He brushes his index finger over Samir’s hand and strides off again to find his riduur.

“Let’s go home, okay?” Senha’s voice is low. The warmth of her against his side has something falling back into place inside him. Din nods and the three of them make their way out of the firelight and across the cool expanse of the desert back to the Cyzan’s house.

* * * * * * *

Much later that night, Din lies awake.

He’s restless. The energy surging through his limbs would normally have been spent on a hunt or been worked out through the course of the day’s labor, but here he’s done nothing but rest. Rest and watch others act on his behalf. His very fingertips itch, and he shifts onto his back, pressing his head back into the pillow. Xaolk’s words come to mind unbidden.

Foundlings already struggle so frequently to understand their place in the world.

It’s been so long since Din has been around any large group of mando’ade that he’d almost forgotten that particular brand of pretentious hierarchy that some in the community hold with those adopted into the Creed. The first time he remembers hearing it had been from another child at the after-school care center. He’d been nine and a half, and they’d been in Ebrya for nearly two years.

“Buir?”

“Lek?”

“What’s a foundling?”

Razan looked up from the pan he’d been minding on the stove to where Din was doodling on his homework paper at the kitchen table, “Where did you hear that?”

Din shifted on the hard wooden chair, already regretting asking, “At the center. There was a boy...he said I was a foundling.”

Razan took another look at the contents of the pan and picked up the wooden spoon on the side of the stove to stir it before replacing the spoon and turning to lean back against the counter. The scent of sont and jeera filled the air of the small kitchen as his buir examined him carefully. Din squirmed again uncomfortably. Finally, Razan let out a sigh and came to sit in the chair across from him, leaning on his forearms. His buir was so much bigger up close, but Din had learned not to be afraid of him.

“Do you remember when we first met?”

Din turned his pencil between his fingers and nodded. He didn’t remember all of it, but he remembered waiting in the darkness, and choking on the dust kicked up when the slab of stone had been pulled back to reveal his hiding place. He remembered seeing a figure with no face, just smooth silver metal and black glass, kneeling before him with hand extended. The armor had been hard and cold when he’d curled against Razan’s chest, and he’d started to look at the two limp figures outside the rubble of his home before a gloved hand had settled on his head and turned his face away from them.

He hadn’t really wanted to see, but that didn’t stop him from straining his memory in the late hours of the night to try and remember what they’d looked like. Had he been able to see their faces in that one moment? Could he have seen their eyes? Were they the same color as his own?

“We’d gotten word that morning that the regime was bombing our region. Trying to flush us out, reduce the possible places we could hide or resupply. But when we looked at the map, the areas they’d mentioned were all civilian targets. All innocents…” Razan dragged the cloth down from his shoulder and wiped his hands, though they looked perfectly clean to Din.

Razan’s eyes were a similar shade of brown to his own, close enough that Din looked in the mirror while brushing his teeth sometimes and wondered if everything before the last two years had been some strange dream. Had he ever lived in the tiny red house on the corner? Had there ever been airplanes overhead? Had he dreamed the sound of his mother’s voice?

Razan sighed, the dishcloth knotted between thick, cracked fingers, “We were sent out that day to see what we could do to aid the surrounding populations. Help who we could, bury who we couldn’t. About halfway through the morning, we reached a village that had just suffered a direct attack. Place was still burning when we got there.”

Din was frozen in place, his pencil held between his fingers. His buir had never spoken about that day before, had never told him how he’d come to kneel before him.

“Most of the village was destroyed. The school, the little shop, more than half the houses. The place wasn’t much more than a few craters and the lucky buildings that had been missed. I wasn’t expecting to find anything. Don’t think any of us were.”

Razan sat forward, the chair creaking under him, “I was looking for survivors when I found a signature in the remains of a little red house at the bend of the road. The entire front had collapsed, taken out by the shock wave from a bomb dropped in the street. When I came up to it...there were two people outside. A man and a woman. They looked like they’d died trying to protect something inside”

Raising his eyes from his hands, Din met Razan’s gaze. When he’d first seen the black glass visor in his village, he’d been afraid. Later, when they’d gotten back to the base, and Razan had pulled his helmet off, he’d been almost surprised to be met with dark brown, human eyes.

He wasn’t little anymore, not like a year ago, but Din still slipped off his chair and Razan lifted him up onto his knee just like he’d done then. Din pressed his ear to Razan’s chest and closed his eyes, the familiar deep rumble soothing him as his buir continued talking.

“I pulled a piece of rubble away from a little hollow space, and I found you. And everything...stopped.” Razan’s chest expanded under Din’s cheek with a stutter. “Time stopped. I stopped hearing the comms from my radio. I didn’t even hear the planes anymore.”

His buir smoothed Din’s lengthening hair out of his eyes and trailed his fingers down his temples the same way he did when Din woke with nightmares.

“The day that I found you was the most important day of my life, Din’ika. It reminded me why I had put on the armor to begin with.”

His buir sat back, and Din straightened to look up at him. Razan traced his thumb under Din’s eye and out to his temple, “A foundling is the most exceptional blessing a soul can be given. You are the greatest gift the gods have ever seen worthy of giving me.”

In the darkness beside him, Samir stirs and whines. Before he can wake Senha, Din scoops the kid up and settles him on his chest. Samir tucks his head under Din’s chin and curls his fingers in the collar of his worn tshirt.

Stroking gentle lines down the boy’s back, Din tries to force himself to relax. He doesn’t know how, but the kid seems almost keyed into his moods, his tension. It hadn’t been more than a few seconds after Din had woken the previous night in a cold sweat that Samir had let out a wail and pressed himself against Din’s side. Maybe it’s a normal kid thing. He’ll have to ask Senha in the morning.

Just as the previous night though, Din’s efforts to relax them both come to nothing. He finally sits up with a sigh and swings his legs over the side of the bed. The hardwood is cool under the soles of his feet, and he makes barely a sound as he moves to the open floor at the bottom of the bed. Samir has both arms around his neck, and the tension in his small body brings the familiar ache of failure to Din’s chest.

Is it all the new people? The new place? Have the last few days been too much for him to bear?

He looks back at the outline of Senha’s sleeping form, but turns away after a moment, swaying slowly with the kid. This is more than likely his fault, and he’s bothered her enough. Besides, he should know how to fix this himself. The way Razan had known how to fix things.

But then, Razan had been whole. Din…

Din isn’t, through no fault but his own.

That first morning, seemingly so long ago, when he’d looked over at the truck and seen the small face smiling back at him, barely able to peer over the top of the door, he’d felt whole in a way that made him dizzy. He’d been hypoxic, and that one moment was two terrifying lungfuls of oxygen.

In the end though, he remains hollow. Occasionally he feels a surge of hunger for something, someone, anyone. Anything that can fill the void in him for just one moment and return him to the hazy memories of before. But reaching out, to anyone, risks the possibility that he will devour them in his desire to make himself whole. He’s already been selfish enough in his life, he cannot allow himself to make that error.

The room grows colder around them, and Samir’s body slowly grows heavy with sleep but Din stays where he is, gently swaying the child in his arms, until the only others awake are the shadows.

Chapter Text

Sil has been dreading this since arriving back in Chandrila. Following the first day of meetings, she had hoped she could dodge the bullet. Maybe even get lucky enough to only be stuck here for a few days talking to the HQ Public Affairs wonks before being allowed to get back to her job. Then this morning she got the email to meet with the Assistant Director. Now she realizes how much more trouble she was in.

As she enters the executive suite, her eyes land on the Assistant Director of Counterterrorism. She has never met the man; people at his level tend to pass in and out every few years and rarely have impacts on the day to day work of the agents themselves. She covertly checks her watch, afraid she’s late, but she’s early. What kind of meeting is this where the Assistant Director is waiting for her?

“Special Agent Fess, thank you for coming all the way out here,” He walks over and extends his hand. “I hope PA wasn’t too much of a problem the last few days.”

As Sil takes his hand, she isn’t sure that she hasn’t somehow been confused for some other Silvia Fess for whom this is a normal occurrence. She returns the handshake. “It’s part of the job, sir,” she replies, walking that fine line of noncommittal non-statements that is its own language in government.

He responds with a knowing smile, the government’s own version of ‘suck it up’, and motions her into his office. Sil sits in the uncomfortable-looking chair in front of his desk as he pours two drinks from an actual drinks globe along the sideboard. She takes the heavy crystal glass from him with a murmur of thanks; she knows it would be rude to say no, but she makes a note to not need a refill.

The Assistant Director settles himself in a significantly more comfortable-looking chair behind the desk, and takes a long sip of amber liquid before placing the glass on the desk and focusing his attention on Sil, “Agent Fess, I want to begin by saying that I know this is the last place you want to be right now. Truth be told, I’d also be happier if you were out there doing your job, but it’s not my decision. The administration has decided to take an interest in this case, and unfortunately that means we need to be very careful with the message we’re projecting moving forward. That’s also why I had to ask you to come here to play the public face for a few weeks.”

Sil just nods, absently tracing the pattern of the glass.

“My hope is that, with you here, PA can make a few appearances, let you give a few high-level briefings to the administration, and then let you get back to work. Give everyone a clear-enough message that no one can screw it up,” he pauses for a moment before continuing. “And look, we both know that Vince doesn’t get it. I did field work before getting stuck up here, I know that, right now, the best thing I could do for you is give you a ticket back to the field.”

“Any chance it’s in a desk drawer, sir?” Sil offers.

That does earn her a quick smile, “I wish. The Attorney General would have my head if I let you get away without a meeting. Do you know how much easier it’s made everyone’s life here, knowing that you’re on this case?”

She resists making the observation that it had been good then that she’d stayed late that Friday to fill out her timesheet, and as a result had been the only agent in the office when the case had come in, and instead gives the Assistant Director a bland, “How so, sir?”

The man toasts her with his glass before taking another sip, “Because the goddamn hero of Domwei is working this case. The DIB’s golden girl just happens to show up to deal with the one case Duras can’t shut up about.”

This is dangerous territory; Sil decides polite evasion is the safest tact to take here, “That was a long time ago, sir. Not many similarities between Domwei and this case.”

The Assistant Director dismisses her statement and doubles down, “Nonsense. Domwei was a once-in-a-decade case. It was a make or break moment for the DIB, and when you were forced to make the hard call there you did. Not many junior agents would have had the balls to call the President and request authorization for an operation like you did there.”

Sil shifts uncomfortably. She’d kill for a change of subject; perhaps if she keeps ignoring the bait being dangled before her, “Given what I knew at the time, sir, it was the only call.”

“But that’s the thing, Agent,” The Assistant Director leans forward. “Before you made that call, every instructor in the Academy would have said it was the wrong call and they would’ve been right. You acted when the book said to use caution, and you probably saved damn near a million lives because of it.”

Evasion having failed her, Sil makes an attempt at attack, her voice hard, “Didn’t make it any easier when we went in, sir.”

He stops at this, studying her. Apparently he has forgotten that Sil hadn’t just ordered the assault, she had been part of it. After a moment though, he shakes his head and continues, “But it’s never about doing what’s easy, is it? You know every new agent that comes through the academy wants to do one of two things: save the country, or get a nice corner office. You remember what our job is really about. Unfortunately,” he sighs, “you're not going to be working much of that here.”

Sil nods at that, it’s what she expected coming out here, “Like you said, sir; it’s not about doing what’s easy or pleasant. Sometimes we need to look like we are doing good almost more than we need to do good.”

He holds up a finger, “Yes and no. Too many agents care more about what it looks like they’re doing than what they’re actually doing. Domwei, the Secretary of Education, heck, that cop you nailed in Ganister; those are the special times when we can make the myth match reality. Most of the time it’s not so pretty, and that’s why we had to re-write the book after Domwei.”

More than anything, Sil hates when people bring that little tidbit up; as if it’s something to be applauded. The book had been fine, it was just that too many agents cared more for what the news was reporting than the complete facts of the case. The ‘rewrite’ had amounted to little more than reminding the instructors that the pundits didn’t always get the final say. Heck, for most of the important conversations, they weren't even in the room. She wished more of leadership had had to re-take that training.

Some of her displeasure must’ve shown on her face, because the Assistant Director finally changes the subject, “But I don’t want to waste your time; Vince will be doing enough of that over the next few weeks. Remember that he’s not an agent; he’s a PA wonk. He’s so wrapped up in the myth of our work that I don’t think he even knows there is a reality. And the Administration’s got him real spun up over this.”

The man places his empty glass on the desk before him and steeples his fingers before tilting them towards Sil, “If he asks you to do anything, and I mean anything, that you are uncomfortable with, let me know immediately. You’ve earned the right to push back on that crap. This case is big enough that it’s appropriate for them to request briefings from you personally, but I won’t have my agents being made into pundits. Stick to the facts, and if Vince tries to get creative with his communication, feel free to shut him down.”

That surprises Sil. An Assistant Director of the DIB calmly giving an agent free reign to tell PA to fuck themselves is far from a regular occurrence. Clearly, she is stuck in some form of inter-office power scrabble between PA and Counterterrorism.

Great.

She keeps her tone professional though as she makes use of the government translation for ‘what the fuck’, “Then, if I may ask, sir: what exactly is my role here?”

“Answer enough questions for the talking heads to get bored and hope something else steps up as the next fire they want to put out. The Administration wants us to show how seriously we’re taking this case, and PA is determined to be seen in lock-step with them. Personally, I just want you back out there to catch that fucker.”

Sil won’t deny that it’s a precarious position, but she can at least understand the ground beneath her now. After all, she thinks, people like to talk a big game on home defense and the world going to hell, but no one actually wants to live there.

* * * * * * *

“Marin Castillo, right?” Payne says, extending his hand to the man across the table. He’s opted for a mostly empty coffee shop in the middle of the day rather than carting the man down to the local precinct. With a bit of luck, it’ll keep him off the defensive and more open to sharing whatever information he might have.

The man sits up from a slouch and gives him a brusque handshake, “That’s me. And no offense, but can we hurry it up a little? I had to take my lunch break for this.”

Payne gives him a quick, tight smile, “I’ll make it as quick as possible. Appreciate you coming to speak to me.”

“You said this was about Djarin, right? He okay?”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

Marin sits back and blows out a breath, “Not for almost two weeks. Which is weird, right? He blew off a job last week, which isn’t like him at all.”

“He does stonework?”

“Yeah. Best guy for facade and setting work in the tri-county area.” He frowns, “It isn’t like him to not show for a job, you know? You do that once in this business and you don’t get called again. Not good.”

“Do you know why he didn’t show up for the job?”

“Nah, man. Normally you can set your watch by the dude.”

“D’you know how long he’s worked in the area?”

Marin squints at the wall behind Payne, “Maybe...like five, six years? I can’t remember really. He keeps to himself, you know?”

“Mhm,” Payne makes a note. “Pretty normal guy? In general?”

“Sure,” Marin snorts. “If by normal, you mean the dude drives around a truck worth two hundred dollars with fifteen thousand dollars worth of tools in the back, wearing a hoodie that Goodwill wouldn’t take, then yeah. Totally normal.”

Payne grunts in response, because the man does have a point. It lines up with everything else they’ve found about their suspect so far. It also means that it’s largely useless information. He decides to throw a bit of caution to the wind and cut to the chase.

“Do you know if he has any issues with anyone? Anyone he might consider an enemy?”

Marin looks hard at Payne, his thick eyebrows pulled low, “He isn’t in trouble, is he?”

Payne hitches a reassuring smile onto his face, “We’re just trying to get a better idea of him.”

This is, as it turns out, exactly the wrong thing to say.

“What do you need a better idea of him for?” Marin bristles, “He’s a solid dude; comes to work, does the job good, never tries to short the other guys on the team. What else do you need to know?” The man’s voice is edging quickly into dangerous territory.

His partner would probably move straight to thinly veiled threats here, but Payne’s got a feeling that particular technique is just going to make this guy clam up, and Sil has trusted him to make some progress on this investigation while she’s gone.

Payne caps his pen and closes his notebook before folding his arms and leaning back, “I’ll be honest with you. We’re concerned that your colleague has gotten himself into some trouble.”

Looking dismayed, Marin shakes his head, “Shiiiit, man. I knew something was up when he didn’t show for that job.” He leans forward, his expression caught between concern and curiosity, “Was it about the- you know-”

The man trails off, wiggling his bushy eyebrows, and Payne tries his best to disguise his interest as friendly concern, “Anything you can tell us, Mr. Castillo.”

Marin appears to debate with himself for a moment, clearly trying to decide whether the information he’s about to give will be used to help or harm. When he does speak, it’s in a conspiratorial whisper and Payne leans forward in spite of himself.

“Well, you know sometimes he came to jobs all banged up. Some of the guys thought maybe he was involved in some kinda gang shit, but I know the truth.”

Payne’s anticipation builds, but he leaves the pen capped and the notebook closed, instead giving the man his undivided attention. He seems pleased to have an audience.

“He’s into that street racing shit, my dude. That’s what got him in trouble, isn’t it? He’s got those Sinos after him.” Marin smacks his hand down on the table. “I knew it!”

“He- what?” Payne’s mind struggles to adjust to the abrupt left turn.

“Yeah, man, this is just like The Quick and the Quarrelsome: Edo Drift!” Now that he’s gotten started, Marin appears more and more convinced of the efficacy of his claim. “That’s why he comes in beat up some days. You know those races end bad sometimes!”

Payne is still trying to find some form of logic in this, though he is beginning to suspect that it’s a lost cause, “You said his truck isn’t worth more than two hundred dollars.”

Marin points a finger at him, “Exactly. Fuck, man, the company that made Razorcrests went out of business before my paps was even born! You know, people think we don’t make decent money doing what we do, but we make more than you think. Plenty to buy a nicer truck than that piece of shit. So why the fuck does he keep it, huh? I’m telling you, man, he spends all the money on some sweet-ass ride for racing!”

Taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Payne barely resists the urge to scrub his hands over his face. Maybe he can salvage some part of this complete dumpster fire of an interview.

“So, if Djarin’s involved in this street racing gig, would you say he’s a pretty rough guy?”

Marin shrugs, “I mean you gotta be for that, right? But he isn’t like, shady or whatever.”

“So you wouldn’t say he’s violent?”

“Djarin?” Marin laughs incredulously. “The guy smooths grout more carefully than most people tuck their kids in at night.”

He senses that he’s reaching a dead end here, but Payne tries one more time, “You never seen him get pissed at someone on a job? Yell or throw a punch or something?”

“No way,” Marin shakes his head again, chuckling before he leans forward, “Look man, when I first started working with the guy, he didn’t always bring lunch. It’s not good, you know? We’re out there working hard all day; you don’t eat, you’re not gonna be working for long. So, I offer to get him something and he says no. Whatever, I got him a cold cut combo, everyone loves that, right? And do you know what that dude did?”

Payne doesn’t bother to hide his expression as he rubs his forehead, “What did he do?”

Marin jabs a finger down on the table in emphasis, “He scraped the mayo off.”

He presents the information with the same flourish as a crime drama lawyer providing their client’s iron-clad alibi.

While Payne can think of days that have been less productive than this one, he can’t think of many, “And that’s important...why?”

Marin waves a hand, “I’m getting there. A week later, I decided to test the theory and got him a sandwich with extra mayo. The look he gave me?” He whistles and gives Payne a crooked grin, “If that dude had a violent bone in his body, I’d be a dead man right now.”

Payne’s just about ready to throw in the towel, but decides to toss one last line into the water just in case he bites, “And the kid?”

“Just another example, man,” Marin says, and Payne sits up slowly as he continues, “The way he looked after that kid, even though it wasn’t his kid? I tell you, not a lotta guys woulda done that on such short notice.”

“Whose kid was it?” Payne asks, uncapping the pen and opening his notebook without taking his eyes off Marin.

The man has yet to recognize that he’s let something critical slip, “I think he said it was his sister’s cousin’s-” Marin stops abruptly as his brain catches up to his mouth.

Payne knows he has to move quickly, “You said he had a kid with him. Who did the child belong to?”

“I- I didn’t say anything about a kid. You were the one who said something about a kid!” Marin says, his gregarious tone morphing to one of panic.

“Who did the child belong to?” Payne asks again, and before Marin can deny it again he tacks on a reminder, “All I’m trying to do is make sure the same people after your friend don’t go after the kid, okay?”

Marin’s eyes dart towards the door, and Payne knows that if Sil were here she’d be going for the killing blow. He, on the other hand, has always had a slightly different style. Payne puts down his pen and plays the best card in his hand.

“No bullshit, okay? The reason I wanted to talk to you is because your friend and that kid are in danger. We’re trying to find them before more people get hurt.”

Marin looks back at him, his face painted with regret and the slightest hint of fear. This is the part of the job that Payne hates most, but Sil is counting on him and he pushes ahead.

“Marin, forget the badge, alright? It’s just you and me, having a nice talk about your friend who hates mayo and looks after peoples' kids on short notice. All I’m asking is if Djarin mentioned anything to you about the kid that could help me figure out if he’s part of the situation or just a bystander.”

Marin frowns and sits back, folding his arms, “We ain’t friends, man. And if this is just a nice conversation then I think we’re done. You want to speak to me again, you bring a warrant and I’ll bring a lawyer.”

And with that, Marin Castillo walks out of the coffee shop.

Payne sits there a minute, trying to process what just happened. What is it about Din Djarin that inspires this kind of loyalty? And how is it that, besides that loyalty and a crappy apartment with second-hand furnishings, he’s left behind nothing else; no family, no lovers, not even a damn gym membership. After a minute, Payne also stands and walks out of the shop, hoping he can make some sense of this back at the office.

His phone rings as he pulls out his car keys. Checking the screen, he sees it’s from Sil, “Payne.”

“It’s me,” Sil’s voice is muffled, and there’s the sound of conversation in the background. “How’re things going there?”

“Alright," Payne opens the door of the car and drops heavily into the driver’s seat. "I just finished interviewing one of the guys he worked with.”

“Get anything useful out of him?”

Payne thinks back over the discussion of mysterious injuries, street racing, and sandwiches. And about a man leaving everything behind for a child who is, by all appearances, both nameless and alone.

“Honestly? I have no idea.”

Chapter Text

The next morning is far warmer, the hints of spring evident in the rain-scented wind that rolls up from the south. The tips of bright red and orange flowers are beginning to show above the rocky soil and Ullin has promised that in the next few months wildflowers will carpet the seemingly dead earth. In the light of day, the stone of the mountains surrounding the town looks almost blue and the contrast of the snow still capping their peaks is startling in the bright sunlight.

Shifting Samir’s weight in his arm, Din glances down at the boy as Ullin answers Senha’s questions about weather patterns in the area. The kid had been slow to wake this morning; both of them are suffering from interrupted sleep and poor dreams. His attention is drawn back to the present as the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in response to a new sound. It resolves itself into the same strange baying sound they’d woken to two nights before devolving into excited yips. He turns towards the sound as a pack of dogs comes around the edge of one of the houses.

Ullin turns as well, his body language surprisingly relaxed, “Ah, I figured they’d be curious. I’m surprised they didn’t make an appearance last night.”

Six or seven of the animals lope across the gravel road towards them, their lowered heads adding to their almost hunched appearance. Their coats are extremely short and patchy in places, with coarse hair in hues from orange to dark brown. A mud-colored ridge of longer, spikey fur runs down their spines, and black tongues hang from several mouths as they approach, revealing jagged teeth.

Senha begins to back away from them, “What-”

“They’re just strill,” Ullin puts his arm around her shoulders, halting her retreat. “They’re not going to hurt you.”

Din makes an automatic movement towards his hip before he realizes he’s left his gun back at the house. Di’kut; he’s getting so fucking sloppy. He passes Samir to Senha, the boy immediately latching onto her with a worried whine, and steps out in front of them both.

Ullin puts out a placating hand to him as well, “Easy, ad. They just want to smell you. Suss out where you’re from and why you’re in town.”

“Are they… domesticated?” Senha asks with more than a hint of apprehension in her voice.

Ullin hitches his hands onto his hips as two or three of the braver ones approach, heads held low, “Not really. We’ve got an understanding with each other, so to speak. We help each other out from time to time but they’re wild animals.”

“What kind of understanding, exactly?” Senha asks, not taking her eyes off one of the animals as it creeps forward, powerful shoulders shifting under a thick hide with dull orange fur. One of its notched ears flops comically and its black eyes look more curious than threatening. There’s a spark of intelligence in them that’s slightly unnerving.

“They keep us in the know if anyone new shows up unannounced, and they come to us if they need something,” Ullin holds out a closed fist as one with a more tawny coat wanders over to sniff the proffered appendage. “Few years ago they even found one of our ad’ike who’d wandered off. Kept her warm with their own pups while they led us to her.”

Having either recognized Ullin or decided that he doesn’t represent a threat, the strill licks his closed fist with a speckled black tongue. Ullin scratches under the creature’s square jaw and its eyes drift closed in contentment. The remainder of the pack circles around Din and Senha, sniffing them thoroughly. Senha mimics Ullin, holding out a closed fist for inspection, but stays pressed close to Din’s side.

One of the larger strill with large black spots on its sloped hindquarters pokes a wet, black nose against Samir’s feet. The kid twists around curiously in Senha’s arm and peers down at the newcomer. Dog and boy regard each other for a moment before Samir attempts to reach down to the animal.

Din grabs his hand before he can get within range of the yellow canines visible in the strill’s mouth. Samir’s eyebrows draw together in evident displeasure as he frowns at Din, but there is no way he has protected the kid from hunters and all manner of other hazards only to have him lose fingers to a feral dog.

The strill seems satisfied to shove a blunt snout against the bottoms of Samir’s shoes again and snuffle enthusiastically before it sneezes and trots off. The other strill follow, although the one with a drooping ear continues to sniff interestedly around Senha until the largest one gives a low warning bark. The strill breaks off from Senha and wanders after the rest of the pack, and the lot of them disappear around a corner.

“They just roam around?” Senha asks. She wipes her hand on her jeans and Din takes the kid back from her; Samir’s familiar weight settles him and he lets out a long breath.

“Yup,” Ullin continues towards the creche. “They don’t come into town that often but they’ve been sticking closer since you three arrived. The only time they regularly come around is on the coldest nights of the year. We let ‘em sleep in the front hall of the yam’sol on those nights.”

Before they even turn onto the street where the creche stands, Din can hear children yelling and he’s surprised at how many of them he can hear. The memory of children hollering and running inside an old gymnasium back in Ganister filters to the top of his mind but it’s gone before he can really even catch hold of it.

Samir points to something in the direction of the creche with his free hand and babbles a question up at him. The kid seems to be picking words up quickly, his latest being Senha’s new moniker of “Na”, but when he makes attempts at full sentences Din is still left to guess at the most likely subject and return a reasonable answer.

“I don’t know, buddy. We’ll have to see when we get there.”

The kid accepts this with an approving sound, his heels digging into Din’s belt as he turns to look over his shoulder.

They enter a pale blue concrete building and Ullin leads them into a large playroom with colorful murals on the walls and a bank of windows spilling the morning sun across the floor. The floor itself looks to be made from some kind of soft, rubbery blocks that fit together like puzzle pieces. Low bookshelves and cubbies line the walls, and in one corner, several small tables are covered with paper and boxes of markers.

About ten tiny backpacks hang from hooks beside the door and anxiety curls in Din’s gut. It’s a reminder of just how little he’s been able to give Samir; the boy has a jacket and his dragon stuffie, and not much else to his name. Truthfully, Din has almost as little, but he’s accustomed to that.

The kid deserves better.

A door opens at the far side of the room and a breeze from the outside carries in a pack of children that look to be between about Samir’s age and five or six. The noise level in the room increases exponentially, and Ullin waves to an older woman with the beginnings of grey painting her black hair bringing up the back of the group. The woman makes a beeline for them.

“This is the new foundling?” she asks kindly. Din feels the kid press back against him and he tries to comfort him with a small squeeze as he takes the woman’s outstretched hand.

“I’m Anise. It’s good to see you all up and about.” She glances over Din’s shoulder to where Senha hovers beside Ullin and Senha offers her a shy smile.

“Din Djarin,” he replies, shifting Samir in his arms as he lowers the boy to the floor. “This is Samir.”

Din crouches next to him, one hand on the kid’s back to steady him, and Anise kneels as well, her voice light, “Me’bana, Samir?”

The kid keeps a tight grasp on Din’s fingers and gives him a nervous look, Basa held tightly to his chest. “It’s just for a few hours,” Din reassures him. “It’ll be good for you, Sam’ika. You need to be around other kids too.”

He starts to extricate his fingers from the kid’s grip and Samir whimpers and clutches them tighter, leaning into his legs. A stone weighs heavy in the pit of Din’s stomach at the boy’s obvious fear. He thinks back to when he’d first left the kid with Senha, how Samir had clung to him and cried the first time he’d left, and what his neighbor had suggested: Some way for him to know you’ll be back.

“K’olar, ad’ika.” he says, pulling Samir around in front of him. The kid peers up at him through brown curls that really probably need to be trimmed and his eyes are frightened. “Ni suum haaise al ni ven yaimpa gar, lek?”

I am beyond your sight but I will return for you. 

As he speaks, he presses his forehead against Samir’s and feels a small hand caress his cheek as Samir murmurs nonsense in return to the familiar phrase. When he pulls back, the kid still looks apprehensive as he peeks over at the other children, but the outright fear at least has faded.

“Ready, ad’ika?” Anise asks, holding a hand out to the boy. Uneasily, Samir accepts it and allows himself to be picked up. “Your buir will be back before you know it.”

Resisting the urge to turn back and look, or worse, take the kid back from Anise, requires more discipline than Din’s had to exert over himself in years. Maybe Senha feels it as well, because her hand settles gently on his back and maintains a light pressure as they leave the room; half-comforting, half-urging him onwards. He steels his resolve, knowing he isn't doing the kid any favors by prolonging this, and with Senha at his side, he follows Ullin out of the building and into the morning sunlight.

* * * * * * *

Senha can feel the tension in Din’s back under her hand, and she rubs soothing circles with her thumb as they exit the daycare center.

“He’ll be fine,” Ullin voices her thoughts as they make their way back to the house.

Din nods but looks unconvinced. She’d seen the same expression on his face the first time she’d looked after Samir, and she can’t imagine how difficult letting go must be now, after everything they’ve been through the past few weeks.

“The al’baar’ur wanted to swing by and check on you this morning, if you’re up to it,” Ullin continues.

“That’s really not necessary,” Din replies, and Senha bites her tongue against a reminder that two days ago he’d been heading towards cellulitis infection and Maker knows what else and is still on antibiotics.

The pain medication sits untouched on the desk back at the house.

Ullin shares a look with Senha behind Din’s back, “I know he’d feel better if he could take a look himself.”

Just let someone look after you for once without fighting it.

Perhaps her message gets through, because Din nods with a sigh.

“I was also thinking,” Ullin says thoughtfully, “if you’re staying, we might want to move your truck somewhere a little less conspicuous. I don’t expect us to be getting a lot of company, but…” he shrugs.

“Ret’lini,” Din’s agreement comes more easily to this idea, and Ullin pulls out his phone to make a call, presumably to the doctor, as they turn onto the street with the orange and pink house.

Twenty minutes later, Senha sits in the living room, idly picking at her nails as she waits for them to return. Her eyes trail over the bookshelves, most of the titles on the book spines worn and faded. There’s several photos of the family and a few others of two children at varying levels of growth. She can easily pick out features in the young man that connect him to Ullin and Iska but she’s surprised to find that the young woman looks nothing like the other three.

Din had mentioned briefly on their journey here that he’d been orphaned at a young age and adopted by another Mandalorian, and she wonders whether it’s a common story among his people. As she turns her gaze away from the photograph, the familiar tendril of guilt tightens at her sternum. She can’t escape the knowledge that her own country, her own people, have had a hand in proliferating the circumstances that led to that story.

Her gaze falls on the newest addition to the room: the dark grey metal crate that Din and Ullin had unloaded from the back of Din’s truck, the one that contains his armor. Beskar, he’d called it. The term is familiar, but she can’t quite remember where she’s heard it before.

Senha jumps as the front door opens again, Ullin’s voice sounding along with another male voice. Din enters the room, followed by their host and the doctor. It’s a testament to how exhausted she’d been the other day that she barely recognizes the doctor. She figures the sentiment must go both ways because he gives her an approving grin as he puts out his hand.

“You’re looking better,” he says. “Ator Orkaiss. I’m the doctor around here.”

The implication that he’s the only doctor in the area isn’t lost on her and she files it away as she takes his hand. “Much better, thanks. A shower and some sleep do wonders.”

“I’m convinced those are the best reset buttons we’ve got as humans,” he chuckles. Looking over at Din, he lifts his chin towards the colorful array of bruises around one of his eyes from the fight at the garage. “That’s looking better too. Few more days of the salve and it’ll be gone entirely.”

He pulls a dark blue bag with a white cross from his shoulder and places it on the coffee table, asking all the usual questions as he pulls out a pair of gloves and a fresh dressing. Ullin has disappeared into the kitchen, and Din, well-acquainted with the routine by now, disrobes enough to reveal the injury.

From her seat on the couch, Senha peers at it before she stands.

That’s not possible…

The angry redness of the skin around the edges of the graze has reverted to a healthy olive tone, and a scab stretches across the face of the wound.

“You’re still taking the antibiotics, correct?” Ator asks, coming to crouch beside her. Senha backs off, but she’s not alone in her surprise. The doctor raises his greying eyebrows as he palpates the area around the graze.

“You said this only occurred a few days ago?”

“Five days,” Din answers, and the unfocused part of Senha’s mind wonders at the fact that they’ve already been here for three days. It feels like both more and less time in the same moment.

“The infection was just starting to set in the day we got here,” she adds, and Ator looks over, “It shouldn’t be… drainage shouldn’t be clear yet. It definitely shouldn’t be scabbed over yet.”

The doctor hums under his breath and turns his attention back to the graze.

“That’s good though, right? That it’s healing quickly?” Din asks, his question directed more at Senha than the doctor. “You said I’d gotten lucky.”

“You- I mean you did, but…”

Din’s rushed words in his apartment in Ganister City, with the body of a dead hunter outside in the hall, come back to her.

“He has the ability to heal. That’s why they want him.”

Senha’s gaze darts up to Din’s face and she can see the moment that he comes to the same conclusion. His jaw tightens and she automatically rests a hand on his ankle, squeezing lightly. He lets out a long breath and the emotion is wiped from his face, but she can still track it in the angle of his shoulders and the tapping of his index finger against the coffee table.

“Well, I must say, I’m surprised but pleasantly so. This is healing very quickly and very well. I’m not going to put anything on it for now,” Ator sits back, stripping off the blue nitrile gloves and depositing them into his bag. “I’d still like you to take it easy for another day or so and keep taking the antibiotics, but after that you’re cleared to resume all activity.”

“I can’t pay you now,” Din says, and Senha can hear the sincerity in his voice, “but as soon as I get some work, I’ll settle my debt.”

Ator continues packing away his supplies, “You’re covered, ad. The insurance covers this.”

“I don’t have insurance.”

The doctor waves a hand carelessly, “Whatever you had back in Ganister with the tribe applies here as well.”

“I… I didn’t have anything there.”

At this, Ator stops, “They don’t have a cooperative insurance down there? A tribe fund that everyone pays into?”

Din shakes his head, refastening his belt, “Not that I know of.”

“So... what do you do, normally?” The man is frowning now.

Din shrugs, “Take care of things myself, for the most part. If I really need care, there’s a community clinic run by the city.”

The myriad of poorly stitched scars and the evidence of the cauterizing tool that Senha had seen on Din’s back make a little more sense now. Having worked in the emergency room, she’s seen more than her fair share of patients come in without insurance, but the doctor here seems utterly floored by Din’s admission. There’s a complicated expression on Ator’s face that vacillates somewhere between sadness and frustration.

After a moment though, he brushes his hands off on one another before standing and offering them an apologetic smile, “Well, whatever the case may be, kih’entye. You just keep taking those antibiotics and take it easy the next few days. Iska said you’re an LPN?”

It takes Senha a moment to realize Ator is now speaking to her and she scrambles to her feet, “Yes. I’ve been licensed for about ten years.”

“Do you have any experience in home health?”

“Not really… I’ve mostly worked in family practices and ERs. This last year I’ve been doing primarily ICU nursing.”

He tilts his head, “Would you like to?”

Her brain is working at half speed, belatedly putting together that she may be receiving a job offer, “Work in… home health? You mean, here? With you supervising?”

Ator nods, pulling his jacket back on, “I could use an assistant on my rounds, if you’re interested.”

Senha’s first instinct is to agree, gratefully and wholeheartedly, but that pulls up sharply at the realization that she isn’t just thinking for herself anymore. She has a deal to uphold.

“I’d- I’d love to, but Samir-,” she throws Din a questioning look.

“I can handle the kid,” he replies. It isn’t exactly what she’d meant; he’d been fine on his own with Samir before she’d shown up, she knows he’s perfectly capable of handling things himself now. But that doesn’t mean he should have to.

“You sure? I can- you’re still healing up and-”

Din cuts off her rambling, “I’ll be fine. If we can help...”

They’re both thinking along the same lines then. Senha turns back to the doctor, “I’d love to.”

“Excellent,” the doctor says, lifting the strap of his bag over his head and setting it across his chest. “I’ll pick you up at eight thirty tomorrow morning?”

* * * * * * *

The al’baar’ur departs with plans to pick Senha up the following morning to accompany him on his rounds, and Ullin re-enters the room, his face a bit too casual to not have been listening to every word from the other room. Being a gossip comes with the territory of being a Mandalorian.

“Everything looking good?”

“Yep!” Senha chirps, “All good.” The smile she’s wearing probably looks normal to Ullin but Din’s seen her hide enough anxiety to know it’s fake.

“Jate,” Ullin plucks a light jacket off the back of his chair. “I’ve got a few things to take care of around here. I’ll be in the back if you need something."

"Anything you need help with?” Din asks. He really needs to talk to Senha about his suspicions on his miraculous recovery, but the reflexive need to offer assistance to their hosts comes first. Particularly as he has no other way in which to repay them right now.

Ullin waves one weathered hand, “Nah, nothing major. You go take care of whatever you need to take care of. I’ll be out back.”

As soon as the door closes behind him, Din turns to Senha, “The kid.”

“I think so,” Senha agrees, beckoning him as she heads down the hall. “There’s no way, no way, that that graze would heal that quickly on it’s own.”

Din follows her back to the bedroom and she closes the door behind them before turning to face him, “Can you take your pants off?”

“What?”

“I- Maker, don’t make this awkward. I want to look at it more closely. I just didn’t want that doctor to think anything was up.”

Senha’s voice is tinged with the brisk professionalism she’d displayed when she’d treated the knife wound in his back. As he tugs his jeans down over his hips for the second time in an hour and settles himself on the edge of the bed, he has to admire her ability to maintain that in the face of something that looks an awful lot like sorcery.

His own attempt to match her clinical attitude falls flat on its face when she sinks to her knees in front of him to look more closely at the graze, balancing herself with a hand on his uninjured leg. Parts of him that have no business perking up take notice and Din sets his jaw.

Do not. Even. Think about it.

Senha seems oblivious to his response, or to how she’s making it worse as she tilts his thigh carefully into the light coming in from the window.

“This all looks….normal. It literally looks like it was just further along in the healing process.”

Her assertion isn’t a surprise; he hadn’t noticed anything unique about the cut the kid had healed on his arm or the incision in his back and Issik knows he’d inspected the skin there enough the next day and several times since then. He doubts he could even point out where they’d been.

“I do wonder though…” Senha muses, sitting back on her heels. “When you showed me the incision on your back, the skin there was completely healed… maybe the infection complicates things?”

She doesn’t seem like she’s expecting any response in the question and for the first time, Din wonders how this must appear to someone of her background, someone who has studied medicine. Is it less disconcerting to her, to understand the mechanics of what must be occurring? But a more pressing question presents itself, one he’s been turning over in his mind since the first time the kid had healed him.

“Is it hurting him?”

Senha looks up at him, chewing her lip in thought. Her thumb rubs absentmindedly over a curved scar above his left knee. "You said when he does it, he doesn’t seem to be in distress? He doesn’t show any signs of tenderness or pain? He’s just tired after?”

“He just falls asleep right after. But it’s… the sleep is… deep. It’s not how he normally sleeps.” Din isn’t sure whether the deep sleep is cause for concern or whether that’s just how babies who haven’t seen their mothers killed before their eyes are supposed to sleep. He does know that it’s a world apart from the fragmented, restless sleep that Samir gets most nights.

Senha taps a finger on his knee before she shakes her head, “I honestly don’t know. I don’t think so, but if you want we can ask Ator-”

“No,” Din replies firmly. “I want to keep this quiet if we can. I’ll have a talk with the kid.”

Senha grins, her voice playful as she retorts, “You’re gonna have a talk? With a fourteen-month old?”

She has a point.

“I’ll find a way to get the message across,” Din assures her, though he’s honestly not sure how he’ll accomplish that particular feat with a toddler who knows four words with consistency.

Senha shifts closer, examining the graze again, “I still can’t believe he can do this...” Her brown eyes are serious when she looks up at him, “I can see why they’d pay insane amounts of money for this. For him.”

Before he can stop himself, Din reaches out and brushes his thumb along her cheek, smoothing over the worried wrinkles beside her eye, “They'll never touch him again.”

“No, they won’t,” Senha agrees, and the air in the room seems to crackle with promise. Din becomes aware again of the fact that she’s kneeling between his legs, her hands warm on his thighs, and a hard, determined look on her face. It mirrors the look she’d worn when she’d faced Alexei.

His heart quickens remembering the following night; laying in the back of the truck with Senha pressed against his side. Feeling her soft breaths exhaled against his throat, the scent of her hair distracting him from planning their next moves, the same heat had come roaring back to his veins and he’d been forced to lay extremely still, his teeth gritted together as she shifted against him, sliding her leg over the top of his as she slept.

“Can I ask you something?”

The question cuts through his slowly spiraling haze and he utters a silent prayer of thanks to the Manda for the distraction, dropping his hand from her face, “Sure.”

“The… thing that you do with Samir, where you touch your forehead to his. What does that mean?”

Din raises his eyebrows in surprise. He hasn’t ever had to explain a mirschmure’cya to someone before. But then again, how long before Samir had it been since he’d had anyone with whom the sentiment was merited?

Not since Razan had died. And even before then, it hadn’t exactly been something he’d done around aruetiise. It had felt right the first time with Senha after he’d woken from the dream about the market attack. The other times…. It had just happened.

“Mirschmure’cya,” Din replies. “It’s a-” He hesitates, trying to think of the best way to explain it. “It’s something we do...affectionately. But you can also use it in a fight.”

“Like when you headbutted that big guy, back at the garage?”

“Yes,” Din nods. “Though it’s usually a kov’nyn then. Mischmure’cya has a- a slightly different connotation to it.”

She’s still watching him, her head tipped slightly back and her chin lifted, exposing the line of her throat. Din lets his fingers trace the curve of her jaw, his fingertips brushing over a tiny half-moon scar just under her chin and sliding down until the tips rest beneath her ear. He’d hardly think she was breathing if he couldn’t see the small, quick movements of her chest rising and falling.

He’s fucked, he’s so fucked.

“And… when you did it with me?” Senha asks, though he suspects she already knows. “Back at the motel, and after we got away? Which was it then?”

The current drags harder at his feet and the mist hanging over the edge looks warm and inviting. After all, a whisper comes from the back of his mind, why would you have done it in the first place if you didn’t hope it would end up here eventually?

Din lets his actions answer for him as he bends down until his forehead rests against hers. Senha’s hand moves from his thigh to cradle his cheek in her palm, her fingertips just brushing the curls above his ear.

The breath she lets out flutters against his lips and when her mouth follows, pressing lightly against his, he knows he could easily lose himself in the warmth of it. She’s gentle but persistent in her kiss and he finds himself following her lead as it deepens. With his hand still resting against her throat, he can feel her pulse beating fast against his palm and it’s dizzying. He’s on a slow-motion slide with the current, slow enough that he doesn’t feel the need to scrabble for balance or even plant his feet to come to a halt.

When she sits up on her knees and slides her other hand further up his thigh, Din matches the position of his hand on the other side of her throat, cupping her face between both hands. She exhales a small eager sound into his mouth, and he wonders how long shes wanted this. He’d assumed that he’d been the one to gravitate towards her in the night the past few days, but she’s never seemed eager for him to part from her when she wakes…

Din jolts as she nips his lower lip, and the slow, intoxicating flow through his veins turns searing and urgent.

“C’mere,” he murmurs against her mouth, one hand moving to wrap around her ribs and pull her up to straddle his uninjured thigh. Even through her jeans, he can feel the heat at her center and it most definitely isn’t his imagination when she rolls her hips against his thigh as he tugs her closer. She slips her free hand into his hair and he tilts his head back to meet her mouth more easily, his hands framing her hips. The edge falls out from under him as he lays back, pulling her along with him, and he surrenders himself to whatever lies below.

* * * * * * *

In the small ochre cottage a street over, Azalia ruminates over a mug of behot. It’s brewed at half strength, her one and only concession to Ator’s ceaseless nagging that at her age that much caffeine could be damaging.

As if caffeine would be the thing to do her in after everything else she’s managed to find her way through.

Turning her attention back to the information her ad’s riduur had given her that afternoon, she muses over what steps should be taken next. The fact that Din Djarin is still viewing their aid as a debt which will eventually be called due isn’t terribly surprising to her, but the fact that he had been used to seeking medical attention from aruetiise over his own tribe had narrowed her eyes. It’s not that the aruetiise don’t have good doctors, or that there are not occasions when seeking care from the larger hospitals is the obvious answer, but the fact that there seems to have been no system in place…

She knows that the Ganister tribe has had different challenges to contend with than the Arkose tribe; while the land the mando’ade of Arkose had pooled their resources to purchase was nearly worthless, real estate values in Ganister City had only continued to climb disproportionately to increases in pay. The old apartment building where the tribe in Ganister had managed to house most of their people had been bought from under their feet shortly after the Purge began and eviction notices had been served to its occupants. They had all suffered during that time, but some tribes had been hemmed in on all sides, with few resources or fewer opportunities to breathe.

Perhaps, Azalia thinks, that is the place to start. It is impossible to know a story without speaking to those at its root, and without taking that step all of them will continue to exist in ambiguity.

It takes her a few minutes to locate the contact information for the alor of the Ganister city tribe. The ‘database’ with names and contact information is little more than a password-protected spreadsheet under an insipid file name. It’s more of a challenge to remember where she’s saved it on the ancient laptop than it is to remember the password to it. If Ullin knew she had kept a copy of the spreadsheet, he would likely throw a fit, but Azalia isn’t in the business of leaving the tribe or taking her computer with her. Besides, she tells herself, if anyone manages to access her files without detection or interruption, they have larger problems to contend with.

“Hammer and Forge Associates, how may I direct your call?”  A crisp voice says from the other end of the line.

“I’m looking to speak with Margreta Reid, one of the partners?”

“Of course. Who may I say is calling?”

“Ruug’alor Cyzan,” Azalia replies, taking a sip of her hideously watered down behot.

“Please hold,” the voice on the other end says, and the opening notes of a popular Ebryian piano sonata take over.

She doesn’t have to suffer the music for more than about thirty seconds before it stops and an older woman’s voice speaks, “Margreta Reid.”

“Jate tuur, vod,” Azalia places her mug back down on the table with a light chink of ceramic and sits back.

From the other end of the line, there’s rustling sounds, and something that sounds like a door being closed before the woman speaks again, “Jate tuur. I received your message. I was relieved to hear that he has found a safe place to land. How are they?”

“They are recovering,” Azalia replies, tracing an old crack in the body of the mug. The awkward silence on the other end of the line tells her that the message has been received, “I was hoping you could further our ability to help them by giving me some information.”

“Of course.”

The words are gracious, but there’s the slightest edge in the Ganister alor’s voice that tells Azalia she must walk a fine line here between protecting the three that have come to them and passing judgement on those who have dealt with circumstances they cannot fathom. Still tracing the faint line splitting the smooth surface of her mug, Azalia allows it to guide her questions.

“How is the health of your tribe?”

This time, the silence on the other end leans more towards surprise than offense, but in the end the result is the same.

“We are recovering.”

Azalia smiles at this, because if this alor can still remember the steps to this particular dance, then there is significant hope for the tribe. It’s something she almost misses about being alor at times, but what she has received in exchange is worth sitting along the sidelines and watching others perform the dance now. Her body may ache in the late winter cold but her muscles stretch and pull at the old familiar movements.

“I’m pleased to hear it. You won’t have any issues with losing a sponsor for the time being?”

“He sponsors on the national level, so we are not impacted.”

“I see.”

Now this is curious. The majority of sponsors, mando’ade capable of supporting more than just their own aliit, choose to contribute on a local level. Seeing the results of their hard work within their own tribes helps build pride and dedication to one’s local community and the cycle has an elegant way of perpetuating itself. Sponsoring on the national level is generally done in one of two cases; if the sponsor had no claim to a local tribe, or if they were able to provide more than the tribe needed.

The question was, which of them was Din Djarin?

“Has he always chosen to contribute on the national level?”

She can almost feel the alor sixteen-hundred miles south shift in her chair, “I do not know if he chose it or if it was chosen for him.”

Azalia sits up, her finger resting on the crack in her mug, “Me’ven?”

A truncated sigh comes over the line, “Several months after Din Djarin returned from Concordia, he left the tribe. His buir, Razan, came to me shortly thereafter. Something had happened…. some incident, and Din had asked him to manage the details of his contributions. I do not know whether it was Din’s decision or Razan’s decision for his contributions to be made on the national level.”

“And when he returned? He wished the arrangement to stand as agreed?”

Her heart falls at the answering silence. The crack this verd has fallen into is one of hundreds that resulted from the violent impacts of the war, the thirty years before it, and the Purge that brought it to a close. In some cases, it became easier to block up those cracks and resign those lost to the darkness rather than to risk losing more. The tribes who did not have the resources to bring those out of the dark still mourn those who have been lost.

But it does not change the fact that there are some who have been relegated to the dark.

“Vor’e, vod. This is of great help to me.” The sentiments are genuine; without the confirmation she has received tonight, Azalia could not know for certain what steps lay ahead for them.

As it is, it will be a long road.

Chapter Text

“And after going over the action plan to secure the Ganister region, the Director will brief the committee on the national situation,” Vince finishes. It’s the second time he’s gone over the schedule this afternoon, and Sil certainly hadn’t needed him to spend another half-hour talking her through it again. She's been giving briefings like this for over a decade. She isn’t convinced that Vince is that far out of puberty yet.

But there’s no reason for her to start fights this early in her time in the Capital and she makes a concerted effort to keep her expression smooth, “I fully understand how important this briefing is to PA, Vince. I’ve been leading this investigation since it began, I’m sure I can speak to the current events.”

“Of course, of course. That’s why the Administration wants you here, to show that the DIB is united with our wider national goals,” Vince replies, busy looking at something on his phone and obviously not paying attention to a word out of her mouth.

Sil sighs in response, checking over her suit as the driver makes a left and the blocky stone structure of the cabinet building comes into view. She catches Vince looking over at her, his lip curled as if he’s viewing something mildly distasteful.

“Is there something on my suit?” Sil asks, looking down again. She hadn’t had time to get it dry-cleaned before leaving Ganister City, but she thought she’d checked it over pretty thoroughly.

“Oh no, it’s just…” Vince offers her a patronizing smile. “Would it be possible for you to wear something a bit more appropriate in the future?”

Appropriate? Sil looks down at her loose fitting pants-suit. Back at the office, her business attire was commonly referred to as ‘frumpy’, and she couldn’t see any element of it that could possibly count as inappropriate. She opens her mouth to reply when Vince hastily continues.

“It’s just, you are here to showcase the cream of the DIB crop, and you look like a-” He waves his hand like an artist dressing down a copycat, his nose actually wrinkling. “The Administration wants to show that we have strong agents of both genders; you shouldn’t feel like you need to hide yourself here. I know some women find it difficult, the whole ‘man’s world’ thing and all, but take pride in yourself! Stop feeling like you need to dress like some genderless drone just because some people get offended at the reminder that genders do in fact exist. Surely, you can see that it would help the Bureau’s message if you would-”

It’s hard to imagine that he can get more offensive, but Sil doesn’t afford him the opportunity to try, “Think about what you just said, and then think very carefully about the next words out of your mouth.”

As disgusted as she is, Sil can still see a silver lining to this uncomfortable conversation. This isn’t how she expected to get out of having to work with Vince but the Maker works in mysterious ways, and she isn’t one to look a sexist gift horse in the mouth.

Far from appearing ‘appropriately’ chastised, Vince sighs and looks out his window, muttering something she can’t catch before he turns back to her, “You are here not just to provide facts, but also to mold perceptions. Part of that means showing that you’re a team player.”

“And what exactly does that have to do with my wardrobe?” she replies, her eyes making it clear that his answer has not helped his position at all.

He looks exasperated, “What, is this your first time in the Capital? I’ll make it simple for you. Duras is the President, and your boss. He is also a conservative. So next time you come to the Hill, wear a dress or a skirt. You want to play in the big leagues? Then dress the part.”

The sheer arrogance of the man stuns Sil into a temporary silence, and she is left to ponder at the audacity of young men who somehow manage to perpetuate sexism while pretending to defang it. The last time she had been to the Capital, after Domwei, there had been another Conservative president in power. Hell, he’d led the “Compassionate Conservative'' movement, and no one then had mentioned a problem with this suit (wait, is it really the same one? On the one hand, she’s impressed that she still fits into the suit after all these years. On the other hand she could probably use a new one…). More to the point, how dare he imply that she wants to be here?

Vince appears to take her speechlessness as acceptance and settles back to observe the scenery rolling past them. Her mind settling from its reeling state, Sil politely inquires, “How long ago did you graduate from the Academy, Vince?”

He simpers a chuckle, “Oh, I never went to the Academy. I graduated from Regency University with a Masters in Leadership Strategy, a year before the last election.”

Sil blinks at this, “Wait, so you don’t have any experience?”

Judging by the tightening around his mouth, this seems to irritate him. She manages to hold back a smug smile with only a modicum of difficulty.

“Special Agent,” he says. “While you were at the Academy being trained on the best methods of detaining thugs, I was learning to drive effective messaging on strategic interests and how to foster vertical thought integration. Two years of harnessing the ability to harmonize large organizations. I also spent two summers as an aide in Representative Thiem’s office, and was selected as an Executive Fellow for the Ebriyan Endeavor Council before being specifically asked to join the Administration to help transform the Justice Department back to the fundamental role that our great founders intended for it.”

Sil breezes right past what she’s sure is intended to be an impressive resume for a twenty-five year old with a mickey-mouse degree, her eyes narrowing, “And exactly what is this role you think all of us out in the field have wandered away from?”

“An Ebrya for Ebryians.”

His deadpan response is more concerning than an hour of his bullshit ‘Leadership Strategy’. He would only be so direct on something he actually believes, and assumes everyone else does as well.

So when she doesn’t immediately praise his regurgitation of a Duras campaign slogan, he quickly catches on that she isn’t exactly on board with his viewpoint, “Oh, so you disagree?”

“I agree that it is against federal law for employees of the federal government to discuss or champion partisan political agendas while acting in their official capacity on behalf of the Ebryian government. We work for the Ebryian people, not political parties and lobbyists,” Sil concludes with a smile that her last boyfriend had described as ‘shiteating’. The car pulls up to the curb and she steps out before Vince can respond.

Three excruciating hours later, Sil sits on a bench outside the cabinet room, surreptitiously massaging one aching instep against the other. The meeting still has another twenty minutes, and she’s more or less landlocked until the Director releases her. Slipping her tired feet back into what she’d hoped were a set of comfortable heels, she takes out her phone and finds a missed call and voicemail from Payne.

“Sil, it’s Payne. I just got done going over Dune’s residence. Give me a call when you can.”

Issuing a silent blessing for the same twenty minutes she had cursed a moment before, she dials Payne.

He picks up on the second ring,“I’m surprised you actually have two seconds to call me back. Would’ve thought they are keeping you busy there.”

“They are, but I’ve got a few minutes. What did you find?”

“Mostly nothing. She kept copies of a lot of the more recent Guild jobs in her personal records, but it’s all just that: copies of the stuff we already pulled from the Guild. I had the guys bag up all the records starting from a week before the genetics lab got hit, and we’ll go through those in detail. But that’s not the weird thing.”

“Okay?”

“The suspect. We also pulled all his files, both from here and the Guild. Again, they check out; exact copies. The thing is, when I was comparing them this time, I went over the financials. Sil, the guy is loaded.”

She frowns, “Payne, we checked out his apartment. I lived in a nicer place my first job out of the Academy.”

“I know. Look, my niece’s college dorm is nicer than his apartment building. But the thing is, this dude was a bounty-hunting machine. He pulled in a job a week most of the time, sometimes more, and he wasn’t bringing in parking violators. I recognize some of the names from the drug lists; big name enforcers, murderers, even a few mid-level managers who got sloppy. Last year this guy pulled in over five million dollars.”

If someone had told Sil she would be stunned speechless twice in the same afternoon, she would’ve rolled her eyes. As it is, she’s apparently quiet long enough for Payne to notice, “Sil you still there? Did you hear me?”

Giving herself a quick mental shake, Sil responds, “Sorry, did you say five million dollars?”

“Last year alone. And this guy’s been doing work for the better part of a decade with the Guild. Dune’s place is nice, but he could use it as a guest house with the kind of money he was pulling down.”

“And I’m sensing you have an issue with this, other than the institutional unfairness of a guy doing our job illegally and making way more money doing it?”

“Yeah,” there is a pause, “I’ve been working narcotics for years, Sil. The only type who keeps throwing themself into the fire if they’ve got that much money is the type that’s not doing it for the money.”

“Or maybe he needs the money for something else? Could be bankrolling some cause,” she replies, mulling over the possibilities. “If he was in it for the thrills, why work the masonry gig?”

“True… but the hit at the genetics lab doesn’t make sense for someone just trying to score a payday. There’s no records with the Guild about a second job at PhenoVisage. If it was about money, there’s no trail as to who’s paying. And I’m betting whatever he’s doing now isn’t for a payout either.”

Sil rubs her forehead before she remembers that she’s wearing makeup, and she curses at the smear of foundation on her hand, “Okay. So he’s squirreling it away somewhere. We can get a financial warrant for that. ”

“Leave that part to me; it’s probably the one piece of paperwork I can do better than you. I nail most of the Ebryian smugglers through tax evasion. You already froze his accounts, right?”

“Yeah, it’s part of the blacklist procedures, though he only had the checking and a savings account... None of the usual investments we see.” Sil wipes the makeup from her fingers onto a tissue, “See if the Guild has any other records; foreign accounts or dumps he was sending it to.”

“Will do. One other thing: it looks like you were right about Dune and the suspect working together. She had some files with his name on them.”

That is an interesting find, and potentially justifies keeping Dune locked up. “Find anything useful in them?”

“Nothing yet. One of the junior agents gave it a once-over; it looks like a bunch of research. I’m just guessing it’s related to him because there’s a note on top that says ‘Mando’. Might not even be related to the case.”

“Well, grab it anyway. If I get some free time I’ll see if I can get the lockup to question her on it.”

“Good luck with that. If she’s got any sense she’ll have a lawyer by now, and looking at this place, she can certainly afford a good one. She’s got one of those Kronosian Supercars...”

Sil rolls her eyes at the barely-masked tone of longing in her partner’s voice. “That’s not our problem. Box it all up and put it in storage. If I ever get back there, I’ll take a look at it.”

“Understood.” Payne clears his throat, “You doing alright over there, Sil?”

She sighs, “Apparently the PA flunky thought I’d play trained dog for them; he got a little upset when he realized that some of us actually know what the hell we are doing.”

“Shocker. Sounds like PA to me.”

Sil snorts at his flat tone, “Guy is some snot nosed kid who's never worked a real job, and talks about ‘vertical thought integration’ to me like I don’t know what it means.”

Payne’s pause is just a second too long and there’s a hint of a smile in his response, “Do you?”

Her response is slightly sharper then she had intended, “No, and neither do you, smartass.” She sighs again, letting her head rest against the wall behind her. “But if guys like Vince start ‘directing the message’ at DIB, then I’m not sure what any of us are doing anymore.”

* * * * * * *

Looking over the trail of files on her computer and to the scribbled notes on her tablet, Kuizil decides that this is likely to be a full-bottle night. She doesn’t even want to think about the stack of papers assembled next to her laptop for an unrelated story due the following week. But Greta had asked her to help, and Maker knows she owes that girl enough favors from over the years.

She’d decided to start at the root of the problem: PhenoVisage, LLC. A few days of research had pulled up the regular bullshit. Founded as the plaything of some bored billionaire, it hadn’t taken more than a few years to figure out that his MBA didn’t qualify him to make it in the world of research. The company had ended up on the long list of white elephant businesses that never really earn a profit and suck one-percenter’s money away from less sexy causes that might actually help society.

Taking another sip of wine, she turns back to the real meat: their financials. The truth of a company nearly always shows up in their money, and PhenoVisage is no exception. The company hasn’t turned a profit for years and on the surface it appears there is nothing to see. More interesting is the fact that they haven’t publicly produced anything in the nearly decade that the company has been operational. In fact, the company had actually been on the verge of bankruptcy five years ago as it struggled against a medical malpractice suit. A bit of further digging had turned up an article on the deaths of three participants in medical trials at the facility in Ganister City.

That alone should have ended the short career of the failed enterprise, but it hadn’t. Instead, they were bought out by a massive company from Kronos: Akcenco. It’s one of several mega-style conglomerates that serves as the man behind the curtain for dozens of different companies. Akcenco’s interests in Ebrya appear to be confined largely to mining and defense, and PhenoVisage, at face value, is just a money-sink for them. Only, Akcenco doesn’t strike Kuizil as the type of company that tolerates money sinks without a very good reason.

“What are you hiding?” She asks no one in particular as she scrolls through the information she’s dredged up, “What about you is worth so much that Evil Inc. decided to buy you out and keep pumping millions into you?”

As she continues browsing, an article from three months ago catches her eye: some announcement about a breakthrough in genetic engineering that had attracted all kinds of outside investment, padding Akcenco’s pockets nicely. Of course, the announcement itself was all marketing speak; miracle cures for the wealthy and debt for everyone else. At least they would have a lifetime to pay it off.

But Kuzil hasn’t become one of the top investigative journalists for the Ebryian political circuit by taking something at face value, and she has no intentions to start on this story. Doing a bit more sifting, she finds that the genetics corporate leadership had thrown a party to congratulate each other on all this new money. All their investors gathered at some fancy soiree, snacking on bland finger food and drinking wine so marked up that the assumption must be that the caterer is a teetotaler.

The truth is that the caterer can actually drink any of them under the table. She knows, because her first instance of pumping this particular contact for information on a political investor party several years ago had ended in Kuizil drinking him under the table herself. Since then, he’s been a reliable source, so long as she shows up with the right bottle of wine.

Refilling her own glass, Kuizil reasons that it’s no surprise why she now only drinks when researching for a story. Suffering for one’s art is a long-standing tradition. She pulls up the details her catering contact has so kindly provided her with on the PhenoVisage fête, and everything seems to coincide with what she’d expect from such a celebration.

Unsurprisingly, the attendees seem to have had no real idea what the company’s new breakthrough was, aside from its potential value as a return on their investments. In the long tradition of corporate preening, there also appears to have been the inevitable trotting out of chief scientists associated with the work to demonstrate the transparency and inclusivity of the organization. And, according to her contact, the scientists who had attended had apparently held a full understanding of what ‘open bar’ meant when it came with hundred-dollar wines. By the end of the evening, more than one had been very happy to talk about their ‘triumph of genetics’. A triumph that apparently all hinges on one word:

Respirocytes.

Chapter Text

She kind of misses her scrubs.

They’re cold in the winter, they stick to her back in the summer when the bus is late (which it always is), and invariably, at least once a month she has to sit down and hand-feed the drawstring on every pair of pants she owns. But they’re also hers. She knows exactly who she is in them, and something has always settled in her when she pulls them on and ties back her hair.

Now, she’s wearing a pair of someone else’s jeans, a t-shirt so faded she can’t make out the lettering, and a warm but chaotically printed flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled twice to keep them from hitting her knuckles. On the distinct upside, she’s still got her own underwear and shoes. She’d probably have to draw the line at borrowing those.

"Senha?"

She starts and finds Iska watching her expectantly. Senha puts her mug of coffee down on the kitchen table, her cheeks burning at being caught so obviously zoned out of the conversation, "I… might've missed the question."

Sitting across the table with Samir on his lap, Din tilts his head by a millimeter but the message of are you for real right now is obvious. Samir has enough charity for the both of them, however, and just offers her an excited wave. Senha scrunches up her nose at him before she turns back to Iska, "I'm so sorry, I spaced out for a second."

Iska repeats herself, an indulgent smile turning up one corner of her mouth, "I said we spoke with Ru, our youngest, last night. She’s offered to stay in Caliche for the time being, since the house would be pretty cramped if she came home."

The rich taste of coffee on her tongue turns bitter, and she swallows, "I’d hate to think she- is she sure? I mean, we can…"

She trails off, because short of pitching a tent in the backyard or returning to the truck (neither of which are appealing possibilities), she’s not actually sure what options they have that don’t involve overcrowding the little coral-colored house. The idea of forcing someone, even inadvertently, from their home however makes her feel a little sick. She shoots a look over the table at Din and he looks just as uncomfortable about the idea as she feels.

"She said she doesn’t mind at all; she stays there during the week right now anyway,” Iska assures her. “If the three of you need something more permanent, we can figure it out."

Something more permanent?

She and Din haven’t spoken at all about how long they plan to stay in Arkose, but anytime she thinks about leaving the safety they’ve found here, her lungs seem to shrink. She may be wearing someone else’s clothing, smelling like someone else’s soap, and using someone else’s nearly-decade old cell phone, but she’s also safe. They all are.

Trying to wrestle her anxiety back into its cage, she reasons that if he had plans to move on quickly, Din would’ve interjected yesterday when Ator asked her to accompany him on his rounds. And he certainly wouldn’t have gratefully accepted the offer of work that Ullin had proposed to him during dinner the night before.

Right?

"But we don’t have to talk about that now," Ullin says with his usual discernment, and she can breathe again. He directs his next question towards Din, who’s shredding a piece of toast with the same level of dedication Samir usually shows towards the task, though his actions seem a lot more anxious and far less enthusiastic than Samir’s usual efforts.

The two of them have been on edge since the previous afternoon.

It began when they picked Samir up from the daycare center. The moment he saw Din, the poor kid had a complete and total meltdown. Anise, the kind-faced woman who had taken him that morning, assured them he’d been fine all day and had joined in, somewhat shyly, playing with the other kids.

Clinging to Din’s neck, the toddler full-on wailed the entire walk back and by the time the pink and orange house with the grey mansard roof came into view, Senha was worried he was going to make himself throw up.

Fortunately, no one else was home and Senha steered all three of them back to their bedroom. Samir, however, continued to bawl even after Din settled on the bed with him and Senha tucked the quilt around them both.

It took almost another ten minutes before Samir’s crying became less hysterical, but his body trembled as he gasped for breath. Din looked equally miserable, his brows drawn together and his mouth tight as he held the babe close. Senha knew from experience that the only thing to do in this situation was exactly what he was already doing, but she couldn’t imagine that the awful feeling of futility that came with it was anything but devastating for someone like Din.

He sat hunched over, practically shielding Samir with his body as he rubbed slow circles into the boy’s back until Senha stacked the pillows against the headboard.

“Here, sit back. You’ll screw your back up like that."

Din adjusted himself carefully until he could recline against them. Samir seemed oblivious to the movement, his face still buried in Din’s neck. Tiny, muffled sobs escaped his sanctuary there, and Din turned so his cheek pressed against the boy’s head.

“Udesii, Sam’ika. Udesii.”

He’d used those same words when Samir had experienced a similar panic attack just after they’d escaped the Fredrich squad, and the babe responded to them just as well now, his heaving breaths quieting to small whimpers. Senha uttered a silent prayer of thanks for it.

“He understands you,” she murmured. “Keep talking.”

He did, speaking just above a whisper. As Din kept up the smooth flow of Mando’a, he could’ve been discussing the weather or telling Samir about Ator’s visit for all she knew, but there was a rhythm to the rise and fall of his voice and she thought it more likely that he was telling a story.

Samir’s whimpers devolved into occasional hiccups and eventually even those faded into weak snuffling breaths. He turned his head on Din’s shoulder and his eyes were heavy with exhaustion. The despondency in his normally bright gaze twisted a knife in her chest, and the acute pain took her breath away at the memory it drew forth of her brother Ese, consumed by grief at eleven years old.

Din rubbed the toddler’s back as his eyelids grew heavier, then heavier still until they finally closed and didn’t reopen. Looking past the sleeping child to Din, Senha followed the motion of his throat as he swallowed and up to where his head rested back against the headboard. There were deep circles under his eyes, and a fading bruise around his right orbital socket had turned a yellowish-brown color, speckled with red from the abrasion of knuckles against skin. Even as he spoke in that low, rumbling baritone, his forehead was pulled tight, the tension in his face belying the calm tone of his voice.

After Samir’s breathing remained long and slow for several minutes, Din fell silent, his hand smoothing over the back of Samir’s head. Tiny brown curls sprang up in its wake, but the boy didn’t stir.

“What am I doing wrong?”

The crack in his voice tore a jagged wound inside her, but she shoved the damage down.

Her gaze flickered up to meet his, “Nothing,” she replied. “As far I can tell, you’re doing everything right.”

“Then why...” His voice trailed off and Senha reached over to lay her hand on his knee. She wished to the Maker that she had a better answer, but this is beyond anything she’s encountered before.

Glancing back down at Samir, Din continued, “This happened in the beginning. The first night, and a few nights after; he’d wake up like this. But I thought he was getting better. I thought- I thought being here would help.” He swallowed, his palm still cradling the babe’s head.

“It will.” She affirmed. “Sometimes things have to get worse before they get better.”

Fatigue clear in every line of his shoulders and arms, Din let his eyes slip closed again. She didn’t think he believed her, but maybe it was enough that he trusted her to ask. That he pressed his knee into her hand. That he let himself rest with her so close to them both.

Senha remained still even after the worried line of his mouth relaxed, afraid that any movement would disturb the rest they both so desperately needed. Her eyes had just begun to drift shut when Din’s breath hitched. He turned his head sharply, his brow pinched and his fingers twitching as some dream sought to pull him from a peaceful sleep.

The boy began trembling again and a quiet sob came from where he’d tucked his head into Din’s shoulder. Senha laid her hand over Dins on Samir's back. The tiny shivers under her palm were agonizing. She sat up, scooting closer until she was pressed against Din’s side.

As she rested her head on his shoulder, the harsh furrow in Din’s brow eased and Samir’s whimpers quieted. There was something uncanny in how the two of them echoed each other, particularly in sleep.

The bond between parent and child was something all its own, with an unexplainable power. Under the right circumstances, it could even seem supernatural. She'd seen children suffering where medicine couldn't provide relief, but the love of a mother or father had the near-instantaneous ability to soothe where science failed. Was that what she was seeing at work here, only in reverse?

Senha thought back to the graze on Din’s thigh, to the healthy layer of new skin already growing over it so soon after infection. For the second time that day, his words came back to her.

“He has the ability to heal. That’s why they want him.”

* * * * * * *

“Got something for you,” Ullin says, rapping his knuckles lightly on the bedroom door frame.

Din looks up from where he’s knotting the laces on his boots, and Ullin holds out a bundle of faded tan cloth. A curious Samir pushes himself to his knees and crawls towards the edge of the bed before Din sits to block his progress.

Unraveling the first foot or so of the cloth, Din looks back at Ullin with one eyebrow raised. It’s not cold enough out for a scarf and, while the fabric feels well-made and sturdy, he’s not sure how warm it would be.

“Never seen a birikad before?”

Oh.

Din looks down at the cloth in his hands with renewed understanding, drawing it across his palm and tugging carefully at it. He does have a faint recollection of seeing just the top half of infant’s faces peeking out of slings across their buire’s chests or backs in the mountains.

His memory of it notwithstanding, there’s another issue.

“Vor’e, but… I don’t know how to-” The material sags between his hands as he gestures vaguely with it towards the kid. Samir unravels the rest of the wrap, seemingly unconcerned with his caretaker’s complete ignorance of yet another parenting skill.

Ullin gestures for Din to hand him the wrap, “It’s easier than it looks.”

It’s hard not to feel trussed up like a turkey as Ullin patiently talks him through what’s got to be nine different steps but as he tests his range of motion with Samir strapped to his front, Din admits that it does feel secure. And it leaves his hands free. He’d be ill-equipped for his usual appendix holster in this position, but he can always keep the weapon on his hip…

“Drop-carry works too.”

Belatedly, Din realizes that he’s got one hand tucked back to check the angle for a hip holster. Ullin grins and shrugs, “You wouldn’t be mando’ade if you didn’t check, though you don’t need to carry here if you’d rather not with an ad’ika strapped to you as well. We’ll hear any trouble coming long before it arrives.”

His spine straightens as he considers. The feeling of invisible eyes on him during the tiling job in Chert had kept his fingers drifting down to find worn fabric where they would’ve normally found cool metal. Then again, he’d had an excellent reason for being watchful there. Here in Arkose, surrounded by other Mandalorians, he feels like it would send an obvious signal of distrust if he carries. A slap in the face to a tribe that has put their safety on the line for them.

Samir kicks his heels against Din’s stomach, squirming around in the wrap to test the dimensions of his new transport system.

Watching from the doorway, Ullin folds his arms, “You sure you’re ready to be up and about again? I know the al’baar’ur said you were cleared but… no one would blame you if you want to take another day or two to rest.”

He doesn’t quite say ‘You still look like shit’, but Din’s seen himself in the mirror.

“Thank you, but you’ve been carrying our weight long enough.”

“It’s been three days,” Ullin deadpans.

“Even so,” Din says, reaching around to his side to untie the knot on the wrap. He deposits Samir safely back on the bed and the boy immediately rolls himself up in the sling, giggling madly.

“If you say so,” Ullin sighs. “Iska will be back by mid-afternoon. I’ll be back late tonight.” He turns to leave but points a thick-knuckled finger at Din, his face set in mock severity, “If you need anything, you call us, tayli’bac?”

A smile tugs at the corners of Din’s mouth, “Ori’haat.”

Shaking his head as Ullin’s footsteps fade and the front door closes behind him, Din lays out one of the spare towels for a diaper change. The motions have become familiar to him by now, after what feels like a million of them.

Twenty-six days.

His brain does the calculation for him and Din’s hands fall still. He’s had the kid for less than a month. Less than a month since his life had been completely turned upside down. Since he’d turned right at that stoplight and had reluctantly taken a blanket-wrapped bundle from the woman with the jade eyes and brought him home rather than to a police station.

The brush of small fingers on his hand draws his attention back down. Samir is watching him with serious, dark eyes. The kid is frowning as if he can sense the memory of his mother, and Din leans forward to press a quick kov’nyn to his forehead before he finishes up the task at hand.

Speaking of those first few weeks, there’s a discussion that needs to be had and once the kid is dressed for the day, Din sits him down on the desk and takes a step back.

“The al’baar’ur came by yesterday while you were at the creche. He and Senha said my leg was looking good.”

“Na!” Samir squeals excitedly, grabbing his feet and offering him a toothy grin.

“Yeah,” Din folds his arms. “She said that even getting lucky, it shouldn't be healing this fast. You wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would you?”

The kid babbles an answer that’s neither a confession of guilt or a particularly vehement defense of himself, and Din lets out a small sigh as he scoops the kid up. He sits them both down in the chair and Samir immediately burrows into him.

Pulling him back until Din can see his face, he waits until the kid reluctantly meets his eyes, “I don’t want you to do that anymore, Sam’ika. It makes you tired and-”

And I have no fucking clue how you do it, so I don’t know if it’s hurting you and I can’t let that happen.

“-And I’m not worth that. You don’t do that anymore, okay?” Din taps his thigh, just above the graze, and shakes his head. “No more healing.”

Samir squirms in his arms, pointedly looking around the room; anywhere except at Din.

Busted. The kid knows exactly what he’s talking about.

“Nu jahaali, ad’ika.” The words come out more like a sigh than the firm statement he’d intended, but he hasn’t been able to be stern with the kid since day two, much less day twenty-six. Samir pulls out of his grip and wiggles until he’s pressed against Din’s chest again, his head tucked under his chin.

The clock out in the main room chimes the hour and Din gives the kid one more squeeze before reaching over him to pick up the tangled wrap from the bed.

“Let’s see if we can’t get this figured out again, huh?”

It takes him ten minutes and four tries to get the wrap arranged correctly; at least two minutes were spent trying to coax the kid into sitting still long enough for him to get it in place, and at least one attempt ended in Samir enthusiastically attempting to ‘help’. As Din is heading out of the room with the kid finally secure, however, Samir shrieks.

He looks down quickly, “What is it?”

Maybe he’s wrapped the kid too tightly, or gotten his foot trapped? Din lifts his arm and twists to look around, but no, the kid’s feet are free to swing, and the wrap looks exactly as it had when Ullin had done it.

“Bas!” Samir demands, pointing imperiously over his shoulder.

Of course, how could he have forgotten? He retraces his steps back to the bedroom to collect the stuffie. The kid holds his hands out towards the purple dragon but Din raises an eyebrow.

“You gonna keep a hold of him?”

Din is convinced that losing Basa would be a catastrophe that would likely put the kid’s meltdown the previous day to shame. Samir strains towards the stuffie, giving him earnest eyes that promise the world, and Din hands the dragon over.

“Alright, buddy. You let me know if you lose your grip on him.”

Samir gives him an unintelligible reply as he drags the stuffie down into the wrap with him until they’re nose to snout, but Din figures that’s as good a promise as he’ll get for now.

As they head out of the house and down the road towards the worksite, Samir uses his new perch to look around as they pass houses painted in a hundred different hues. The houses in Ganister had all been something in neutrals; better for resale value but infinitely more boring. It hadn’t just been the paint either; nearly every job Din had worked in the tri-county area, whether it was a patio or facade or tiling, had been in some form of neutrals. Varying shades of grey and blue and beige.

Every third Sunday of the month when Din was young, Razan had dragged him to the Ganister museum of natural history, and Din’s favorite room by far had been the minerals room. Rich veins of color running through huge smooth stones, the symmetrical rings inside cut pieces of agate, and the tiny creatures trapped for millions of years in amber resin; all of them had been well-worth the long-winded lectures his buir had given on how they’d all come to be.

The colors of the houses in Arkose are the same vibrant shades as calcite and serpentine and eudialyte, and as they make their way to the other side of town, Din finds himself describing each of them to Samir. The kid makes a valiant attempt at repeating the names after him, with limited results.

The familiar sounds of music from a tinny speaker and something scraping across stone interrupt his impromptu lesson, and he picks up the pace as they turn the corner. Outside an older cottage painted a faded aubergine, a man with thick blond hair tied back in a ponytail is pulling a box of flooring wood out of the back of a truck. He dumps the box back into the bed when he sees them both. Pulling off one glove, he inserts two fingers into his mouth and whistles sharply before covering the ground between them with long strides.

Din almost goes for his hand before the man’s fingers close around his forearm and he adjusts his grip. Been around areutiise too long.

“You’re the new guy, right? From down south? Ullin said you might wander over here today.”

“Din Djarin,” he replies. Samir twists himself around to examine the newcomer.

“Lan Nautt.” He nods down at the bright-eyed toddler. “New foundling?”

“Uh, yeah.” It’s close enough to the truth for the moment, and the kid plays into the act as he twists around to look up at Din, his hands curled around the edge of the cloth.

A second man steps out of the house and raises a hand as he approaches. Din recognizes him as one of the mando’ade Iska had introduced him to at the got’solir; Iponn, his mind helpfully provides.

Samir, on the other hand, has decided that one stranger may be worthy of excitement but two is a bit much, and he shrinks down into the wrap and pulls Basa closer. Curling a hand around his leg, Din squeezes lightly in reassurance.

“Ullin mentioned you’d done restoration work before?”

“Yes. He said there’s a wall that needs repointing?”

Iponn pulls off his black baseball cap and runs a hand through sweat-soaked brown hair as he jerks his chin towards the side of the house, “Yeah, it’s in bad shape. Kutal’s been trying to find someone to fix it for months, but she’s real picky.”

“Where is she, anyway?” Lan asks conversationally.

Iponn shrugs before peering down into the sling. Samir meets him with large eyes before turning to bury his face against Din’s chest. Iponn glances up at Din, crow’s feet appearing beside his eyes, “Still a little clingy, huh?”

“Yeah. Alright if I keep him with me?”

“Of course.” He waves a hand, “Come on, I’ll show you the job.”

The wall is a mess. Crumbling grey mortar trickles to the ground when Din smooths his hand along one of the larger junctions between ridged stones the color of citrine, and he can see large cracks where the mortar has fallen out completely. Something long-sleeping stirs in his chest and he glances over at Iponn, one hand still resting on the old wall.

“I don’t have any tools.”

The wrinkles on either side of Iponn’s eyes cut even deeper furrows as he smiles, “We may have what you need here.”

They do, as it turns out, though as Din starts carefully chipping out the old mortar, there’s a small pang of regret for his tools, left in Ganister City.

About fifteen minutes into the work of removing the old mortar, Samir sneezes. Looking down, Din is puzzled for a moment; the kid looks like he’s greying early. A second later he realizes his mistake at the similar grey dust coating his own hands and arms.

“Osik. Sorry, buddy.”

Tucking the chisel handle into the back of his jeans, he hastily brushes mortar dust out of Samir’s hair. The kid lets out another explosive sneeze but grins up at him as Din flicks some dust off Basa’s snout.

Din lets out a breath as he stands back, considering the possibilities. He could put the kid down, but the area around them is rocky and he doesn’t want him getting into trouble. Or worse, hurting himself. 

“You might do better with him on your back,” Lan’s voice comes from behind him.

Din turns, brushing one last smudge of dust from Samir’s forehead, “Me’ven?”

“Your foundling,” Lan nods to Samir. “That position isn’t exactly ideal for that kind of work. It’ll be easier with him on your back, especially once you’re hitting the low spots.”

“This is the only way I know how to get him… into place,” Din admits.

The man shrugs. “No problem. It’s easier to do with a spotter the first few times anyway.” He turns his hands up, “Alright if I…”

Din nods and Lan steps forward. Together, they manage to detangle him from the wrap and Samir huffs a worried breath as Din lifts him away from his chest. Lan chuckles, “Don’t worry, ad’ika, you’re not going anywhere. But you want your buir to be comfortable, right?”

“This the guy you found for my wall, Lan?”

Din looks over as a woman comes around the side of the house. She’s wearing paint-stained overalls and her hair is dyed a vibrant blue.

Lan lifts his chin, his hands busy winding up the wrap, “Kutal, this is Din Djarin.”

He gets the uncomfortable impression that she’s studying them both, and if he’d had to choose a first impression, it wouldn’t have been his arms full of foundling, covered in mortar dust. As if he’s heard his caretaker’s thoughts, Samir lets out another tremendous sneeze, and the other two Mandalorians laugh.

“If it makes you feel better,” Kutal says, revealing she knows exactly how they both ended up like this, “I once painted half a wall before realizing I’d made my ikaad look like she had smallpox. I found red paint flecks in her hair for weeks after that.”

Lan snorts a laugh, “Din, this is Kutal Tatou. If you ever need anything painted, repaired, or sewn, she’s the one to ask.”

As Kutal and Lan help him get Samir onto his back and execute a number of steps that settle the kid snugly, he can see what Lan meant about a spotter.

When he straightens again, one hand behind his back just in case the knots haven’t held, Din can also see what Lan means about this being easier. Turning his head, he can just see Samir’s still-dusty curls and the purple felt triangles running down Basa’s back. Two sets of eyes peer back at him; one warm and brown, the other made from shiny black buttons.

Kutal stands back with an approving nod, “That should be a little easier. And you’ll block him from most of the dust.”

“Thank you,” Din says, and he means it.

Marin may have helped him out when he’d brought the kid to that job back in Ganister, but the majority of the crew had looked on curiously. Lan and Kutal, on the other hand, seem completely unfazed that Din has not only brought a baby to a worksite but insists on carrying him. Hell, not just unfazed by it; he has a feeling that one or both of them has done the same thing on multiple occasions. It’s not something he can imagine being allowed on an Ebryian worksite.

The removal of the masonry joints goes more quickly with Samir on his back, and the rhythm of popping out the old mortar is soothing in its familiarity. From time to time there’s a light petting sensation at the ends of his hair, and Din reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and extracts a goldfish cracker from the baggie he’d stashed on a hunch.

It’s impossible not to crack a smile at the small hand in his peripheral vision that rises to snatch the cracker from him. Given the enthusiastic crunching sounds behind his ear, he’s going to have to check for crumbs in the wrap before he returns it to Iska and Ullin.

By late-morning, Samir’s stirrings have grown less frequent and his weight begins to settle. Din uses the hammer sparingly on the chisel, trying to keep the noise level down. Finally, the kid seems to have succumbed to sleep and the only sounds are Din’s boots scuffing on the dirt, the scraping of the chisel, and the muffled sound of small chunks of mortar falling to the ground below. A cool breeze ruffles his hair and kicks up dust from time to time, carrying the smell of woodsmoke with it.

Content in the memory of his hands, Din’s mind wanders back to when Razan had taught him the basics of brick and mortar. Din had been in his early teens, and by the time he’d graduated from high school he was skilled enough to begin accompanying his buir on jobs. The delicate aesthetics and restoration work that Razan had been best known for, however, his buir had continued to take on alone. Then the war broken had out, and Din had enlisted.

After he’d returned home, Razan had kept him busy from dawn to dusk learning how to repair what was old and decrepit, and what had been torn asunder by pressure and time. His buir’s logic had revolved around the idea that the more tired Din was from working, the less trouble he’d be able to get into. To be honest, it’s likely his buir had relied on that logic throughout most of his childhood, for all the good it had done him in the end.

As he cleans the remaining dust from the cavities between the stones, Din’s mind inevitably falls back on that last, terrible fight they’d had. It had been a week after Ullin had called, his voice hollow as he relayed the news of Matas’ incarceration. Razan’s millionth urging of caution and quiet had snapped something deep inside him, and before Din even knew what he was saying, words had erupted from him.

"You never even wanted me to go! You wanted me to stay here and play it safe!"

"Of course I wanted you to stay safe!" Razan yelled. "They used you! They used your pride and the fire in your soul to manipulate you into doing their work for them!"

"So you acknowledge it, but you still think we should stay and be grateful for what little they give us? Our people are hunted! We spilled blood in the same dirt they mine for Mandalorian iron! Our beskar!"

His buir’s voice dropped, his reply low and urgent, "Our secrecy is our survival, ad. Right now we have to focus on survival. Going back means death. You know that.”

“Our survival means nothing if our home, our heritage, is stolen while we watch from the shadows!"

Razan smacked his hand down on the table in frustration and the old wood shuddered at the impact, "This way of thinking is selfish! It's thinking with your buy'ce, your pride! We need to protect those we can. That means the ones around us; our tribe. We cannot risk their safety to feed anyone's ego."

"You think this is about my ego?" Din asked, incredulous.

"You're a citizen now, Din. Don’t you realize the doors that opens to you? What you can do to help our people here?"

Scorn sharpened his tongue, "I've seen what they offer us in citizenship. Matas was born here and that hasn't done a damn thing for him! It's a trade. A piece of cheap tin for the beskar under my feet. Words on paper in exchange for an expectation that I'll overlook the blood on their hands."

"Ad... Din'ika…" Razan started towards him. Din ignored the pain in his voice and stepped back, raising a hand.

"Don't call me that. That name died in Concordia, along with all the others. Issik knows I wish I had."

His buir stopped and Din had to look away from the expression of shock on his face, "I can't stay here anymore. Maybe it’s better this way."

Din turned on his heel and headed back to his room. Halfway through stuffing his belongings into his duffle, he pulled up the number Ran had given him and sent a quick note indicating that he'd decided.

He hesitated as he picked up the burnished helmet. There were still scratches in it and he rubbed his thumb over one of the deeper scores.

"Take it with you," Razan said softly from the doorway. "It's yours now; it's right you should wear it."

He met Din’s eyes, looking older than he could ever remember seeing him. For a moment, Din almost wished Razan would stop him, ask him to stay, but he didn’t.

Din left that night and didn’t set foot on Ebryian soil again for two years.

* * * * * * *

Ullin looks down into his empty coffee mug and heaves a sigh. He really shouldn’t have anymore this late in his shift; he’ll be wired when he gets home and he’ll annoy the hell out of Iska with his tossing and turning.

But then Mal walks past him with a fresh cup and the scent emanating from it is a siren’s song. Just half a cup, Ullin tells himself as he heads for the coffee machine.

He’s not quite cradling the mug but it’s close as he wanders back over to the tech at the main workstation. Mal has been swapping off running lead on the shift with him for the past month or so, and Ullin’s extremely pleased with the young man’s progress. He’s attentive, focused, and best of all, he actually listens before he goes off and does his own thing.

Taking a sip, Ullin savors the bitter, peppery taste as he looks over the open screens of the workstation, “Anything new pop on our three fugitives?”

“Nothing we wouldn’t expect. Still some chatter about the laboratory break-in, some blowback from the news about the aruetii...” Mal scrolls through several open windows. “Nothing out of the DIB and I’m not finding anything on unofficial channels from the hunters who were after them either. Everything seems pretty quiet for now.”

Ullin taps his index finger against his cup. Too quiet is just as much of a red flag as blaring noise; sometimes more so. “Cast a wider net. They’ve come a long way, could be their pursuers circle back around. ”

Mal nods, “I can do that.”

“Anything else come up?”

“Actually,” the tech turns to another screen, “we just got a ping on a new auction earlier tonight.” He pulls up a series of professional photographs of antique metal blades on a background of black cloth. White cards stenciled with neat numbers sit beside each item. “Piri’kale for the most part, a few ceremonial kade, but nothing that would draw the big fish.”

Ullin leans over the back of Mal’s chair, squinting at the images. He recognizes several of the clan-specific styles of the more decorative blades. In comparison, the worn piri’kale are worth very little; no buyer would take a second look if they were made from steel, but they’re made from beskar, and collectors will pay through the nose for them. “The bidders match anyone in the database?”

Mal lifts his chin to indicate a name at the top of the list, “Top bidder right now is-”

“Epabeskar.” Ullin exhales through his nose, “When does bidding close?”

“Midnight tonight,” the tech looks over his shoulder at Ullin. “You want to let this one slip?”

Ullin considers for a moment before shaking his head, “No, flag it. If it was anyone else, I’d say we can sit back and trace it. If Epa gets their hands on it, that option is off the table. It’ll all be gone by morning.”

Chapter Text

Gary Finn doesn’t get many visitors.

He’s a third-tier foreign service officer, working in what most people in Chandrila call a ‘flip’ office; one that deals with a political issue that inevitably flips based on who happens to hold power in the government. Not officially, of course. Officially, Congress had passed a law mandating the State Department manage cultural artifacts to prevent the illegal trade or plundering of areas undergoing civil strife, regardless of the governing majority.

In reality, not all countries are created equal in the eyes of the powerful. In more than one case, Gary has seen elected officials happy to turn their eyes elsewhere if an area is deemed undeserving or not worth the effort. After all, there’s never enough money to go after everything, so it’s up to the Administration to prioritize. President Duras has prioritized ‘protection of cultural artifacts,’ and Gary’s office, straight to the bottom of the list.

So when there’s a knock on the door of his small shared office, Gary first assumes it’s someone looking for his at the moment absent officemate.

“Tracy’s not here,” he says to the half-open door without looking up from his computer.

“Tracy?” A vaguely familiar voice says, “I’m looking for Gary Finn.”

His eyes dart up to the tall, curly-haired woman standing in the doorway. A paper ‘VISITOR’ badge is clipped above a DIB identification card on her lapel.

“Special Agent Silvia Fess.” One hand still resting on the doorframe, she continues, “We spoke on the phone a few weeks ago?

Now he remembers. “The case about the Concordian artifacts, right?” He hustles out from behind his desk to greet her properly, “Please come in, Agent. I didn’t realize you’re stationed locally.”

The woman gives him a firm handshake and accepts his offer of the room’s only guest chair, “Thanks, and it’s just Sil. I’m actually only in Chandrila for a few weeks, and there’s a lead I was hoping you could help me with.”

“And you just decided to drop by?” Gary asks, not quite believing it. There are better things to do in the capital than drop by his office, no matter how hard a worker she is.

Her brief smile tells him that he’s not too far off, “Truth be told, if I come here, it’s official business — which makes it that much harder to interrupt me. Or pull me into yet another briefing with PA.”

At that, Gary takes a closer look at the DIB agent intruding on State Department territory. Her suit is close to a decade out of style and when combined with her simple makeup and jewelry, and her evident discomfort in heels paints a picture of someone who is no beltway insider. If she isn’t at least prepared enough to keep a pair of sneakers or even flats here for walking, then she likely spends most of her time in the field and likes it there. In light of that, her visit makes more sense.

“I would never waste official government time, officially,” Gary replies with a smile and Sil returns it. “What is it I can help you with this afternoon?”

“It’s about the Pheno-Visage case,” she begins.

“That shootout at the laboratory out west? The Mandalorian?” He gives the name some weight, although he’s sure that she understands just how loaded it’s become, thanks to Duras and Lion News.

“Yes,” her sigh confirms his suspicion. “I’m out here because the Administration wants everyone to know just how seriously they’re taking this case.” She stops short of putting air quotes around ‘serious,’ but Gary’s a career Fed; she doesn’t need them.

“And so to show how seriously they’re treating it, they pulled the lead agent away from the investigation to parade her around the Hill, right?” He leans back, raising an eyebrow.

The expression on Sil’s face would be appropriate for someone smelling a fresh turd, “That’s about it. I have another agent working the investigation while I’m here, but the truth is, I don’t think this is simple theft. I can’t go into the details but—”

Gary stops her with a dismissive wave, “Don’t, it’s better if I don’t know. The point is he’s gone to ground, right?”

To her credit, she doesn’t waste time asking how he knows. Perhaps she doesn’t want to know or perhaps she’s just a professional. It isn’t unheard of in the DIB. “Yes. Only thing we know for sure is that he was heading north-west before he disappeared.” She leans forward, “The last time we spoke, you mentioned that some Mandalorians band together in groups to protect their beskar through legal means. I figure if he’s gone to ground, he’s more than likely to be with one of those groups.”

Well, that does make things interesting. Gary lets out a low whistle and turns to his computer, “I could run a search on groups in that area but unfortunately, I can’t just give—”

He looks up at movement in his peripheral to see Sil holding out a small stack of papers, a satisfied smile on her face.

“Got an official request for assistance and a warrant right here.”

Gary accepts the papers and flips through them with a pleasant surprise. Most DIB agents have to be frequently reminded that the rest of the government doesn’t work at their beck and call, and that paper trails exist for a reason. He places the papers on his desk before turning back to his computer, “All right, then. We do keep records of the officially established groups, but if you don’t mind me asking, why not just go to the census bureau for the information?”

“Because if I make that request, it would get leaked and the media would have a field day reporting that we’re racially profiling Mandalorians. I figured this would be more discrete, not to mention more likely to get me the information I need.”

Gary doesn’t acknowledge the compliment, but he appreciates it nonetheless, “Fair enough. You just want a list of every trust run by Mandalorians in the western part of the country or all the foundations that hold beskar on their behalf?”

Sil frowns at this, “Is there a difference?”

He glances over, “Mandalorians in Ebrya usually live in family groups, with some larger communities scattered across the country. Those communities tend to run their own trusts, while the city-folk are more likely to work with other local family groups to pool their resources.”

She mulls this over for a bit, “If he’s gone to ground with one family, I’m shit outta luck. How many big trusts are out there, specifically ones not in larger cities?”

Gary blows out a breath as he looks down the list on his screen, “Looks like about five in that part of Ebrya. Do you want the ones north of the Ebryian border as well?”

Sil shakes her head, “No. If he’s fled the country it’s a whole different game.”

“Alright,” He sits back, drumming his fingers against his desk, “how about overlap with any major trafficking routes? If he’s looking to offload whatever he stole, some of those groups might have connections he could use.”

“Connections?”

“You remember last time we spoke, I said that sometimes beskar just disappears into the wind?”

She nods slowly.

“Well, sometimes that beskar ends up mysteriously registered to a Mando trust in Ebrya a year or two later. If that’s the case, we don’t follow it — after all, it’s their stuff. But my point is that some of these tribes have connections with the dark web and black markets. Especially for beskar.”

“They have to buy their own stuff back?”

Gary can understand the indignation she’s feeling, he’s experienced enough of it himself to sympathize, “I don’t know if they’re buying or stealing it back, but at least that beskar ends up in the right hands. The bigger problem tends to be the non-Mandos getting their hands on it. We try to keep tabs on them, pass on info to authorities and shut them down when we can but,” he shrugs, leaving the rest unsaid. Priorities.

Sil frowns, “I’m not sure that’s what I’m looking for. He’d need someplace to lie low for a bit, not just a buyer. And with what he has; let’s just say I doubt he’s got one lined up already.” She narrows her eyes as something occurs to her, “But while we’re on the subject… this guy’s been pulling down some serious cash the last few years, and there’s no trail on where it goes. I’m wondering if—”

“—if your boy is using some of that cash to help buy back black-market beskar,” Gary finishes, intrigued. It would certainly make sense.

“The stuff they’re selling at these auctions is probably pretty high-dollar, right? Fancy shit?”

“You’d think that, but some of the buyers aren’t too particular. Here, take a look at this,” Gary turns his monitor to show her a series of photographs of old swords and knives. “There’s this one guy we call Magpie because he just grabs whatever he can and makes it disappear. Right now, he’s angling in on a bunch of old Concordian Reinforced Steel blades. Not primo stuff, but we think he melts it down for bulk to sell. Once it’s in ingot form, it’s almost impossible to trace.”

Sil looks up sharply from the images, “Wait, you know this auction is going on right now and you’re just letting it happen?”

Gary doesn’t bother to hide his scathing look, “This kind of thing is DIB’s jurisdiction, Agent Fess. You’re the only DIB agent to speak to me in a year and you didn’t even call about beskar. I said we pass along what we find, but half the time it falls off the plate before anyone can get to it, and everything disappears. Hell, most of the time I don’t even get a read receipt for my emails notifying DIB about the auctions. On top of that,” he lowers his voice, “some very well connected people have buyers at these auctions. It wouldn’t exactly be a good look if they’re caught committing felonies, so if no one ever shows up to bust them, it’s no harm, no foul.”

She at least has the good grace to look abashed, “Look, next time you see this let me know. Directly. I’ll get agents on it.”

That draws a chuckle from Gary, “Sure thing. Oh, and my daughter wants a pony for Christmas while you're at it!”

“I’m not kidding.”

He meets her eyes and Maker be damned, she’s actually serious. Gary admires the effort but he’s been around too long to get his hopes up. “I appreciate it, but I know where this sits on the priority list. I doubt you could get the manpower to stage a raid in time to stop them and even if you could, they’d probably find out ahead of time and split. That’s one reason the DIB is so lackluster about all this. If it’s a big enough auction with high-dollar assets, you guys move to shut it down, but for this kind of small fry—”

“What about the armor?”

“Eh?”

“Beskar armor,” Sil repeats, “the modern stuff that can resist guns. Does that ever come up for auction?”

Gary blows out a breath, “Oh, well, that’s a different story. There aren’t many sets made to that standard to begin with, and the Concordians don’t exactly have the resources to make the stuff very often anymore. Plus, all the mining and manufacturing companies the new government cut deals with haven’t been able to crack the code on making anything to that standard.”

“Crack the code?”

He smiles; he’s always enjoyed this little thumb in the eye of industry, “See, the ore’s only half of it. It makes good steel no matter how you work it, but it ain’t beskar just because it’s made with that ore. The Concordians have some special process to make the good stuff. Real honest-to-goodness pre-war armor like your perp has? That’s in a whole other category of sale. We’re talking half to three-quarters of a million at auction.”

“Wait, how do you know the perp’s stuff is pre-war?”

Gary waves a hand, “You work with this stuff as long as I have and you pick some things up. In that video you sent me, it stopped a bullet at close range without too much impact to him, so it’s been made in the last few generations. But the fit of it? The look? That’s pre-war. When we went in there, before we knew the ore was only half of it, we destroyed all the forges we could find. So there’s just not really any place to get that kind of quality anymore.”

Sil sits back, her brow furrowed, “Why destroy the forges?”

“Trying to keep them from having a place for their warriors to gather and get outfitted, that’s my guess. Maybe an attempt to stomp out morale among the fighters too. By the time they realized the technique was just as important as the ore, it was too late. There wasn’t anyone left who was willing to teach it.”

“Can’t exactly blame them,” she murmurs.

“Yeah,” Gary pauses, realizing just how far down the rabbit hole they’ve gone. After all, the Agent had come to ask him for help, not a diatribe of Ebrya’s military tactical history, “Anyway, if all you want are the trusts tied to larger communities, then there’s five in the northwest. Let me give you a list…”

* * * * * * *

Kuizil sits back in her chair, her arms crossed as she glares at the irritatingly large amount of white space on the latest page of her notebook. Her digging into PhenoVisage has run headlong into a brick wall.

Somehow they had developed a way to oxygenate red blood cells, to eliminate muscle fatigue, without any form of peer-reviewed releases and without anyone leaking the research. Honestly, she’s more surprised at that second one; people love to talk.

The breakthrough makes even less sense since she’d gotten her hands on the settlement agreement for the three medical malpractice suits, which stipulated that PhenoVisage was forbidden from performing human trials for no less than ten years. Throw in the fact that she’s found no records of animal testing ongoing at the facility either, and it adds up to more questions than answers.

People and money are always the keys to any story. In this case, the money had trickled off like a drought-struck streambed. Which just left people.

Kuizil rifles through her notes, her eyes flicking over scribbled dates and connecting details, before they fall on the printed list of researchers from the PhenoVisage website. All but three of them were still working at other PhenoVisage sites, and of those three, two had refused her calls. The third had died about a month before, his obituary buried in local news for a city back east.

She pulls up the man’s name and dives into the first few hits that come up for Dr. William Swift. The second link turns up a photograph of an attractive man in his late-thirties with straight, white teeth, posing with a group of doctors under a banner reading “New Dawn Initiative”.

As it turns out, the New Dawn Initiative is one of those voluntourism charities that gives wealthy Ebryians and Kronosians the opportunity to throw their money behind supporting rural healthcare in developing countries. In reality, the work has the frequent unpleasant side effects of splitting up families, separating children from their communities, and completely ignoring the root cause of developmental challenges in the area, all in the name of personal-growth and philanthropy.

Dr. Swift appears in a number of photographs on the New Dawn Initiative website, dating back several years. Searching through the charity’s social media page, Kuizil finds a blurb from just under six months ago announcing the tearful departure of the beloved Dr. Swift for a one-year sabbatical in genetics research at the PhenoVisage Ganister City laboratory facility.

Some part of her appreciates the irony that after years of working in impoverished areas overseas, the man would die in an accident back home while working for some posh laboratory. Her appreciation fades quickly however when even these pieces don’t fit together well. PhenoVisage has been meticulous about preserving its secrecy and has worked hard to prevent any leaks in their research. Bringing in an idealistic philanthropist doctor without full assurance of his cooperation seems like one hell of a risk...

Pulling up the man’s obituary again, Kuizil reads through it again more carefully. ‘Surviving family includes his wife, Patricia, and a son, William Jr.’

Perhaps it’s time she paid a visit to Ms. Patricia Swift.

Chapter Text

“Taste right to you?” Iska asks, taking the spoon back from Din.

He frowns, his eyes narrowed as he rolls the taste around in his mouth. Iska wrinkles her nose; her recipe may be right for the Cyzan aliit, but she’d bet beskar it’s not the way Din learned to make the dish.

“You’re right,” she says. “It’s missing something.”

“I think it may need more hu’ldi.”

His suggestion is hesitant. Like he’s less concerned that she’ll be offended by the change to her recipe than he is that he could be misremembering his own. Food is a ritual, particularly among the mando’ade, and the doubt that trickles through his words is telling. He doesn’t entirely trust himself to remember things the way they should be. She thinks it probably extends far beyond food.

She opens the spice cabinet and searches for the jar holding the bright yellow powdered root, as Din murmurs to Samir behind her. It’s been so long since there was a young man in the house, and even when Matas was home, he’d been such a different presence than the serious aura Din brings with him. It’s not the same, not in any shape or form, but the shape and form of him, the space Din fills in the room out of the corner of her eye—it’s a sharp, sweet pain. She knows Ullin feels it too. It’s smoke that curls around their fingers but can’t quite be caught.

But there are elements of it that are a balm as well. Iska can no more help her son than she can make the sun change its course, but she can help someone close to him. She can recognize the signs of someone walking in a haze without answers and provide them with a safe place to sleep and a chance to begin untangling the questions inside.

Returning to the stove with the jar of hu’ldi, Iska taps a small spoonful into the simmering pot and stirs. The scent of the curry changes and the heavy line between Din’s brows lifts. Smiling, Iska tucks away the satisfying feeling for a harder day and lifts her chin towards the heavy-eyed toddler in the sling at his chest.

“This needs at least another hour to simmer. Why don’t you go put your little one down and give yourself a rest?”

Din brings a hand up to where the foundling’s weight rests, the line returning between his eyebrows as he looks back to her, “You won’t need any help here?”

“Nayc, you’ll both do better with a rest before dinner.”

She shoos him out of the room, and the only sound left is the soft sound of the curry simmering beneath the pot's heavy lid. Iska listens until she hears the door to the back bedroom shut and then leans back against the counter.

Part of the strangeness of having Din, and even Senha, here is just the result of the demographic of Arkose now. The tribe has an overabundance of ad’ike and those over forty-five or fifty, but the generation in between has become lost. Some returned changed, some never returned at all, whether from death or imprisonment, and some chose not to return. To become dar’manda, rejecting their heritage and choosing to assimilate fully to the aruetii.

When he’d first arrived, she had worried that Din had gone that route, but Azalia confirmed he’d still followed the resol’nare even after his buir had marched on. He spoke mando’a, albeit rustily; he wore beskar; he supported his tribe. He’d acted in defense of Mandalore when the time had come.

On some clear, cold mornings, Iska wonders whether Matas still lives by the resol’nare, whether he even has that option wherever he is. His armor has been taken from him, that much they’d been told, and so many other aspects must be taken from him in captivity as well. Does he still speak mando’a to himself? To the others in the prison? Does he come to the aid of those around him? Does he think of his aliit late in the night, when they lie awake thinking of him?

The front door creaks and Iska glances up as Senha looks around the doorway into the kitchen, still shrugging out of one of her own old jackets. She seems tired but satisfied, the result of finding some sense of normalcy and belonging amongst the change of the past few weeks.

“How was it?”

“Good,” she nods, letting her weight rest against the beam of the doorway. “Mostly house calls. I was surprised at how many there are.”

Iska pulls the lid off the curry and stirs it again. “It’s still a transition for most around here; the option to go into the clinic at all.” She lets the wooden spoon rest on the side of the pot, keeping her voice light, “No trouble from anyone?”

Senha exhales a laugh, “Not unless you count one of the strill. It was the weirdest thing; he followed us right up to the house and sat down to wait till we came out. Thought he was going to follow us all the way back to the clinic.”

Iska breathes out a quiet sigh of relief. She would’ve been disappointed to hear of anything, but it wouldn’t exactly have been a surprise, given some more traditionalist members of the tribe. As for one of the strill following her, well, that’s more her buir’s territory than it is Iska’s.

“It’s a good sign. The strill are picky about who they like.”

“In that case, I’m flattered,” Senha replies with a little smile before tilting her head towards the back bedroom. “Are Din and Samir…”

“I just sent them to get some rest before dinner. We’ve still got close to an hour.”

“You don’t need any help with anything?”

Iska shakes her head, “Your cyare already asked. Get some rest. We'll call you when it's ready.”

* * * * * * *

Senha wavers before opening the door, not wanting to wake either of them if they’re sleeping. Or worse, just throw it open while Din’s changing. Then again, maybe that doesn’t matter anymore, given what they’d done two days ago. She pushes the memory of the taste of him on her tongue from her mind and knocks lightly.

“Come in,” a quiet voice calls and Senha slips inside.

Din sits against the headboard with his long legs crossed at the ankle and one hand resting on Samir’s back. The toddler is conked out on top of the quilt, covered by the flannel overshirt Din had been wearing at breakfast that morning. He looks entirely at peace with Basa tucked under one arm and his cheeks pink with sleep.

Her lip quirks up at the image as she lays Iska’s jacket down on the desk. The little guy hasn’t been sleeping well at night and he naps like he’s trying to make up for it. She’s a bit jealous; at this point in her life, she’s more likely to wake up from a nap with her spine fused in one piece, unsure of what year it is.

Din is another story altogether. The bruising around his eye has nearly faded thanks to regular, if not somewhat forced, application of the salve Ator had provided, but he looks almost as haggard as the day they’d arrived in Arkose.

She’s tried to convince him to let her take a shift with Samir at night, but each time he’s already halfway out of bed with the kiddo and silencing her slurred offers of assistance with murmured thanks and a brush of fingers over her cheek.

“How is he?” Senha asks, toeing her sneakers off and picking the hairpins out of her bun.

“The same.”

His voice is rasped and heavy with exhaustion. As if he can hear it himself, Din clears his throat. He looks down at Samir, strong fingers tucking the flannel more securely around one small, socked foot extending from under its surface.

“And you?”

Din doesn’t look up as he answers, “I’m fine.”

Sure, dude. You look ready to take on an army. She holds back her immediate response and instead lets her dubious expression do the talking. The message must come through loud and clear, but the mobile disaster in front of her just doubles down.

“I’m fine.” The words themselves feel like they should be sharper, but it’s like he can’t even summon the energy to put the emotion into them. They’re forced out through sheer stubborn will alone.

“So the fact that you’re sitting like someone’s driven a railroad spike into your left shoulder is a complete coincidence?”

He opens his mouth to speak, and then he closes it again, frowning.

Stifling a satisfied grin, Senha comes around to his side of the bed. “If you sit up some, I’ll work on it for you again.”

Din looks up at her as she brushes an unruly wave of dark brown hair off his forehead. He and Samir will both need a haircut soon.

“You sure?” His eyes slip closed as she pushes her fingers into his hair, scratching lightly across his scalp.

“Yeah. I’ve got a thought I’d like to run past you anyways.”

He catches her hand as she draws back and rests it against his cheek. A day’s worth of stubble scratches her palm as the silence grows warm and soft between them. It’s the same warmth as when he wraps himself around her at night, tucking his face into her hair and exhaling warm, slow breaths against her neck. Something so delicate that it might come apart at the barest touch but still unmistakably present.

The lump in her throat eases enough for her to take in a breath as he presses a kiss to her palm before he releases it and shifts down the bed. Samir murmurs in his sleep but settles again after a moment and Din continues his slow shuffle until there’s room enough for her to slip in behind him. This time, he twists his arm behind his back without her prompting, and she settles it across her lap, the weight of it warm against her thighs. Before she starts, Senha leans forward to press a kiss to the nape of his neck. She’s rewarded with a shiver and the feeling of his broad palm encircling her ankle at his side.

She sets her thumbs into the muscles that run across the tops of his shoulders, and Din lets his head drop to his chest as she kneads the stiff muscles. The silence lingers as she moves out in small circles to the outer edge of his clavicles and then back, but a low groan escapes him when she transitions down to the long muscles that run parallel to his spine.

He lifts his head again with an exhale, his thumb tracing circles around her ankle bone. “You said you’d had a thought?”

“Yeah,” Shifting back to allow herself more room to work, Senha tries to recall exactly how she’d decided to present the situation. “Alright. So. This may sound a little nuts, but—” she gestures towards the sleeping toddler, “—magic baby and all, so bear with me. I’ve been thinking that you guys might be connected somehow.”

She cringes internally at the silence that meets her suggestion, but Din’s voice is more curious than skeptical, “Connected?”

You’ve waded in this far, might as well dive into the deep end.

“When you have a nightmare, he starts crying in his sleep almost before I’m even awake. Even if you’re behind me and he’s on my other side, where he couldn’t feel you moving. It’s like he’s seeing what you see, or feeling it. Add to that the fact that he can barely handle being more than two feet away from you right now. He can sometimes deal with being away from you if it’s me with him, but even then, he’s constantly looking for you, and—”

She pauses to catch her breath and Din looks back towards her, his jawline stark as he frowns over his shoulder at her. Senha nudges him to face forward again. She can explain this to his back just fine, but she’ll lose her nerve if she’s looking into those intelligent dark eyes.

She focuses on the muscles just above his scapula as she continues, “I was thinking about him trying to heal your leg before, and how you’re the only one he’s healed that we know of. It makes me wonder if maybe he’s sensing something else wrong, or—” Senha stops, letting her hands rest on his shoulders as her cheeks flush hot. Her carefully rehearsed explanation is falling to pieces. “I’m sorry, I’m just throwing ideas out there.”

“You think there’s something else he’s trying to heal,” Din finishes, looking over at the sleeping child with a heavy line between his brows.

“Maybe,” Senha sighs. “It’s just that he’s been more tired than usual the last few days, and he’s so clingy with you. Maybe it’s stupid, but...”

“I don’t think it is.” His words are slow like he’s turning the idea over in his mind and connecting pieces of his own. As he considers it, she resumes working down the edge of his shoulder blade, slowly lifting it to get to the knot of scar tissue underneath.

“It kind of breaks down there, though, because your leg’s almost completely healed. Unless there’s...” Senha’s hands stutter to a halt as a thought occurs to her. It doesn’t make sense for Samir to be trying to heal Din if he’s uninjured unless there’s something she can’t see; something internal.

She tries to quell the rising panic the idea brings with it. “When was your last physical? When did you last have bloodwork done?”

The breath he lets out isn’t at all encouraging. It’s also not exactly surprising. “It’s been a while.”

“A while being what? A year? Two?” The turn of her knuckle against muscle might be aggressive, judging from the warning squeeze on her ankle. She softens her fingers as she massages under his shoulder blade, feeling the tissue loosen slowly.

“Closer to seven.” Din admits before continuing stubbornly, “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Her first instinct is to argue how absurd it is to assert this, but she remembers his discomfort during Ator’s visual exam. The quiet shame in his determined promise that he’d repay the doctor for the antibiotics once he found some work.

She may disagree with his methods, but he’s got his reasons, and she can at least respect those.

Senha unfolds his arm from behind his back and slips her hands around to his front, anchoring them at his sternum. His weight rests back on her as she drops her chin to his shoulder and draws him against her chest. Din turns his head and the soft ends of his hair brush across her cheek.

“I know Ator looked you and Samir over when we got here, but given how tired he’s been the last week, it might not be a bad idea for him to have a well-child check and for you to have a physical. If he can see you both tomorrow, would you come to the clinic?”

Even as one large hand closes over both of hers, she can feel his reluctance to the idea. His index finger taps against the back of her hand as he considers, and she knows she’s close. Rather than trying to convince him further with words, Senha uses the one card he has no defense against. Pulling one hand out from under his, she brushes her fingers over Samir’s wild curls. Din turns his head to watch, and the fight goes out of him with a sigh.

“We’ll be there.”

* * * * * * *

The next morning, Senha looks up at the black lettering painted on the sign above the shop. It’s vertical text, with dashes or arrows or dots coming off each line that she’s guessing denote individual letters. Ator turns to look back at her, the door pushed half-open and sees her attention.

“Gebi’yaim,” he says, leaning out to look at the lettering. “It means “close to home.”

“That’s mando’a?”

“Yep. Some here in town don’t understand the written text, but everyone knows what it means.”

Inside the shop, Senha’s senses are assaulted by a mix of spices and vegetables, and even this early in the morning, there’s a low murmur from a few people chatting at the counter near the front. Opposite the counter, there’s a long row of rectangular glass jars holding an array of powdered spices, dried herbs, nuts, beans, grains, and brightly colored wrapped candies. Squash and other vegetables are piled in large wooden crates, with another section for refrigerated goods. A refrigerator with wrapped meats and glass bottles sits next to a doorway with a small sign above it reading ‘cinarir haaran.’ This one is less of a mystery, as just below the vertical mando’a lettering, the word ‘laundry’ is written in block text.

“Senha? You want one?”

She looks over to see Ator holding up a bottle of light green liquid from a glass-fronted fridge near the counter, his eyebrows raised. However, a closer inspection of the bottle doesn’t give her any clues on its contents, as the label is written entirely in mando’a.

Ator taps a finger against the picture of some root on the front, “It’s iced cassius tea. You can make a shig with it too, but it’s good cold in the morning to wake you up. You want to try one?”

Senha has no idea what cassius root tastes like or what a shig is, but she’s curious.

“Sure, if that’s alright.”

The woman behind the counter snorts as she punches a code into the cash register, “Just don’t go around telling the other aruetii about it. With our luck, they’ll love it and we won’t be able to afford to import it anymore.”

Ator hands over a bill and collects his change from the woman with a knowing smile, but Senha stays quiet as they head back out to the car. She unscrews the cap of the bottle and taps a sip. It’s floral and sweet but leaves a slightly bitter aftertaste on her tongue. As they pull out of the parking lot and turn out onto the larger road that leads out of Arkose, she voices her question aloud.

“All the stuff in there, it’s all imported?”

“We only import the spices and dry goods. Anything we can’t grow here.”

“Sorry if this is a dumb question, but isn’t the climate pretty different here? My geography’s rusty, but I thought Mandalore was much further south.”

Ator chuckles, “We’re at about the right altitude, but the humidity’s all wrong. You didn’t see the greenhouse in town?”

Senha sits up, interested. “We haven’t really been anywhere outside of the daycare center and the main building.”

“Ah, well, we’ll have to get you a proper tour. We’ve got a couple of gardens for food and herbs that will grow around here and everything else we grow in the greenhouse. They’ve even been able to start doing some hydroponic farming in the last few years. We grow most of what we need here in town.”

“Huh.” It makes sense that they’d have a system in place, being so remote, but Ator’s speaking as if they’re almost entirely self-sufficient. “What about the meats back there?”

He lifts his chin back towards the town behind them, “Saliha raises goats, and there are a few with more livestock further outside town, and Azalia keeps chickens. I’m surprised you haven’t heard them in the mornings.”

That’s what that noise was. Senha stifles a laugh, “Honestly, I- I thought it was the strill. I heard them the first night and—”

“Bet they gave you a heart attack,” Ator joins in on her laugh. “It can be a little unnerving until you get used to them. ”

Senha takes another pull of her iced tea, looking out the window as they round the curve of a hill and the rounded top of the clinic building comes into view a few miles down the road.

“And the big field behind the daycare center? That backs up to the base of the mountain? What sport do you guys play?”

“Mesh’geroya,” there’s a loving caress in Ator’s voice. “‘The beautiful game.’ It’s very fast-paced and has rather more tackling than the average Ebryian sport. We’ve got the only field in the area set up with official markings, so most local teams come to play here in leagues during the summer. You’ll see them start showing up in a month or two.”

Senha’s chest grows tight at the last statement. Will she be here in a month? In two? Being at Arkose is like a fever dream, another reality altogether, but the dream has to end sometime. She has to wake up at some point and go back to Ganister City. Try to pick up the pieces of her life and continue it as best she can.

Doesn’t she?

“Senha?”

It finally registers that they’ve arrived at the clinic and Ator’s looking over at her with concern lining his brow.

“You alright, vod’ika? You went somewhere for a minute.”

“Sorry, I’m fine. Just zoned out for a minute.” At this rate, everyone in town is going to think she’s a fucking airhead.

Ator takes her explanation at face value and doesn’t press her further as he talks her through the appointment schedule for the day.

The morning goes by quickly, and by the time Senha scarfs down the piece of savory pie Ullin had wrapped up for her in between appointments around lunchtime, she’s feeling more or less herself again. The patients may be unfamiliar, but the work is the same. As she washes her hands, she wonders whether she could find a set or two of scrubs somewhere…

“We’ve got about three hours until your boys drop by,” Ator says from behind her. Senha dries her hands on a paper towel and drops it into the trash can as she turns. “I’ve got two more patients on the list today, but they’re both house calls. You’re welcome to stick around here to help Ydeh in case someone comes in, or you can come with me.”

“If it’s alright, I’d like to come. Unless you think Ydeh could use help here.”

Ator shakes his head, “This time of year, it should be a light afternoon. He’ll call us if he needs us. He can show you how to pack the bag for house calls. The patient charts should be up front; you can review them in the car.”

Things are remarkably laid back at the Arkose clinic. Senha had fully expected to show proof of her licensure beyond her hospital ID card, but Ator had simply asked her a few questions to gauge her knowledge and introduced her as the clinic’s new baar’ur. She has no idea what a baar’ur is, but powers of deduction indicate something in the medical field.

Senha heads down the hall to find the physicians’ assistant. The smells of antiseptic and alcohol are as familiar as her laundry detergent back home, and she takes a moment to enjoy how normal this feels. She hopes Din is finding a similar sense of calm in the work he’d found repairing an old wall in town.

Ydeh is just hanging up the phone when she pokes her head into the tiny reception area, “Ator said there are two house calls this afternoon?”

“He needs the bag packed?” Ydeh asks, standing. The PA is built short and stocky, with a shock of thick black curls tied at the back of his head and almond-shaped dark eyes.

“Yep,” Senha replies, following him to the pharmacy of the clinic.

The ‘pharmacy’ is just a large supply room with a set of locking drawers on one wall. As Ator had explained it, they only keep medications most commonly prescribed at the clinic, along with a few anti-venoms; Senha had been decidedly unhappy to hear that the area has an abundance of snakes. Everything else comes from the bigger pharmacy in Caliche, and the clinic’s stock is refreshed every other week when either Ator or Ydeh make the trip to the city three hours away.

Ydeh walks her through preparing the kit for the two patients on the list; a toddler with repeated ear infections and an older gentleman in need of a follow up after being treated for liver cancer. The PA had been considerably warmer to her on the second day than the first, and by this third day, he feels more like her coworkers back home than a stranger.

“Blood work results for old man Vizsla should be in his chart.” He looks sideways at her, “Good luck with that one.”

The name is familiar from the gathering earlier in the week, and Senha bites her lip as she nods. Every town has one of Those families, and it seems she’s discovered the one in Arkose. At least she’ll be there with Ator.

The visit with the toddler goes quickly, although Senha’s surprised to find that the woman is Ebryian rather than Mandalorian. As it transpires, Ator has seen the kiddo several times in the last six months for ear infections. He prescribes antibiotics, which Ydeh has helpfully included in the house call kit, and refers the child’s mother to an ear, nose, and throat specialist in Caliche.

“If you’re comfortable with it, I can ask someone to give you both a ride over there on Tuesday morning.”

“I’d be very grateful for it,” the woman replies, the toddler on her lap wiggling to get down. She’s maybe a year older than Samir, with her black hair in two short pigtails. “And thank you for coming all the way out here,”

“Not a problem,” Ator ruffles the girl’s hair as he comes to his feet, prompting a shriek of outrage.

The woman shushes her, half-smiling, and looks over at Senha, “Thank you as well. It’s good to see Dr. Orkaiss with some help.”

Senha returns her smile and pulls out a piece of the colorfully wrapped candy from the bag’s outer pocket. The girl snatches it from her and buries her face back in her mother’s arms, but not before offering Senha a tiny grin of her own.

In the car, Senha pulls out the bottle of cassius tea and takes a sip as Ator pulls out of the woman’s driveway. The last house call of the day is back in Arkose. She’s not sure why the patient wouldn’t make the five-mile trip to the clinic but remembers Ator’s comment about asking someone to drive the woman and her little girl to Caliche the following week.

“Is it common for people not to have cars out here? It seems like it would isolate them.”

“It does,” he agrees. “It’s not common these days, but there are still some areas that are struggling. Arkose was one of them. This whole area used to be big in mining, but that’s largely slacked off now. Most of the well-paying jobs are in Caliche, which is a trek.”

“Arkose seems to do well now, though.”

“We do, but that’s down to several things. We’ve been able to create a good income for the tribe with Numar and the data-center here in Arkose, and we have the benefit of the money distributed through the EMAA.”

“EMAA?”

“Ebryian Mando’ade Aid Association. They fund projects in Mandalorian communities in Ebrya.”

“Huh,” Senha’s fascinated. She’s never even heard of it. Then again, she’d had to wrack her brain for any mention of the conflict to begin with. “Is that something set up by the government in Mandalore?”

Ator laughs, it sounds bitter, “The government in Mandalore has their hands full trying to feed their people at home, much less abroad. And besides, those of us who fled aren’t exactly…” he lets out a breath through his nose before he looks over at her. “Let’s just say that we aren’t exactly who they’d be interested in helping even if they did have the funding. The money comes from mando’ade living here.”

Something in his statement has a frown pulling at Senha’s brows, “What do you mean, you aren’t exactly who they’d be interested in helping?”

Ator looks over at her again, this time a bit harder. Like he’s trying to decide if her question is worth answering. “Did your cyare tell you who he fought for when he was there?”

"My what?"

"Din."

“Oh. Uh, I think he called it Death Watch?” She really hopes that the Ebryian term for it isn’t wildly offensive, as she can’t remember the mando’a name.

“Kyr’tsad, yes. The Ebryian authorities refer to us as— well, I believe the technical term they use is ‘Death Watch sympathizers,’” Ator comments drily. “After they exterminated those associated with Death Watch in Mandalore and Concordia, they attempted to do the same here, only by legal means. Anyone who wasn’t appropriately documented was detained or deported. Even foundlings.”

“Foundlings?”

“Adopted children. Unofficially, according to Ebryian law, and therefore with no legal status to be in the country.”

“They separated families?”

“Oh, people were outraged for a few months. There were protests by both mando’ade and Ebryians. But then the world moved on; it always moves on.”

As ashamed as she is to say it, Senha knows she’s watched a million stories like it with sympathy and then continued with her day. How much harm had she done by just doing nothing?

“I’m sorry,” she says finally.

Ator gives her a small smile as he pulls up in front of a large blue house, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, “We’ve worked hard for what we have. All we ask is for it not to be taken from us.”

Every impression Senha has gotten from Arkose so far has been one of solidly middle-class families. However, looking around at the houses on this cul-de-sac, she thinks perhaps mando’ade has some class levels just like Ebryians. All of the homes here have just a bit more space between them, and they don’t back up to any of the gardens or other houses. Off to the right, the mountains loom behind the playing field, already starting to throw shadows across the ground.

“Ghir Vizsla doesn’t speak Ebryian, so if you have any questions for him, I’ll translate.”

Given Ydeh’s cryptic warning, Senha wants to ask if there are any questions she shouldn’t ask, but before she can, Ator is knocking on the front door. To her surprise, Xaolk opens the door. He waves the doctor in, but his eyes narrow at the sight of Senha. Her chest tightens with anxiety, remembering Iska’s words at the gathering a few nights before.

“The Vizslas have some very unique ideas on what it means to be Mandalorian.”

Inside, she stops at the unobstructed view of the mountains through a large bank of windows along the north-eastern wall of the living room. It’s a breath-taking view, and given Xaolk’s smug expression as he walks past her, it’s intended to intimidate visitors.

Senha’s eyes shift across the room as she puts the bag down on the coffee table and pulls Ghir Vizsla’s chart out. There’s a large, light blue emblem painted on a dark blue accent wall behind a couch; three vertical slashes, connected along their mid-points. It could be art, but she thinks it’s more likely one of the family symbols Ullin had told her about at dinner two nights ago. Either way, it’s not something she’s seen in anyone else’s home over the past few days.

Across from the accent wall is a fireplace with a wide wooden mantle, a helmet resting dead-center on it over the hearth. It’s a similar style to the one Din had drawn out of the armor crate to clean and polish the night before, but unlike the deep scores and scratches in Din’s, this helmet is pristine.

Xaolk returns, escorting a man who must be close to eighty. They both bear similar facial structures, although the older man’s cheeks and eyes are lined with heavy furrows. That makes this Ghir Vizsla. Xaolk helps his grandfather into an armchair and takes up a post just behind it.

Ator exchanges forearm grips with the two with a few sentences in mando’a, gesturing to Senha. Her name is the only word she recognizes, but she offers the man a friendly wave. No sense in starting out rude just because the man’s grandson has a reputation for being an ass.

“Can you tell him I’m going to take his blood pressure and pulse and then check for any signs of jaundice?” Senha asks as she passes Ator the patient chart. She can’t shake the feeling of eyes resting heavily on her.

Ator rattles off something in mando’a to Ghir, who inclines his head. Taking this as a sign to continue, Senha fastens the blood pressure cuff over the older man’s bicep and tightens it. As she smooths down the velcro on the strap, he grumbles.

“Is it too tight?” she asks, loosening it minutely. Ghir waves a hand dismissively at her but looks over and mutters something in mando’a to Xaolk. Ator stiffens at the comment.

Her ears burn when Xaolk laughs in response and his grandfather chuckles as he smirks. She doesn’t need to speak the language to know whatever they’ve said is about her and is far from complimentary. She focuses on taking the measurement, spending longer than necessary counting pulses to give herself time.

“One-fifteen over seventy-five. Excellent for your age and condition.” She removes the blood pressure cuff and replaces it in the bag before checking his eyes for any discoloration.

Xaolk speaks up again, this time to her directly, “How long will you be working at the clinic?”

“Eyes look good,” Senha says to Ator before responding to Xaolk, “I’m not sure. It depends on how long we’re here.”

“We?”

This feels like a trap, but she keeps her voice polite as she answers, now looking over Ghir’s hands, “Samir and Din and I.”

“Except they have a reason to be here, don’t they?”

She freezes, the words and the nasty gleam in his eye catching her entirely speechless.

Ator’s voice cuts across the man’s reply with something sharp in mando’a. Xaolk replies, his voice dripping with contempt, but Ator interrupts this as well. Senha tries to continue the exam but can’t seem to move her hands from where they’re resting. Ator’s hand settles on her shoulder.

“Finish the exam.”

There’s embarrassment in his voice, but it’s not for himself. It’s for her. She could fucking die right here.

Pull yourself together, girl. You’ve dealt with worse than this arrogant prick.

Hiding her anxiety behind a veneer of professionalism, she checks the man’s abdomen for any tenderness or swelling and finds none. She checks out mentally as she shoves the rest of the equipment back in the bag and follows Ator out to the car. Neither of them says anything until they turn onto the main road back to the clinic, but Ator’s hand keeps wringing the steering wheel, and he looks over at her at least three times as he does it. It reminds her of driving with Din with his face like a thundercloud, how she’d peeked over from time to time until he’d finally snapped at her.

“I’m sorry, vod’ika. That was unacceptable.”

Senha glances over from the window. Ator’s frown carves deep creases around the corners of his mouth.

She shifts her eyes back out to the brown and grey landscape passing them, the bare, gnarled branches of trees reaching towards the sky. It’s already beginning to split into the shades of dusk, reds and oranges building in brilliant layers.

“What was he saying?”

He knows she’s not referring to what she could understand. There’s silence for another long moment before he exhales, “He… he said that he only spoke the truth that others are keeping silent.”

Iska’s thickly padded jacket can’t protect her from the wave of icy black water that floods her at the words. It shouldn’t be a surprise that the tribe feels this way; they’ve seen the interview. Given everything Ebrya had put them through, she’s incredibly fortunate Ullin and Iska have offered her safety and clothes and a job and—

She drags a breath into aching lungs.

“Senha,” Ator’s voice interrupts her thoughts. “He’s wrong. Ori’haat, I promise. The tribe does not feel that way about you. You have every bit as much of a place here as Din and Samir do.”

“Except they’re mando’ade,” the words come out hoarse. “He’s right. They have a reason to still be here. I don’t.”

They slow and gravel crunches under the wheels as Ator pulls the car onto the shoulder and puts it in park. Senha’s a little taken aback at the ferocity in his voice when he speaks. He’s angry, but she doesn’t think it’s at her.

“Now you listen here, vod’ika. You’re not mando’ade, that’s true. But you are their aliit, and that means you have every right to be here. Xaolk and his clan choose a narrow interpretation of what being family means. That doesn’t mean we all take that opinion. Ydeh and I are grateful to have you at the clinic, and Iska and Ullin won’t stop talking about how wonderful it is to have you three staying with them. Not just Din and Samir—all three of you.” He slams the car back into gear. “If you want to give the opinion of some shabuir more weight than the opinion of those who see your merit, that’s your call, but I can see the way clearly in this one.”

She’s speechless again as the gravel under the tires changes back to pavement, and she holds it until they’re nearly back at the parking lot of the clinic. Two entities war within her, a battle for dominance between the self-doubt that’s always resting just under the surface and the flame in her heart that holds up each instance of Iska and Ullin and Din and Ator and Hetha that she’s collected over the few days she’s been here.

As they pull into the parking lot, she sees Azalia’s old station wagon parked in one of the spots and Din leaning against it. Samir is cuddled in a sling against his chest, and Senha lets out a watery giggle at the sight of Basa’s snout peeking over the top as Ator parks next to them.

“I’ll say one more thing, and then I’m done speaking of it,” Ator indicates Din and Samir from under thick eyebrows. “Those two wouldn’t be here without you. That tells me everything I need to know.”

* * * * * * *

To Din’s relief, Samir’s exam goes quickly. It’s not too far off from what the nurse practitioner back in Ganister City had done, and the kid seems more at ease with Senha distracting him while the al’baar’ur does the physical exam.

At least, he seems more at ease until Ator pulls out a vaccination record and marks down the ones Samir still needs. The kid hides his face in Din’s shirt and howls as his arm is held hostage for three quick injections, and he offers the al’baar’ur a tearful and wary look at Ator’s reassurance that he’s all done. Senha, typically, is forgiven almost instantly, and Samir kicks his heels as he and Basa are handed over to her for Din’s exam.

“Go ahead and take your boots off, please, and sit on the table. Senha said your last physical was a few years back?”

“About seven.” Din unties his boot laces and settles on the padded table, staunchly ignoring the quick look between Senha and Ator that he’s sure translates to ‘can you believe this dikut.’

“In that case, we’ve got a few extra things I’d like to check.”

“Would you prefer we wait outside?” Senha asks, shifting her weight from one hip to the other as she rocks Samir. The toddler’s head is pillowed on her shoulder, his thumb in his mouth and his eyes already starting to drift closed.

“You can stay.”

Senha settles herself in the chair and rests her cheek on top of Samir’s head, her own eyes closing. Din’s not sure if she’s tired or just trying to give him some privacy as the al’baar’ur guides him through long inhales and exhales and listens to his heartbeat.

The exam progresses not unlike the one Ator just performed on Samir, testing his flexibility, palpating his abdomen, looking into his eyes and nose and ears. All the while, Ator runs through a litany of questions. Does he have headaches? Any allergies? Has he ever had any major injuries or surgeries? Does he have any known family history of medical conditions?

He pauses to scribble something down on the chart from time to time and finally steps away with a satisfied nod, “Physically, you’re in excellent shape. If you haven’t had an annual exam in seven years, I’d assume it’s been a similar span since you’ve seen an eye doctor or a dentist?”

“That would be a safe assumption.”

From her seat, Senha lets out a barely audible snort, and Ator’s visage cracks into a grin as he shakes his head, writing down yet another note, “Well, just from a quick look, your oral health looks good. So as long as nothing hurts, you’re probably alright in that category. Do me a favor and read the second line off the chart on the wall over there?”

The chart in question is one of the old-style eye-charts, with a series of letters and numbers inside different colored filled circles. Din hasn’t seen one like it since his exam for enlistment, but unlike that one, this chart makes his stomach clench.

It all goes well until he reaches the fourth item along the line. The circle is grey inside and even letting his eyes shift over it slowly, he can’t distinguish the number inside. At his pause, Senha looks over. There’s nothing for it but to hazard a guess.

“Five.”

Senha glances from Din to the chart, frowning, and he bites back a curse. Wrong.

Before Ator can say anything, she stands, “Can you go through them again?”

His fingers tighten on the edge of the exam table as he reads off the circles one by one. When they reach the blank grey circle, he guesses again.

“Eight.”

Senha and Ator’s shared glance confirms that his second guess is also incorrect, and Ator pulls out his pen-light again.

“Mind if I look again?”

Din forces his fingers to loosen on the edge of the table as Ator looks carefully first in one eye and then the other. He frowns as he switches the pen-light off and tucks it back into the pocket of his lab-coat.

“Did you know you're colorblind?”

He can’t exactly deny it at this point. He just needs to answer whatever questions the al’baar’ur has and hope he doesn’t take too much interest. And that Senha stops looking at him with those big worried eyes.

“It comes and goes.”

Ator raises his eyebrows, “It’s inconsistent? When did you start noticing it?”

Issik, he can’t even remember at this point. One day on a mission he’d sniped a man and wondered why the hell the stain spreading across the man’s chest was greyish blue. “Nine years, maybe ten. It’s only red. I can see almost everything else normally.”

“Almost?” Ator writes something down on the chart and Din restrains himself from looking at what it says. He keeps his eyes on the doctor, staunchly ignoring Senha as she comes to stand beside the exam table with Samir on her hip.

“I mix up black and brown from time to time. Red is the only one that goes out completely.”

Senha speaks up, “What about green?”

Din shakes his head, “I see green fine.”

“Hm. What do you see in place of red?” The doctor’s voice is patient, and he does an excellent job of hiding the mix of curiosity and worry that Din is sure lie just under the surface.

“Grey. Occasionally blue. It depends on the shade of red.” Hiding the issue from his buir when he’d returned hadn’t been easy, but he’d learned how to tell maroon from rose based on what he could see. And Razan, in his way, hadn’t pushed him when Din had assured him he was fine.

“The times when you can’t see red at all, are there any common elements that you remember about the situation? Something that could be triggering it?”

Din shrugs, just wanting this to be over and done with at this point. This was a terrible idea. “Nothing. It just comes and goes. It always has.”

Ator looks past him to Senha and Din gets the impression he’s giving her a specific message. His suspicion is confirmed when Senha lays a hand on Din’s arm.

“I’m going to take Samir out to the reception area and give you guys some space. Okay with you?”

“Yeah,” Din looks down at Samir as she squeezes his arm. The kid blinks as Din brushes a hand over his head, but his eyes slip closed again as Senha carries him to the door. Ator waits until the door closes before he leans back against the counter. Din turns his attention back to the doctor.

“It’s possible you have what’s called an intermittent protanomaly. It’s usually caused by an impairment to the L-cone of the eye, the part that allows us to see longer-wavelength colors like red and green.”

Din lets the words sink in. He’s never tried to put a name to it before. Putting a name to it had always sounded time-consuming and full of questions and tests and expensive out-of-pocket bills he’d be working years to pay off. Why bother when he could usually tell the difference?

It’s just his luck that he’s found the one eye chart in all of Ebrya with fire-engine red on a fucking slate grey background.

Ator continues, "The interesting thing is that it presented late. That typically means it's a gradual degradation or that it’s event-induced."

"Event-induced?”

"Head trauma or damage to the eye itself. Anything like that?"

"Not that I remember." That’s not exactly true, but if he’s going to list all the knocks he’s taken to the head, helmeted or not, they’ll be here all year.

Ator lets out a breath through his nose, “If you’re willing, I’d like to take some blood samples and send them to the lab for analysis. Anytime a patient shows unusual, persistent symptoms, it’s a good idea to check for any abnormalities in nutrients or blood count. It’ll just clarify that there’s nothing else going on internally that could impact your vision.”

“I don't have much put aside yet to pay for anything like that—”

The al’baar’ur cuts him off, “I told you, vod, for as long as you’re here, you’re one of the tribe. You don’t pay for medical care.”

The way Ator presents it sounds rational, but it feels an awful lot like charity. You’re not doing this for you, you’re doing this for Samir, Din reminds himself.

“Lek,” he agrees reluctantly.

Ator pushes off the counter and pulls open a drawer to take out three clear vials and a white rectangular envelope. As he prepares the butterfly needle and tubing, he gives Din a lopsided and apologetic smile, “Ideally, I’d give you a referral to an ophthalmologist but we don’t exactly have one nearby, and given your situation getting you to Caliche might be a little complicated.”

If someone had told Din two weeks ago that he’d be adding ‘missed eye exam’ to the list of inconveniences caused by being a fugitive, he would’ve laughed. Instead, the grey tops on two of the clear vials which he knows are, in fact, red, just seem to mock him.

As Ator secures the rubber tourniquet around his bicep, the man draws in a breath as if he's about to speak. There’s clearly something on his mind as he turns back to swab the crook of Din’s elbow with an alcohol pad before dumping it into the trash can.

Still watching him, Din closes his fist as the al’baar’ur inserts the needle into the large vein at his elbow with a brief pinch before removing the tourniquet. Having seen his own blood before and never quite adjusted to the dark-blue it sometimes appears to his eyes, Din looks back at the chart across the room.

“You never spoke with your tribe’s al’baar’ur or your buir about the color blindness back in Ganister City?” Ator asks, smoothly swapping out the full vial for an empty one.

Din spares a glance at the vial, the color of it shifting until he looks away again. “It wasn’t safe to meet after the Purge, and I left.” The words sound forced even to his ears, as artificial as the child’s toy stethoscope hanging on a hook behind the door. “There wasn’t anyone to tell when I came back.”

The al’baar’ur grunts in response as he swaps out the second vial and Din relaxes minutely as the last one snaps into place. A few long moments later, Ator removes the last vial and replaces the butterfly needle with a piece of folded gauze, nodding to him, “Hold this.”

One hand keeping the gauze in place, Din stands and slips his feet back into his boots. Ator is quiet as he packs the three vials into a ziplock bag and drops the needle into the red collection box on the wall, but Din gets the impression he isn’t done. There’s another question coming; he’d bet his truck on it. He isn’t kept in suspense for long.

“If you’re up to it, I’d like you to look over a form for me. It corresponds to some symptoms you might’ve been having recently.” Ator picks up a piece of paper and slips it onto his clipboard.

Din pulls his flannel shirt back on and begins buttoning it, “With the protanomaly?”

“Perhaps,” Ator says slowly. “But it has more to do with your difficulty sleeping.”

Din’s fingers slip on the next button. They’d discussed Samir’s inability to sleep through the night, but Ator had assured him that wasn’t uncommon with ad’ike his age. Din hadn’t mentioned anything to the al’baar’ur about his own sleep, which means Senha must’ve tipped him off. Irritation flares in him, but he stamps it down. He’s here for Samir, not himself. Senha knows that just as well as he does; she wouldn’t have mentioned it unless she believed it was important.

He holds his hand out, and Ator passes over the clipboard and a pen before turning back to collect the bloodwork from the counter.

As he heads for the door, he stops and lays a hand on Din’s shoulder, “However you answer, it stays between you and me, vod. Ori’haat.”

Din inclines his head and looks down at the form as the door closes behind Ator. It’s a series of questions with a ranking of one to five beside each, from “rarely” to “constantly.” His palms begin to sweat as he reads down the list.

In the last month, have you been affected by repeated images, memories, or dreams of stressful military experiences?

In the last month, have you experienced physical symptoms (e.g., heart-pounding, trouble breathing, sweating) when something reminded you of a stressful military experience?

In the last month, have you felt distant or cut off from other people?

In the last month, have you had trouble falling asleep or staying asleep?

In the last month, have you directly avoided thinking or talking about stressful military experiences?

He doesn’t realize the world around him has gone mute until he feels a pain rasping in his throat. The world snaps back into focus and his own panting breaths are eerily loud over his racing heart. He swipes his forearm harshly over his forehead where beads of sweat have broken out.

What the fuck is happening to him?

Din throws the clipboard down on the padded table and drops the pen on top of it before he stumbles on wooden legs to the chair and collapses into it. He rubs shaking hands over his face and taking in a long, shuddering breath. He’s wracked by chills, as bad as the worst of his nightmares.

Propping his elbows on his knees, he raises his head to glance at the form on the clipboard, sitting innocently on the table like it hadn’t nearly brought him to his fucking knees thirty seconds ago.

“Pull yourself together, shabuir,” he growls. “It’s a fucking piece of paper. Answer the damn questions and get out of here.”

Setting his jaw, Din pushes himself back to his feet and snatches the clipboard off the table. The ink blots thickly against the page as he reads through each question as quickly as possible and circles the corresponding number.

You’re doing this for the kid. The kid deserves someone who’s whole. If there’s something wrong with you, they need to know.

As he finishes circling the last answer, there’s a gentle knock at the door.

“Come in,” Din calls, not quite tossing the clipboard back down on the table. Ator enters and closes the door behind him again, cutting off the sounds of Samir giggling at something and Senha’s exaggerated story-time voice.

“Your foundling has a quick recharge cycle,” Ator comments before gesturing to the form. “Done?”

Din gives a curt nod and Ator picks up the clipboard. Watching him scan over the circled answers is a new and acute form of agony made no better by the tiny crease the develops between the al’baar’ur’s grey eyebrows.

What if it’s worse than he thought and they take the kid from him? Then again, if it is that bad, isn’t it better that someone else take him before Din does too much damage? It’s only been a matter of time, after all.

“This form is something I use with some of my Ebryian patients,” Ator says, pulling Din out of his thoughts as he places the clipboard on the counter behind him. “It’s used to assess the possibility of post-traumatic stress disorder. Are you familiar with it?”

He’s heard of PTSD. The doctors at the VA had mentioned something about an evaluation for it at the mandatory checkup for his shoulder after he’d returned from deployment.

“Given the challenging circumstances your unit faced on exfiltration,” the VA doctor had said. It had been a very diplomatic way of describing watching his home and friends burn to ash and realizing he’d been used to further someone’s political interests.

“I’ve heard of it.” Din nods towards the clipboard on the counter. “What does it say? What’s wrong with me?”

Ator lets out a sigh, “This is a diagnostic tool, vod. You don’t pass or fail based on your answers. It’s made to help me identify areas where you could use some help.”

Great. So he’s got no more idea of what’s going on than he did before he’d walked in here. He might as well ask some questions since everyone’s done nothing but ask them of him so far.

“Is it possible that whatever’s happening to me could affect the kid?”

Ator frowns, “Affect him how?”

Din’s not willing to tell the entire truth here, as much as he trusts the man. “The dreams I have, is it possible he can—feel them?”

He raises his eyebrows, “Well… children are very empathetic. It’s possible if you’re feeling anxious or upset that he could pick up on that, and it could impact his feelings. But there’s no guarantee that’s what’s causing his sleep cycles. He’s also suffered quite a bit of trauma, from what you’ve told me. And he’s a baby. Babies pride themselves on not sleeping at convenient hours.”

“Would he be better off with someone else?” Din’s throat tightens as he speaks until the words come out closer to a croak.

Ator shakes his head, “That’s not my area of expertise, but my gut says no. He knows you. He trusts you.”

Din lets out a breath, but the relief flooding him is tinged with doubt. It still doesn’t explain what’s going on.

“So, what now?”

“I’m going to send the blood samples to Caliche tomorrow morning. We should have results back by the day after. In the meantime—” Ator smooths a hand over the neat goatee at his chin. “In the meantime, I’d suggest you speak with Azalia.”

Din raises his eyebrows and Ator continues, “She’s better acquainted with certain things, and she might be able to help you more than I can right now.”

With that last, enigmatic comment, Ator ushers him out of the room and back out to the reception area. As Samir wraps his arms around Din’s neck and tucks his head under his chin, he can’t help feeling that he’s leaving with more questions than answers and no better idea of how to fix this than when they’d arrived at Arkose.

“You okay?” Senha interrupts his thoughts as she walks them both out to the car.

“Yeah,” Din says automatically, getting Samir settled in the car seat. “You coming?”

Senha folds her arms and tilts her head back towards the clinic, “I’ve got a few things to take care of here. I’ll catch a ride back with Ator once we close.”

He nods, his mind working. It’s barely four-thirty, which means if Azalia is home, he might still have time to get some answers today.

Chapter Text

It’s the kind of place most people would want to live, Kuizil thinks as she walks up to the front door. A beige, midsize ranch, probably only a few decades old, in one of the nicer but not luxurious suburbs of Ganister City. Everything about it says middle-class suburbia, the classic Eybrian Dream, minus the white picket fence.

Kuizil knocks on the front door before stepping back and hitching on a warm smile to appear as unthreatening as possible. While she isn’t exactly a big woman, the reaction some people have when they learn she’s a journalist is the strongest evidence she has yet that the pen really is mightier than the sword. It takes only a few seconds before a woman in her mid-thirties comes to the door.

With her black hair cut in a stylish bob, the diminutive Mrs. Patricia Swift is the picture of a suburban domestic Ebryian housewife, and on first look fits into the neighborhood just as well as the sprinklers on the front lawn. She isn’t Eybrian, Kuizil’s research had uncovered that much, and she’d picked up an accent in the woman’s voice during the brief phone call they’d had. No, she isn’t dressing up and putting on makeup and jewelry due to some outdated view of how a woman should act. She’s doing it for the simple pleasure that many a person from nothing has to show what they have achieved.

“Hello?” the woman says, clearly confused by the stranger at her door.

“Patricia Swift? I’m Kuizil Offira, we spoke on the phone. I asked if you’d be interested in talking with me about your story on immigrating from Dacresh?”

Mrs. Swift frowns for another moment as if having trouble remembering. They had only spoken a few days ago, in the time it had taken Kuizil to book a flight and cross the country to Ganister. More interesting than the forgetfulness is the level of suspicion in the woman’s eyes. Kuizil is used to reluctance; most people prefer not to be interviewed on a subject where they can’t paint themselves in the best possible light. But those people wouldn’t have agreed to the interview to begin with. With Mrs. Patricia Swift, there’s something else. Regardless, the woman steps back to allow Kuizil into the house.

“Of course, I’m sorry. Would you please come in?”

The interior of the house has that spartan, lived-in aesthetic popular with the young up-and-coming class. Simple, to imply they weren't overly attached to the material, but with just enough fashionable touches to let visitors know they had means.

Mrs. Swift leads the reporter to the well-appointed living room, motioning to the loveseat before perching herself on the edge of an armchair and folding her hands.

It takes Kuizil only a moment to realize she’s waiting for her, “To begin with, please let me express my sincere condolences on the loss of your husband. You met overseas, is that right?”

Pain writes itself across the woman’s face. Loss is universal, regardless of how the life behind it is celebrated.

“Yes. We met in Dacresh five years ago. He was working for a clinic there. That’s how I got my green card and came to Ebrya,” she finishes with a brief look around like part of her still doesn’t quite believe this is her house.

There’s far more rumor than confirmed truth to what Kuizil has been able to find out about Dacresh. The country is naturally isolated by its geography and has been run for the last fifty years by an efficient and ruthless military administration. Conveniently for the administration and inconveniently, Kuizil suspects, for the population itself, the ruling party knows how to play nice with their international partners, and have been left largely to their own devices as a result.

A demonetization of the country’s currency several years back had effectively wiped out the savings of the population and had sent Dacresh spiraling to the bottom tier of the Allied Nations’ country development index. Perhaps Ebrya really is a wonderland compared to that. Odd what the other side of the looking glass is for some people.

“I hope there are no concerns with your status now,” Kuizil comments, giving the woman an apologetic smile. “Please excuse my candor, but I know the Duras administration isn’t exactly sympathetic to people in your situation. If I can be honest with you, that’s part of why I asked to speak to you, if I’m honest.”

Somehow, this seems to put the woman at ease, “I am not worried. My husband’s employer, PhenoVisage, has been very good to us. They said they would take care of everything as long-” She cuts herself off as if she’s said entirely more than she means.

Kuizil would bet that’s exactly what’s happened. Now the real interview can begin.

“PhenoVisage... They’re a genetics corporation, correct?”

“Yes. They are very good people. They offered my husband a position while he was working in my old country.” She notices how it was already her “old country”, even though she barely been in Ebrya for a year. Apparently, whatever it was she had left behind, she wasn’t interested in seeing again. While that’s fair, she has no reason to expect the Duras administration to bend over backward helping her maintain her status in Ebrya.

“I see, so was PhenoVisage involved in his work in Dacresh? Through the New Dawn Initiative?”

“No, no connection,” the woman is quick to correct. “They just respected his expertise. They wanted to give him an opportunity to come back to Ebrya, and they helped with my immigration paperwork.”

Well, that stinks of corporate spin. Mrs. Swift is either too naive to know she’s been played or smart enough to pretend to be. Kuizil hopes it’s the first.

A young boy wanders in from some adventure. He’s carrying an animatronic dragon with glowing eyes and flapping wings in one hand and a knight figurine in his other.

“Mommy, who’s she?”

The widow turns to her son, “She’s a reporter who wants to talk about how we came to this country. Why don’t you go play with your knight? That dragon looks so scary, it’s good I have my brave knight to keep me safe.”

The boy smiles at her praise and jabs the dragon with the knight figure before running off into the other room.

Mrs. Swift gives Kuizil a smile as she continues, “My husband wanted us to come to Ebrya to have William. There is better medical care here. But I wanted to have him with my family close by, and he let us stay. He always respected us like that. He wanted to help, you know. Wanted to give us just a little piece of this,” she said, gesturing to the house around her.

“So your son wasn’t born here?” Kuizil asked. She guesses William Swift had never told his wife the bigger reason why he would want his son born in Ebrya, a country where birthplace defines citizenship. He had wanted to make sure his son would have a place here, in the event that his wife did not. It isn’t exactly romantic, but it speaks to the kind of man he had been.

“No. He was born in Dacresh, and we came with my husband three months later.”

Kuizil is quickly realizing this line of questioning is a dead end. “I see. Could I ask you a few questions about your immigration process? Your husband’s employer helped smooth things over for you, is that right?”

“Yes, they helped with the paperwork for both me and my son. But why are you asking about them?”

Kuizil shrugs, knowing she has to be careful here, “Well, I’m writing about how you came to Ebrya, and it sounds like they played a pretty big role in that.”

Mrs. Swift shakes her head firmly, “My husband was the reason for all that. He was a good man, a good doctor. They asked him to work for them. That is all.”

She’s hiding something. “And are they still helping you now?”

“Why do you keep asking about them? I thought you wanted to know about Dacresh and my trip to Ebrya?” While her words imply simplicity, her eyes tell Kuizil her ignorance is anything but sincere. And there’s something else under it. Is it fear?

“Ma’am, your corporate sponsorship is part of how you got to this country. It’s part of–”

“There is nothing there,” Mrs. Swift’s formerly pleasant demeanor is replaced in an instant with intelligent suspicion and a clear note of fear. “I think you should leave now.”

Kuizil remains calm, a placid lake in the face of the woman’s rising storm, “I’m just asking about the specifics of your agreement-”

Mrs. Swift stands at this, and Kuizil comes to her feet as well. “You need to leave. My husband was a good man who helped people, and good things come to good people. It is as simple as that. Now please leave my house or I will call the police.”

Kuizil puts her notebook back into her bag and moves to the door, “Of course, ma’am. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Then you shouldn’t come here asking questions like that. Those questions are dangerous. They can get good people hurt.”

In that statement, Mrs. Swift shows her the grief that’s been missing until now. Feeling a mix of guilt and satisfaction, Kuizil leaves the house. As she pulls away, she looks back to see Mrs. Swift standing in the doorway with her arms folded. The woman now looks like the grieving widow she is, whatever mask she had shattered to a thousand pieces.

Her final words linger in Kuizil’s mind as she drives back to her hotel. “Those questions are dangerous, they can get good people hurt.”

Good people like a hardworking non-profit doctor who’s offered his dream job on a silver platter? Or perhaps a Mandalorian bounty hunter whose easy job becomes too hard to live with?

What was the 'good man' Mrs. Swift had married actually been doing in Dacresh that had gotten the attention of a genetics company backed by one of the world’s largest industrial holdings? What is on the other side of that looking glass Kuizil had so nearly shattered?

* * * * * * *

Payne is well-aware that he doesn’t look like the kind of guy who could enjoy hours combing through spreadsheets and financial notes. That’s because he isn’t that kind of guy. As he stretches his back, which was slowly solidifying into a curved lump, Payne can’t imagine the draw of this for anyone. But he has rent to pay, and there’s a reason it’s called work and not ‘fun hobbies you get paid to do.’ Maybe in the next life.

The good news is that, as it turns out, Djarin isn’t exactly a financial master criminal. In fact, he’s employed an accounting firm to do his taxes for the last six years. Technically, it was two firms. The first, a local run-of-the-mill shop, had handled everything for the first two years. Around the time Djarin had gotten in with the local Bounty Hunters Guild, he’d switched to another firm. Payne suspects, given what he’s seen of the quality of the guy’s life, that Dune had been the one to put Djarin onto the new firm. Getting copies of Djarin’s tax records from the first firm had been easy. The second had been more of an adventure.

The accounting firm of Octus and Alexander holds certain notoriety in Ebrya. It caters primarily to two groups: wealthy obscure celebrities and elite criminals. People who make their money in ways that might technically be legal but that they would prefer the public not to know about. And if it isn’t fully legal? Well, O&A will make sure the taxes were paid on time and that no nosy DIB agent can subpoena financial records without the most bulletproof cause. The PTSD Act may be a powerful piece of legislation, but O&A aren’t phased by something as minor as a national manhunt. At least, not when it’s Payne filing the paperwork.

When his attempt at a subpoena had fallen flat, Payne had found his luck in the files they’d taken from Djarin’s apartment. The guy had kept summary records of O&A’s services each year. They aren't the full records, and Payne suspects he would either need to wait weeks for the system to work through appeals or for Sil to come back and magic up the one clause O&A wasn’t able to get around. But even the annual summary information O&A had sent Djarin is better than nothing. Ironically, the guy appears to never have bothered to open the sealed letters. They had all been buried in a drawer, secure enough to say that he knew they were important but hidden away like he hadn’t wanted the constant reminder of their existence.

When Payne first opens the letters, two things become apparent. First, his guesses at Djarin’s annual take are, if anything, a lowball estimate. The guy is well within the wealth bracket to be an O&A client. The more surprising realization is where the money appears to be going. Looking up at his office clock and then back over the files, Payne makes a decision.

There’s no way he’s going to be able to go through all this without help.

Twenty minutes later, he’s back at his apartment, the two file boxes piled beside his kitchen table, a glass of whiskey at his left elbow, and a lit cigarette in his hand. As he takes a long drag, Payne sits back in his chair and looks over the letters on the table before him. If he’s doing a deep dive, he sure as hell isn’t doing it sober.

Two hours, three glasses, and a heap of stubbed-out cigarettes later, Payne throws down the last set of summary documents from O&A. Two hours to confirm the picture he’d begun to see back at the office. This guy gives away almost all of his money. Sil had been right, he isn’t storing it anywhere. Instead, he sends enormous amounts of capital every year to something called EMAA, an aid association for displaced migrants from Mandalore and its province Concordia. On the surface, the massive donations aren’t surprising. Money launderers love to use non-profits, and what better cover than something close to home?

What is surprising, however, and what Payne has spent the afternoon confirming, is that it isn’t laundering. EMAA is a legitimate non-profit and a big one at that. Cara Dune had channeled most of her earnings into a gorgeous apartment, frequent trips with family and friends, a hefty 401(k), and a Kronosian supercar. Din Djarin appears to be funneling nearly every penny he makes to help pay for community programs and put kids through college. Hell, with this kind of money the guy probably has at least one school named after him somewhere. Or, he would, if the school knew the name of their anonymous benefactor.

Payne has seen a lot of filthy money over the years and has even on occasion seen people do some good things with it. But inevitably, they end up pulling more and more for themselves over the years. Based on the financial documents covering Payne’s kitchen table, Djarin has never wavered on his policy. It may speak to the good soul of a man, but it’s also entirely at odds with the kind of guy who breaks into a research facility and kills seven people before starting a national manhunt.

So what had happened to push this guy so far off the deep end?

Telling himself that there wasn’t anything more to be gleaned from the financial documents, and partially just sick of looking at them, Payne dumps the letters back into their box and returns to the files they’d pulled from Dune’s place. This guy paid top-tier accountants to keep him in the clear when it came to his money, and then didn’t even check the reports. He isn’t just not in it for the money, the man is allergic to it. Whatever had driven him to kill, it’s not going to be in the financial reports; it’s going to be in the files they had taken from Dune, if it’s anywhere but in his head.

Flipping off top of the box, Payne’s eyes fall to the folder on top of the stack. The thin, almost empty one he had ignored when they’d cleared out Dune’s place. There are only a few papers inside; some searches about someplace called Dacresh, and what looks like the kind of notes he would take when he did a lot of searching and very little finding. He sifts through a printed map of the country and a photocopy of a young woman’s identification card but finds nothing really useful. Just more questions with no answers.

Closing the folder again with a sigh, Payne sets it aside and pulls out the papers below the folder, hoping that he’ll find something providing answers at last.

* * * * * * *

“New Dawn Initiative, this is Maria speaking. How may I help you?” The voice is that young chipper tone of an Ebyrian just out of college. The type that wants to change the world but has no interest in changing a thing about themselves to do so.

“Hello, my name is Kuizil Offira. I’m a reporter with This Eybrian Life. I'm running a story on overseas vaccination programs, and Dr. Paul Nathers of Hon Jopkins recommended I reach out to New Dawn about some of the work your group has been doing.”

“Oh! Can you hold for a moment, please?”

“Of course,” Kuizil matches the receptionist’s pleasant tone and hopes that name-dropping the prominent head of the medical college of one of the top universities in the country will do the rest. It always puts people at ease to imply that she’s calling because someone mentioned their good name, rather than that they’d come up in her own research. She’s rewarded a few moments later.

“Ms. Offira? Our head of public outreach, Dan Yellerwiski, would love to speak with you. I can connect you to him if you’d like.”

“That would be much appreciated, thank you.”

There’s another short pause as the line transfers, and a male voice speaks, “Dan Yellerwiski.” This voice is slightly older, a man in his thirties. Experienced enough to know what he’s doing, but young enough to still have the energy to do this kind of work.

“Good morning, Mr. Yellerwiski. Kuizil Offira, from This Ebryian Life.”

“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Ms. Offira. Please, call me Dan. I hear Dr. Nather’s recommended you to reach out to us on the vaccination work we have been doing in Dacresh?”

“Yes. This Ebyrian Life is looking into a segment exploring how the Duras administration has impacted healthcare aid to developing countries.”

In truth, there is no such story associated with her network, but she’s fairly confident this is the kind of petty suffering the Duras administration is happy to cause in the name of ‘Ebrya First.’

“Yes, the decision by the government to cut aid has had major impacts on our work.”

A fierce smile crosses her face, though she’s not sure how well it bodes that it’s so easy to guess what new and uncreative methods the shitheads in charge are employing now. “We’re interviewing a number of different non-profits on the topic. If you have a few minutes, I have some questions that I’d love to get your comment on.”

“I’m happy to help.”

“Wonderful. And, let me ask before we get started, would you mind if I record the conversation? It helps with my notes, and the editors sometimes ask for some of it to be included in the story for some extra punch.”

“Of course. What do you need from me?”

The eagerness in Dan’s voice is making this too easy. She almost feels guilty about playing him. “How about you start with who you are and what you do?”

The man clears his throat, and Kuizil would bet dollars to donuts he’s preening a little, “My name is Dan Yellerwiski. I’m the head of public outreach for the New Dawn Initiative. We’re a charity non-profit that runs clinics and supports education in developing countries in the near-east.”

“And this includes Dacresh?”

“Yes. We’ve been partnering with some local groups there for just under a decade.”

“When you say partnering, what kind of support do you provide? Do you send aid, or does your organization have any clinics there to provide medical services?”

His response comes more quickly this time; he’s quickly settling into the pacing of the interview and starting to relax. And the more relaxed he is, the less he’ll watch what he says.

“Both. Before the change of administration, we were more involved with education and helping local doctors on the ground. But with the cuts to foreign aid in the past few years, we’ve had to reduce our in-country staffing and rely more on private donations.”

On one side, Kuizil thinks, it’s an old story: private donations are a common way for rich companies to get easy PR. But sometimes…

“You said there had been some major impacts to your work as a result of the Duras Administration? Could you be specific?”

“We used to run three clinics in Dacresh, but after the policy changes, we had to close two of them. We just couldn’t get the funding.”

“The private donors you mentioned couldn’t step up to compensate?”

“It wasn’t just a matter of money, to be honest. We lost a lot of support from the State Department, and they were critical in getting our people into the country. Visas and such. Our clinics are in rural communities, often amongst minority groups. Needless to say, with State unwilling to put a little muscle behind us, the local government isn’t very motivated to see us there.”

“So, the doctors you had working over there, did they just have to come back?”

The man sighs, “Unfortunately, yes. Although, as I said, we were able to keep one clinic open, thanks to some very generous help from a corporate sponsor.”

“And who was that?” Kuizil jumps in.

“It’s a Suebian company called Akcenko. They’re pretty big, and they do work everywhere. They had some contacts in the local government of the region where our remaining clinic was still active and stepped in to help keep us open.”

Her heart skips a beat at the name. These fuckers just keep coming up... “I'm sure you were grateful for whatever help you could get,” she continues smoothly.

There’s a pause as Dan realizes he's pretty much just implied that their corporate savior is in bed with the government of a foreign nation, most likely for reasons other than altruism. “Well, of course, there are differences between what a company can do and what diplomats can do, regardless of how big the company is. A lot of our work is about relationships, and State can liaise at higher levels than Akcenko can. But we are very grateful for their local connections all the same.”

“So would you say you have a good relationship with this company then? Akcenko?”

“I would say so, yes. We try to keep it professional. Is... is all of this going into the interview?”

Kuizil gives him a reassuring laugh, “Probably not. I’ll go through it with our editors and send you a final copy before we air. Normally we cut little stuff like this. I was just curious.”

“Of course,” Dan’s voice is relieved, “Sorry if that seemed rude…”

She dismisses his apology, “You’d be surprised how often we ask these questions during interviews. Part of why we usually start with a cold call is actually to let you direct the conversation.”

“I see. So, if I can ask, why the interest in our corporate sponsor?”

“We’d like to discuss the differences between private and publicly funded humanitarian work. There are some key differences in the way they operate, just based on where they get their funding.”

“Oh. Well, that makes sense,” he replies, apparently disarmed.

Kuizil lets out a silent sigh of relief, “So, could you speak to any changes in the work since you started working with Akcenko?”

“To be honest, they’ve been very helpful with our remaining clinic. As I said, they’re a big company and they own a number of smaller medical laboratories. One of the big ways they’ve been able to assist is by offering us discounted rates to help with lab work. We had a tough time trying to find a dedicated lab that we could reliably afford. And then about six months ago one of our doctors was just offered a sabbatical to work at one of their labs back here in Ebrya. He’d been working with New Dawn in Dacresh for years. His wife is Dacreshian, actually.”

Kuizil frowns. He must be talking about Dr. William Swift, but he’s using the present tense. Is it possible he doesn’t know the fate of his employee yet?

“Could you give me his name by chance? I’d like to reach out to him.”

He laughs nervously, “Honestly, I’d rather not without checking with him first. But he’s working for one of their affiliate labs, PhenoVisage. I’d reach out to them directly.”

Part of her wants to tell the man, just to gauge his reaction, but something else in her pumps the brakes, “Just to verify, you said Akcenko took over the processing of your laboratory samples?”

“Yes, through the same genetics laboratory, actually. They run some of the more in-depth analytical bloodwork for us and help with medical records. The data’s anonymous, of course. We adhere strictly to HIPAA privacy laws.”

“Of course. Was there a lot of need for that level of analysis? You said the clinic does primarily vaccination, correct?”

“That was the original plan, but it didn’t take long to see that there was more we could do there. For a lot of the local communities, our clinic is the only medical care they have access to. Vaccination is one of our major goals, but we do a lot of general care as well.”

“So I assume your people have become very close to the local communities, doing all that work with them. You mentioned one doctor married a local. Is that common?” It’s worth a shot to see if she can approach the topic from another angle.

“Well, you work with people as long as we have and you come to care for the community. And they help us out as well.”

Expected, but perhaps there was something here if she kept digging, “I see. One more question: you mentioned the difficulties with visas and the like without the support of the State Department. Aside from that, did you ever have any other issues in the local area?”

“I wouldn’t say issues... The Dacreshian government in general is hesitant to allow outsiders into rural regions. Akcenko helped us with the local government, but there are still some occasional complications. It’s not common, but there have been some concerns regarding missing persons before. .”

Kuizil raises her eyebrows, this was definitely something new, “Missing persons?”

“I’d rather not get into those details, it’s quite complicated. People go missing in places like that, and there’s not exactly a lot of trust in outsiders.”

“Of course,” Kuizil replies automatically. Something falls into place in her mind and she sits up slowly in her chair. “I… I think this is what I need for now. If the story goes forward you’ll hear from my people in a few days. Thank you so much for your time!”

“Oh! Of course, glad to be of help,” he replies, sounding slightly confused by the abrupt end of the interview.

Kuizil runs her finger over a scratch in the top of her desk as she mulls over this new information. The more details she gets, the more it looks like Dr. William Swift had found something that had gotten him killed and his widow threatened, or paid, to keep silent. The only question seems to be if he had died because of something he found in Ebrya or had been sent back because of something he saw, and not made good on his escape.

She lays out her pages of notes, including the ones she’s just taken during her call with Dan Yellerwiski, on the floor of her office and sits back on her knees. Details spring out at her from the papers surrounding her:

A genetics company prohibited from human trials as a result of three wrongful death suits.

A charity in desperate need of sponsorship, working in the rural communities of an isolated country.

A rich corporation willing to bankroll both in order to attain powerful biotechnology.

“Sometimes people go missing.”

Someone knew how those people have been disappearing. Someone interested in finding a quiet source of human subjects outside the prying eye of the law. If she’s right, this is far bigger than one child. But for a child that young… there must’ve been someone else too.

Her eyes stray back over the records she’d been able to get from the local coroner’s office for the night William Swift was found dead. Ganister City is a city in name alone; the population isn’t more than 150,000 people. That particular night, the morgue received seven customers, including Dr. William Swift. Five of them had been identified by name, but the sixth is listed only as Jane Doe. No address, no next of kin, cause of death: multiple gunshot wounds.

Kuizil lays back on the floor, folding her hands over her stomach as she thinks. It’s one thing if Akcenko has been funding the New Dawn Initiative in order to get biological samples to feed their pet medical research lab. But what if they’ve gone farther? What if biological samples hadn’t been enough, and they’d needed live human beings to test their treatments? An idealistic doctor could have easily taken issue with realizing his life’s work was being used for such purposes. And if he had tried to help Jane Doe escape… Well, that certainly would’ve been enough to kill them both.

She isn't sure how much Swift’s widow knows. The company had likely threatened to expel her from the country and possibly separate her from her child if she didn’t keep quiet. But why not just throw her to the wolves? Why pay for her to keep enjoying her Ebryian dream? She has to know enough for them to be afraid she’ll tip off the cops. After all, one possibly illegal wife and child on an expired visa is an entirely different kind of bust than a major corporation running a human trafficking ring.

Looking over her assembled files, Kuizil knows she has enough to point a finger at PhenoVisage, if not Akcenko. It’s also enough to create a juicy distraction to take the community’s attention off the local Mandalorian population. And given what she’s come to learn about the DIB agent running the investigation, if this is half as bad as it looks, she might even come down on them like a purging flame.

Kuizil taps her index fingers together. She still has work to do if this is going to make it through her editor and into an exclusive, and the first step in that work is to secure the information she does have. The second is to try and figure out who Jane Doe was. Greta hadn’t mentioned anything about the child’s mother in their discussion, but perhaps now that she has a better idea of the picture, they need to revisit the facts. It wouldn’t be the first time her old friend has kept secrets from her, and she’s sure it won’t be the last. She smiles as she begins reorganizing the documents in preparation for copying them. There’s a reason smart people fear a journalist with a pointed question more than the sharpest sword.

Chapter Text

The ochre house is smaller than most of the homes around it. A chicken looks up from its place pecking at the edge of a garden bed and gives Din and Samir a haughty appraisal before stalking off around the side of the house, burbling to itself. Din feels mildly judged.

Despite the less than encouraging welcome, he's determined to get some kind of answers before the day is over. Before he and the kid have another night of restless sleep and dreams he can’t shake, even in the brightness of day.

Especially if he’s the problem.

A long strip of yellow fabric tied to a hook in the ceiling of the tiny porch flutters in the breeze as they climb the two steps up onto the porch. Din knocks on the front door and waits. A few moments later, the door opens and Azalia peers out at him. Din holds out the keys to her car, borrowed for the trip to the clinic.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but Ator said I should speak with you.”

She looks from him to Samir, her face giving no indication that she’s surprised by the statement, “Come in, then.”

He steps into the front room and she closes the door behind him. The house smells of citrus and something earthy. It’s distinctly different from the loamy topsoil or the clay that lies below the ground at Arkose. It’s more like the thick red dirt he’d brushed off his knees in the mountains in Concordia, bitter with oxide and pungent from decades of building up under the canopy of trees.

The house’s interior walls are cream-colored with rounded corners, their surfaces broken up by metalwork pieces of abstract art and bright woven cloths. Overhead, heavy wooden beams line the ceiling in the same style as the Cyzans' home.

And everywhere around them are plants. A squat, fronded tree sits by two armchairs before a pot-bellied stove, and long vines cascade from pots on high shelves. As he follows Azalia through the tiny living room, their footsteps are muffled on the grey flagstone by coarse jute rugs.

In the kitchen, drying bunches of herbs hang from wires crisscrossing the ceiling. The source of the citrus becomes clear when Azalia opens a stone jar and pulls out a large piece of orange peel, tossing it into the fire burning in the stone hearth.

The last of the afternoon sunlight creeps through a window above the sink and onto a row of colorful clay pots lining a shelf over the worn wooden table. Most of the plants are dark green or purple with thick stems and broad leaves, but two pots overflow with thin, almost translucent yellow leaves. Several open jars of water sit interspersed between the plants.

Filling an electric kettle from the sink, Azalia lifts her chin towards one of the empty chairs at the table and Din sits, one hand resting on Samir’s back. In contrast to his curiosity about Ullin a week before, the kid sits quietly in the sling now. His eyes follow Azalia as she pulls another jar out of a cabinet and spoons something from it into two mugs.

The kid does perk up when she puts two pieces of brown cake with white slivers of nuts dotting the inside on a plate and sets it down in front of them. It’s been ages since Din’s seen it, but–

“Uj’alayi?”

Azalia offers them both a wrinkled smile as the kid struggles to twist himself around. The cake’s syrup sticks to his fingertips as Din breaks off a small piece and hands it to the kid. Never one for caution when it comes to food, Samir shoves the entire piece into his mouth and chews noisily.

“Jate, ad’ika?” Azalia asks, a dimple forming in her right cheek.

The kid looks up at Din with hopeful eyes and makes grabby fingers towards the plate.

“Has he had it before?”

“First time,” Din replies, breaking off a slightly larger piece for the kid and sneaking a small bite of it for himself. The sweetness lays heavy on his tongue.

“First time for you in quite a while as well, I would imagine.”

Din glances up and meets her knowing, steady gaze. He’s not at all comfortable with how accurately and quickly she seems to read him. The lever on the kettle clicks and steam rises in nearly invisible swirls from the mugs as Azalia pours before taking a seat across from him at the table.

“Ator told you to come to see me?”

“Yes.” He supplies Samir with another small piece, which the kid snaps up with all the delicacy of a piranha. “He said you might know what’s wrong with me.”

Azalia’s eyebrows lift over the edge of her mug. “What’s wrong with you,” she repeats.

“Yes.”

“What makes you think something’s wrong with you?” She sets her mug down.

Din barely holds back a sigh. Does he just list everything Ator had frowned at during the exam? Everything he’s noticed over the last decade that he knows isn’t quite right?

Small fingers settle on his arm as Samir shifts in the sling, craning his neck to look up at Din.

Right. He’s here because of the kid. He’s here to figure out what’s wrong with him so he can stop it from spreading to the kid. Focus on the parts that deal with the kid first.

“I have dreams,” he says finally. “I think the kid’s picking up on them. Senha does too. She says she can feel him reacting even when he’s not close to me. And he’s-” Din searches for the right word. “He’s regressing, I think. He panics now if I leave him with anyone other than Senha. We took him to the creche to play with the other ad’ike for a few hours and he completely lost it when I came back.”

Azalia shrugs, “No ad’ika likes being apart from their buire at first. Especially ones who’ve seen evil. What makes this so different?”

Ignoring the way his stomach flips at her reference to him as Samir’s buir, Din starts to argue her point when something in her tone makes him pause. She’s not asking because she doubts him. She’s trying to figure out how much he understands, which isn’t comforting as he doesn’t have the first clue what’s going on with the kid. But if he’s got to play this game to get to the bottom of this, so be it.

“He was doing better. He was starting to play with the other kids, he was okay with other people. Now he cries if I put him down. And he isn’t sleeping well, he–” Din pulls in another breath, but the words just keep coming. “He wakes up every night crying, as bad as the night I found him, and I can’t do anything. I hold him, but it’s not working. Nothing we’re doing is working.”

There’s a sniffle from below him and he glances down to see Samir watching him with his tiny brow furrowed. A few crumbs of uj cake cling to his cheek.

“Sorry, ad’ika.” Din wipes the crumbs away and smooths his hand over the kid’s head. A pocket of air pops from the wood in the fire, and Din watches the resultant spark fade out on the stone floor before voicing a thought that’s been growing in his mind, “What if I’m not the right person for him?”

“Do you want to give him to someone else?” Azalia says, closing wrinkled fingers over Din’s hand. ”There is no shame in knowing where your limits lie.”

He swallows against the burn of bile rising in his throat, “I just want what’s best for him. If that’s not me, then… I need to figure out who is.”

“I think that question is best left for another day,” Azalia pats his hand before she sits back. “But speaking of questions, you never answered mine.”

“Me’ven?”

“You said you believe there’s something wrong with you. Beyond the dreams, what makes you think that?”

“I have… the al’baar’ur called it an ‘intermittent protanomaly.”

“Do I look like an al’baar’ur, ad?”

Din bites back a small smile, “I can’t see red sometimes. I don’t know why.”

Azalia tilts her head, her face thoughtful. After a moment, she stands and moves to the fire. Shuffling a log around with a poker, she says, “When I was young, a girl came to my village. Her family had been killed in a bombing. She’d been picked out of the rubble by some passing fighters.”

Din shifts, pushing aside dim memories of charred stone and an armored figure kneeling before him.

Azalia stares into the flickering flames, the light flashing off the mythosaur pendant that hangs over the front of her sweater. “When the thunderstorms came in the rainy season, the girl would go deaf. Couldn’t hear a thing.”

Din pauses with his mug of behot halfway to his mouth and lowers it back to the table. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up as Azalia returns to her seat.

She studies him as she pinches off a piece of uj cake for herself, “Some of the others thought she was lying, but I saw her face. She was terrified, locked in a world without sound, with no idea why. Her mind heard the storm coming and thought it was bombers. She couldn’t run, so her mind would keep her from hearing it. After the storm passed, she could hear again.”

“How did she… was she able to fix it?” Din asks, his mouth dry.

Azalia shrugs. “Don’t know. She died in the famine when I was seventeen.”

Din lets out a long breath, sorting out details in his mind, “So you think my brain won’t let me see red because it’s trying to… protect me?”

“Maybe. There’s something unsettled in you. Something keeping you from jatne manda. Until you find the way to make peace with it, this will continue.”

“But I don’t know what ‘it’ is.”

“That’s because you spend too much time in here,” she taps a finger against his temple, “and not enough in here,” her index finger touches his chest, just over Samir’s head. “Whatever this is, it is what caused the utreemanda.”

The word is foreign enough to take him a moment to translate the root. When he does, a sinking sensation fills him, “Utreemanda. Empty soul?”

“Empty of your jatne manda, yes. We are not meant to suffer alone, verd. We are meant to give and receive. This is what community is. It’s the reason we live in tribes and not like the aruetiise.”

“So this happened because I wasn’t with the tribe?” He’s still struggling to resolve the fact that his old tribe had apparently survived and been there all along, but now isn’t the time to debate the past.

“It’s not as simple as a single action. And it’s not solely based on your decisions.”

Din sets his jaw, trying hard to bite back his immediate response. He can’t help feeling like she’s just leading him in more circles. Trying to get him to say something when she knows the answer already, instead of just coming out with it so he can fix the damn problem.

“If it’s not that simple and it’s not based only on what I’ve done, how am I supposed to figure out how to fix it?”

Before I fuck the kid up any worse than I already have.

She sits back, tracing a crack in the side of her mug. “There is a way to help you see. To pull you from your mind and provide clarity.”

Finally, they’re getting somewhere. “What do I have to do?”

“There is a compound of herbs. You drink an infus–”

Bile rises in the back of his throat before she even finishes. “No.”

Azalia sits back, tilting her head, “Why not?”

Din’s fingers clench around the handle of the mug. “I don’t take drugs.”

“What I’m suggesting, it is not what the aruetiise take for a night of excitement. The effects only last-”

“No.”

Azalia sighs and stands, pushing her cup to the center of the table, “Then we have nothing more to speak about here.”

Din stands as well, his frustration melting into desperation, “Wait. There has to be another way. I’ve been working in the tribe, I’ve been letting people help me. We’ve been with the community. Sam’ika’s been with the other kids. Things should be getting better.”

She shakes her head, “Not if the illness goes deeper. Not if you haven’t addressed its root cause.”

“I don’t know what the root cause is.” Samir’s fingers clench in his shirt and Din releases a deep breath, trying to reign himself in. “I don’t know… anything here.”

Azalia’s eyes remain sharp, but she sits again. Din follows more slowly.

“The method I am suggesting is one mando’ade have used for generations. It can help us step back and untangle ourselves from the interconnected webs in which we live.”

Everything she says makes sense, but fear still crawls up his spine. It makes him want to run, to collect Samir and Senha and take the truck and get as far away as he can.

But that won’t stop the dreams. It won’t keep Samir from waking in the night when he does. It won’t stop those inconsolable cries, the ones that make every bone in Din’s body ache in response. And it won’t stop the hollowness at the center of him growing to a yawning void. It won’t stop it from spreading to the kid.

“You’re afraid,” Azalia’s voice interrupts his spiral. “Why?”

The only people who know the answer to that are ones he hasn’t seen in years and has no desire to see ever again. In the two years that Din had worked with Ran’s crew, Razan had never asked a single question, had never pushed Din to explain what had happened. And when Din had come home, there’d been so many other things to talk about and so little time.

Even if Razan had asked, Din isn’t sure he would’ve been able to tell him. Words had felt so heavy on his tongue back then, so thick in his throat. Speaking was impossible when he could barely breathe past them. Even now, the familiar feeling of broken glass in his throat makes it difficult to swallow.

In the end, he just shakes his head, “Cuy ogir’olar.” It’s irrelevant. “I can’t.”

He turns to leave, the kid feeling heavier than ever.

Azalia’s voice comes soft behind him, "That clinic your cyare is helping out at? We have that because of you."

Din stops but doesn’t turn. He doesn’t want to know this. He’d set things up specifically so he doesn’t know this kind of thing.

He watches the firelight reflect off a piece of metalwork on the wall as she continues, "We were only able to build it last year because we received more money than usual from EMAA. I talked to your alor, and after that, I called EMAA and asked about you. Do you have any idea how much you’ve given to the tribes over the years? How many you’ve helped?”

“I owe the mando’ade everything.” The words feel like they’re expanding as he forces them out, filling his mouth with ash.

“You believe you’re paying a debt.”

He doesn’t argue with her. She’s not wrong, but he can’t have this discussion right now.

“Ad–” Azalia starts.

“I need to get back to the house,” Din interrupts. “Thank you for your help.”

He knows he’s a coward as he strides through the little house back to the front door, but his skin crawls to be seen like this, and he continues out into the evening.

* * * * * * *

The sun has sunk under the line of the mountains behind them when he steps off Azalia’s porch. Above the horizon ahead of him, the moon’s ghostly outline begins its ascent through layers of blue and purple sky.

The beauty of it is lost on Din as he starts the walk back to the Cyzans’ house. Samir sniffles in his arms and he gathers the kid close and presses a kov’nyn to his forehead.

“We'll find another way, ad’ika, I promise,” he says. “Or I’ll find someone who can take care of you.”

Small hands pat his face before Din lets the kid rest back in the birikad. His eyes burn with exhaustion as they take a right out onto the central circle road around the yam’sol. The warmth of the day lingers, and more than a few people are out on their porches. He can hear snatches of mando’a as he passes the corner house, their windows open as the family inside sits down to eat. It’s what he should be able to give the kid – an aliit.

It’s something he hasn’t thought about in years. He hasn’t let himself think about it. Every time the thought, the hint of wondering if it could be, has come up, increasingly in the last few weeks, he’s reminded himself exactly why it is that he can’t have this. Here, now, in the wake of such a stark reminder, with it so close to the surface, the memory feels clearer than ever. Sharper than broken glass.

He’d only been working with Ran’s crew for a few months. They were fresh off a job they’d all been lucky to pull off with their lives intact. Nevermind it being more money than Din had seen at once in his life. That one job had netted him more than he’d made in a year as an enlisted soldier. Hell, his bank account balance could’ve paid rent on the apartment he and Razan had lived in for ten years.

Qin had ushered them out to celebrate at some club that catered to the rich and beautiful, and Din had found his unease at the sheer noise level of the place was tempered by a shot of something clear that tasted like lighter fluid. One had turned into two, and the evening had faded to a hazy blackness.

He’d woken the next morning feeling like someone had taken an ice pick to his skull and was digging in the tip in time to his throbbing pulse. The beats were slow and sickly, and even the sound of his blood in his ears made his stomach roll. Pushing himself up to sit, his hand twinged sharply and he brought it up to his eyes. His stomach dropped at the scrapes and bruises crossing his knuckles.

What the fuck had happened?

He tried to close his eyes against the light streaming through the window, but as soon as he did, the bed began to spin under him. Opening them again, he took slow, deep breaths and tried to force down the bile in his throat. Instead, he focused on the duvet. A grey smear marred the clean, white linen.

His eyes still caught on the mark, he tried to piece together the last thing he remembered. He remembered the job and getting paid. Xi’an and Qin handing him two small pink tablets, washing them down with a shot of something, and hearing Xi’an’s delighted laughter and her hot breath against his neck. He remembered music so incredibly loud that he couldn’t hear himself think. He remembered a cold breeze and Ran’s wry tone.

And he remembered nothing else.

His phone buzzed on the bedside table, and the sound sent a spike of agony through his head. Din grabbed for it and squinted at the screen. Ranzar Malk.

Sliding the bar across, he lifted it to his ear, “Djarin.”

“Thought we might have to send in a recovery team for your corpse, Mando. Good to hear you survived.”

The man’s voice had a hint of a grin in it, but Din knew the man enough by now to know it’s not a pleasant one. He ignored the statement, his own voice a hoarse rasp as he spoke, “The fuck did the twins give me last night?”

Ran gave him an acetic chuckle, “Fuck if I know. Tell you what, though, I didn’t think it would light you up quite like it did. Hell of a thing to watch.”

Pushing past the pain in his head and nausea in his gut, Din put Ran on speakerphone and typed in the passcode to the financial tracking app. He almost gasped when he saw the balance in the account—less than five hundred dollars, down from nearly fifty thousand the day before.

“– Anyway, we’re extracting in an hour, so just make sure you’re ready to go. Ain’t exactly going to pay to hang around, all things considered.”

“What the fuck happened to my cut?” Din growled into the phone. What could he have possibly spent fifty grand on in one night? And why were his fucking knuckles bruised?

The silence from Ran just increased his discomfort. When he spoke again, Ran’s voice was hesitant, “You really don’t remember?”

“No, I don’t fucking remember, so how about you start giving me information that’s fucking helpful. I’m missing fifty k.”

“Well, you spent a bit of it at that club Qin took us to, but most of it went to paying off the cops for that footage.”

“What footage?”

“The footage of you beating that guy to death outside the club.” Ran explained with false patience, and Din’s heart stopped. “Hope you don’t mind me taking the initiative on that one. Wouldn’t have been a good look at all, having that hit the local news this morning.”

The pounding of blood in Din’s ears was suddenly so loud it drowned out Ran’s voice. He rubbed his face hard, trying to remember anything.

There was something, the feeling of something meaty hitting his clenched fist and the rush of a fight. But he couldn’t see the man’s face, couldn’t remember why he would’ve been fighting him.

He definitely didn’t remember beating him to death.

“Where’s the video?” He interrupted Ran, who’d already moved on to talking about the next job.

“I’ll send it over. But you better make sure you’re ready to get the hell out of here in an hour, Mando, before the police change their minds. Otherwise, we’re leaving you here for them.”

His phone vibrated with an incoming message, and Din hung up and opened the attached video file. The footage was a bit grainy, but he recognized himself, Xi’an, and Qin exiting a building. Xi’an hung off him, with Din’s arm around her. He was staggering slightly, and none of them appeared to see the man who stepped out from the shadows. The video feed had no sound, but the man must’ve said something because all three of them turned.

After a moment, Qin leaned against the wall and folded his arms, and Xi’an tossed her head back and laughed silently. The man took a step towards Din, who dropped his arm from Xi’an’s shoulder and tilted his head. The grin on his own face made Din sick, but it fell a moment later when the man took another step towards him and reached behind his back.

Before he could pull anything, Din was on him. Grabbing the man’s bicep, he flipped him around and slammed him face-first into the brick surface of the alley wall. Xi’an clapped delightedly, bouncing up and down on her toes as Din leaned close and said something to the man. The hint of a swagger was gone from his movements, and back in the present, there was an echo in his limbs of the adrenaline that had rushed through his system. But he couldn’t remember why the man had stopped them or what conversation they’d exchanged.

In the video, he shoved the man harder against the wall and turned away to rejoin Xi’an and Qin. The man turned around and yelled something to his back, and Din in the recording stopped walking. The angle was just right to see his face as he clenched his fists.

In the video, he watched himself turn and put his pivot’s entire weight into the punch he sent into the man’s stomach. The man folded, but Din kept coming, following him as he retreated.

Small details came back to Din as he watched himself systematically beat the man to the ground. The sound of Qin’s laughter, Xi’an’s encouraging coos, and the tingling high of the drugs coloring the slurred words from his own mouth. It had felt good. Good enough that he’d kept hitting the man even after he was on the ground, trying to cover his face and head. The slick, hot feeling of blood running between his fingers and dripping to the filthy concrete of the alley had sent his mind reeling, and he’d laughed incredulously at how strong he’d felt.

Finally, Ran entered the frame at a run and pulled Din back. The man’s face hardly even looked human anymore, just a pulpy mass of blood and shattered bone draining onto the street. Wrapping an arm around Din’s chest, Ran dragged him from the corpse. Din laughed on the screen, his head thrown back as he stumbled backward. Ran scanned the alley for a moment before he must’ve found the security camera and frowned.

Din paused the footage and let the phone slip out of his fingers. The numbness that had filled him watching the footage turned slowly to panic, choking off his breath. He started to run his hands over his face again and caught sight of the torn skin on his knuckles.

What the fuck had he done?

His phone vibrated again in his lap, and he fumbled it to open the text notification.

Thirty-five min to extraction. Be downstairs in fifteen.

Moving as if in a dream, Din got out of bed and headed to the bathroom. Cranking the shower to the hottest temperature possible, he pulled out a fresh towel. The scorching water burned his skin, but he hardly noticed the pain of it as he lathered up, the soap stinging the cuts on his hands.

Thinking about that insane grin on his face made his stomach roll again. Xi’an had gleefully mentioned that face on their first job. It was the face he wore when he allowed himself to unleash all the anger he’d been carrying around since Concordia. It was only supposed to come out on the job, when he was in full control of himself.

By the time he shut off the water, his mind was made up: he couldn’t be trusted. Not with his rage, not with his instincts, and not with the money he was making. It wouldn’t be enough to tell Qin to fuck off the next time he tried to pass him something; he needed some way to remove the opportunity for this to happen ever again. For him to ever risk losing control like this again. He sure as fuck couldn’t trust anyone on Ran’s crew to help with that, but there was someone else he could still trust.

Din set up the account from the plane and sent the email from a throw-away address, keeping the message brief and impersonal. He enclosed the account number and requested that Razan change the password immediately upon receiving the details.

‘I don’t care what you do with it,’ he wrote. ‘Please do not update me on where you send it or how much is in the account. If there is a problem, contact this address. Do not contact me otherwise. Vor ent’ye.’

The next day, he received a response of two words.

‘Kih’entye. Koyaci.’

There is no debt. Stay alive.

* * * * * * *

Din can hear Iska and Ullin and Senha talking when he and Samir get back to the house. He closes the door behind them and Senha pokes her head around the doorway to the kitchen. A smile splits her face when she sees them. Samir squirms around and lets out an excited cry at the sight of her.

“Was wondering where you two were,” she says as Din shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it by the door.

“Had to take care of something,” he replies. Senha looks at him questioningly. Din shakes his head. Not now. Ideally, not ever. But definitely not now. Senha must see something in his expression because she bumps him gently with her hip as she ruffles Samir's curls.

“You mind if I take him for a little bit?” she asks. “I’ve missed him the last few days.”

“Sure.”

They make quick work of the birikad, and as the snug loops of the wrap fall away from his body, Din feels oddly unmoored. Samir doesn’t seem to feel the same way and babbles to Senha as she carries him into the kitchen. Din takes a moment to fold the wrap and stow it in his jacket pocket as he listens to her mock-serious replies to Samir’s rambling description of the day.

Following them, he stops just outside the kitchen, watching the scene within. Ullin takes plates from Iska and sets them on the table, listening to Senha recount her day. Tucked in the circle of her arms, Samir chews on a piece of tomato as he looks from one to the other. Ullin’s face lifts as he chuckles and Samir joins in with his hiccupping giggle. Iska looks over at the three of them fondly before glancing to Din, still hovering outside the threshold to the kitchen.

“Ad? Everything alright?”

Din forces his mouth into a smile and steps into the room. “Mind wandered.”

As he takes his customary seat beside Senha and rests an arm over the back of her chair, Samir turns to him and holds out the half-eaten piece of tomato.

“Boo?”

Din brushes his hand over the kid’s hair, “Nayc, ad’ika. Vor’e.” Halfway through the declination, his brain puts together what the kid had said.

Bu.

The kid can barely speak ten words, he reminds himself. It’s a hell of a lot more likely to be gibberish than an attempt at buir. Even so, Din can’t quite stifle the emotion that rises in him. It’s akin to longing, with a touch of excitement and a sharp spike of crystalline pain. The kid was probably speaking toddler, but...

Buir.

Everyone in Arkose has been referring to him as the kid’s buir, but it’s another thing altogether if the kid recognizes him as that. It only twists the knots in his gut tighter. It just reminds him how un-fucking-qualified he is to be in this position.

The idea of food, even Iska and Ullin’s cooking, turns his stomach, but he forces himself to eat. It would be rude to waste food and would probably lead to questions he has no interest in answering.

Despite his attempts to interject responses at the right time in the conversation, Senha’s hand settles on his thigh halfway through the meal. Din offers her the same forced smile he’d given Iska, but from the way Senha worries her thumb over his leg, she’s unconvinced.

Then again, he has yet to trick her bullshit meter successfully.

Surprisingly, Senha doesn’t say anything to him about it when the three of them head back to the bedroom. She hands Samir over, along with his toothbrush and pajamas, and squeezes his elbow gently before letting the two of them slip out of the room to shower and get ready for bed.

Samir’s tired enough to behave and allow his teeth to be brushed, and he’s half-asleep by the time they leave the bathroom. Din reads Foxy and the Fruit Bats while Senha showers, and by the time she returns, her hair wet and smelling like clean woods, the kid is fast asleep in the crook of his arm.

It’s still early, but with as little uninterrupted sleep as they’ve all been getting the past week, Din feels like he could melt straight into the mattress.

The bed dips and Senha brings a wave of cool air with her as she lifts the quilt. She pats over the bed between them, “Where’s the kiddo?”

“My other side.”

“Oh good,” Senha slides close to his side, tucking the quilt around them. “Wouldn’t want to squash the little dude.”

His eyes still closed, one corner of Din’s mouth curves up as Senha slips under his arm to rest her cheek on his chest. He trails his fingers up her spine as he says, “I was afraid I would roll over on him in my sleep, at first.”

Senha’s voice is already a sleepy murmur, “Nah, you wouldn't have. The dad instincts are too strong. ”

Any response Din has is lost. He opens his eyes, looking up at the ceiling. Senha slides her arm over his stomach until her fingertips touch the kid, who’s curled against his other side. She murmurs something unintelligible, her body growing heavy against him.

He’s safe, tucked up with a foundling who sees him as buir and someone who sees him as a partner worthy of trust, respect, and affection. He’s with an aliit who seems to find endless worth in him and a tribe who has accepted him with open arms. He’s with his people again, speaking a language he’d thought almost lost to him, doing work he enjoys.

And he feels like a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit. One with gaps around the edges, with blank spots that should be smoothly meeting the edges around it. Not just in the wrong position, but in the wrong box.

As Samir and Senha sleep on either side of him, Din stares up at the ceiling and blinks against the burn in his eyes.

It should be Matas lying here. In his own bed, at home with his aliit, with someone like Senha and a foundling or a creed-born of his own tucked against his side. It’s Matas who could fill the space around the edges – not Din.

* * * * * * *

The air around him is thick. Suffocating. Din breathes in and the musty smell of wet smoke and decay settles on his tongue.

Something moves in his arms, and he looks down to find Samir pressing his face into his chest, his tiny body quaking. With cold or with fear or both, he doesn't know. The child's hands are clenched in Din’s shirt, bloodless from gripping so tightly. He hugs the kid closer, trying to share some of his heat, but he’s starting to shiver in the icy grey fog as well.

He squints, trying to penetrate the mist, but he can make out nothing. Just slowly winding tendrils curling through the air. Something about it feels wrong, unnatural, and the hairs on the back of his neck and his arms stand up.

“Din?”

The echo of Senha’s voice is muffled like she’s just ahead of them beyond the mist. He starts to move towards her voice, but his feet are rooted to the ground and he almost falls, his back twisting painfully as he catches himself. His breath puffs out in a cloud of condensation, adrenaline coursing through his system as he tries to pick up one foot, then the other, to no avail. He cannot go forward or back. He can only stand, caught in the mist.

“Bu?” Samir’s voice is wavering and half muted in his shirt.

Din shushes him, shifting him higher up in his arms. “Udesii, Sam’ika. Morut’yc, you’re safe.”

“LIAR.”

The voice of the woman with the jade eyes rends the air in a scream of rage and Samir trembles. Din tries to turn, but he can’t go back, and the echo of the voice fades into the mist as quickly as it came.

Shivers spread through his body as he looks around at the innocently billowing mist. Where are they? How did they get here? How do they get out?

“You know the way out, ad,” Razan speaks from his left. Din looks, his heart in his throat. There’s nothing but mist. “You’ve always known the way.”

“Din!” Senha’s voice is higher now, panicked. “Cyare!” The word is strangely modulated; two voices crying out instead of one.

“Senha?” There’s no answer, and his stomach cramps painfully as he shakes in the cold.

“Matas?” He whispers, but there’s no reply. They’re alone.

“Bu…” Samir whimpers, his voice weak. Din is terrified to feel how cold the kid has become. The toddler looks up at him. His ordinarily bright brown eyes are hazy and confused. Din tucks him closer and the kid’s face is frigid against his neck.

He needs to find a way out of here before they both go hypothermic. He’s not going to fail the kid again.

The thought thunders in time with his pulse as Din tries again to take a step. He inhales sharply when it leaves the ground this time. Unbalanced, he goes down hard, turning to land on his side and shoulder. The kid clings more tightly to him but doesn’t make a sound. The mist, which had curled away from him as he fell, begins to creep back towards them with icy fingers.

Din scrambles to his feet and turns in a tight circle. His eyes scan the mist for signs of anyone, of anything. It could be a trick of the light, but it almost seems to be moving faster now, billowing clouds turning in on and around themselves. It feels more ominous, threatening.

He reaches one hand out and ice fills his veins when he finds a smooth surface. Skimming his fingers along it, he follows the glass around him in a large circle. It doesn’t give as he pushes against it, first with his hand and then with his shoulder.

As he turns back to the center of his prison, the mist on the other side of the glass fades away to nothing. In its place, there’s just white nothingness, and the light makes him nauseated. It’s wrong. All of it is wrong, filling his veins like poison, making him sluggish and dizzy.

“You're hurting him, sweetheart.”

Din turns to see Senha on the other side of the glass, dressed in the same clothes as she had been after the fight in Chert, spots of blood and gore dried on her face and neck. Her voice is hoarse with exhaustion and her hands tremble.

“No, I–” Din looks down at the boy in his arms, and there’s blood dried on his face and in his curls, dripping down his temples along the same path Din runs his fingers each night. “No.”

“It wasn’t your fault, but you need to be the one to fix it,” Razan’s voice comes again behind him. When Din turns, he’s standing on the other side of the glass. His buir’s face is lined with worry, but he stands straight.

“You can’t protect him from yourself, cyare.” Din recognizes the voice, but there’s dread in his heart as he turns to face Matas. His friend looks much the same as he’d looked when they’d had that last, terrible fight. Strong, proud, his hair cut short, and his amber eyes fierce and passionate. “Can’t you see?”

Matas raises a hand and points to Din’s left. He turns to look. The glass has become a mirror, and a man stares back at him, holding a baby. The man is gaunt, his cheeks hollow and his clothes hanging off his frame. Lank, dark brown hair falls across his forehead, and his hands curl like claws around Samir. The baby sleeps, but the color has left him. His usually warm cheeks are grey and dark circles lie under his eyes. Din looks back to the mirror, and the eyes that stare back are red-rimmed and sunken, bright with fever.

Din turns to face Razan, holding Samir away from his body. “Take him! I can’t– if I’m making him sick–”

His buir shakes his head slowly, “It has to be you, Din’ika.”

Din turns to look at Senha, but she shakes her head as well. Tears slip down her cheeks, leaving twin trails through the blood on her cheeks.

Finally, Din turns to Matas. His amber eyes are so bright as he tips his head to one side, "He is your ad'ika. What are you waiting for?"

* * * * * * *

There’s something worse about it this time when Senha wakes to Samir crying from Din’s other side. There’s something more panicked in his sobs, and she can feel the tension vibrating in Din’s body like an overtightened wire. Sitting up, Senha reaches over Din to pick Samir up, pulling the kiddo against her as she blinks away the sleep in her eyes.

Looking down at Din, it’s clear he’s still deep in the nightmare. His teeth are clenched and the tendons in his throat are pulled tight. She can feel his hand spasm into a fist at his side, and she shakes his shoulder.

“Din, wake up. Wake up.”

His eyes open, the small amount of light in the room reflecting off wide, wild eyes. Sitting up, he shudders as he tries to pull in air and coughs instead.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Senha rubs circles into his back with one hand, Samir still tucked against her in her other arm. She can feel more than hear the kid crying. “You’re alright. It’s just a dream.”

Curling in on himself, Din buries his face in his hands, and the show of vulnerability from him scares her more than almost anything else she’s seen. She scoots closer to wrap an arm around his shoulders, “It’s not real. I promise.”

Din shudders again and his hands tighten in his hair as he mutters, “It is, though. It’s not just a dream; it’s real. I’m making him sick because I made myself fucking sick and I’m too much of a fucking hu’tuun to take the only solution anyone can offer because I can’t trust myself not to kill someone.”

He exhales the words in one breath and Senha stops, unsure if she’d just heard him right. His accent was thicker, coloring more of the words than usual, but she’d understood enough.

Din freezes as well, and she’s pretty damn sure he hadn’t meant to say any of that out loud. Her guess is confirmed when he raises his face from his hands and looks over at her. He looks nauseated in the dim light.

“Made yourself sick?” Senha asks.

Ator hadn’t said anything to her about the private part of Din’s exam, and Senha wasn’t about to go snooping through his medical file for information, but she has to know what he means.

Rather than answering, Din locks away whatever just happened, his face smoothing into an expressionless mask.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I can take him,”

Oh hell no, he’s not going to brush this off. He may be able to wipe his face clean, but she can feel a tremor in the hand clenched in the blanket between them.

“Hang on a second. What did you mean, ‘I’m making him sick because I made myself sick’?”

A flash of anger hardens his features before it’s gone, “Give him to me, Senha.”

The pit of her stomach drops at the grind in his voice, but she stands her ground. She’s not handing a kid over to someone teetering on the edge of control, “Not until you calm down and tell me what you mean.”

“Now,” his voice is dangerously low.

Samir whines in her arms and Senha says the only thing she can think of to snap him out of this.

“You’re scaring us.”

It has the intended effect. Din’s breath rushes out like she’s just kicked him in the chest, and the feral energy leaves his eyes. She feels like a fucking asshole as he runs both hands over his face, long fingers covering his cheeks and eyes. The misery rolls off him in waves, worse than after any of his other nightmares, worse than anything other than that devastating drive after they’d escaped Chert. Maybe even worse than that because they can’t run from whatever’s hunting him in his dreams.

“Din,” Senha presses her forehead to his shoulder. “Talk to me. Please.”

It seems like he can barely draw in a full breath, and when he does, it hitches at the end. He lets it out again and shakes his head.

“Let me help you,” she pleads. ”What did Ator say?"

“Ator told me to talk to Azalia.”

Senha blinks. She’d been anticipating something slightly more medical, but, “Okay. Was that- did you go see her when you left the clinic?”

Din nods.

“What did she say?”

His fingers twist in the quilt between them, “She said that I am utreemanda.”

“Utreemanda?”

“It means 'empty soul.’”

The hairs on the back of Senha’s neck stand up at the words. She has no idea what ‘empty soul’ means to the mando’ade, but it doesn’t sound fucking good. She also knows she’s in way over her head here. They’d touched on cultural illnesses for about an hour of her community health class, but she’s never come face to face with it in her work before.

“Empty soul,” she repeats carefully.

“Yes. And you were right; the kid is getting worse because I’m getting worse. It’s spreading to him.”

“Is the utreemanda a- a physiological condition? Or psychological?” Or both? Her mind jumps to PTSD and she has to rein it back in.

“It’s… complicated. She thinks it’s why I can’t see red.”

The mixture of physical and mental symptoms, particularly given his background, certainly sounds like PTSD. She’s grasping to relate this unknown to something she can identify. Something she can put a name to. But while linking the two might be her instinct, maybe that’s not what he needs right now. Maybe they can be the same and different all at once. Maybe it doesn’t matter what it’s called.

“Did she say how people usually– recover from it?”

“She said there’s something unsettled in me. That I need to figure out what it is and make peace with it.”

“And you’re not exactly sure what ‘it’ is?” Senha guesses.

“I don’t have the first fucking clue. Or- I do, but I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to–” he breaks off with a frustrated sound, and Senha squeezes his hand. Deeming that the situation has deescalated enough, she shifts Samir in her arms and holds him out.

Din looks over and even in the dim light, Senha can see how his face creases with pain on seeing the kid reach for him. Din takes him and tucks him into his chest, leaning back against the head of the bed.

Senha crosses her legs and tucks Basa into her lap, continuing her train of thought. “And she suggested a way for you to figure that out, but it’s... not something you’re comfortable doing?”

“Yes.”

They sit in silence for another moment, but Senha can’t see a way around the obvious next question.

“So… what did she suggest?”

There’s a long pause as Din rubs his hand over Samir’s back. The kiddo’s got his thumb in his mouth and his eyes are heavy.

“There’s a mixture of herbs that she said could help me see things more clearly. A– a tea.”

Senha’s eyebrows shoot up before she can catch herself. “Some kind of psychedelic?”

“I think so.”

She picks at a loose thread from one of Basa’s wings as she puts pieces together, and his jumbled rush of words on waking makes sudden, terrible sense. Senha draws in a slow breath, trying to phrase her next question delicately, “I’m guessing, and please don't feel any need to confirm, but I’m guessing that at some point you experimented with drugs and something went pretty bad.”

“That’s the gist of it, yes.”

She lets out a low whistle and Din hazards a glance over at her. Senha shrugs, “Look, even if you hadn’t had a bad experience, you’ve got every right to feel uncomfortable with someone suggesting you take something that’ll alter your mindset. Throw in a bad experience on top of it, and that’s... That’s a big ask for anyone.”

“Yeah,” the word comes out almost like a sigh of relief. It makes Senha wonder how he’d expected her to react. Did he think the information would repel her? Demand the kid back and tell Iska and Ullin? Report him to the police?

Maybe he did. Maybe that’s what he thinks should be done.

At this point, she’s seen Din walk away from multiple situations that would’ve put others on the ground, but he makes up for it by tearing himself apart with just as much damage as a hail of bullets. He meets his mistakes with a mix of resigned frustration and weariness: disappointed but not surprised.

An idea occurs to her.

“Why did you do it? Before?”

The tension eases back into his body, and she clarifies, “The drugs, I mean. Not- whatever happened afterward.”

There’s shame in his voice, and derision and so much regret it makes her heart ache.

“I was young. Stupid. Started working with a crew of mercs. We’d just finished a job that we’d had no business surviving. Someone offered them to me, and I took them. They were there, and I just took them, and...” He shakes his head. Whatever had happened, the pain of it is etched deep in the lines around his mouth and eyes.

“Okay,” Senha nods. “And… if you were to- drink the tea, now. Why would you do it?”

Still frowning, Din tilts his head, “I’d– To try and fix this. So it doesn't spread to the kid. If I can’t figure this out, I’ll have to find someone else to take him. Someone who can give him what he needs.” As he speaks, he looks down at the babe in his arms, another wave of misery rolling over his face.

Senha wants to wrap her arms around him and pull his head down to her shoulder and tell him he is every bit what the kid needs, but she’s on a mission. She satisfies herself by bundling Basa up tightly in her arms, keeping her voice light, "Okay, so you'd be doing it to help Samir."

"Yes," Din replies slowly. He doesn’t sound overly convinced, but she’ll take it.

“And the people you were with before, the first time. Were you close to them?”

He lets out a snort at this, and a corner of Senha’s mouth turns up.

“No. They were mercenaries. They didn’t give a damn about me and I returned the sentiment.” He swallows, the sound audible before he continues. His voice is hoarse, “One of them said later he didn’t know it would light me up like it did. Said it was a hell of a thing to see.”

Anger dances up Senha’s spine and she works to relax her jaw. She can rage at the cruelty of the world and those in it later.

“Okay. And the people you’d be with here if you drank the tea?”

“I don’t– I don’t know who exactly–”

Senha shakes her head, “It doesn’t matter exactly who would be there. I mean the people here. Azalia. Ator. Iska and Ullin.”

She picks up on the moment when he catches on to what she’s getting at, and there’s a hint of reluctance in his voice when he answers, “They care. More than they should.”

Rubbing one of the crinkled spikes on Basa’s tail between her thumb and index fingers, Senha decidedly sidesteps the number of ways she could argue with that statement and continues along her line of questioning.

“Were you afraid? Before you took them the first time?”

“No. I… I didn’t know what I was going to do.”

“And now?”

He takes in a shuddering breath and she leans towards him until her forehead rests on his shoulder. After a beat, Din’s head settles on top of hers. “I told myself I would never put myself in that position again. That I’d never let myself be– like that again. Everything I’ve done since then has been to try and live the way I should. To uphold the vows I’ve taken.”

This is the first she’s heard him speak of vows, religious or otherwise, but the harsh grind in his voice makes it clear that whatever they are, they’re a cornerstone of who he is now. Senha places her palm on Din’s chest, the metal amulet he wears pressing into her fingers. “If you were to do this for Sam’ika, to help him and you – how would that fit into living the way you should? What would that make you?”

Din lets out a warm breath against her cheek, “I don’t know. I don’t know what I would be.”

“I think... that’s the first question you have to answer, sweetheart. If you can answer that, I think you’ll find the answers to the other questions.” She sits up and meets his gaze, “But whatever you decide, I’m here. However this turns out, I will be here.”

His brow furrowing, Din closes his eyes and Senha raises her palm to his cheek. She touches her forehead to his and presses a kiss to his lips before leaning down to drop a kiss on Samir’s forehead. The toddler murmurs something and squirms to a more comfortable position in Din’s arms. Din lets his head fall back to Senha's shoulder, and she finally gives in to the urge to wrap her arms around them and hold them both close.

When she wakes again, it’s just after dawn. The first rays of sun are slanting through the blinds on the other side of the room, falling on the wall over the head of the bed.