Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a stupid mistake that saved his life. But a mistake nonetheless and it landed him in his current predicament. ‘What predicament,’ you might ask this poor bastard? Why, being captured by Mandalorian Insurgents and being brought to their terrifying leaders for interrogation, of course!

Just his fucking luck.

The head of the mandos was a man he knew all too well by reputation. Boba Fett. The infamous bounty hunter who’d worked for Vader before the Empire started to crack down the middle. Supposedly he’d died on some shitty backwater desert planet in the Outer Rim. Guess it didn’t stick. Or it was a lie to trick Imperial Intelligence. The second in command was an even taller mando in shiny silver armor with a wicked looking rifle on his back. The other mandos all seemed oddly deferential towards him for reasons Migs couldn’t begin to fathom. All he’d done during the whole interrogation was lean casually against the back wall. Almost like he was watching Fett’s back.

What he could gather between questions was that the other mandos called Fett ‘All-vurday’ or something and the silver one was ‘Man-da-lore.’ Which… sounded kind of familiar now that he thought-

The mando behind him suddenly slammed his head into the floor and held him there, growling something in that blasted language of theirs. The world wobbled at the edges as Fett barked something he couldn’t quite hear. Once he was upright again he tried to focus on the question Fett asked him but he was pretty sure his left ear was bugging out. All he could hear was static.

“Would you hold on for a damned second!?” He asked, exasperated as the fucks he had left to give flew off into the ether. “I can’t hear shit!” Shaking his head to try and clear it he was surprised when Fett actually seemed to wait. If anything the patience and lack of anger just made Migs all the more nervous. “So, uh, what was the question?”

“What is your rank? What objectives were you given?”

Migs scoffed, licking the blood off his split lip and spitting it onto the ground. “For the last time- you’ve got the wrong guy! I took the fucking cylinder and rank badges to prove to my CO that our commander was dead! I’m just a dumb grunt, I shoot what they tell me to shoot!”

Fett let out a low growl but quieted a second later, his helmet tilting toward the silver mando nearby. After what Migs assumed was a private conversation Fett turned back to him. “If you’re not able to give us any useful information then we’ll just have to execute you. You’ve already seen and heard too much.”

A shiver ran down his spine as a blaster was placed against the back of his head. Cold sweat beaded on his brow and his heart began to race. “H-hey now! I thought you were all about honor and shit like that! I’m unarmed, can’t even fight back with my hands tied! You can’t just kill me for your fuck up!” He knew he was whining, almost begging really, but what choice did he have? “At least let me die on my feet!” He hissed, knowing he was all out of options.

“Enough!” Fett barked, lifting his hand.

Migs flinched and slammed his eyes shut. He wondered if he’d be able to feel his brains getting blown out all across the floor. Just like he’d done to countless targets. Already he could feel his breath coming in sharp gasps, his heart in his throat. His hands and feet had gone cold and he knew he was shaking.

A fucking coward. He’d been a coward his whole life, and now he was going to die like one.

The seconds ticked by and nothing happened. Cracking one eye open he saw the silver mando standing next to Fett, one hand on his shoulder. But his helmet was looking right at Migs. Fett suddenly let out a heavy sigh. “Fine, we won’t kill him.” The ‘for now’ in his voice was implied by the pissy tone in his voice. “But you’ll remain our prisoner until we decide what to do with you.”

Migs sagged in place, taking a huge gulp of air. Since when had he held his breath?

Fett barked something in that guttural yet oddly rhythmic language of theirs and Migs was hauled to his feet without warning.

He stumbled and cursed under his breath. The mando behind him chuckled lowly. “Better get used to being a prisoner, Imp.”

Migs scowled as Fett and his silver shadow left the room, melting into the darkness without another word. Once they were gone he let out a breath of relief. They really were scary bastards.

“Come.” The mando behind him grabbed his arm and forced him to either walk or be dragged. And as much as Migs wanted to be a petty bitch about the whole thing he’d rather walk on his own. That way no one got any ideas about kicking him when he was down.

The cave system was full of sharp twists and turns. Random pathways winding through the pitch black. Contrary to popular belief sound did not travel in caves. There was nowhere for it to go in the oppressive halls, the walls swallowing everything like some giant ravenous beast. The same thing happened to the sparse lighting. Migs had to be careful where he put his feet any time they turned a corner.

He quickly noticed that the mando either didn’t need to see where they were going or their fancy metal bucket had an advanced HUD that could see through the pitch black. Sadly Migs had lost his own helmet during his capture. So he had to rely on the fucker that slammed his head into the ground earlier not to steer him into a wall just for shits and giggles.

No longer paying attention to where they were going, he’d given up on memorizing the route a while ago, he wasn’t prepared for the sudden yank on his arms. He stumbled and nearly fell but the mando held him steady, rather than let him crash into the ground. A surprise but a pleasant one. Also a bit suspicious and concerning.

“Get in.” The mando said behind him, pulling on his arm to direct him where to go.

“Get where? I can’t see sweet fuck all!”

The mando snorted and Migs could feel the brush of their armor against his shoulder as they leaned around him. Then his eyes were being assaulted by a sudden light.

“Augh, karking kriff! Warn a guy next time!” He cursed, much to the amusement of the mando. Stepping inside he pushed himself into the corner, where he could finally get a good look at his captor. Dark green armor with white and black details. Stood about a half a foot taller than Migs and had the bulk to easily put him down if he tried to do a runner. Not that he would. He knew he was well and truly fucked by now.

Turning his attention to the elevator he frowned. It looked like the kind used in old mining complexes. Large and sturdy enough for a heavy load of minerals. It made sense why the mandos would use it as part of their hideout.

As they began to descend further into the cold dark earth Migs tried to count the seconds that went by and judge how fast they were moving. But without the specs on this particular elevator he couldn’t be sure exactly how far down they were going. Just that it was quite a ways.

When the elevator finally stopped he was pulled out into yet more tunnels. Although these looked to have been carved out a lot better. More uniform, like an actual facility. On the way they passed a couple groups of mandos and even though he couldn’t see their eyes he knew they were all watching him. There was this kind of sixth sense you picked up in the army. All the best soldiers had it. Some called it instincts, others experience. Migs didn’t really care what it was called. It had gotten him out of more trouble than any of his squadies had. Well, any of his new squadies anyway.

Pulled up short once more his feet slid on the damp rock and he nearly went down, cursing a blue streak. “Do you treat all your dates this way, big guy?” He snarked at the mando once he’d gotten his feet properly under him. He knew he was going to have a huge bruise on his arm later from the amount of times that fucker had yanked on him. Which was nothing compared to the ache he’d feel in his face once the adrenaline wore off.

“Well,” a new voice rumbled far too close for comfort, “they’re a mouthy little os’ika, aren’t they?”

Migs body stilled, the way prey does when a predator comes too close to their hiding place. His sharp blue eyes narrowed as he tried to peer into the darkness.

“Should have heard them beaking off to the al’verde and alor. Surprised they’re still alive.” The mando holding him said with a laugh.

“Well, at least they’ll be entertaining.” Stepping into the light was a huge mando with four arms. The bottom two were crossed over a broad chest while the top two were holding a rifle. The armor was a mix of dark blue and grey that made the brute nearly invisible in the shadows of the cave.

“Good, cause they’re all yours!” The mando behind him said, letting his arm go and shoving him forward.

Migs snarled as the Besalisk mando caught him easily. It was like an adult standing next to a child. Fuck, he hadn’t realized they made Besalisks that massive!

It seemed the massive mando thought the same thing as their helmet tilted down to look at him. “You sure this one’s not an ad?”

The other mando snorted. “They’re not. Everyone’s just small next to you. I’ve got to get back. Jate’kara!” And with that the brute left Migs alone with the even larger mando.

Great, just fucking perfect.

Dragged further down the corridor through more oppressive darkness they made a couple confusing turns before stopping. Then he was nearly blinded again, “ow, fuck!” The light probably wasn’t as bright as it seemed but being forced to march through darkness so long meant his eyes weren’t ready for the sudden change. Spots danced across his vision and he blinked rapidly to try and clear it. All the while the Besilisk hadn’t stopped walking, half carrying him while he was distracted.

When he could finally see he wasn’t surprised to find a large cell embedded into the rock. It wasn’t even made of advanced tech. Just giant metal bars that he knew from a cursory glance would be impossible to bust out of. Inside the cell the Besalisk mando forced him to his knees. They were surprisingly gentle compared to the last mando.

“I’m going to take off your bindings now. Don’t try anything funny.” They said as they loomed over him.

Migs snorted, unable to stop himself. “I don’t have a death wish, I won’t do shit. You look like you could fold me in half.”

The Besalisk let out a booming laugh and released his arms. “You’ve got more brains than most! Make sure you keep that good sense and don’t cause any trouble.”

Migs waited until the Besalisk was outside the cell and the door was closed before he tried to move. Pulling his hands in front of him he rubbed at the raw skin. They’d taken his helmet and his gauntlets, along with his belt, weapons, and even the knife he kept in his boot. But weirdly they left him in his armor. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of that as he took in his new living space for the foreseeable future. Was it an incentive? A flex? A psychological tactic? He had no clue. But… he was glad they’d left him something. If he had to sit in some dank cave he’d rather not have to do it in his underwear, thank you very much!

Looking outside the cell he realized the Besalisk mando hadn’t left. Instead they were sat at a makeshift table with a second mando Migs hadn’t noticed earlier. The two of them were playing some kind of card game but he couldn’t tell which one from where he was sitting.

Gingerly he got up from the stone floor, keeping one eye on the mandos. Subtly he shifted his body, testing his joints and trying to feel for any particularly bad injuries. Right away he knew that his shoulders were going to be a major pain and he could feel the rawness of his wrists. Neither were bad enough to be considered actual injuries, but they were definitely going to suck later. If anything was a mess it was probably his face.

Grimacing he wiped his face on his cloth covered arm, hissing a little in pain. Prodding at his nose, lips, and forehead he decided that they were sore but there didn’t seem to be any open wounds. So he was overall in pretty good shape. He probably had a nosebleed earlier to go along with his split lip but it had already stopped on its own. Nothing he hadn’t experienced many times before.

Exploring his cell he wasn’t surprised to find a piss pot but he did raise his eyebrow at the cot. Large enough for someone triple his size and hard bolted into the rock. Even more surprising it actually had a pretty decent foam mat on top. Looking at the cot, then down at his grime covered armor, he grit his teeth. His armor was filthy and he hated the idea of laying in filth when he didn’t have to. On the other hand he didn’t relish the idea of being without his armor if someone decided they wanted to visit the prisoner for a beatdown.

It happened enough to Imperial prisoners on bases Migs had been stationed. Although he didn’t agree with the practice and had never taken part. So it was a legitimate fear.

Glancing over his shoulder at the two mandos he had the sudden realization that it didn’t matter. One punch from the Besalisk would probably shatter his bones, armor or no armor. And he was just too fucking exhausted to care anymore.

Working at the straps for his arms he let the first piece hit the ground with a dull thunk. Next came his pauldrons. Pulling his chest and back plate over his head he dropped them on top of the pile. He worked quickly, though his fingers were a little stiff. Once he was down to his boots and shin guards he sat on the edge of the bed. After tossing his shin guards onto the pile he yanked off his boots and set them next to the bed. The cave floor was probably cold and he didn’t want to be without his boots if he was snatched for another interrogation.

Finally free of the grimy armor he lay down on the cot and let out a tired sigh. This wasn’t the worst place he’d kipped. In fact it was probably better than eighty percent of the places he’d had to bunk down during missions. Migs counted himself lucky. Before the army he’d learned how to sleep practically anywhere.

Listening to the faint sounds of the two mandos as they continued their game the Imperial sniper closed his eyes. Between one breath and the next exhaustion dragged him down into the bliss of oblivion.

Chapter Text

The first thing he remembered was her voice. “Mig, my little word smith.” It was always so gentle, soft, and full of joy. “Always getting into trouble aren’t you, Little sunflower?” Her favourite nickname for him. He’d always scrunch up his face in distaste, just to make her laugh. Long red hair spilled over her shoulders, finally let down at the end of a long day. Her blue eyes, the same shade as his own, looked at him with so much love.

Suddenly a voice, filled with rage, comes through the door. “Sol-mis! You can’t hide forever! We know you’re in there!”

His mother’s eyes fill with fear as she picks him up and places him in the cramped crawlspace behind the cupboard. There is barely enough room for him to curl into a ball, his knees painfully pressed into his chest. “My beautiful child. Close your eyes, and don’t come out no matter what you hear.” A single tear runs down her face. “I love you, my little So-”

A loud clang wakes Migs from his fitful sleep. Rolling out of bed he lets muscle memory take control. Catching himself from falling heavily to the floor he immediately straightens, back as stiff as a board with his arms plastered against his sides. His eyes stare forward, unblinking, as he waits for whatever officer is on duty to perform the inspection.

It takes him a little longer to remember where he is than he’d like to admit. Which is not in the barracks back on base with the rest of his squad. Blinking blearily as his mind slowly catches up to him he spies a mando standing near the cell door and deflates, for lack of a better term. Scrubbing at his sore face he glares at the mando, who is very obviously laughing at him with the way their shoulders are rising and falling.

Crossing his arms over his chest he scowls. “What?” He snaps, more that a little miffed about being awoken so abruptly.

The Besalisk lifts up a tray that is far too small for their size. “Latemeal.” They say with a shrug of their shoulders.

To say he’s surprised is an understatement. Honestly he thought they’d let him starve, at least a little. It was a common tactic to get compliance out of a prisoner. Everybody had to eat, after all. Dropping his arms he waits for the mando to tell him what to do. But when the Besalisk just continues to stare at him Migs lets out a small huff. “Well? What do you want me to do? Stay here? Go there? Hands against the wall? I don’t feel like getting my ass kicked for no reason!” He groused, throwing his hands up for emphasis.

There’s an amused snort from somewhere behind the Besalisk but Migs doesn’t care. It was probably just the other guard.

“How about you stay there and I’ll leave this here.” Without waiting for his answer the Besalisk opens the cell door and sets the tray down. After sliding it further into the cell they close the door and lock it again. That job finished they head back to the table to sit with the other mando on duty.

Migs waits a moment, just to see if it might be a trap, before going to grab the tray. On it are a couple of water packs, a simple wooden bowl, and a matching wooden spoon. Wood? Really? Weird, but okay.

Looking in the bowl he freezes in place. “S’this porridge?” He asks before he can think better of it. It had been a long time since he’d seen actual porridge.

“Oh, you recognize it?” The other mando, the one he hasn’t actually heard talk yet, peeks out from around the Besalisk. “Not a lot of sentients actually know what it is.” Their voice is higher pitched than the Besalisk. A female of some kind maybe? Not that he’d be able to tell from the armor. They did a good job making it as androgynous as possible. Though to be fair you couldn’t always tell someone’s sex or gender just by looking at them.

“Uh, yeah. Used to eat it a lot back,” he stopped himself before he could say anything stupid, “before the army.” He finished lamely. They didn’t need to know anything about his past. Hell, they probably wouldn’t care if he said something anyway.

“Well, I hope you enjoy it then.” The Besalisk says cheerfully, turning back to whatever game they were playing. “Hrm, pretty sure those cards were in the deck and not on the field, vod.”

The second mando snickered and said nothing.

“Uh… thanks?” Taking the tray back to the cot he sat down and tore into the water pack first. Once his thirst had been quenched he took a tentative bite of the porridge. He didn’t think the mandos would poison him. Fett didn’t seem the type. Drugs, however? Yeah, there was more to be wary of than poison. So he waited a couple minutes to see if there were any ill effects. With his unique biology he metabolized everything far more quickly than Humans and most Near-Humans.

When there were no ill effects after a few minutes he dug into the dish with relish. The spices and fruit were a little different than what he remembered, but overall it had a very nostalgic feeling to it. When he was finished he bundled everything back onto the tray and set it back on the floor of the cell where he’d gotten it from. Heading back to the cot he flopped back down with the intention of catching more sleep. He hadn’t gotten nearly enough before he was rudely awakened.

Closing his eyes he listened to the mandos as they talked amicably in their strange language, wheedling each other like fellow soldiers do. The sound lulled him back to sleep and soon he was dreaming of days long passed.

The days sort of blend together after the first one. There’s no way to tell time down in the cell and his sleeping schedule is all out of alignment. Even the changing of the guard is at odd intervals. He can’t make heads or tails of their weird schedule. The only thing that seems regular is the delivery of food. Like clockwork.

There are three other guards who frequently come to watch him. The rest seem to be whoever is available at the time. Though none of them will admit anything to him, he knows.

The first break in the cycle is when the Silver mando comes to visit him. The guards, who are usually chatting away and shooting the shit, get to their feet and slam their fists against their chests and bow their heads. “Mand’alor.” They say in unison.

A shiver runs down Migs spine. It’s eerily similar to how a squad would salute their superior officer whenever they appear on deck. He’d suspected that the Silver mando was part of Fett’s chain of command, but the immediate respect was… jarring. Either they were fanatically loyal or they were terrified of fucking up. Neither option bode well for him.

Silver waved a hand at the guards and must have said something over their internal comms as both slowly sat down again to resume their game. Instead of joining the two the one Migs had dubbed ‘Silver’ in his head leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms.

Then they just… stayed there. Silently. Watching him.

If this was some kind of fucked up interrogation tactic then Migs had to admit it worked. He’d always hated being stared at. It was one of the reasons he’d shaved all his hair off, even if it gave him a baby face. Better to have a baby face than be recognized for his red hair and blue eyes by one of his superiors. Honestly he was thankful that all medical exams had been done through a droid and that unless it affected their overall performance on the field no one cared about your records.

When the silence and the staring started to drag on Migs could feel his patience waning. Until finally the tension became too much and he snapped. “Nice weather we’re having huh?” He drawled sarcastically. “This place sure beats the noise of the big city.” Out of the corner of his eye he could see the guards stiffen, almost as if they couldn’t believe what had just come out of his mouth. “Could use a bit more fresh air though, hey? I don’t know about whatever filters you guys have in those buckets of yours but I have to breathe like a normal person.” Really he was just defaulting to what he knew best. Complaining. “And it’s rank in here. Which, to be fair is probably just me.”

Sniffing his uniform he grimaced. Yeah, okay, that one was actually true. He’d been dragged through mud, ash, and fuck all else before waking up in mando custody. He couldn’t exactly jaunt on down to whatever served as the showers in this place while locked up in a cell. Being dirty made him grouchy. He could feel the buildup of grime in all his creases and it was fucking uncomfortable. “Hey, I can’t complain about the quality of food though. Kind of surprised you even fed me, to be honest. Though if you’re trying to poison or drug me that’s not going to work very well.” He grinned, putting as much feral energy into it as he could. “They train us for all sorts of things.”

Looking right into the visor of Silver he felt a sudden tingle on the back of his neck and knew, just knew, that their eyes had met. Slowly Silver peeled away from the wall, like a giant lazy felinoid. They must have said something over comms once more as the two guards straightened to attention. The entire time their gaze never left Migs.

Then they were gone. Like a karking ghost! One minute they were staring him down and the next the spot was empty.

“Holy shit!?” The words rang out into the silent room and he winced when he realized they’d come from him.

The Besalisk snorted, then chuckled, then let out a full belly laugh. “Ah, you crack me up Imp.” Shaking their head they turned around on the crate they used as a chair. “I thought the Empire beat all the personality out of their soldiers, along with their gett’se.”

‘Get-say?’ Did they mean guts? Migs grinned. “Yeah well, some of us know how to keep our mouth shut when an officer is around. The others learn quick, or they don’t learn at all.” Well, that got depressing really fast.

The other mando, this one in orange and teal of all combos, looks at the Besalisk then back to him. “Hey, Imp, do you-”

“Migs.” He says firmly.

“What?”

“My name is Migs. I’m tired of being called Imp all the time.” And since he’s pretty sure he’s going to die whenever Fett gets around to it he’d rather have someone remember that much about him before he’s thrown in a ditch somewhere. Better than being put down as ‘SN 39-24901, KIA.’

“Migs, huh? Wouldn’t have been my first guess.” The Besalisk says with a thoughtful hum. “You look more like an Atin to me.”

Even with the helmet Migs knew what ‘shit-eating grin’ sounded like. The mandos always seemed to forget that ‘Imps’ like him also spent most of their lives with a helmet crammed onto their head. “Laugh it up, chuckles. But at least tell me what that means so I can get in on the joke.”

The other mando leaned over. “Stubborn.”

Migs rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I already knew that. Pretty sure it’s stamped on my file somewhere back at Imp HQ.”

The Besalisk let out a wheeze and slapped the table. The other mando looked at them for a moment, as if checking to see if they were still breathing, before turning back to him. “Atin means stubborn. Though I think we could always just call you Trac’ika.”

Migs scowled at them both as they burst into laughter at whatever expression was on his face now. “And the new one means-?”

Once the Besalisk stopped laughing they tilted their helmet at him, as if looking at a curiosity. “Why don’t we play a little game, Migs. We ask you questions and in return we tell you all the words you want to know.”

Migs stilled. They… they couldn’t know about his skill with languages, could they? Snatching him out of the field was an accident. Swallowing down his nerves he faked a grin. “Well, I reserve the right to tell you to kark off if things get too personal. But it sounds fun.” His grin widened. “I want to know all the fun words first.”

The orange and teal mando chuckled. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re trouble?”

Migs expression faltered. “Yeah, yeah they have.”

“So where are you even from? I can’t place your accent.” Purple and gold mando asks, leaning against the wall and watching the White and Grey mando doing push ups in the middle of the room.

What for? Migs has no idea. “Not sure. We moved around a lot. After I lost my… family, I was shipped off to an orphanage.”

Mando on the floor grunted and stopped, helmet turned in his direction. “So you went right into being an Imp?” The disgust in their voice was clear. This mando in particular didn’t like him but they were fun to trade barbed insults with.

“Yeah? What else was I supposed to do?” He asked hotly. “It was either starving to death, running spice, or-” he caught himself, “Imperial Service.” He swallowed hard. He’d almost told them the only other option that had been given him by the shady drug addict who ran the foster home. Turn Imperial or be handed over to the local Whorehouse to make money in other ways. Of course he’d jumped on the chance to join the army.

“So why not run spice then? You look the part.” White and grey said as they started doing push ups again.

“Spice runners are scum. I never wanted to be like them. I’d rather die first.” Migs bit back the more acidic curses that wanted to spill out but he was pretty sure his tone could still peel paint. Spice runners and gangsters were the reason she… he shook his head. It wasn’t good to dwell on the past and forget the present. The silence that followed his statement was deafening. He grit his teeth and let his head fall back against the rocky wall behind him. Great, now they probably thought he was-

“Understandable. Ignoring my vod’s poor observations, I certainly never pegged you for a coward. A mouthy little bastard, to be sure, but no coward.” Purple and gold hesitated a moment. “So, what words are you interested in this time? I think you know most of our insults by now.” They laughed.

Migs shrugged. “Well, I remember hearing a few things and was curious. What’s an All-vurday? And Vurd-eek-ah?” He was pretty sure he already knew what they meant but he wanted confirmation.

Purple shifted slightly. “Well, Verd’ika,” they said slowly enunciating each part of the word, “means Private. Or just Little Warrior. It’s used as a nickname or a way to tease your vode.”

Okay, simple enough. Although now that he knew what it meant he had a bone to pick with the Besalisk mando. He worked hard for his rank as an elite sharpshooter. If he was going to be called any kind of rank it’d be the one he’d earned.

“And All-vurday?” His grin widened when the White and gray mando’s push up wasn’t as smooth as the last one.

“Al’verde, it means Commander.” Purple and gold corrected carefully, ignoring their partner on the floor.

“What’s Sergeant?”

“Ruus’alor, why?”

Kicking his feet out in front of him he crossed one ankle over the other. “Just nice to know my own rank.”

White and gray finally gave up and stood. “You were a sergeant?” They asked incredulously.

Migs snorted. “I mean, probably not anymore, right?” He was probably on the KIA lists by now. “Now I’m Mirci’t.” Prisoner. One of the first words he demanded the Besalisk mando teach him. He wanted to know whenever they were talking about him.

White and Purple shared a look but didn’t say anything. Then out of nowhere they both turned towards the door.

Migs knew what that meant. Someone was coming. And judging by the way they both pressed their fists against their chests he knew exactly who was coming by. Pushing himself to his feet he hovered at the back of his cell, unsure what to do. The Silver mando had been stopping by more and more frequently and every time they would just watch him. Sure they were probably talking to the other mandos over the comms. But that didn’t stop Silver from watching him in his cell.

Just as he thought, Silver came striding into the room. Only this time they had a case in their hand. Migs eyes the case warily. Did they think they’d softened him up enough for a proper interrogation? Was Silver done playing around and finally going to just torture him? Was this where Migs died? He-

Silver opened the cell door and stood there, dark visor trained on him. “Come here.” Silver’s voice, when it finally registers to Migs, is low and a little raspy. But it’s the calm measured tone that really hits him a moment later.

“I, uh, right.” Scurrying over to the door he keeps his hands up, where everyone can see them. He doesn’t even want to hint that he’s a threat to the Silver mando. With context clues alone he can tell Silver is at least as high up the food chain as Fett, if not higher. Although the thought of Boba Fett not being in charge didn’t really sit well with him from what rumours he’d overheard in the army.

He stopped a few feet in front of Silver, who just kept staring at him until he stepped even closer. “Good.” A shudder ran through him before he could shut down his reaction. “Give me your hands.”

‘Fuck.’ If he was going to be tortured he’d rather them start anywhere but his hands. But there wasn’t really anything he could do about his situation. Holding out his hands like an obedient dog he grit his teeth hard enough for a muscle in his jaw to start cramping.

Silver let out a small chuckle, so quiet Migs almost missed it. “Good.” This time the word was drawn out slightly, the mando’s voice dropping even lower. Then the bastard slipped two circular cuffs over his wrists. Very expensive looking cuffs.

“Are these magna-manacles?” He asked incredulously. Just looking at the design he could tell they were top of the line work. One push of a button and the cuffs would automatically magnetize, pulling his wrists together no matter what position his arms were in at the time.

“Close enough.” Silver said with a small shrug. “Follow me.” They turned and started walking, right out of Migs’ cell.

He hesitated, looking over at the other mandos. “Uh, you sure I can-?”

Silver stopped and slowly turned back toward him. “I won’t ask again.”

Migs shivered at the implied threat. “Right, sorry!” Striding out of the cell he stopped in front of Silver. “So, uh, where to?”

Silver let out a small hum and turned to stride out of the room.

Migs had no idea what was going on, but he wasn’t sure he liked it. Not one bit.

Chapter Text

It didn’t take long for Silver to realize Migs couldn’t see in the dark. The warm hand on his shoulder that helped steer him in the right direction was not as comforting or reassuring as it should be. But it wasn’t as terrifying as it could be either. The touch was firm but not painful and remained squarely on his shoulder the whole time. There were no attempts to rough him up or get handsy in the dark where no one would notice, not that he thought anyone would get after Silver for it. The mando was obviously one of the big shots in charge here.

Eventually they came to a space that had actual lights. When they entered the room Migs winced and had to wait for his eyes to adjust, which Silver seemed fine with. The first thing he noticed were the tall metal cabinets. They looked oddly out of place in a cave system but once he saw the benches between them everything clicked. “Is this a locker room?”

Silver lets him go now that he can see and moves further into the room. “Yes.” Is the only answer he gets before the mando opens one of the lockers and motions him over. Like he’s an obedient dog! It’s such a casual gesture that it almost makes Migs bristle. What that says about him when he immediately capitulates, he doesn’t know. But he also doesn’t want to find out what happens when the stoic warrior in metal armor loses their patience.

Once he’s standing next to the locker that emotionless helmet turns to stare down at him. “Dirty clothes go in the basket,” they pointed toward a large wooden basket in the corner, “clean clothes are in the locker.”

It takes Migs a moment to register what the mando is saying before his eyebrows are kissing his hairline. “Hold on, clothes what?”

Silver turns and places a hand against the locker, almost pinning Migs against them. “You’re filthy.” They said simply. “Strip down, grab a towel, and I’ll show you the showers.”

Migs is pretty sure even his ears have gone red from the mix of embarrassment and outrage coiling in his chest. But… but the thought of being clean is too good to pass up on. On the other hand if there is any better time or place for Silver to try and fuck him it’s here. And if he strips down Silver is definitely going to notice his Stewjonian heritage.

Taking in a shuddery breath he lets it out slowly and grits his teeth. Either Silver already knows and is messing with him, or Silver was going to try and fuck him anyway so it won’t matter. But Migs can’t help wanting to be a little shit about it. “Okay fine! You gonna watch me the whole time? Or can I get some kriffing privacy?” He snarls, knowing just how defensive he sounds.

Silver makes a soft noise that he thinks might be a snort of amusement. “I won’t look.” The way they say it makes it sound like they know Migs won’t try anything. And the bastard would be right! How could Migs do anything when one push of a button would have his hands become absolutely useless? Sure he knew how to fight hand-to-hand, all elite Imperial troops knew how, but it would be like fighting a rock. Silver had height, bulk, and weight on him. And there was no way to judge their skills, but when it came to mandos your best bet was to always assume they were better than you.

As if to demonstrate the point Silver stepped away from him and purposefully turned their back, crossing their arms and leaning against the lockers casually. They looked so at ease and unbothered that Migs almost wanted to raise a fuss just because he could.

Then the reality of the situation hit him once again and he forced that feeling down as far as he could. Survival right now was more important than getting one over on the smug bastard. But he swore to himself he would get one over on Silver at least once. Just… not right now.

Stripping out of his undersuit and underwear he grimaced at just how foul he smelled. ‘Rank in a can,’ his old squad used to joke. They’d all agreed that the smell of a squad coming back from a long intense mission should be bottled and used as a bioweapon against the Empire’s enemies. Wrapping the towel around his waist, ignoring the long hidden part of himself that insisted he also cover his chest, he scooped up his clothes and tossed them in the bin. Looking at them amongst the other clothes he frowned. “Hey, mando, you sure you want me to leave my clothes here? Pretty sure they’re going to be scrapped or left to rot somewhere.”

Silver didn’t turn around. “They’ll be cleaned and returned.” Was the only reassurance they gave.

What was more interesting was the fact that they were still leaning casually against the lockers, not once having turned their head or even shifting their posture. It looked like they could remain like that for hours and had no problem doing so.

“Oh, if you say so…” He waited a little longer, testing his luck and his captor’s patience. But after a couple of long minutes standing there silently in the cold locker room, feeling the grime that covered his skin, he broke. “I’m good to go mando.”

As if they were waiting for his permission Silver uncrossed their arms and turned to look at him. Their helmet tilted down slightly before they turned away, staring subtly somewhere off to his left. “Come.” They said, walking toward an opening in the rocky wall a few feet away.

Migs hurried to follow them, wondering what other surprises were in store for him. He’d heard that the mandos were obsessive about their armor, and not taking it off for any reason. So what kind of showers would they even have? It couldn’t be communal. Unless the mandos were only obsessed with keeping their armor on during missions or outside-? He couldn’t judge based on his guards. They were on guard duty, of course they’d wear their whole kit. It was just sensible.

“Here.” Stopping in front of a long hall he gaped when Silver opened an honest to Force door into a large stall. Inside was a bench on the far wall, bolted and reinforced for species that were much larger than Migs. There was a shower head with knobs on one side and it looked like the floor was actually tiled. “Careful, it can be slippery.” Silver warned, nodding toward the floor.

Nervously he walked past the mando and into the enclosed space. Having Silver at his back made everything itch with wariness. He almost startled when Silver brushed past him and came inside, but wasn’t completely surprised. ‘Here we go, this is where I get jumped.’ He thought to himself.

But rather than turn hostile or make even a single move toward him, Silver just went over to the bench and pulled out a box that had been almost hidden underneath. “Soap is all here.” Silver froze for a moment and their helmet turned to regard him. “Allergies?”

Migs’ mind was in shambles. ‘What the actual fuck?’ It was almost like the mando cared about his wellbeing! “Nothing in soap.” He said incredulously.

Silver’s helmet tilted slightly. “Foods?”

Migs swallowed and brushed a hand over his arm nervously. He… didn’t really want to tell them about his weaknesses. But it was better than going into cardiac arrest out of nowhere. “Adrenaline boosters and Stimshots.” It wasn’t too uncommon an allergy so it’d been fine in the army. But it was well known that all Stewjonians were allergic to Adrenaline boosters. Something about their adrenal systems being incompatible, and dumping extra adrenaline into the body causing them to go into double shock. Or whatever. He wasn’t a medic, he didn’t understand all that banthashit.

Silver nodded and rummaged around the box. When they found what they were looking for they handed him a small single-use bar that was still wrapped. He couldn’t read the small label, it was in the odd scratchy lines of the mandalorian language. Out of habit he lifted it to his nose and took a sniff. Huh. It was actually kind of pleasant. Some sort of spice and citrus mix.

“Knock when you’re done.” Silver said, before walking out of the shower stall and closing the door behind them.

Migs stood there, stunned and confused. Was… was Silver actually letting him have some honest-to-gods privacy? Him, an Imperial prisoner? “…what the kriff?” Hearing his own voice, quiet as it was, shook him out of his stupor. He still couldn’t be sure this wasn’t some elaborate scheme. There was probably a hidden time limit and he had no idea when his time would be up. So he quickly put his towel on the bench out of the way and turned on the water.

It was cold at first, and he let out a small yelp before it slowly warmed up. It wasn’t the hottest shower but it was a pleasant enough temperature that he didn’t shiver as he stood under the spray. Ripping open the packaging he took out the bar of soap and started scrubbing. Everywhere. The relief he felt as almost palpable. His instincts, that he tried so hard to squash, came out in full as he washed as thoroughly as physically possible. Stewjonians hated to be dirty. It was something in their collective psyche that just made everything ten times more unpleasant.

Running his hands over his shaved head he felt regret for the first time in a long time. His hair used to be much, much, longer. Taking care of each others hair was some kind of Stewjonian grooming ritual that his mother had always done with relish. The elaborate braided crowns she used to wear were always beautiful, and he’d looked forward to the day he could wear the warrior braids she promised to teach him.

But those times were long gone. He should focus on the present, and the mando who was waiting just outside the door. It would be all too easy for Silver to fling the door open again and pin Migs to… any surface really. He’d fight tooth and nail if it came down to it, but he’d heard… rumors. ‘Mandos love a good fight, turns them on. The crazy kriffers.’ One of his seniors had confided in him before he left for his first actual battle against the mandalorians.

Great, now that thought was back at the forefront of his brain. Thanks Nantiik.

Scrubbing his face he felt the stubble that had begun to grow and frowned. If his beard and hair began to grow then it would be pretty obvious soon enough that he was Stewjonian. At least if the mandos were paying attention. Or maybe he was just being paranoid. Humans and near-humans had a chance of being a redhead as well. Though it was pretty rare. If he could play it off as just a rare genetic quirk he might be able to get away with it. As long as no one tried to test his dna.

A rapping on the door made him startle and whip around, nearly losing his balance. The door opened a crack and Silver’s arm came inside holding a small case. “Forgot this.” Was all they said as they set it down on the floor and closed the door again. Not once did Migs see their helmet, which meant they hadn’t looked into the stall to see his naked body.

Curious he snuck over to the case, wary of a trap, and retreated to the bench before opening it. Inside was a fold-out mirror and a single use shaving kit. Migs’ mouth opened in surprise. Seriously? If he wanted to he could pry open the razor and take out the blades to make a weapon. It would be makeshift as all hell and probably break after two or three uses, but it was a potential weapon nonetheless. Glancing back at the door he swallowed hard.

Was this some kind of test? Were they trying to catch him out so they could get around whatever rules they had for the treatment of prisoners? Migs shook his head. It didn’t matter. He was just happy to be able to shave his face. Unfortunately he knew the little razor wouldn’t hold up to also shaving his head. So he had to leave the prickly fuzz alone.

Once he was finished and felt a lot better about his hygiene he wrapped the towel around his waist, making sure the grime was on the outside. Looking down at the shaving case he hesitated before giving up on the idea of making himself a weapon. The only places he could think to hide it were both so stars cursed unpleasant, and dangerous, that it wouldn’t be worth the effort. Knocking on the door he stepped out into the hall and held out the case to Silver.

The mando took the case with barely a glance and motioned him back towards the locker room. Migs gripped his towel tightly and followed, still wary of a potential trap. Now that he was clean and didn’t smell like a rancor’s armpit he was probably much more appealing. Hell, that could have been what Silver was waiting for! So he kept his guard up. It was better than thinking about how the mandos seemed to treat their prisoners better than the Empire.

Leading him back to the same locker as before Silver grabbed a bundle of cloth and held it out to him. Unfolding it revealed a set of pants, a tunic, underwear, clean socks, and a waist sash. Then the mando set down his, now clean, boots next to the bench and Migs decided he was no longer going to be surprised by anything that fucker did.

“Might not fit, but its what we have.” Silver said, nodding toward the clothes. “But they’re clean, and warm.” And with that Silver leaned against the lockers, back turned once more.

Migs lifted the dark blue tunic and without thinking about it took a sniff. It smelled clean but there was a faint hint of spices and metal embedded in the cloth. Tugging it over his head he frowned at the loose fit. It was only slightly wider than his shoulders but it was a bit too long. The underwear fit well enough that he wouldn’t complain, same with the socks. But the dark green pants? While they were the perfect length they were a bit too wide. Thankfully they had an inner tie so he could cinch them in and not have to worry about losing them. Tying the undyed sash around his waist he looked down at himself and shrugged. It would have to do.

“Dressed.” He called to Silver as he shoved his feet into his boots and started to lace them up around the loose pant legs.

Silver turned around and watched him silently, probably impatient. Migs had taken much longer than the alloted time he was usually given in the army. But to be fair he’d been covered in stars knew what. Finished he stood up and watched Silver in return. At this point it was well past the time where Migs would have been vulnerable and easy to jump. So he had no idea what Silver’s motives were. The guy was an enigma.

“Good.” That low metallic voice rumbled with approval. “Come here.” Clenching his jaw he stepped closer to Silver and didn’t flinch when that hand came to rest on his shoulder again. Only this time he didn’t have the thick layer of his undersuit between him and that leather clad hand. He could feel the warmth and pressure more keenly than before. “Good.” He shivered at the closeness of that voice, almost right against his ear.

Silver let out a small chuckle that made Migs want to punch them square in the face, if only that stupid helmet wasn’t in the way.

Once again he was taken down dark corridors that seemed to wind endlessly in intricate patterns. He was pretty sure they were taking an entirely different route back to his cell, which made sense. But no wonder it was impossible to find the mandos. Their hiding place, headquarters, home base, whatever, was like a rabbit warren. And the entire place was dark as fuck. Which was definitely on purpose to confuse anyone who found their way inside.

The walk back was mostly uneventful, although at one point he heard a clang in the darkness and Silver letting out a small huff. Another mando maybe? Not sure what the metal-on-rock noise was and he probably didn’t want to know. When they finally got back to his cell he wasn’t surprised to find White mando and Purple mando waiting. He was pretty sure they still had a couple of hours left in their shift.

“Mand’alor.” The two of them quickly stood to salute Silver and Migs was beginning to think that was a much bigger deal than he initially thought. The three of them stood there silently for a moment, Silver’s hand still on Migs’ shoulder, and he just knew they were talking over their internal comms.

A moment later Silver was nudging him gently toward his cell. Closing the door he stared at Migs a moment longer before disappearing into the darkened halls once more.

Grumbling to himself at the weird behavior, and his sudden exhaustion, he made his way over to the cot and flopped down. Only to immediately sit up and stare at the clean linens and the added pillow. He blinked uncomprehendingly down at the change before looking over at his two guards. Both of which were staring at him in complete silence.

From their body language alone he could tell they were shocked by something. Though he had no idea what it could be. “What?” He asked them pointedly.

White said nothing. After glancing at their fellow guard Purple shook their head. “Feel better now that you’re all clean?” They asked instead.

Migs couldn’t really deny it. “Yeah.”

White snorted. “Going to complain less now, verd’ika?”

Migs threw White a feral grin. “Where’s the fun in that?” Getting comfortable he stared up at the ceiling, going over everything that just happened in the last… hour? Maybe two. He was on the verge of passing out when he heard White throw one last snarky comment his way.

“Nice clothes, the color meanings don’t really suit you though.”

Now what the fuck did that mean?

Chapter Text

Din’s hand was tingling with residual warmth. The same hand he’d used to guide the imperial prisoner through the halls of Ranov’morut. Clenching it into a fist he leaned against the wall of a less used hall, his body thrumming with the effort it took not to go back into the holding area. Not only would that be inappropriate, but he had already given away too much. The pretext of visiting the prisoner was to touch base with the guards and see if they’d learned anything new from talking to him.

Letting out a sigh he smacked his head against the wall, the chime of beskar on stone echoing slightly in the still space. He’d done his best to keep the man in his peripheral and not stare directly at him when he was naked but he’d seen enough. Soft pale skin with a couple of visible scars, the lean muscle of a scout rather than a brawler, the slender taper of his waist where the towel covered just enough to be considered decent.

Din let out another harsh sigh and slammed his head a little harder against the wall. Crowding the prisoner against the lockers had been a foolish idea. But it was like his body had moved on its own. The startled look on the man’s face as he blushed was etched into the back of Din’s mind, just as the fiery flash of indignation was. Not to mention the couple of times the man reacted to his praise. That little shudder would be part of Din’s dreams for a while, he was pretty sure.

Smacking his head against the wall to clear it he was about to walk away when he heard a low chuckle. “If you really wanted to feel the effect of that you’d have to take off your helmet, love.” Warmth spread through his chest as he turned to see Boba standing boldly in the hall with his head tilted just so. Sassy and playful, even though the way he was standing with his arms crossed read as ‘pissed off’ to others. Din knew him better than that.

“I… well you aren’t wrong.” He said softly as he reached up to rub at the back of his neck sheepishly. “But I don’t want to give myself a concussion before the meeting. The council can do that all on its own.” He grumbled.

Boba let out a startled laugh, the kind Din adored hearing, and came to stand in front of him. “Now who’s stating facts? Those old bastards are a handful.” Pulling off his glove he reached up and slipped a hand into Din’s helmet, gently brushing his fingers against a stubble covered cheek. “Hrm, need a shave.” He muttered, shifting to press his forehead against Din’s.

Din hummed and leaned into the affection for a moment before licking his lips anxiously. “Boba, about the prisoner...”

Boba let out a harsh grunt and pulled away. “What about him?”

Din swallowed down his nerves and ignored the faint prickle of anger against his spine. He knew now that it wasn’t his. With the gathering of mando’ade under his tentative rule he’d met other warriors who carried the stars in their souls. Bardan Skirata had been a great help in learning to control the small amount of power thrumming through his veins. Now he could tell when his feelings were his own, when they were a warning from a greater power, and when they belonged to someone else. “There’s… something about him. I can’t tell what yet, might get Kar’verd Skirata to check in on him. But he feels…” like one of them. Not a mando’ad, but similar enough. Someone who did what they did to survive.

Boba watched him silently for a long moment before he yanked off his helmet and pressed it against his side. Shoving his hand through short brown curls he let out a heavy sigh. “Din,” his bare voice was full of emotion, “beloved, you know I trust you. But the Imps are dangerous. What in the haran did you learn about him that makes you so hesitant?”

Din was quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “Migs, the prisoner, he… he’s afraid. Of us. Not because we’re the enemy, but because we could hurt him. Because he thinks we want to hurt him. He expects us to starve him, beat him, to-” he sucked in a breath and shook his head. The sick feeling that had come off the man when Din walked past him in the shower stall still felt slimy against his skin. Cruelty. The man expected them to be cruel.

Boba scowled and looked at the wall, thinking over his words. “That’s what the Imps do, love.” He said quietly, simmering anger carefully concealed. “I’ve handed over bounties to them before and never felt a thing.” He looked back, catching Din’s eyes behind his visor. “Not until you.”

Din nodded in understanding. Boba had seen the worst of the Empire but it hadn’t really sunk in until he started getting involved with the mando’ade. “The Durnhal bounty.” A false bounty set up by an Imperial Scientist to catch Boba, who he’d suspected was an Alpha Clone.

Boba grimaced. “If you hadn’t been there-” he couldn’t finish, his hand clenching so tightly Din could hear the leather creak.

It had been a hellish landscape in that lab. Half-formed creatures and what were supposed to be sentients, but just looked like piles of meat with limbs. Durnhal was absolutely insane and believed he could revive something called the Massassi. Some species of deadly warriors from a long dead era. Why he needed the dna of an alpha clone, no one knew. But Din had found Boba, strapped to a gurney that was tilted upward just enough that the man could see his own armor across the room. Like a trophy.

Din had been pissed, and felt guilty that he’d seen Boba’s face at all. After setting him free he watched incredulously as Boba immediately began suiting up again. The angry ‘discussion’ they’d had about it took precious minutes away from planning they could have been doing, but in the end Din decided to wait until they were safe to continue the argument. By then the two of them had come to the same conclusion- blow it all to hell. None of the research was safe and it all had to go. The best way to do that was to completely incinerate everything.

Escaping the resulting cascade of explosions with Boba had nearly killed them both. But in saving him Din had earned a stalwart companion, and later a steadfast partner. Although Boba remained abrasive for quite a while before eventually settling in his own skin and his place amongst the mando’ade.

Glancing around he slipped off his own helmet, still feeling nervous about exposing his face. “Breathe, buir’ika. I’m right here.” Leaning into Boba’s space he pressed a gentle kiss to his temple, still amused that he had a good four inches of height on his partner. Although Boba still had far more bulk, which he often used to great effect.

Case in point- Boba shoving him against the wall and pinning him there, dark eyes burning and his emotions all over the place. But one thing that never changed was the deep well of affection whenever they were together. And the hot flash of lust now that he had Din right where he wanted. “Cet’ika.” He rumbled, his voice dropping a couple of octaves.

Din shivered in anticipation. That was the voice Boba used whenever something very fun, and usually very exhausting, was about to happen. But for all his aggressive mannerisms Boba was gentle as he cradled Din’s face in his hands and kissed him. It was surprisingly chaste yet the hunger behind it was palpable. Pulling away he grinned, a feral look that promised trouble. “We’re going to finish this later. I still have to punish you for that banthashit you pulled on the last mission.” He growled, stepping back to give Din room to move.

Din let out a tiny whimper before clearing his throat. “Later.” Din agreed, glad he could put his helmet back on to hide the blush staining his cheeks. He couldn’t wait for the day to be over. Everything Boba had done with him since they first started their physical relationship had been amazing. Except for that one thing, but the moment his partner noticed his discomfort they’d stopped and never tried again. He was great like that.

Slipping his own helmet back on Boba started down the hall, walking slowly so Din could catch up easily. “So what is this meeting about anyway? The last time I asked I got a vague useless excuse rather than an answer.”

Din sighed. He knew what he was about to say would upset Boba, but he didn’t want to blindside his partner. “The Rebel Alliance made contact with one of our scouts. They have a proposition for us. I haven’t heard the whole message yet.”

Boba started to curse, and considering the amount of languages they knew between them? It was very colorful, exotic, and long winded.

Din was used to this sort of thing and just waited him out passively. Boba had an explosive temper that he usually kept under perfect control but he was a lot more open about his emotions when it was just the two of them. Something that had taken time and effort to achieve. So Din never drew too much attention to it. Thankfully Boba was able to rein in his temper just as a familiar set of orange and black beskar came into view.

Thumping a fist against his chest the man bowed his head briefly. “Mand’alor, Al’verde.”

“Janik, still alive?” Boba asked him, with a hint of disgruntlement.

“Yep, but not for lack of trying!” He chuckled, falling in just behind Din and to the right. He was a fairly young warrior and highly motivated to prove himself. His handling of the prisoner earlier had been a bit overboard and Din had given him a firm scolding for it. As much as they needed answers, they couldn’t stoop to the level of their enemies.

Boba grunted in amusement but didn’t say anything more as they made their way to the meeting hall.

Inside was a circular room reminiscent of a karyai, a living room based on the traditional mando’ad home. In the center was a holo-table surrounded by normal tables and chairs. That way they could easily share information and meals if a meeting ran too long. The moment he entered with Boba at his side the others stood and gave him a quick salute.

Skirata, that old striil, practically vibrated with amusement. “Mand’alor, Rid’alor, my son brought back a message for you.”

Even with his helmet on Din knew what expression Boba was making. He hated it when people referred to him as the Rid’alor. Not that Din begrudged him. They were married, yes, but Boba was not an accessory to his rule; he’d earned his place as a commander.

“Kal.” He said calmly, a gentle reprimand and a greeting all at once. “I need to borrow Kar’verd Bardan, after.”

The man stiffened slightly before nodding, placing his fist against his chest. “You’ll have him, Alor.”

Turning to the room Din looked each person in the visor, eyes, or other appendages, at least once before nodding and taking a seat. “What do you have for me?”

Chapter Text

Leaning against the bars of the cell, his arms looped through them for comfort, he watched the Besalisk mando shuffle the tiny cards as if they were born to it. Migs shook his head. Someone with hands that big should not be so dexterous. It was terrifying. “How’re you so good at that anyway?” He asked as the cards were finally dealt on the crate they were using as a table.

The Besalisk laughed, loud and hearty. “I’m an engineer, verd’ika. Lots of small tools and even smaller devices. I learned to work delicately.” Even sitting they looked down at him, the tilt of their helmet showing how amused they were. “My riduur certainly never complains.”

Across from them the mostly Orange mando lets out an annoyed groan and covers their visor with their hands. “I don’t need to hear about you and your cyare again. My vod talks about it enough.” Dropping their hands they pick up the pile of dealt cards and turn to him. “Come take a look Trac’ika.”

Slipping his arms out of the bars he moves so he’s next to Orange and can see their hand. For some reason the two of them decided they were going to teach him the strange card game they’re always playing. He still couldn’t make heads or tails of their strange scratchy lettering system but the symbols on the cards seemed simple enough. One was a bird, one was a weird skull with tusks, one was a hound looking thing, one was similar to a fathier but with horns, and one was a weird bat thing. “Not the kind of cards I’m used to.” He muttered.

Orange chuckled. “The types of cards are simple, the strategies are not.” They pointed to each card as they began to explain. “Sen’tra,” the bird, “are troops with jetpacks. Striil,” the hound, “scouts and hunters that work in pairs. Shatual,” the fathier with horns, “foot soldiers. Jai’galaar,” the bat thing, “Ori’ramikade; special forces.” They looked at their hand then back to him. “There are two missing card types from my hand, but I’ll explain them to you once they’re on the field.” They motioned to the space between them.

“Huh, alright.” As Orange spoke he was quickly filing away the words for later. Ori’ramikade was a good word to know if he ever had to fight them. Looking over the cards again he frowned. “What about that weird skull with the tusks?”

Across from them the Besalisk let out a deep chuckle. “That card is the Mand’alor, the Sole Ruler of the mando’ade, and there is only one of them in the deck. It has special privileges. Thanks for letting me know my vod has them.”

Orange shrugged and waved a hand in the air dismissively. “This is only a teaching game anyway. The other two card types are the Al’verde, Commanders, and the Morute, Strongholds.”

As Orange continued to explain the rules of the strategy game Migs was barely able to hear them over the sound of his own heartbeat. The word Mand’alor echoing in his mind along with the translation the Besalisk had given him so flippantly. Sole Ruler. Sole Ruler! The leader of all the mandos! The same thing everyone called Silver every time they showed up to visit him!?

“Vod, hold on, I think we broke the Imp.” Besalisk mando said, sounding almost concerned. “Migs, are you good?”

He let out a small wheeze in response, trying and failing to answer.

“Osik, me’bana?” Orange got up and reached through the bars to grab onto his shoulder. Pressing their fingertips to his neck they checked his pulse. “Kaysh kar’broka ori’viinyc.”

Faster than he would have expected the Besalisk was inside his cell, one large hand pressed against his back. “Migs, you need to breathe. In, two, three four, out, two, three, four. Come on verd’ika.”

Slowly, with the help of the Besalisk, he was able to suck in the proper amount of air and let it out again. Orange kept their hand on his shoulder, their fingers pressed to his neck, until they seemed satisfied. Even then the Besalisk remained with him a moment longer before pulling away. “Are you alright?” Fuck, they sounded worried!

“Wh-why do you care?” He rasped, feeling like a bantha had stepped on his chest and embarrassed to boot. He hadn’t had a panic attack like that in a long fucking time. It made sense though. He was a prisoner of war and hadn’t had any real privacy except the shower that the void be damned Ruler of the Mandos had escorted him to. At the time he hadn’t even thought about breaking down. Too worried about getting clean and if he was about to be jumped or not.

Orange mando looked up at the Besalisk mando then back down at him. “See the teal on my armor?” They motioned at the accents around their gauntlets, pauldrons, and a mark on their chest. “I’m a Medic. If I don’t care- who will?”

It was such a simple answer that Migs almost wanted to scream. Instead he turned to look up at the Besalisk. “Yeah? And what about you? What’s with this verd’ika osik?” Verd’ika, it meant Private but also Young Warrior. Like he was a shiny new rookie that the older soldiers wanted to mentor.

The Besalisk looked pressed, hands up almost like they were trying to calm down a drunkard or a child. “You’re a good kid. If you weren’t an Imp I’d call you a friend.” The Besalisk’s helmet tilted slightly as they lowered their arms. “I would still call you a friend, if you’d let me.”

Orange let out a strangled noise that didn’t quite make sense coming out of the helmet but didn’t actually say anything.

Meanwhile Migs was having a mild existential crisis. Was this real? Was it a trick? Besalisks were known to be friendly and loyal but they were also mercurial. He’d heard of Besalisk bounty hunters and mercenaries walking out on a job because they got bored. But by all appearances this one was being honest with him. From the moment the Besalisk took custody of him, from that bastard in the orange and black, they’d been nothing but kind. Sucking in a breath he made a decision. Maybe it would get him into hot water later, but having a Besalisk in your corner had to be a good thing. Right? “First off, I ain’t a kid. I’m twenty-fucking-five. Second, it’s your funeral pal. But sure, friends.”

The Besalisk chuckled and pat him on the shoulder hard enough to move him slightly but not enough to hurt. “Grax.” They said out of nowhere.

Migs squinted up at the Besalisk in confusion. It didn’t sound like any mando word he’d heard before. “What’s that mean?”

The Besalisk huffed out a chuckle. “My name. Graxton of Clan Ysom. My vode call me Grax.” They held out an arm to him, almost in greeting.

Migs hesitated a moment before reaching for the hand to give it a shake. “Migs Mayfeld, but you already knew that I guess.” Before he could complete the handshake Grax moved so that he was clasping their forearm instead. Or at least as much of it as he could with his hand being much smaller.

“This is how we greet our vode.” Grax said, sounding amused and gentle in his voice.

“Oh. Alright then.” Migs had seen some of the guards do that when they switched shifts but he hadn’t realized it was common to the rest of the mandos. After a moment of the two of them standing there like that Migs began to feel embarrassed again. Clearing his throat he let go of Grax’s arm. “So, you gonna show me how to play or what?”

Grax chuckled and left the cell, closing the door behind them. “Watch and learn, verd’ika. My vod thinks they have a chance because they have the Mand’alor on their side. But I’ll show you that strategy beats strength.

As both of the mandos sat back down, crisis averted, they seemed far more relaxed than before. Migs had no idea what it was about the exchange a moment ago that them feel less tense but he wasn’t going to question it. So he turned his focus to learning how to play Kot bal Kote.

Another meal, another nap, and the changing of the guard. White and gray mando and Purple and gold mando had taken up the table and the cards. Purple kept shooting him looks, though he couldn’t tell what kind of looks with the visor in the way.

With a sigh he sat up to acknowledge the two of them. “So-”

“I’m told my riduur gave you his name.” Purple said, sounding somewhere between annoyed and amused.

“Rid-or? No one’s explained that one to me yet.” He said with a shrug, neither confirming nor denying the fact that Grax had shared their name. Or… his name, Migs supposed. If Purple was telling the truth.

“Ree-door.” White mando said slowly and loudly, treating him like he was an idiot. The asshole. “It’s…” they wracked their mind for a moment before turning away, “bah! Basic.” They went silent as they began to shuffle the cards and deal them onto the table.

Migs’ grinned. It was hilarious what words White didn’t know in Galactic Basic. He got the impression that it was their second or third language, not their first. They had an accent that was a lot thicker than the other guards.

“Partner.” Purple cut in, getting up and coming closer to the bars. “In this case, husband.” They had no trouble with Basic at all, which meant they were either raised with it or were just good at languages. Putting their hands on their hips they looked at him through the bars for a moment. “I can see why he did it.” Shaking their head slightly they laughed. “And because I trust his judgment- my name is Lycira of Clan Ysom, human female, and married to that big idiot Grax.”

He isn’t sure why that flippant introduction made him feel so off kilter. Like something in his chest was made of jelly. “Migs Mayfeld, male human.” It was a lie, and it felt acidic on his tongue. But as friendly as they were being he couldn’t forget the fact that he was a prisoner. It could be some kind of long con to get him to open up. He’d heard of things like that happening before. But his paranoia aside, he didn’t feel comfortable revealing what he was. Just in case the wrong person found out.

“Now that’s out of the way, ready to play our usual word game?” She, Lycira, asked him with a jaunty little hand motion.

Migs snorted. “Yeah, sure. Hit me. What kind of boring shit do you want to know?”

Taking her place across from her fellow guard Lycira picked up her cards and pondered for a moment. “If you could be anything other than an Imp, what would you want to be?” He was about to reply when she cut in. “Not what you think you should be, what would you want to be?”

Taking a moment to think about it he grimaced. He knew what the correct answer was. And it wasn’t even a lie. “Mercenary,” he was a sharpshooter and was proud of those skills void dammit! But, if he was being honest with himself, he also wouldn’t mind child-rearing. Looking after the kids at the orphanage had been some of the best years of his life after his mom…

“Huh, well it would suit you. Though if you’re going to be a ver’verd you should probably get better armor. The shit armor the Imps use is tragic.” Lycira said, her words full of disgust. “Even as their enemy I feel disgust on their behalf.”

White snorted. “Their armor is weak.” They agreed, setting down another card on the table. “Morut, tok’kad.”

‘Tok’kad,’ it meant retreat. Migs’d learned that when Grax and the Orange Medic showed him how to play yesterday. It allowed White to take their cards off the board and set them behind the Stronghold, Morut, for safe keeping. They couldn’t attack for a few turns, but it meant that Lycira couldn’t do any damage to their army either. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I got to choose my armor. It’s all issued by the higher ups. Besides, where am I going to get the credits for armor right out of the gate?” If he deserted, not saying he was going to, but if; he’d want something nice. Something light and mobile but strong enough to stop a blaster.

White looked him up and down for a moment. “Just claim Cin Vhetin. Then earn your armor.” They said as if it was a simple matter.

“Sin fett-in?” Fett… like Boba Fett? The fuck? “The fuck does that mean?”

Lycira let out a sigh, leaned over, and punched White in the shoulder. Hard. The ring of metal on metal was loud in the cave they used for his cell. White reared back, looking like an offended bird.

“Ne’johaa!” Lycira snapped, looking moments away from enacting more violence. Not that Migs was opposed. White got on his nerves a lot and to see them get taken down a peg would be the best entertainment he’d had in a while.

“A’te Mand’alor ven copaani kaysh mando’ad, serim?” White asked sounding annoyed. All Migs got from that was Mand’alor, which meant the Silver mando, kaysh, which meant they or that person, and mando’ad, the word the mandos used for themselves.

“Nakar’mir, bic ret cuyi kaysh dajun.” Lycira said quickly, almost as if she didn’t want Migs to understand what was going on.

This was fishy. Like an ocean planet’s level of fishy. “Hey, hey! I don’t speak lightspeed mando, okay? You owe me at least one translation.” Playing it off as just being annoyed, rather than the spike of panic in his chest, he glowered at the two of them. Was there some plan he didn’t know about? Who was he kidding, of course there was. He didn’t know shit sitting in a cell under guard twenty-four five.

Lycira let out a heavy sigh and turned her helmet to look at him. “Cin Vhetin, right?” She said slowly, enunciating all the syllables.

“Yeah, that.” Now that he was listening carefully it sounded less like it had to do with Boba Fett, which was a relief. Silver was scary in their own right, but Boba Fett had a reputation. He’d worked for Darth fucking Vader! That wasn’t someone Migs wanted anything to do with.

“It means White Field. But it can also be translated as a Clean Slate.” She said simply, her voice through the vocoder almost devoid of emotion. “It’s not something we can talk about to an Imperial.” This time it sounded pointed, as if she were trying to give him some kind of hint.

Migs frowned. It wasn’t something that could be talked about with Imperials, but she was skirting around it for him… why? Because she and her husband considered him a friend? Did that make him no longer an Imperial to them? A clean slate… that sounded an awful lot like some kind of pardon. His head snapped up and he looked Lycira in the visor. “So… if I wasn’t an Imperial-?”

White chuckled and Lycira shrugged. “That sounds like something you should be asking yourself. What kind of life could you have if you weren’t an Imperial?” That said she very obviously looked away from him and back down at the cards on the table.

Leaning back against the rocky wall Migs tucked one leg up under his chin. He watched the two mandos play as his mind wandered. What would life be like if he wasn’t an Imperial Sniper? Back when he was a teenager the only real choice he had was smuggling or whoring. He’d rather eat a blaster bolt than become a smuggler, and the idea of whoring both enraged and disgusted him to the core. But now that he had years of being a properly trained soldier and sniper under his belt, what kind of opportunities could he have? He could be a mercenary, easy, do a couple jobs and get paid. Work his way up to the kind of life he actually wanted. He could be an assassin, even more dangerous but twice as lucrative. Although the idea of not being able to pick his targets until he was well connected enough had him balking at the idea. Migs knew those crazy fuckers took contracts out on kids. He had never and would never kill a child. It was antithetical to his very being.

What else was there? What could Lycira be hinting at?

Migs let out a sigh. This line of thinking wasn’t useful anyway. Because the first step to any new life he could want was to defect. He knew what happened to those who defected. Rebels were treated horribly when captured. But defectors? He’d once heard a rumor that a defector had been kept alive for fifty-one days to be used as interrogation practice for junior intelligence officers. He shuddered at the very thought.

At his core Migs knew he was a coward. He would be an Imperial until he died, and that death would be sooner rather than later. What other choice did he have?

Chapter Text

From the moment the Imperial was captured Boba knew something was about to change. He wasn’t force sensitive like Din, Bardan, or the other scattered Ka’runi’e and Kar’verde. But he knew cause and effect. The moment Din quietly asked him to spare the Imp he sensed trouble.

Those feelings only doubled when Din started spending a little too much time fussing over the prisoner. His riduur’s instincts were impeccable, so there had to be something about the guy that set him off. It couldn’t just be that the prisoner was scared. There had to be more.

After nearly a month of information gathering Boba had a personal dossier on the guy.

Migs Mayfeld, 25, self identified male human, blue eyes and red hair with pale skin. Orphan, enlisted with the army at 16 to escape poverty. Can swear fluently in at least 9 separate languages. Sharpshooter that held the rank of Sergeant and led a squad before capture. Talkative, but never said anything incriminating or important. Liked to exercise in the morning and rest until mid-meal. Learned to play the strategy game Kot bal Kote to pass the time. Fussy about hygiene. Didn’t respect his Imperial armor and had never put it back on, even though one of the guards offered him cleaning supplies for it.

That last one had Boba tapping his fingers against his vambrace in thought. He’d seen Imperial fanatics before in his past work. Fussing over hygiene and clean uniforms was one of those things the Imperial army beat into you from the beginning. For the prisoner to discard his armor and then barely look at it again… that said something. Something deeply subconscious.

Talking with Bardan just cemented the idea in his mind that there was something… off about this whole thing.

“The prisoner? Yes, the Mand’alor asked me to look into him. Nothing too invasive, but they wanted to make sure what they were feeling wasn’t just sympathy. The prisoner is… scarred. Wounded emotionally. He’s also hiding something but it isn’t malicious. More like he’s trying to protect himself. Almost like a child curling in on themselves so they aren’t hurt again.” Bardan stared at him for a moment before a faint smile crossed his lips. “What the prisoner needs is someone to look after him. Someone to prove that we’re better than the Empire.” Then the smug bastard walked away.

That last part itched under Boba’s skin. In public he was well known for his ruthlessness. But in private? He was a deeply feeling man, with nowhere to put those feelings. Not until Din entered his life and smoothed his jagged edges. He knew some of his aggression was because of his need to protect those he considered his. He wasn’t jealous that Din was paying attention to someone else. Or that others found Din attractive. He liked knowing they could look all they liked and Din would still be back in his bed at the end of the day.

But if what Bardan said is true, and what Din was feeling was some kind of connection… then that changed things.

Laying awake that night he stared at the ceiling, Bardan’s words echoing in the back of his mind. ‘What the prisoner needs is someone to look after him. Fucking hells.’ He let out a heavy sigh.

“Beloved?” Din looked at him blearily, his hair soft and voice rough from their earlier activities. “S’wrong?” Stars he was adorable.

“Nothing, love. Just thinking.” Thinking too hard about something that might not even matter.

“What?” He demanded almost grumpily. “Thinking too loud.”

Boba snorted before wetting his lips, watching in amusement as Din’s eyes zeroed in on the motion. “About the prisoner.” Din’s eyes snapped up to his and he seemed a lot more awake suddenly.

“Why?”

“Clan Ysom’s heir and their spouse both shared their names with him. They think they’re being discreet, but it’s obvious they want to convince him to become one of us.” Us. Mandalorians. Something Boba wouldn’t have considered himself before. But like with everything else Din had been the catalyst for that change. Having the Skirata Clan vouch for him had been a punch to the gut at the time.

Din hummed and shifted, laying more firmly against his chest. “…I want that too.” He admitted quietly. “He’d be… good.”

“Oh? And what does that mean, little one?” Boba dropped his voice lower and grinned when Din shivered in response.

“Should have seen it when I praised him, Daddy. Went all pliant and obedient. When I pushed him he got snappy. He was ready to fight me.” Din’s gaze went unfocused for a moment, a sign that he was drifting. “But he was so scared. So alone.” Those eyes turned back to him and Boba felt the hair on his arms rise. “We could teach him. He could be ours.” Din practically purred.

The sultry tone of his voice went straight to Boba’s cock. Now that the idea was put in his head he wouldn’t be able to let it go. Letting out a huff he slipped his hand into Din’s hair and tugged hard. “Come on back to me, little one. You’re drifting too far.” Bardan had warned him that Din shouldn’t allow himself to go too deep into the force. He was still untrained and that could be dangerous.

Between one blink and the next Din was back to peering up at him sleepily, letting out a pleased hum at the pressure on his scalp. “Boba-?”

“Go to sleep, love. I have a plan for the prisoner. If he can prove to me he’s mandokar, then I’ll let you keep him. But if he turns out to be the same kind of crazy Imperial as the others- I will kill him.” He said, releasing Din’s hair and petting it instead.

Din thought about it for a long moment before nodding. “Reasonable. Our people first. Always.”

Boba rumbled in agreement as Din’s eyes closed and he fell back to sleep.

Mando’ade jatne emuuri aruetiise. Mandalorians before Outsiders.

Chapter Text

At this point Migs was fairly sure he’d been a prisoner of the mandos for just shy of a month. Or at the very least he’d had forty-eight separate meals since they’d tossed him in the cell. It was the only real constant since he didn’t have dedicated sleep or wake times and the guards changed shift randomly. Well, there was one other constant. Ever since that first shower Silver, the kriffing Ruler of the mandos, showed up every four days to take him out for another shower. Just as they’d promised the undersuit of Migs armor had been returned to him. But he also got to keep the other clothes he’d been given.

It was strange having a change of clothes. Prisoners in Imperial custody didn’t get that, and he was pretty sure the old Republic had been the same. So unless the mandos were just that much better when it came to taking prisoners Migs suspected there was an ulterior motive. What that was, he had no clue.

Reaching up he ran his hand through inch long locks of red hair and wanted to scream. He’d forgotten just how quickly a Stewjonian’s hair grew when left to its own devices. So far no one had commented about his being a redhead, or his potential promiscuity because of it. But that didn’t mean they hadn’t noticed. It was kind of hard not to.

Grax threw down a couple of cards and Orange Medic, who he still didn’t know the name of, groaned. “Osi’kyr!” They cursed, something along the lines of ‘shitty death,’ which was hilarious to Migs. He was starting to get the hang of their language now, though there will still some pretty big gaps in his knowledge. At the very least he could shoot the shit with any random foot soldier, and cuss them out like a champion.

Migs let out a heavy sigh and dropped his hand to the cot as the momentary amusement faded. Already he’d done some conditioning, the constant jitters making it impossible to stay still for long periods of time. Crunches, lunges, sit-ups, push-ups, all the basic PT shit they were taught in basic training. Except for cardio. While the cell was large enough to hold three of someone Grax’s size it wasn’t big enough to actually run around in. Now he was laying there sore and bored out of his mind.

Closing his eyes he tried to get comfortable and let his mind drift but he just wasn’t tired enough. He didn’t even feel like shit-talking Grax and Orange’s strategy while they played that game the mandos seemed obsessed with.

“Alor!” He heard Grax say in surprise, the scrape of a crate against the ground as he stood.

So, Silver was back to stare at him across the room again. At this point he couldn’t really bring himself to care. What even was the point? If they wanted to break him down well… they succeeded. Boredom would be his fucking undoing.

“Udesii. Me’vaar ti mirci’t?” That… that was not Silver’s voice. “Ni ru'susulu gar ru'dinu gai cuyi aru’e.” That was a lot of big words in a voice he vaguely recognized as threatening.

Slowly opening his eyes he tried his best not to move or be noticed. The moment his vision came into focus he had to bite the inside of his cheek so he didn’t curse out loud. Boba Fett. What the fuck was he doing in Migs little hellhole? From the way Grax was rapidly speaking in mando’a he might have been grilling the guards on their lax approach to watching him. But he could just as easily be asking why he didn’t look like bloody pulp.

Although if Silver was the Mand’alor… didn’t that mean Fett had to listen to them? And Silver seemed pretty damned invested in Migs being healthy. Or at least that was his takeaway thanks to the three square meals, shower time, and lack of a fist to the guts every morning.

Whatever Grax said seemed to leave Fett either pissed or contemplative. Migs was good at reading body language in trooper armor but he was quickly finding out that it didn’t quite translate over to mando armor. Sometimes a mando would just go unearthly still and it could be anything from confused to thinking very deeply to absolutely pissed. And Fett had this presence that just screamed ‘predator’ to his brain.

“Dayn. Jii.” Fett ordered, his voice as cold and solid as a glacier.

Grax glanced back at him for a moment before he and Orange mando were heading outside into the dark hall. Leaving him alone with Boba Fett.

Oh fuck! He was alone with Boba Fett!

Fett grabbed one of the crates and shifted it before sitting, his legs akimbo. “I know you’re awake, Imp. You better get up, don’t make me come in there.”

The implied threat in his voice was enough for Migs to open his eyes completely and slowly sit up on the cot. “I’m up.” He said, trying to keep his usual flippant tone in check. Now that he wasn’t in pain or scared he was about to be shot, mostly, he was finally able to get a good look at the famous bounty hunter. The guy was definitely taller than him, but probably shorter than Silver, and he was built like a brick shit house. Everything on Fett was broad and he could just imagine how muscled the guy was beneath the armor.

Ooh, bad place to go in his head when the famous hunter was staring him down. Migs liked competent and dangerous guys but this was not the time or the place. Ogling Boba Fett was just asking for trouble.

“The Mand’alor seems invested in keeping you alive. I want to know why.” The way Fett said ‘the Mand’alor,’ like he wanted to say something else, did not bode well. Did he and Silver have some kind of falling out?

Migs shrugged. “Hey, I want to know why just as much as you. Silv- the Mand’alor barely talks to me. Just stands there.” Stands there quietly, non-threateningly, until Migs can’t handle the silence anymore and starts babbling like an idiot. “If kaysh are trying to get any important information out of me kaysh are shit out of luck. I’m just a dumb grunt!”

Fett stilled and Migs tensed. Had that been too much? He had no idea what could set him off, and bounty hunters weren’t known for their calm and collected temperaments.

“Kaysh?” He asked, his voice a low rumble. “Gar suvarir mando’a.” ‘You understand mando’a.’ It sounded like an accusation, rather than a question.

Migs licked his lips nervously. “Some. You can learn a lot when you’ve got nothing else to do but listen to your guards talk shit for hours at a time.” He lied. Why did he lie? He could have thrown the guards under the bus easily and sown discord in the mandos. A good Imperial would have. But… Migs didn’t want to see Grax or his sassy wife Lycira get in trouble. Even Orange and White didn’t deserve the wrath of Boba Fett.

“Verburyc. Bal mirdala.” Fett muttered, almost to himself. Then he was moving. Sliding off the crate and coming to the door of the cell.

Scrambling off the bed he got to his feet just as Fett strode inside. He stopped only a foot from Migs, completely silent and visor trained on his face. Sure enough the guy was taller than him, and very imposing this close. “Clan Ysom is vouching for your good behaviour. So you have two choices.” Fett held up two fingers for emphasis. “One, stay in the cell and keep being a good little prisoner.” He pulled one finger down. “Two, get put on a work shift and spend time outside the cell. Under supervision.”

‘Outside the cell-?’ But he was a prisoner! His mind was reeling. Work shift, wait, that meant labour. Right? That actually made more sense. Imperial criminals often got sent to working prisons. So he might be working in a chop shop, a quarry, or some other hard labour. The more he thought about it the more relaxed he became. Working under guard, that was normal. “I- I’ll take the work shift.” Anything to get out of the cell for a while and ease his boredom.

Fett chuckled in amusement. “Mird’ad. Good choice.” And moved to stand beside him, reaching over and placing a gloved hand on the back of his neck. It wasn’t a biting hold either, but firm. Firm enough to steer him through the dark hallways.

Migs shuddered at what sounded like honest to force praise. He was getting a lot of mixed signals from the mandos and it was fucking with his head. One minute they were aggressive and the next they were almost playful. Was being an asshole just part of the basic mando package? Or were they testing him somehow? Either way he was very discomfited by Fett’s hand around his neck.

All the way through the halls Migs could feel the warmth of Fett, who was standing almost directly behind him dogging his steps. If it was an intimidation tactic then holy fuck it was working! But not once on their winding journey, a different direction than the showers, did Fett’s hand squeeze any tighter than a firm grip. In fact he didn’t even use the hand on Migs neck to indicate directions. Instead he used his other hand to push Migs shoulders whenever there was a sharp turn. It was confusing as fuck.

Entering another room built into the rock he winced and blinked away the spots from the sudden light. When he was finally able to see Fett released him and stood off to the side. All around them were baskets full of loose fabric. It took a minute for Migs’ mind to catch up. “Is this laundry?” He blurted incredulously.

“This is your assigned work area for the shift. There are three others on shift and if you put even a single toe out of line you’ll be punished. Then tossed back in your cell. Suvari?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah I got it.” Laundry was not what he thought he’d be doing but it sure beat mining rocks in a toxic environment or hauling scrap from one place to another for hours on end. He could do laundry no problem.

“Here.” Fett handed him a canteen. Migs had to wonder if the guy had planned for both outcomes or if he just looked that desperate for something to do other than rot in his cell. “The job is simple. Everything on the left needs to be separated, assessed, and folded in the baskets on the right. Any scraps or strips go into the bin at the back of the room.” He indicated the large bin with a tilt of his helmet. “You see anything too worn out to function you leave it on the table.” There was also a table piled with random splashes of color. Probably old clothes by the looks of it.

“Sounds easy enough.” So easy he wondered what the catch was. “That it?” In a weird way he was itching to get started. It was just a simple manual task but it felt like something to do at least. He could lose himself in it for a while. Maybe even forget he’s currently a prisoner.

“One last thing.” Fett said, voice dropping lower in a threatening manner as he pointed towards an opening near the scraps bin. “Never leave this room. If you go through there, you will not like the outcome.”

“Suvarir.” He muttered. Mando’a always seemed to make the mandos calm down, or at least act less aggressively towards him. You’d think it would be the opposite. Getting pissed some random Imperial was speaking their sacred language or whatever. But instead it seemed to… endear him to them.

Fett chuckled again, and it made the metaphorical hackles on the back of his neck rise. “Mird’ad. Someone from Clan Ysom will come collect you at the end of your shift. That canteen is your water ration while you’re working. So savor it.” That said Fett turned on his heel and left without another word.

Migs stood there for a moment, almost afraid to move. But after nothing happened to him he slowly wandered over to the baskets of clean clothes. Looking at the canteen in his hand he frowned. Taking off the undyed sash he quickly looped the canteen onto it and tied it back around his waist. It wasn’t a utility belt, but it would have to do.

Pulling out the first few pairs of shirts he found an unused basket and began folding. At first he fumbled a little, he wasn’t used to doing his own laundry anymore as a sergeant. Then a simple memory of a teaching rhyme came to mind and he chuckled to himself. ‘Fold the arms in like you’re giving someone a hug. Roll over onto the rug. Bend at the waist, cause you’re a little bug. Curl up together all nice and snug.’ It was absolutely ridiculous, but it had been the way his mom taught him to fold clothes when he was a child. Something he taught the other kids at the orphanage. There was a similar kind of rhyme for every article of clothing, though he didn’t actually remember them all now.

Losing himself in the work he quickly filled the basket and brought it over to the other side of the room. On the way back he was startled by the appearance of a pale blue and teal mando coming out of the area Fett had forbidden him to go. In their arms was another basket of clothes. They set the basket down on the ground then turned to stare at him. “You here to work? Or gawk, aruetii?”

Twitching at the word, a word he recognized, he quickly walked back over to the baskets and started on the next one. Aruetii. It meant someone was not a mando, or in the worst case scenario a traitor. He supposed it was better than being called Imp or Mirci’t, Prisoner, all the time.

Gathering up the next basket he let his hands work as his mind wandered. He knew he was supposedly under surveillance, although if there was a mando around actually watching him he couldn’t see them. There was probably a camera or something. In his peripheral he could see the pale blue and teal mando disappear into that other room. He was guessing that was where the dryers were kept, if not also the washers. Unless the mandos did everything by hand. His mom used to do that too.

Huffing at himself he flicked the shirt he was holding before folding it and setting it down. Thinking of his mom was always a bittersweet kind of thing. Obviously he still loved her, still missed her every day, but he often found ways to forget the pain of her loss. Now that he didn’t have much to occupy his time he was thinking about her more and more. About how they’d lived a simple life. About how he used to be happy.

Checking the next shirt, it was tiny, he found a hole in the under-arm and frowned. Did that even count as ‘worn out?’ It honestly looked like an easy fix. Shrugging he took the shirt to the table and was surprised to find sewing tools in a case. Including a pair of very sharp looking scissors and an assortment of needles.

He froze. If he touched the kit would it count as putting a toe out of line? Had Fett set him up? Or was that just his paranoia acting up again? Setting the shirt down he noticed a flash of color on the inside of the collar. It looked like someone had carefully embroidered a message into the shirt. There was even a couple of curly cues on either side for a little flair. Shit. This had to belong to a kid. He couldn’t just leave it there to become scrap.

Against his better judgment he reached into the kit and pulled out a needle and some thread. It took him a moment to get the thread on the damned needle because of the shitty lighting but he eventually succeeded. Picking up the shirt he carefully pinched the two sides of the hole together and rolled them slightly so the fabric would cover the torn edges. That way there would be no scratchy texture or fraying threads. He pricked himself three fucking times but in the end the shirt was mended and he felt pretty damned proud of himself.

Taking the shirt back to where he was working he was about to fold it and pack it away when he noticed a figure moving against the wall nearby. “Ho’ shit!” He jumped back, eyes wide and heart racing.

The figure wearing dark fucking green armor snorted as they set down an empty basket. “What, did you think you were alone?”

“No, but fuck! Make some fucking noise or something!” Were all mandos just that fucking quiet? He knew that Silver walked like a ghost but Fett had a pretty heavy tread. Almost like it was purposeful.

The green mando just watched him for a moment before shrugging and walking off. This time their footsteps actually made noise and Migs had another existential moment of dread. ‘Can they just turn that shit on and off? Just go fucking ghost out of nowhere? Shit. No wonder the army is getting its ass handed to them out here.’ The moment he thought it he felt his spine stiffen. It was very close to what could be considered treasonous. Letting out a heavy breath he shook himself and turned back to his work. It wasn’t like the mandos cared about what he thought and there weren’t any Imperial Officers around either to catch him out.

Folding the kid’s shirt into the basket he moved on to the next article of clothing, then the next. Eventually his side of the room was looking pretty sparse. Up until Green Ghost returned with Pale Blue and they dropped more baskets at is feet. Although this time it looked like linens. ‘Huh, I guess even mandos have beds that need sheets. It’s not like they all sleep in their armor.’ It looked less restricting than trooper armor but it couldn’t be comfortable to sleep in all the time.

Once he’d finished folding a couple of baskets full of linens he picked the first one up and hauled it to the other side of the room. He was on his way back with the second basket of linens when he heard a giggle. Setting it down he turned and scanned the room with a frown. That giggle sounded suspiciously like a kid. When nothing about the room changed and no kids appeared Migs shrugged and went back to work.

It was on his fifth trip across the room that he heard the stamping of many heavy boots on the ground and froze in place. But it was the laughter that really startled him.

Three kids in mando helmets came pelting out of the back room and ran past him. On the way they grabbed hold of the linens he’d just finished folding and yanked on them, scattering the contents of two baskets across the floor. “Oi!” He yelped, indignantly. The kids didn’t even stop. They just laughed and ran out into the dark halls, where Migs couldn’t follow.

Grumbling under his breath he stormed back over to the overturned baskets. Their contents strewn across the floor. “Rude little-” Letting out a heavy sigh he gathered the laundry back into the baskets. After inspecting the linens he only found three that were now dirty, the rest were perfectly fine thankfully. So he was able to fold them up again with no issues. Only now he had no idea what to do with the soiled sheets…

“Problem?” Green Ghost appeared out of nowhere, again, and almost gave him a heart attack. Again.

“Gah, fucking… yeesh! Yeah, these got dropped and aren’t exactly clean anymore.” He held out the three sheets and waited to see what the mando would do. Fett hadn’t said anything about being punished for making a mistake or any accidents. Although now that he thought of it he was worried about it.

Green Ghost stared at him for a long moment before taking the sheets from his hands. “Things happen. Just try not to let it happen too many times.” That said they disappeared into the back room without a fuss.

Fucking weird.

Luckily that was the most exciting thing to happen to him all shift. By the time Lycira came to get him he felt like he’d actually accomplished something. Even if it was just laundry.

As he left with Lycira he passed by Green Ghost. A shiver ran down his spine as their visor watched him. Something about them was off, and he wanted nothing to do with them.

“Gotab’ika! K’olar jii!” Green Ghost shoved themselves off the cave wall and disappeared into the back just as Lycira led Migs out into the darkened hall.

Walking back to his cell Migs thought to himself, ‘Gotab. That’s a name I’ll remember.’

Chapter Text

Looking back on it, Migs should have known something was up when things between him and Silver changed. He was four shifts in to his new work detail, it was an on and off kind of deal, when Silver showed up outside his cell again. Since he’d just had a shower the day before he knew it wasn’t for his alloted ‘wash time,’ as he’d come to call it. No, instead Silver sat down at the card table and offered to play a couple rounds of Kot bal Kote with him.

Grax and Orange just shrugged, seeming mildly amused for some reason. “Got your own deck? Or do you want to use mine?” Grax asked, holding out his stack of cards.

Silver shook their head and produced their own. Surprisingly they were just as simplistic as Grax’s deck, even though the art was slightly different.

As Silver was dealing the cards Migs sat on the chair someone had found for him somewhere and placed inside his cell. So he could actually hang out and watch people play without having to stay on his feet all day. It was actually really thoughtful, and unsettling.

Did the mandos even know what the concept of a ‘prisoner’ was-?

“I hear you exchange interesting stories for mando’a lessons.” They said as they picked up their cards, visor tilted downward but Migs suspected they could still see him.

He hesitated, glancing at Grax. If this would get the besalisk in trouble… but Grax just nodded. “It’s a good way to pass the time, and he is a quick learner.” The guy almost sounded proud of him.

Welp, now his face felt a little warm. His ears were probably red too. Damn genetics. “We swap mission stories too. Nothing that goes against operational security,” he was quick to amend. As much as he was questioning himself and his place in the universe right then, that didn’t mean he was going to spill all the Empire’s secrets. That was just asking for trouble.

“How about this- I ask you four hypothetical questions and you give me honest answers. You can pick only one of them to pass on. If I like your answers, I’ll let Clan Ysom give you some of their teaching materials.” They set down a Striil card. Starting off with a scouting party, not a bad strategy. If they got a second Striil out on the field they could choose one of his cards and ‘kill’ it, taking it out of play.

Grax straightened in his chair and Migs didn’t need to see his face to know he was beaming. Something about Silver’s offer was making his besalisk friend very happy.

“Teaching materials?” He asked, setting down a Sen’tra or jetpack mando. That way he’d have higher ground and the Strill couldn’t sneak up on him.

Grax turned to him. “Books, verd’ika! Or a datapad with a teaching program. You could learn to read!” He sounded so excited. Why were they so invested in him learning the language? Was it because half of them didn’t speak Basic? At least, that was the Empire’s estimate of their capabilities and why they could never get any information out of them. Migs thought it was because they were all stubborn bastards

Silver inclined their head towards Grax. “Anything Clan Ysom deems acceptable for a evaar’la verd’ika.” They set down a Jai’galaar, one of the special forces cards, and Migs cursed under his breath. He could already tell that Silver was going to be an annoying opponent.

Laying down an Al’verde, a commander, he picked up a new card and grinned when he got a Morut, or stronghold. The game was all about scoring points, wins and losses. The more forces you had left at the end the more points you kept. Both players kept going unless someone wiped out your entire side of the field or they ran out of cards. Grax was already keeping a tally of their points. There were also extra rules for each card and when it was put into play mattered. If you put down a commander after a foot soldier card you gained extra points. But foot soldiers had a lot of disadvantages to the other cards. Unless you played three or more in a row. Their strength and points multiplied exponentially.

Migs had to admit that he actually liked the game. It was a good way to teach strategy and creative thinking. “Alright, I’ll bite. But I have a few stipulations of my own.” He stared Silver directly in the visor. “Nothing medical, nothing opsec, and don’t ask about my sex life.”

Silver twitched, hand above the deck stalling for a moment before they pulled another card. “I… wouldn’t ask you about that.”

Migs could almost swear they sounded embarrassed. A slow grin spread across his face. Oh damn, was Silver a prude? That was hilarious. “Alright, we got a deal then?”

Grax and Orange shared a look he couldn’t decipher, though he was pretty sure Grax was laughing and doing his damnedest to hold it in.

“Yes.” Silver said, laying down another Striil.

Migs eyed the cards warily. It looked like Silver was going for a potential shotgun strategy but he couldn’t be sure yet. He set down a Shatual, a foot soldier, next to the Al’verde and ended his turn.

“You and your squad mate are on a mission,” Silver starts without preamble. “You’ve been together as part of the same squad for a long time and you trust they will watch your back, just as you’d watch theirs. During the mission something goes wrong and your squad mate saves your superior officer from certain death but dies of their injuries. Later the superior officer commends you for saving their life and wishes to promote you, mistakenly thinking you were their saviour.” Silver looked across the table at him. “What do you do?”

Migs might be fucked. He was so used to Silver remaining silent he hadn’t thought about what it would be like to hear that slow, calm, raspy voice for any length of time. And sadly, he actually knew what he’d do in that situation. ‘Be honest, mandos like honest.’ Clearing his throat he set down another foot soldier card. “I’d refuse the promotion, unless the officer insisted for some reason or other. Politics, usually it’s politics. I’d want everyone to know what Ru- what my squad mate had done. I’d want him to be a hero.”

All three mandos went still, then Grax set a large hand gently on his shoulder. “What was their name?” He asked, voice a gentle rumble.

“Ruu, short for Ruukari. Took shrapnel to the guts and chest, saved our commanding officer.” Migs grit his teeth. “The fucking bastard wanted to pretend he hadn’t gotten half our squad killed so he tried to promote me in Ruu’s place.” He’d almost earned himself a demerit telling the guy that he didn’t want his promotion to be on the backs of good men like Ruu. “Almost got into hot water refusing, but the rest of the squad convinced me to take it. S’how I became a Sergeant.”

The silence that followed was only broken when Orange spoke. “Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la. I am sorry for your loss, verd’ika.”

“Thanks… vod.” Putting on a fake smile he looked down at the board then back up at the Mand’alor. “Your turn Silver- uh, Alor.”

Silver tilted their helmet slightly, almost like they were scrutinizing him. “That’s a new one.” They muttered.

Grimacing he ruffled his own hair in thought, still getting used to the sensation. “I know you mandos don’t like giving out your names to outsiders. But I have to call you something, and I’m not some fancy diplomat to go using your title all the time. Sounds exhausting.” Licking his lips he pushed onward. “I figured… you’re just as much a soldier as the rest of them, yeah? So… Silver.” He swallowed nervously. “I can call keep calling you alor, or something else you prefer. You could just tell me to shut up.” Fuck, he was rambling now.

“Silver is fine.” There was something in their voice that was different than before. But just as Migs was trying to parse out what about it was off they put down another Striil card. Shit. “Next question. You’re the captain of a ship that is ferrying civilians. At one point pirates attack and breach the lower levels. You’re told that there is a cascading atmospheric failure in the lower decks. Your officers are arguing. Half believe they should seal the lower decks now, the other half want to try and save as many civilians as they can. What do you do?”

Migs frowned in thought, both at the hypothetical question and the cards on the field. What the hell kind of strategy was he going for? “Can I ask a question first?” Silver inclined their head, a nod. “How many civilians are stuck on the lower decks?”

“Just under one third.” Came the curt reply.

Taking a deep breath he closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and staring Silver in the visor. “I’d seal the lower decks.” And pray to his ancestors that their souls wouldn’t haunt the shit out of him. He already had too many ghosts on his back, he didn’t need any more. “Pick your kill.” He said, holding up his hand so Silver could choose.

Silver reached over the table slowly but rather than pick one of the cards in his hand he tapped the Commander on the field. “Kyrayc, dead.”

Scowling he took his commander off the field and set it in the ‘out’ section. Basically a card graveyard. Once a card was dead it was completely out of play. Letting out an annoyed grumble he set his Morut, stronghold, in the place the Commander had been. “I’m calling a retreat. Tok’kad.”

Silver let out a hum of interest and set down their own Al’verde. Great. Now they had two scouts, spec ops, and a commander on the field. “Why seal the lower decks?”

Migs let out a sigh. “Look, I’m not a commander. The most I’ve ever led is a squad. But if I sent a bunch of crew members to try and save the civilians, I might lose both. And then we’d all be fucked anyway. Sometimes saving people means you have to sacrifice something.” Shrugging he looked down at his cards and tried to think of a counter for Silver’s weird strategy.

“Understandable.” Silver picked up another card and set down a second fucking Jai’galaar. Fuck! Now he had two scouts, two spec ops, and a commander. There weren’t even that many Ori’ramikade in the deck! It was mostly foot soldiers. “You’re on a scouting mission that is vitally important to an upcoming engagement. You’ve been ordered to kill anyone that sees you. Failing this mission is not an option. If you do a lot of your fellow soldiers will die.” Silver looked directly at him and Migs could swear he could almost see their eyes. “You stumble upon a child that recognizes your armor. What do you do?”

Migs choked on his next breath. ‘Oh fuck no!’ The sheer vehemence of the thought was strong enough to make him grip the table with his free hand. “Pass! Hard fucking pass! Fucking void!” ‘Ancestors wept!’ He thought; an exclamation his mother used to use that was apparently a common expletive on Stewjon. The thought of killing a kid or letting his comrades die, of making that kind of hard decision, made him feel sick to the stomach. He picked up another card with a shaking hand and wondered what the hell Silver was playing at.

Silver watched him for a moment before relaxing in their seat. When did they even tense up?

Orange pulled out a canteen and held it out to him. “Drink, verd’ika.”

Taking it he took a gulp of cool water and handed it back. He sat there for a moment before realizing that something was… off. Not with the situation or this random game they were playing. No, something was off with himself. He was more emotional than usual and had no idea why. Was it because he was slowly breaking down from the stress of being a prisoner? That didn’t feel quite right either. He glanced at Silver, surprised he was being given a moment to himself. But the mando across from him didn’t seem to be in any hurry to continue.

Weird. Fishy. Potentially dangerous. But not something he could do anything about right now. “Your turn.” He said, motioning lamely at the board and hoping their attention will go back to the game.

Silver looked at the cards for a moment before looking back at him. “Last question then. On a mission you find out that your superiors are planning a bioweapon attack. Rather than aim for a military stronghold they target a local population of civilians. Once the military goes to give aid they will also be infected with the bioweapon, weakening them greatly. You can follow orders or you could always turn yourself in to the enemy and warn them about the attack ahead of time. However you are certain the enemy will kill you. What do you do?”

Contemplating the scenario he felt as if a heavy weight was pressing on his shoulders. He wanted to lie, he wanted so badly to lie, but he couldn’t. Not with Grax sitting there watching him. Not with Silver staring him down like they knew, just knew, what his answer was going to be. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I run away.” Shaking his head he gives Silver a wry grin. “Always been a coward, could never handle that kind of responsibility.”

You could hear a pin drop and a flea fart in the heavy silence that filled the room.

Silver set down their last card, another commander, and stood up from the table. Grax and Orange twitched in surprise. “Keenyc parjai.” Silver said, tapping the table twice with their fingers before turning and walking away.

“Shab, I’ve only ever seen one other person pull off an Infiltration Victory before.” Orange said, sounding awed. But Migs was more focused on the Mand’alor.

“Hey, wait!” He stood, leaning against the bars of his cell. “Why did you ask me those question!? The fuck was the point?” He could feel anger boiling in his gut.

Silver stopped and looked over their shoulder at him. “Because you need to see the real reason we fight the Empire.” They said calmly. “I’ll let Grax explain, he is your Baj’adat now.” And then they were gone. Melting into the darkness like the silent fucking wraith they were.

He turned to Grax for an explanation. He let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. “Don’t mind the Mand’alor, kaysh has a lot on their shoulders. Kaysh reign has not been… pleasant.”

Migs slowly sat back down with a scowl, tossing the unused cards on the table. “So what the fuck did Silver mean? ‘You need to see the real reason we fight the Empire.’”

Grax looked at Orange, who had begun gathering up the cards neatly, then back to him. “All of the scenarios the Mand’alor spoke about have already happened. We have the records, and the reports. The promotion? That was General Giurk, he used the headstones of his squad mates to rise up the ranks. The ship? The Imperials in charge didn’t even attempt to save the civilians by sealing the lower decks, they took all the escape shuttles and left everyone else to die. The bioweapon? The civilians never saw it coming, and when the local protectors tried to give aid they were infected as well. Everyone perished from an incurable illness.” Grax sagged slightly. “The child.”

Migs held up a hand to stop him, that sick feeling returning full force. “I get it. You don’t… have to say anything else.” Fuck. He knew the Empire wasn’t all goody-two-shoes but he hadn’t realized it was that bad. They always preached about the betterment of the whole. But then you looked at the big picture and realized it was all a lie. “But why tell me? Who cares what I think?” Shit, he hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud.

He was surprised when Grax reached over to put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “I care, Lycira cares. And because we care our Clan also cares. So too does the Mand’alor.”

Migs felt like something was squeezing his chest. When was the last time anyone said they cared like this? Maybe there were a couple in his old squad but… even if they did care they could never be honest about it openly like this. Maybe he’d felt like this with his mom but it had been so long ago. He swallowed down the not-quite-sorrow and not-quite-pain. “What’s a Baj’adat anyway?”

Grax brightened. “Baj’adat, or Ba’ji for short, means teacher. I’m in charge of your education now.” He sounded so smug it made Migs snort in amusement.

“My education? You mean like the language thing?” He wouldn’t mind learning more mando’a. It was a unique language, both aggressive and brutal while being soothing and melodic. It was a weird set of contradictions that seemed to fit together perfectly.

“Yeah, something like that.” Grax said, making Orange snicker.

Chapter Text

The learning materials he’d been promised were delivered the next day. Along with a small table for his cell. The materials included loose flimsi pages, erasable ink pens, a bound book of flimsi, and a datapad. The datapad itself was pretty basic and had a lot of features that were hard locked. Almost like the kind of pad you’d give a child. But the teaching programs were very obviously for adults.

“The more lessons you complete the more things get unlocked on the pad, verd’ika.” Grax explained, tapping on one of the first lessons. “Some words and phrases that have multiple translations will have their meanings hidden until you’ve passed the prerequisite cultural lesson. Once you complete all the prerequisites the next lesson will unlock. There’s also a dictionary of everything you’ve learned, with a search function.” Tapping on another program he opened what looked like some kind of game. “These are flash-cards. Any words you want to practice you can drag into here and they will be added to the list of potential cards. All of them are in basic but you can switch to mando’a.” Tapping a small icon at the top of the screen the word on the card suddenly turned into the scratchy writing he’d seen sparsely around the hidden base.

Migs took the pad happily, glad for something to do during the boring days where he didn’t get to go on a work shift. While he was sure that Grax and Orange would keep him company and play Kot bal Kote with him he was dying for something else to occupy his mind. Another language to learn was just the thing. Especially if it would help him understand the people he had to interact with on a daily basis now.

Grax must have seen the excitement on his face. Chuckling he thumped Migs on the back gently. “You can study later, verd’ika. Time for your shift.”

Putting the pad down on the table he tried not to think about how the cell was becoming less of a prison and more of a bedroom of sorts. Even for mandos this had to be weird, right? But he could contemplate it later. For now he had work to do.

At this point being helped around the dark hallways was old hat. He was even kind of getting used to how his eyes adjusted the moment there was light. It had stopped hurting a while ago now and he was able to transition from dark to light with no problem. He still pretended it affected him though. Why? Because a human wasn’t supposed to be able to adapt like that. But a Stewjonian? One of the many reasons they were so sought after was because of their rare exotic appearance, their high fertility, and their advanced adaptability. Stick a Stewjonian on an island planet and they’ll adapt to hold their breath underwater for an extended period of time. Place them on a cold mountain and they’ll adapt to the cold in no time.

Migs was fairly certain that if they shut the light off in his cell and kept him in the dark long enough he’d develop echolocation or some shit. Not that he wanted to test that theory.

Reaching into a basket of blankets he started folding another when he heard those damn heavy boots hitting the ground at a clip. ‘This is the third fucking time!’ He grit his teeth as the little mando terrors grabbed the freshly folded blankets and pulled them onto the floor. “Don’t you got something better to do!?” He called after them.

The first two kids succeeded in yanking the blankets and the third dodged around the floating fabric, giggling. But this time there was a fourth even smaller mando kid lagging behind. Trying to keep up with the big kids. Unfortunately the kid’s legs got tangled in the fabric and before Migs could do anything the kid was hitting the ground with a heavy whump.

He froze, torn between vindication and concern. It served them right for being little shits. But the concern won out when the kid tried to get up and let out a sad little sniffle. Migs was crouched at their side in a heartbeat, hand against their back. “Hey, let me see what the damage is, okay? I’m not gonna be mad.” Instincts he thought had died when he left the orphanage to become a soldier kicked back on with a vengeance. Taking the kid’s wrists carefully he looked over their hands. “Nah, these are fine. But I’m sure it stings like a bi- uh, a lot.” He winced. He wasn’t used to holding back his foul language. “We just need to clean them off a bit and you’ll be good as new in no time.” Looking around for anything useful he spied a basket of recently cleaned fabric strips. One of the mandos mentioned they were turned into bandages or cleaning cloths. Perfect! “Just sit tight for me!”

Grabbing one of the scraps from the basket he realized there weren’t any faucets or other accessible water sources around. ‘So that’s why they give me a canteen every shift.’ He thought. ‘Oh, the canteen!’ Taking it off his belt he poured a bit of water onto the fabric. He knew that the water was all he got for each shift but taking care of a kid was a higher priority. He’d gone without water before and could do it again as long as it didn’t become a habit. “Here we go.” Crouching next to the kid, who was now sitting up, he gently went about cleaning their hands. “Good as new.” He declared when he was done.

The kid’s helmet turned to look down at their hands then back up to him, a small tilt of confusion to it just like the older mandos. It was equal parts adorable and unsettling. “N’eparavu takisit.” They said suddenly in a tinny high pitched voice that matched their size. Migs figured they couldn’t be older than five or six.

“Sorry kid, I don’t know that one yet.” He shrugged with a small half smile. “But if it was thanks, then you’re welcome.” He was about to stand up again when the kid grabbed the bottom of his shirt to stop him.

“Pare!” They said, sounding urgent.

Blinking down at the kid owlishly he let himself be pulled back down into a crouch. “Me’bana?” ‘What happened?’ That was a word he knew at least.

The kid seemed to perk up slightly before hesitating. Pulling their leg closer they showed him the tear in the fabric, and the bleeding cut through the hole. “Kadala.” ‘Hurt.’ They said with another sniffle.

“Aw hells. Should’a shown me that first ad’ika.” ‘Kid.’ The endearment slipped out without prompting and he had a moment to feel very awkward about it. Soaking more water into the fabric he helped the kid pull off their boot and shimmy the pant leg up so he could see the cut. It wasn’t bad but it definitely needed to be cleaned. But a damp cloth wasn’t going to cut it with the amount of dirt in the wound. “I’m going to have to pour some water on this first.” He mused aloud.

When the kid made a curious little grunt Migs held up the canteen and mimed pouring it. “Pirun. Cinarir.” ‘Water. Clean.’ He still couldn’t figure out some of the conjugations for the language yet. He was finding out that mando’a was a very context heavy language with a lot of strange rules. But at least his vocabulary had grown.

The kid snickered at him but nodded. He wasn’t surprised to see their little hands clench before he began to pour. “Jate ad’ika.” ‘Good kid.’ He quickly pressed the cloth against the wound and carefully held the kid’s leg so they wouldn’t flinch away. “Ori’kotep.” ‘Very brave.’ He praised, carefully cleaning the blood and gunk away from the wound. Grabbing another strip of fabric he wrapped it around the wound in a field dressing. Tightening it just enough so it wouldn’t fall. Sitting back on his heels he set his arms on his knees. “All finished, ad’ika. Now you can go back to terrorizing random hardworking people. Or whatever it is you do. Learn to fight I guess.” It was what mandos were best known for after all.

The kid shoved their leg back in their boot, making sure their pant leg was tucked in before standing. They tested the leg for a moment before turning back to him. He could see them hesitate for a second, their shoulders twitching, before they held out their arm. “Vor entye.”

Migs eyed the kid’s outstretched arm for a moment before warily clasping it, like the older mandos did. Whatever it was they said seemed to be sincere and he was definitely going to look that one up when he was back in his cell. “Heh, maybe now you won’t mess up my laundry, hey?”

The kid looked down and scuffed their foot, almost as if they had understood him. Then someone called out and the kid’s head snapped toward the front entrance of the room. They quickly pulled away and Migs let go the moment he felt the tug on his hand. He didn’t want one of the older mandos to think he was keeping the kid hostage or some shit.

When the kid made it to the entrance they looked back once, waved good-bye, then disappeared into the darkness.

“Damn, even the kiddos can see better in the dark than I can.” He chuckled and got to his feet, stretching his spine as he did so. A couple of pops and cracks later he was left with a mess of blankets on the floor and a very low level of water in his canteen. “Fierfek.” He still had to finish the other baskets before Lycira came to get him.

Rolling up his sleeves, figuratively, he got to work. There was no use crying over dirty laundry.

Another week went by and Migs was starting to get suspicious. Silver had returned to their past time of visiting him, although this time they actually started grilling him on mando’a. Like they were checking on his progress with the language. Grax, Orange, Lycira, and White, all seemed on board with this and would also grill him on language whenever they got the chance. Sometimes they only spoke entirely in mando’a and would ask him to try and interpret what they’d said.

Things changed when Boba Fett walked into his cell. “I have a question for you.” He said firmly, ignoring Grax and Orange to stand right in front of Migs’ cell.

Migs felt his eyes go wide and his mind scrambling in confusion. With the way everything was going he had kind of forgotten that he was still a prisoner. Well… he hadn’t really forgotten so much as the mandos treated him so differently to what he was used to that he’d almost stopped believing he was a prisoner. “I’ll answer if I can.” He said quickly, getting up from the table where he’d been attempting to copy the strange scratchy letters of mando’a.

“While during your work shift you were being interfered with by a group of ade. Why did you not report it to anyone?” There was a stern tone in his voice but no anger, Migs noted.

“I, uh, th-they were just kids being kids-?” What the fuck? This was about the little brats messing with him?

Fett stared at him for a long moment before he let out a small huff. So quiet Migs thought he might have imagined it. “No, they were being disruptive and going places they shouldn’t. In any case, one of them got injured and said that you helped them.” Fett’s visor stared at him, imposing and implacable. “I want the truth of the matter.”

It was like all the tension had bled out of him. Fuck, Fett just wanted to know how the kid got hurt and what happened. He’d thought… well it didn’t matter. “The kids were running around, got into the laundry, and then raced out the door. The littlest one tripped on some blankets and hit the ground pretty hard.” Migs shrugged. “I didn’t see anyone else around so I checked on them. Their hands were dirty and a little scraped but fine. And their leg had a cut on it that was gunked up with dirt. I used some of the scrap fabric and the water from my canteen to clean and dress the wound. The kid seemed alright and was quickly called away after.” It wasn’t a proper Imperial report, which were often tedious as fuck, but it was a good summation of what happened.

Fett stood there for a moment before giving him a slight nod. “That matches up with what the ade said. The buire of the wounded ad wanted to send along their gratitude, and swears that you won’t be bothered again.”

All he could do is nod. “Uh, kaysh are both welcome.” He felt off kilter, poleaxed almost.

“Why did you help the ad?” Fett demanded.

Migs stared at him like he was an idiot, which probably wasn’t good for his health considering who he was talking to. “Because they’re a kid!?” Kids couple be little assholes just like adults. But the difference was that for a kid it was learned behaviour. Kids were, by and large, innocent. While they’d been annoying they hadn’t actually caused him any harm. “Why? What would you have done, Fett?” He asked heatedly, jutting out his chin.

Fett’s gloved hand clenched and he stood even straighter, looking down at Migs. “Called for assistance. You’re not a medic or a child-minder. It’s not your job.”

He let out a small growl, even as he wondered why the fuck he was trying to pick a fight with Fett. Of all the mandos Fett was the most likely to put him in a hole. But… this was about kids. “It’s everyone’s job to look out for kids!”

Nearby he heard Orange chuckle. “Gar serim!”

Fett stared him down silently and for a moment Migs thought he’d fucked up. But instead the ex-bounty hunter just reached up to place his arm across the bars and leaned closer. “Jate, Mird’ad. That’s the spirit.” His voice was pitched low and it sent a shiver up Migs’ spine. Then Fett suddenly turned and walked away, leaving Migs feeling even more out of his depth than before.

“Wha-?”

Grax laughed. “Looks like you managed to do the one thing a lot of us mando’ade have yet to do.” He said, sounding so smug it was almost gross.

“And what’s that?” He asked, shaking out his hands to get rid of his nerves.

“Impress Boba Fett.”

Migs scoffed. They had to be fucking with him. There’s no way anything he did would impress someone like Boba Fett. “Pull the other one.” He said, rolling his eyes. “I’m going to bed. That’s a bit too much excitement for today.”

Grax and Orange chuckled at him. “Jate ca bal jatne vercopa, verd’ika! ” ‘Good night and better dreams, little soldier!’

He waved over his head at them as the flopped down on his bunk. Maybe it was just the nerves but his stomach was feeling a little off. It’d probably feel better if he just slept it off. But as he was trying to find a comfortable position he could hear Fett’s words echoing in his mind.

‘Jate, Mird’ad. That’s the spirit.’

Waking with a start he stared up at the ceiling in confusion for a moment. He had no idea what had woken him up or why- a wet feeling in his underwear made him jolt upright. Pain radiated out from his abdomen and he grimaced in confusion. Getting out of bed he saw a bright splash of color on the undyed cloth and cursed. Loudly.

Lycira and White both twitched, whipping around to stare at him. “Verd’ika? Me’bana?” ‘Little soldier? What’s wrong?’ Lycira asked, sounding worried.

But Migs barely heard her as he rushed to the small fresher in the corner of the cell. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a simple sanitation unit with a curtain so he could have some privacy. Yanking the curtain closed he pulled down his pants to find a mess. The blood had seeped through his clothes. For a moment all he could do was stare, not comprehending what he was seeing. Then it clicked. It had been six months since his last birth control shot. He was supposed to have gotten a new one over a month ago but the mission had come first. It usually took a month for his biology to catch up and reset his cycle after coming off birth control.

Sitting down, hard, he placed his head in his hands and wanted to scream. Of course his species would be revealed in the most asinine way. Of course his carefully constructed fiction about being perfectly human would be obliterated by his own biology.

“Shab!” ‘Fuck!’ He heard Lycira curse, her voice coming closer. “Migs, are you hurt? What happened ad- verd’ika?”

Migs didn’t know how to answer. Standing he quickly cleaned himself of blood, at least as much as possible, and decided it was time to face the music. Pulling up his pants, and grimacing at the feeling, he quickly washed his hands and pushed open the curtain.

Lycira was standing there, unearthly still. “Migs, me’bana? Gar talyc!” ‘Migs, what happened? You’re bleeding!’ He’d noticed that the mandos seemed to fall back on mando’a whenever they were overcome with emotion.

“I, uh…” best to rip the bandaid off. “I started my period.” He blurted. “I’m not injured, just…” He threw up his hands and let them fall, unsure what else to say.

Lyrica’s helmet tilted in confusion. “But, human male-?” She asked, waving her hand at him in confusion.

Letting out a sigh he rubbed the back of his neck. “No. I,” he swallowed, “I lied.” It was maybe a little too soon for him to fully trust the mandos with what he was about to say, but did he really have any choice? “I’m Stewjoni.”

Lycira reared back slightly, her helmet trained on the red hair that he was just able to tuck behind his ears. “Ad’ika,” she said, sounding so gentle, “you should have said something sooner! Your species has special requirements.”

Migs scowled. “And who could I trust, huh? I’m an Imperial in the middle of a Mandalorian stronghold!” His abdomen twinged with pain and he grunted. Fuck, he had not missed this while in the army!

“You can trust me, ad’ika.” Lycira said firmly, coming closer and pulling him into a firm hug. “I’ll take care of it. My vod has gone to grab a medic. I’ll comm Grax and ask him to bring some extra clothes so you can change.”

Ad’ika. She’d called him that a couple times now. With all the learning he’d been doing recently he knew that she was calling him ‘little one.’ But he also knew the other meaning of the word in context.

Son.