Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Drowning.

Such an odd and foreign thing, to him. To have water fill your lungs; choke out the air. To breathe a gasp and watch the bubbles float leisurely up to the surface.

To sink.

How much of a difference does change make?

Here’s a hypothetical. There’s a trolley going down on a track, and on that track-

Kidding. That one’s boring. Here’s a different hypothetical.

You’re driving a vehicle down a path. You’re staying on the path. Something — or rather, someone — steps into the path. Maybe they were pushed; maybe they didn’t see it; maybe they saw but wouldn’t, or couldn’t, stop walking. That part doesn’t matter, in the long run.

You have a minute to swerve, and save their life. In doing so, you will most likely crash.

This is not where the hypothetical starts; this is, still, only the setting of a stage. You do not get a choice.

You will run them over. They will die. 

Now, in the aftermath of your decision, you feel regret. Guilt. ‘I shouldn’t have run them over,’ you think, worrying the bottom of your lip between your teeth. ‘I should’ve swerved.’

It’s too late for that, now. They’re already dead. And you’re still driving.

Now, here’s the hypothetical. If another person starts crossing the road, do you swerve? You’ve already run one person down, what’s another?

Or another, or another, or another?

Or do you stop driving entirely? End it all and start walking? Walk and walk and when you come across a road-

…It’s silly, really. Just a silly hypothetical.

But in the way that hypotheticals are, they nag; snag claws like stubborn burrs, thorns digging through your clothes and pricking your skin — a reminder, constantly, with every little motion. Think of me, think of me, think of nothing else.

Derra Finnale is…just a guy. Perfectly and utterly ordinary. You wouldn’t look twice if you walked by him, and if he were a character in a storybook you’d turn your nose up at him entirely.

All the better, honestly. Call him crazy, but Derra would be perfectly content living his life the way it is, for forever. It is, after all, so very intentional; every aspect designed and every detail accounted for. He built this life; it’s his.

And he’s…happy. He really, truly is.

Maybe it was selfish of him, to be. There were people who’d never be happy again after what he’d done; those corpses he’d run over.

They’d never be happy, they’d never be sad — they wouldn’t be anything at all, in the way that corpses, dead people, often are.

The stars twinkle down at him, like eyes smiling kindly, unobstructed and unbothered by any moonlight or cloud. The street he’s walking down is brightly lit; the buildings that line it glow with the light from their windows, awake still, despite the hour. Just around the corner, there’s a muffled tune of music. 

He can’t even remember what for — if there was a festival, or a birthday party he had somehow missed in such a sleepy little town. Maybe there wasn’t any reason for it. It was there, simply for the sake of being there.

How wonderful.

The holoprojector in his pocket buzzes. With a little yelp, Derra stumbles to a stop — fishes it out, and turns it on.

Soft blue light flickers. Derra’s heart soars.

“Papa!” His little starlight had pushed her face too close to the holoprojector, and Derra could only catch the slight curve of her eyebrow. There’s a voice, coming from her end; soft and warm, words inaudible but tone caught clearly in the thrums of affection. 

“Syla,” Derra chuckles. “I can’t see you. You’re too close.”

But Syla was already moving back, and the smile she beams then rivals that of a thousand suns. “Sor-ee, Papa," she says. Then, without missing a beat, "When are you coming home?”

Never one for pleasantries, is she? “ I am on my way back, right now.” As if to prove it, Derra slings his pack over his shoulder, from where he had been dragging it along — fuelled, suddenly and simply so, by the sight of his daughter. “Is your Father there with you?”

“Mhm! He said you left the station already, but I didn’t believe him.”

“Why not?” Derra continues on his path. "You know Father wouldn't lie to you."

That voice, again — with words still inaudible. Derra could guess it was probably an exasperated 'thank you!'

"I know that!" Syla shoots her father, hidden from Derra's view, with a glare — or at least, the best an eight-year-old could do. "I just wanted to check! You always say, is better to be safe than sorry!"

“Ah, well. It appears I’ve been positively wrecked by that argument.” Syla’s father, Derra’s husband, appears in the frame. Eyes wrinkling into well-worn smile lines at the edges, and with a voice that flits easily between tones warm and comfortable. 

“It’s true,” Derra snickers. “You did say that.”

“See!” Triumphant at winning the argument, Syla passes smug grins between her two fathers. She then turns her attention back over to Derra; a quiet, subtle, but no less present furrow between her eyebrows, then. “So you’re really heading back now?”

“Yes, Starlight.” Derra turns the corner. The music fades away — it’s quieter, here. More dark windows and slumbering houses. “I’ll be there- Oh, give me ten minutes?”

“Ten.” Syla wrinkles her nose. “Five?”

“Seven.”

“Deal!” That furrow is gone, and Syla beams a little gap-toothed smile. “Seven, Papa! Don’t be late! One, two, three-”

Smoothly and evidently well-practised, Syla’s father scoops the holoprojector out of her hands — holds it up to be level with him, instead. Derra imagines dark eyebrows furrowing cheekily, instead of the grainy flickering blue. 

“Seven minutes? And you’re on…is that Gyner Street?” The scepticism is practically dripping off his voice, but it melts smoothly into amused fondness. “Looks like you better start sprinting.”

“Looks like it,” Derra returns, cheerfully. His steps pick up speed. “Is she actually counting?”

“Yep. She’s got you by the second.”

“Seven minutes,” Derra promises. He stakes his life on it, practically. Gods, he’d hate for his little Starlight to get upset with him. “Count on it. Count on me.”

“You know I always do,” comes the reply — the truth, spoken as easily as the sun will rise and the rain will fall and the stars will burn. Blue, holographic eyes burn with that same intensity, and Derra is nearly bowled over by the want that seizes him, then. “You know I always will.”

“–twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty! Thirty-one–”

“I’ll be there,” Derra breathes. Then, he turns the projector off. 

Without stopping, without missing a beat, he shifts his pack to the front and shoves the projector inside — vaguely, he hears it clatter and clang with the rest of his possessions. Swinging it back over his shoulder kicks a grunt and a huff out of his lungs, but Derra pushes it all to the side as he turns the corner and-

“Cute kid.”

He freezes.

“...what?” Slowly, he turns around. His eyebrows furrow at the sight of the deserted street all around him. It’s well-lit, but there are still shadows and, now, they seem impossibly so darker. The dark windows from the buildings surrounding him are as empty eye sockets.

“Your kid. They sound fun. Young,” that voice continues. There’s a particularly metallic tinge to it, as if spoken through a voice-altering program, or a vocoder. Derra still can’t find the source. “What was their name, again?”

Derra spins around, a couple of times. His grip on his pack tightens. “I don’t-”

“Was it Syla?”

The voice sounds clearer; closer. Derra whirls around one final time, and-

There, standing right smack in the middle of his path, is a Mandalorian — Derra was sure they weren’t standing there just a second ago. Their armour is unmistakable; legends turned reality, living stories of sharp and swift and silver.

Derra has seen Mandalorians only from a distance. This one, he notes, is rather…small.

The Mandalorian tilts their head to the side, slowly. They have their hands neatly folded behind their back. Their visor is heavily tinted; there’s not a hint of the face underneath it. It may as well be that there wasn’t any, and it’s just dark and shadows — an apparition in indestructible armour. 

“ It was Syla, wasn’t it?”

Derra struggles to breathe against the spasming of his chest — a mix of panic and protective anger. They know Syla's name, they know her name, they know her name — that's his baby.

He speaks, then, through curled lips and gritted teeth, in a huff and a growl. “Have you been- Have you been following me?”

“Yes,” The Mandalorian answers, easily and shamelessly. It’s salt in the wound, especially when they jerk their head to the side and goes, “Since you left the station. You walk slow. You were never going to make it in seven minutes.”

Derra resists the childish urge to go ‘yes, I would’ve’. There are other, much more pressing matters at hand. The fact that they’re following him, the fact that they’ve overheard his conversation with his family, the fact that they know that Syla exists-

The fact that, if they hadn’t revealed themselves then, they would’ve followed him to his house.

“You- you’re a bounty hunter, aren’t you?” He scolds himself for the brief stutter — refuses to let himself be cowed. He lifts his chin up, staring them down as best he can. “We don’t get many of those around here.”

It’s the truth. It’s that exact reason why Derra chose to settle down here, of all places — here, where he met his life, his love, his home. 

This was his home. And Derra isn’t running. Not anymore.

“No.” The Mandalorian doesn’t move, and Derra deflates slightly. Suppose shame on him for thinking he could intimidate one of them so easily. “It’s a nice place. Peaceful. Good.”

He thinks he burns underneath their gaze — burns underneath the look of eyes that aren’t even visible. Or perhaps he’s being scorched from the way they go on to say, “Shame someone like you had to bring someone like me into town.”

Derra’s fingers, on the hand not clutching onto his pack like it was a lifeline, curls into a fist. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Liar.” The Mandalorian leans forward, slightly. He thinks, if they were closer, he could see his own face in their visor — he thanks the stars for the distance. “'M not fond of liars. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You were Empire.”

Derra thinks he can’t breathe. He thinks he’s stopped entirely. He thinks he might as well be dead. “The Empire is dead.”

“You wish," The Mandalorian scoffs; a startling amount of emotion from an otherwise unmoving demeanour. Derra figures that, if anything were to break that mask, mentions of the Empire would do it. "Do you know what the Empire did to my f- My people?”

He is intimately aware of what the Empire did to the Mandalorians. Through gritted teeth, he says, again, “The Empire. Is. Dead.”

The Mandalorian regards him silently for while. Then, almost innocently, they ask, “Does your family think that as well?”

They might have well just shot him. 

Derra growls — anger fueled by panic, and both of those things tend to make you stupid. Stupid enough for him to take a step forward, closer towards them. “Leave them out of it! They don't deserve you. They don't even know anything, and they're never going to! They’re innocent in all of this. They're good people.” 

His voice echoes back to him, in the silence. It's deafening. The silence, then, is long and thin.

“...But you’re not,” the Mandalorian says, finally. It’s softly spoken.

It’s not a question.

And they were not fond of liars, so Derra didn’t bother answering.

“I’m looking for someone.” The Mandalorian straightens — it’s a barely perceptible motion. Like a predator waggling haunches, flexing claws before the pounce. “I was told you could tell me where he is.”

Derra feels his eyes slide shut; his face scrunch up. He thinks about shouting, about screaming for help, of running and running and running until his lungs burn. Begging for someone, anyone, to find them. 

He thinks about risking the life of someone who didn’t deserve it.

The Mandalorian, if nothing else, was right about one thing.

This is a good place. Full of good people; kind people. Those few that still exist in the galaxy — those few who mean everything, what keeps them hanging on, what keeps them going on. And, regardless of their goodness, most importantly, they are innocent.

And Derra has been so, so selfish before — he cannot do it again.

“I can’t help you,” he says, tiredly. Derra opens his eyes. “I deflected from the Empire a long, long time ago. I didn’t touch the First Order. I can’t help you.”

The Mandalorian doesn't seem fazed, or even that disappointed. “I didn’t even tell you who I’m looking for," they say, with a tone that sounds almost as if they're scolding him.

“I could guess.” Derra opens his mouth, a name on the tip of his tongue, but that’s as far as it gets. It feels like inviting the devil into your home, speaking that name. 

Assume he knows everything, after all.

Instead, Derra sighs, and shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I am. But I can’t help you.”

The Mandalorian stares at him, for a long long while. It’s almost as if they’ve turned to stone. It’s almost as if they were frozen in shock. It’s almost as if they aren’t even listening to him.

"Let me ask," they say, and if Derra didn't know any better, he'd almost say it was pleading. But it's less a question than it is a statement; it is less a request than it is a declaration. "Let me ask. Where...where can I find Moff Gideon?"

Derra keeps himself from cringing away from the name. He's not superstitious, but he is cautious, and Moff Gideon is someone nobody — least of all him — wants on their doorstep.

"I don't know," he says, honestly. "I don't know. I'm sorry."

Derra doesn’t see them move — motion too quick for his eyes to catch. But, all of the sudden, they’ve got a tight grip on something in their right hand, and-

It clicks.

Their spear seems to grow into existence. As if it were another limb — a part of them. The tip of it taps against the sidewalk with a quiet, warning clang.

“Let me ask you again,” they say — their voice, now, barely more than a growl. It sends shivers crawling done Derra's spine. “Where...can I find...Moff Gideon?”

Derra’s breath chokes him, dragging claws and filling his lungs with blood — it's racing through his veins; heart hammering like a trapped bird in his ribcage; a cold shiver running down his spine. His legs feel weak as he takes a step back; his tongue feels heavy, like lead, when he says;

“I don’t know.”

The Mandalorian shifts. 

And Derra whispers an apology to the stars. I'm sorry, Syla, my heart.

"Wrong answer," they snarl. Then, they lunge.

The ground underneath his feet seems to shake, rumbling and growling. There is the roaring of a ship's engine, and the ground roars in tune, trembling.

One Migs Mayfeld is well aware of this particular feeling.

“Oh, karking hell-” With a hiss and a groan, he pulls the rifle away from his shoulder and sets it down. He turns his back on the hole-ridden target on the other end of the field, and looks up.

A ship flies overhead, the roar of the engine reaching its peak — the force of it sends branches and grass swaying away. Biting his tongue, Migs watches it soar past; getting lower and lower as it does, before it eventually vanishes behind the trees.

In the deafening silence that comes after, he counts the seconds.

“Boss!” Bins bursts through the undergrowth. Their eyes are wide, and they’re panting lightly. “He’s here!”

Migs gives them a look. 

Bins ducks their head. “Ah, yeah-" they say, almost sheepishly rubbing at the back of their neck. "You…probably saw that.”

Migs breathes out a sigh. He bends down to pick his rifle back up, resting it against his shoulder. “Asshole’s back already? What, didn’t he leave two days ago? These Mandos, man…”

Bins only shrugs, waiting for him by the undergrowth. They begin picking their way back to the main camp. “They’re legends for a reason, eh?”

Migs grumbles something inaudible and incomprehensible. Then, he huffs, “Legends are supposed to be staying far karkin’ away though. This one keeps coming back. Like a lost damn massif pup.”

“You did tell him he could.” Bins is eyeing him, through the corners of their eyes. “'N you’ve never sent him away, either.”

Migs shoots them with a glare, realising too late that he might’ve just proved their point. Kark it all.

“Yeah, you try sending a Mandalorian packing,” he challenges, instead. He hikes his rifle further up his shoulder, from where his grip had been slipping. “Ain’t as easy as it looks.”

“As what looks? You didn’t even try-”

“Yeah, keep talking and I’ll let him have his way with you.”

“You wouldn’t.” Bins puts a hand to their chest, eyes widening in faux-offence. They gasp. “But I’m your favourite!”

“Okay, well, A; Vhel’s my favourite. Obviously.” Migs elbows them with enough force that the much larger figure actually stumbles, tripping over roots. There’s a damn bird singing somewhere. “And B; you’ve been spending waaaaay too much time with Dran. You’re starting to sound like the asshole.”

“That’s not a bad thing!”

“That’s the worst thing you could ever be. I need to gag the bastard.” Migs puts a hand to his forehead. Just thinking about it stresses him out an unreasonable amount, which is a bad thing to be when you’re walking to talk to a Mandalorian, who may just as well be an unreasonably amount stressed out himself. 

“You first,” Bins shoots back — never one to let insult to Dran lay still. It used to be really funny, then really endearing, at first. Now it’s just annoying. Kiss already, you bastards. “Even the Mando would agree with me on that.”

“Oh!" This time, it's Migs who gasps."Traitor!”

“It’s the truth.” Bins has got a smug look on their face. Migs elbows them again, then quickly dodges their attempt at retaliating. He’d rather his ribcage intact, thanks.

They finally push through into a clearing. There’s a bunch of personal tents scattered about, surrounding the bigger and more open main one in the middle. Migs strides towards it, putting his rifle on the biggest table in the middle — amidst a whole mess of various maps and other bitbobs.

The ship — the Crest II — is in the same clearing, further to the edges, almost pushing back against the forest. As if they were all rabid and rancid, and the Mando wants to keep his distance for as long and as much as he could.

Good karking luck with that. Migs moves, facing the ship directly but leaning against the table. He crosses his arms and waits.

Bins is moving in the corner of his eyes; shifting around. They sigh aloud. “Wish Dran and Vhel got back already. This sucks without them.”

“You mean without Dran?” Migs shoots them a teasing look with raised, waggling eyebrows — barking out a laugh at their grumbling scowl. “Hey, don’t get all snippy on me, alright? You were the one with the extensive shopping list.”

“Yeah, and I was thinking I’d be able to go.” Bins mirrors him by crossing their arms over their chest. “Instead I’m stuck here, while Vhel gets to go. S’ rubbish.”

“Suck it up. I need you here.” Migs draws his eyes away — he doesn’t need to see the way Bins is sobering up at the sudden tenseness of his tone, the flatness of his words. “It’d be nice to have all of them here, but between you n’ me, we could probably take down a Mando.”

Silence, for a while. They’re both watching the ship. Its engines have powered off, and the clearing is quiet.

“Fat chance of that ever happening,” Bins mutters. Migs can’t help but bark out a bitter laugh.

Soon enough, he spies the ramp of the ship lowering.

Out, then, strides the Mando.

The kid’s walking a hell of a lot steadier than the first time he came knocking. Migs recalls frantic shouts, confused and still-sleepy mutters, the roaring of an engine. He remembers, jaw agape, watching the ship land like a ghost from his past come practically crashing down. 

He’d held his rifle out, pointing across that dark clearing, finger steady on the trigger and a holler on his tongue-

Words that die, withered and rotten, when the kid stumbles out, practically tripping on his feet. Cradling his arm to his chest as if it hurt to move; visor moving to each of them, one by one, as if they were the ghosts and he was the only thing clinging to life.

Migs thinks the Mando had passed out, at some point. When they were in the base, and Mando was probably high off his shit with the amount of bacta and painkillers they’d shot into him. A moment where he was just a bit too still, a bit too quiet — ragged breaths a bit smoother.

It didn’t last long. Kid’s got nightmares, apparently.

‘What happened to you?’ Migs had marvelled, then, in a quiet sort of horror, in the quiet of such a horrifying night.

‘What had to be done,’ Mando had only replied, the hoarseness of his voice evident even through the vocoder. Then, ‘Help me.’

He’s gone soft, Migs thinks, now, when he’s watching the Mando storm across the clearing like a soldier off to war. Bins was right. He’s gone completely and utterly soft.

“Mando,” Migs greets to an unsurprising stony silence. “You’re home early.”

Mando jolts horribly at the word ‘home’, and looks like he’s trying to cover the motion up by crossing his arms. He doesn't return the greeting, rude little shit, and instead stops a couple steps away to say, “Your intel was bad."

Gods. If Migs didn’t pity the kid, he’d be down to punch that beskar helmet with enough force to have it ringing in his ears for weeks. 

“Really?” Migs makes himself say, instead. He hears the way his own voice becomes thin. “Did you ask this time?”

“Of course I asked,” Mando snaps. He’s been very irritable, lately. It makes Migs uneasy. “There was nothing I could pry out because they didn’t have anything in the first place. It was a stupid waste of time.”

Migs bites back on the intense urge to sneer. He’s not built to be the calm one, the one who deescalates situations before they could turn into fights, but he’s been finding himself shoved into the role more often than nought these days.

It’s not like Mando was the one going to act as mediator.

“It’s not a waste of time,” Migs grits out, struggling to keep his own hackles lying. “We crossed another one off the list. It’s progress.”

Mando scoffs, visor angling away — staring at the ground. He mutters something lowly underneath his breath.

Impatient, now, Migs snaps, “What was that?”

“‘We’,” Mando echoes, like a bitter snarl. “That’s what you said?”

“Yeah, and?” Migs pricks up an eyebrow; challenging. One of the last things you’d want to be with a Mandalorian, but he knows this one — knows that, underneath all those sharp edges and cold metal is just a stupid kid. 

It's the truth — as much as it’s true that Migs has gone soft, and that he does pity this sad and ungrateful sack of shit. This dumb, stupid kid who either can’t or won’t go trotting back to his people, and spends most nights holed up in that ship of his, alone. 

Just a dumb, stupid kid so obviously carrying a lot more baggage than just the weight of that armour.

Don’t ask questions, was a policy of Ran’s. Migs isn’t fond of the old bastard, but can’t deny he had something going, then. Don’t ask questions; don’t spook them off.

The galaxy is a big space. Most of that space is empty. 

And Mando is…pretty small.

“If you want to go hunting down your target without my help,” Migs lifts his hands up, as if in surrender, “then be my guest. I ain’t stopping you.”

Mando goes still, then. Some part of Migs feels vaguely guilty over the not-quite threat — but, hey, it wouldn’t kill the kid to learn to say thank you. Be good for him to, even. It’s called tough love.

Tough love works, because eventually the Mando ducks his head. He mutters something too quiet to be comprehensible for the vocoder, but Migs is willing to cut him some slack and pretend he said ‘sorry’. If only for his own sanity.

He turns around and catches a glimpse of Bins staring at him, with wide eyes. That’s going to be an issue for later.

“Finnale really had nothing for you?” He asks the maps, and his rifle. Behind him, he can hear the chinking of armour as Mando moves.

“Nothing.” Mando steps up to the table, by his side. The surface is about his eye level; kid probably can’t actually see anything on it. He acts like he can, though, so Migs doesn’t bring it up. “They weren’t lying about it. It’s been too long since they were involved.”

Migs grunts. “Didn’t feel like that long ago.”

“It was long ‘nough.” Mando reaches up to the table, grasping around for something. “Who’s next on the list?”

His fingers brush against the datapad, but Migs snatches it before he could grab hold. “Woah, there, hang on a second,” he says, taking a step back.

Mando sharply turns towards him, fingers curling into fists. Migs only holds the datapad closer to his chest — he lifts up a finger.

“Ah, ah, ah- I said wait.” Hurriedly, while Migs still has the kid’s attention and not yet his fury, he says, “You just got back. Take a day off or somethin’.”

Mando’s shoulders tense. “I don’t have time for a day off-”

“Well I’m not askin’.” Migs crosses his arms. He tries his best to look stern. “Don’t be stupid, Mando. You head out there, with your head not screwed on tight enough, and you’re signing your own death sentence.”

“Then fine! I don’t care!” Mando steps forward. He makes grabbing notions for the datapad, then actually tries to grab it by jumping up. Migs stifles a yelp as he holds it out of the kid’s reach. “M- Haar’chak, Caine! Just give me the godsdamned list!”

“It’s just one day! Go out to town or whatever. Get a drink.” Migs blinks. “I mean, like, water, or something. Are you old enough to drink alcohol?”

Mando stomps harshly onto his foot. Migs yelps and hops back, cursing under his breath. “Oh, kark- Seriously?”

“You’re being stupid.”

“You’re being stubborn.”

“I’ve got a job to do, Caine!”

“Well it’s not going anywhere!”

“It literally is! That’s what bounty hunting is!”

“Well I don’t give a shit, then!” Migs straightens up, wincing at his poor sore toes. He lifts the datapad high into the air — Mando’s visor follows it, like it’s the most important thing in the galaxy. It probably is, for him, right now. 

“One day,” Migs repeats, again. His grip on the datapad tightens. Then, before he could overthink it, he goes, “Or I delete the list.”

Mando goes still, again — a kind of quiet, deathly, dangerous stillness. Where the last one had been like a kid freezing with a hand down a cookie jar, this is like a predator spotting prey.

“Don’t you dare,” Mando growls; low and gravelly.

“Try me.” Migs lifts his chin up, refusing to back down. Tough love, don’t fail him now. “And you can’t kill me either, 'cause everything on this list came from my head. Yeah, that’s right. Checkmate, Mando.”

Maybe he shouldn't have sounded so smug. Actually, you know what, scratch that — do you know the amount of shit he has to put up with from the kid? He'll live.

That growl of his turns into a snarl; wordless and vicious. But, when Mando moves, it’s not to storm across the distance — instead, the kid half-turns around and paces, like a caged animal. Frustration practically rolls off of him in waves.

Migs watches him, slowly bringing the datapad back down to his chest. “First light tomorrow,” he continues — Mando’s head jerks violently, but he knows the kid’s listening. “I give you the next name. Then you can go back to your rust-bucket ship. Whatever. Deal?”

“This is stupid.”

“Do we have a deal?”

“I hate you,” Mando hisses. “I loathe you. You suck. I hope you rot.”

Migs holds out a hand. “Shake on it, kiddo.”

Mando stops pacing — visor angling itself in a way that makes Migs thinks he’s glaring down at the outstretched hand. His fingers are curling and uncurling into fists, as if the kid’s physically holding himself back from throwing a blow.

There’s a violent huff of static through the vocoder, then Mando’s whirling around on his heels and storming back across the clearing. He shouts, over his shoulder and without looking back, “You better give me that name, Caine!”

“Love you too!” Migs only calls back, a shit-eating grin on his face — a grin that only grows at the Mando’s muffled scream in response. Chuckling, he turns back towards the table and puts the datapad down.

He remembers Bins, suddenly. Migs glances up, meeting their wide-eyed look with the jaw slightly agape. A stupid dramatic reaction, really, ‘cause it’s not like this was the first time any of that happened.

“What?” Migs shrugs. “Teenagers, amirite?”

One of these days, Grogu was going to murder Migs Mayfeld. And he’s going to do it slow.

“Stupid list,” he’s muttering to himself, picking through the woods and heading in the direction of town. The trees listen faithfully. “Stupid mercenary.”

Grogu steps over a tree root, then kicks a rock. It tumbles through the fallen leaves, thunks against the foliage, and then settles in the mulch. Dumb, stupid rock. It’s ugly and boring. A solid 1/10, as far as rocks go. Do better.

“Stupid forest,” he seethes, pushing through the undergrowth. Branches glance against his armour, screeching softly and shrilly. He grimaces. “Stupid planet. Oh, haar’chak! (Damn it!) ”

A day off. A day off?! As if these past few months, Grogu had been going to a 9-5 office job and getting a paycheck and stressing over normal people work stuff. As if he’s not a hunter, as if he’s stupid enough to overwork himself, as if he needs a day off-

He reaches out to the side as he walks, snagging hold of the branches of a bush and yanking at them — just to relieve some frustration. It barely makes a dent.  

Grogu doesn’t need a day off! He doesn’t need to rest, he doesn’t need to stop, and he doesn’t need to go into dumb stupid town, where the people will stare at him and his armour and the fact that he’s alone.

What he needs is to find Moff Gideon. What he needs is to kill Moff Gideon.

He needs that demagolka's head mounted up on a wall. He needs to get the next name, to find the next target, and to find out where Moff Gideon is. It's been months — target after target after damn target, and that monster is still out there. It's infuriating. It's so frustrating!

Grogu kicks at another rock. This one tumbles further away, jostling the bush it rolls into. From it, something too quick for Grogu to catch darts out and vanishes into the camouflage. 

Stupid animal. Stupid bush. Stupid rock.

Stupid Migs Mayfeld.

Grogu storms through the woods. He is the tempest; rage of unpleasant weather — he is the wind, shrill and frigid and cold as he shoves through the growth — he is the thunder, rumbling and growling and snarling, lungs heaving — he is the rain, relentless.

Eventually, his thunderstorm of a march reaches the closest town to Mayfeld’s base. He’s been here before, but Grogu cannot help but pause when he reaches the break in the trees — to stare into the cluster of buildings, the open streets, the people milling and wandering about.

It seems to glow underneath the light of the late morning sun; the shine of it like a halo, as if this place were divine. Or, at the very least, sacred — or, at the very least, important, if only to the people who lived in it.

It is home.

Just not one for him. 

Grogu doesn’t get one of those; he’s not built for it. It’s obvious, when he gave it thought. He doesn’t belong anywhere. He doesn’t belong, at all. 

It’s the truth. Nothing else to it.

He huffs a harsh sigh. Then, another, slower one — intentionally dragging it out, intentionally expelling at least some of his irritation. 

Well, he was here. Might as well make use of his time.

He moves out of the trees and into town. His march, now, is less violent and destructive — alternatively, it is steadier and more resolute. Firm and stubborn; he makes through the streets, through the crowd, as if he were walking against the tide of a river.

He does not turn to look at the stares he can feel burning into his back. He does not turn to look at the barely audible whispers he can hear, underneath all the other chatter. He does not turn to, nor away from, the Songs when they stutter and stumble.

Grogu Djarin keeps walking. He does not stop. He does not turn back.

Eventually, he gets to the markets. His steps slow, quiet hesitation as he considers what he needs to get and where he needs to go. 

He spies a stall full of the planet’s native fruit. His feet are moving towards it before he can even think.

“Good afternoon, how may I- Oh.” The human-appearing fruit vendor visibly stiffens, at the sight of him. “He-hello, there.”

Grogu stops a few feet away from the stall; just enough so that the angle actually lets him see the things on it. Usually, he’d just jump up on the tables themselves and point out what he wants — he hasn’t done that in a while. He’s not sure how the people here would take to it; it’s not like he’s on Tatooine, after all.

…ah, damn you, Djarin. Shut up. Don’t think about Tatooine. You can’t spiral here, of all places.

“Give me something that can last for a standard week, at least.” He lifts his hand up to gesture, vaguely, at the array of produce; his hand brushes over his heart and for a moment, Grogu pushes down against it. “Preferably longer.”

The vendor presses their lips tightly together into a thin line, but thankfully doesn’t say much of anything else. He knows their curiosity burns; he’s had to deflect a couple questions thrown at him, the first few times. Eventually, they learned to keep their mouths shut.

Good. Grogu’s not in the mood to answer their questions. Grogu’s not in the mood to do anything at all, really. 

They give him his fruit and he gives them their credits, stepping up to the stall and slapping the amount on the surface. He leaves before they could count it — it could be too much, it could be too little. Regardless, they don’t call out for him when he leaves.

That’s the fruit done. Now Mayfeld won’t nag his godsdamned ears off for his apparently ‘bad diet’. Like he can say anything about it. Hypocrite.

...Grogu is at his fifth stall when he realises that someone’s been following him. 

He can hear his own melody begin to pick up; tunes and rhythms stringing together into one of high-tensions and curling lips. He makes himself stand still; to accept the medical supplies — he goes through them a lot — and to trade them a couple credits, moving away as naturally as he can. 

He does not turn around. He wants to. He doesn’t. He’s not that much of a fool.

There could be a number of reasons why he has a tail. Maybe some kids got curious, hearing word of a wandering Mandalorian. Maybe some adults got curious, and they’re disguising that curiosity as caution; tailing him to make sure he doesn't go rogue or something.

Or, maybe, he's being hunted.

It comes with the package of being what he is. When one chooses to walk the way of Mandalore, they are both hunter and prey.

Grogu slows down, acting as if he’s peering into the stalls. His tail slows down as he does; he spies, through the corners of his eyes, two moving figures, both trying their best to appear inconspicuous.

Di'kutla shabuire (stupid jerks). He bets they couldn’t be more obvious if they tried.

As he slowly picks his way through the crowd, heading out of the markets, Grogu takes them in. Both of them are humanoid — one of them easily passing as a human, whilst the other has their features obscured underneath a mask and a wide-brim hat. As they move, he spies the curious gazes coming from the locals.

Too large to be children. Too foreign to be good-samaritan parents. That leaves only one last thing on his list 

Cursing too softly for the vocoder of his helmet, Grogu subtly begins picking up speed. He weaves between the legs of the crowds with practised agility: mindful, however, not to stray too far.

There's a building, at the far edge of town — built for storage. Too small to be called a warehouse, but big enough that most main businesses store their stock there. Grogu knows — he broke in out of curiosity, early on.

He heads for that building now. At this time of day, it should be empty. The people here are good — he doesn’t want to put them in the crossfire.

He puts on a burst of speed at the last stretch, slipping into an alleyway next to the building. Grogu moves quick, leaping up and grabbing onto a relatively high windowsill — he can hear the hunters cursing; can hear their footsteps quickening.

He opens the window and drops inside.

The store room is dark; shelves like labyrinth walls, full of boxes and crates and jars. Grogu hadn’t the chance to properly peer at them, when he first broke in — he didn’t really care for the contents. He doesn’t pay much attention to them now either.

Grogu puts his stuff behind a crate on the ground. Then, he steps up to the nearest shelf, and climbs.

The hunters have apparently forgone stealth entirely; they stand on the other side of the window, arguing in loud and harsh whispers. There’s a heavy thump, as if one of them had been shoved against the wall — silence stretches soon after.

Grogu watches, and he waits. They’ll either climb in through the window as well or give up; regardless, up on the shelves, he has an advantage. Now, all there is left to do is-

The front door creaks open. 

Well, damn. He didn’t consider the fact that they could just open the door. That’s on him.

"Mando…" One of them calls in a saccharinely sweet, sing-song voice. "Come out buddy! We just wanna chat with you, have a lil' conversation."

Their partner grumbles something that Grogu doesn’t catch. It makes the other hiss, softly in response.

They begin moving, splitting up and making their way between the shelves. Grogu keeps still, watching them from above; his eyes narrowing.

“We’d rather not hurt you,” says the one with the hat and the mask; the one who had spoken up earlier.  They step up to a crate and opens it, peering inside. “You know, it’s not every day that an employer had such strict instructions to use non-lethal force.”

They slam the lid of the crate closed. “The Daimyo must be really fond of you.”

Grogu barely stifles a growl. He shifts, on the topmost level of a shelf; tucked in the shadow of two crates. 

The human passing one wanders beneath him, white-knuckled grip on their rifle. Grogu tilts his head; for a moment, thinking.

He drops down. They don’t get the chance to scream.

“You know, I got the feeling,” the other hunter continues. It’s good that they’re fond of their own voice; it helps, alongside the Songs, and lets him know where they are, while he works on dragging the other’s body out of plain sight.

Jeez, humans can be so heavy.

“Bounties are usually scrappy folks. I thought you screwed the Daimyo over for a few bucks, or something. But the way he talks about you? ” The bounty hunter opens a cabinet; the sound of its doors slamming shut again nearly makes Grogu jump.

"Why, he practically threatened to kill us if we’d hurt you. You’re not just a normal bounty.” Through the gaps of the stock, Grogu can see the way they stand up their tiptoes, peering higher up the shelves. Huh, this one's smarter. That’s new. 

There’s a quiet creaking sound.

“What’re you? Some sort of,” the bounty hunter harrumphs a dry chuckle, “prodigal son? What, is this an act of rebellion? I get you to Tatooine in chains, and all the Daimyo’s gonna do is ground you?”

Grogu’s eyes narrow, lip curling. They say that as if that’s not a bad thing — Daimyo’s ‘groundings’ aren’t the most pleasant ones. 

The bounty hunter has gone quiet. Grogu doesn’t dare move, lest it draws their attention. Staying on the ground in such a tight space makes him uneasy — claustrophobic. He needs to get out. He needs to be out.

“What the- Hey! You’re-”

Their voice abruptly cuts off into a muffled scream. There’s that telltale thud of a body dropping to the floor; a clattering, then, in that way a blaster would do if it fell to the ground. 

A cold, cold chill settles on his shoulders; seeping, into the bones of his spine. Grogu is holding his breath, first; realising it, second.

There’s someone else here. 

The silence yawning after is vast and oppressive.

“...Su cuy’gar, vod. Won’t you come out?”

Fierfek!

Grogu winces, biting harshly on his tongue. His next exhale is shaky. Shit. Shit. 

What had started off as a somewhat fun way to mess around with a couple di’kutla bounty hunters might just be what kills him. Oh, shit. How long have they been here? How long have they been following him?

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Come on, Djarin. You need to be better than this.

He can hear the chinking of their armour, now that he’s paying enough damn attention to listen; their steady Song rumbling, mildly muted — it would've been quieter, if they'd been wearing true beskar, so that's at least something. The sound of their motions are quiet and subtle; not like that back at the palace, where they had no reason to sneak around.

A Mandalorian knows how to move quietly, when the situation demands it.

Shit. 

He makes himself gulp in a long, deep breath; makes the panic in his veins simmer down to a low thrum. He spies motion, to his right; Grogu moves to the left.

“I need your help, vod,” says the Mando’ad. They pass the spot where he’d been hiding, just a second ago. “I’ve heard rumours of a sanctuary, on Tatooine. I need to get to it.”

Grogu huffs a quiet pant. Before he can think of it, he goes, “You don’t need me for that. ‘S a big palace. You won’t miss it. Haat (Truth — honest). ”

The Mando’ad stops moving. There’s silence, for a moment — as if they’re actually thinking about it.

“...not to find it,” they say. “I know where it is.”

Grogu swallows. “Then-”

“I need confirmation.” They’re moving again. Grogu quickly darts away, catching glimpses of them in between the shelves. “That it’s true. That it’s not a trap. That a true Mandalorian sits on the throne, and not an aruetyc aruetii (traitorous outsider).”

“The Daimyo is a Mandalorian,” Grogu spits out of sheer habit. He quickly dials back the defensiveness in his tone. “He won’t hurt you.”

Another silence. Thoughtful in its nature. Grogu lets it stretch — if he can slip out of here, make out of town- The woods will buy him at least half a standard hour before they track him to Mayfeld’s base, but he can hop on his ship in less-

Hands clamp onto his shoulders, shoving him up against a shelf; jars clatter, and the whole thing sways. Grogu grunts, eyes blowing wide and his own hands clamping around their wrists.

A T-visor stares down at him. The style of the armour is so familiar; to see it on someone other than himself almost hurts.

“No,” they say, steadily. “He won’t. Not if he wants you back unharmed.”

“Don’t struggle,” they twist the wrist of the hand gripping his left shoulder, moving it instead to his arm, “if those bounty hunters were right, then perhaps it is in your best interest that you come with me anyway.”

Grogu’s gaze darts from his arm in their grasp, and their visor; then, to the shelf behind them.

He grimaces. “Right. Uh, before that- Can I say something?”

“...go on.”

“Sorry.”

He kicks against their chest; in the same action, activates his shield. They snap their hand back as the shield solidifies; Grogu drives it against their visor. They reel back-

Grogu slams himself against them, shield-first, and they stumble against the shelf. There’s a low growl he’s not sure the origins of, but the Mando’ad grabs onto him instead of pushing away. They pin him against their cuirass, like a particularly violent hug.

Hissing, he scrabbles to brace his legs against them. He reaches down and curls his fingers around the hilt of his knife.

“Agh-!” Their grip on him slackens; Grogu kicks away, breaking free to land on his feet and widen the distance. He brings his vibroblade with him; their blood drips onto the ground by his feet.

The Mando’ad hisses, softly. They press a hand against their leg, between the plates of armour. 

Grogu had been trained to know his own weaknesses; to be aware of them, at all times. When it comes to the beskar’gam, a weakness of his is a weakness of theirs.

The Mando’ad hisses, again — this time, from less pain and more annoyance. “I don’t see what makes the Daimyo so fond of you.”

“It’s my charming personality,” Grogu deadpans. “People can’t help but adore me. I’m adorable.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Well debate, then.” Grogu straightens. His fingers twitch — the Songs begin to murmur, louder; the Force pushing into his call. “Hey, can you do me a favour?”

“Ngh-” The Mando’ad huffs; it’s almost comical, how put-upon they seem. Less enraged and more just exasperated, for someone he’d just stabbed. “What?”

“When you see him, and he welcomes you,” Grogu lifts a hand up, palm facing them, “tell the Daimyo I said hi.”

The shelves rattle and sway violently. Glass shatters as jars began to fall. The Force warbles; it begins to wail. A cacophony of noise, like a warning growl, that lasts only for a second.

With a low grunt, the earth seems to shake, as he brings it all come crashing down. 

His last glimpse of the Mando’ad is of them lifting their arms over their head, ducking and hunkering down. Then, they’re buried underneath the shelves and the crates and whatever glass jars survived, and that’s that.

The silence after is impossibly loud. He can hear only the sound of his own breaths; only the melody of his own tune.

He doesn’t let himself think about it. If they had gotten him, caught him, brought him back to the palace — then all of this, all these months, would’ve been for nothing. He doesn’t let himself think about it.

He eliminates the danger. He looks out for himself. It’s what he’s trained to do. 

Grogu deactivates his shield. The window he had clambered in from isn’t too far — he picks his way towards it, grabbing onto the things he’d bought from their hiding spot.

He gives the mess he made one, last, final glance back.

Then, he’s climbing back out the window, and leaves.

“Back already? Jeez, kid, you- Woah.” Turning away from a crate of resources, Mayfeld blinks and physically reels back. His eyes are wide, and he doesn't hide the way he's taking Grogu in, from head to toe. “What happened to you?”

“A supply run,” Grogu bites out, and not much else. The hike back hadn't been pleasant. Mostly just because his thoughts wouldn't shut up. It's annoying.

He lifts up the various bags he’d lugged through the woods, as a gesture. He doesn’t stop moving; brushes by Mayfeld and calls, without looking back, “I’m on my ship if you need me.” 

Gods, Grogu would be willing to give everything so long as they wouldn't need him. He needs a nap. Preferably, forever.

“Ah- yeah.” Mayfeld chuckles; the nervousness in his tone, the notes of his Song, makes Grogu pause, and actually stop. “About that, actually…Ah-”

Slowly, Grogu turns around.

“...Did you touch my ship?”

Without even meaning to, his words come heaving underneath the weight of his rising anger. List or no list, names or no names, Grogu was going to slaughter the sharpshooter if he’d so much as-

“Easy, alright? No need for dramatics.” Mayfeld lifts his hands up; either a call for peace, or a cry of surrender, Grogu wasn’t sure yet. Suppose it depended on him. Regardless, the sharpshooter pulls a face, gesturing further into the base. “Vhel and Dran got back earlier. They got a couple parts off cheap. I asked Dran to take a look in your ship, see what he could fix. That’s it.”

Grogu's words quickly fly the coop, leaving him stranded. He struggles, for a moment.

Something like cold shame quickly replaces his anger.

“ You- You didn’t have to-”

“Yeah.” Mayfeld has the gall to look amused. “I didn’t.”

Grogu huffs out a breath. He tries for annoyance, clings onto that instead of the tiny worms of guilt, “There’s nothing on there that needs to be fixed. It works fine.”

“Mando.” For a moment, the sharpshooter closes his eyes and actually looks tired. Huh. Grogu can have that effect on people. “You’re a godsdamned bounty hunter. Don’t be stupid.”

“You’re stupid,” Grogu retaliates, stupidly.

“Great. Now I’m going to go and actually have an intelligent conversation. Good day.”

“Good luck finding a conversation you don’t have to talk in.”

“I said good karking day!” Mayfeld throws his arms up into the air, exasperated, and turns around to walk away. The sharpshooter is grumbling underneath his breath; his Song singing out nothing close to the show on the outside.

Grogu watches Mayfeld’s back as he leaves. There’s a feeling, like a twisting, in his chest; an almost foul taste on his tongue. He swallows to try and wash it away. 

Then, he turns around and heads for his ship.

The Crest II. Over the months, he’s grown used to it — or, perhaps, it has grown used to him. Still haunted, still whispering with ghostly memories and ghoulish sensations, but they coexist.

They didn’t have the choice not to.

As Grogu approaches the lowered ramp, he spies motion in the depths. Just as he begins to step in, Dran is apparently stepping out.

“Mando,” he says, tipping his chin down. His voice is clipped and words short; Song singing in tunes of mild disdain. This is normal.

Grogu doesn’t return the greeting. This is also normal. “What did you do to my ship?”

Dran stops. He makes a little scoffing sound; something like a huff, and a sneer. “You know, if we did want to hurt you, we could’ve done that back when you dropped into our camp with a broken arm.”

Grogu tilts his head, ever so slightly. He bites on his tongue and keeps his silence; it’s usually the best way of going about this. Any other way usually ends up with one of them on the ground (spoiler; it's Dran) and Mayfeld's shouts ringing in their ears (spoiler; it's Grogu's).

True enough, after a while in silence, Dran looks away. He’s scoffing, again, but softer. “You’re lucky the boss likes you,” he mutters. Then, louder, “Just maintenance stuff. Tightening screws.”

“Also,” Dran somewhat turns to better face him, pointing his finger up, “you were missing the speaker for your comms, so I replaced it. You’ve got scratches on your console too. What, did something got in? What happened?”

“‘S not your business.” Grogu turns away. Fun thing about the buy'ce; it's not really one for peripheral vision, so all Grogu has to do is tilt his head a bit and then boom, he no longer has to see the way they're staring at him. It's great.

He makes to head in, but hesitates, for a moment — just long enough to go, quietly, “...thanks.”

Dran’s Song flits up in surprised tunes. “Sorry, what was that?” He knocks the palm of his hand against his ear; the motion a bit too exaggerated to be genuine. “I didn’t quite hear you. Say it again?”

“Get out of my ship.” Grogu keeps walking. Gods, he can’t stand these people.

“You’re welcome, by the way!” Dran calls, with a slightly scrunched-up expression. He’s slowly stepping back, boots coming onto grass. “It’s not like I had anything better to do than to fix your sorry excuse of a-”

Grogu slams his hand against the buttons, and the ramp closes with a hiss and a groan. After, is blissful silence.

That silence quickly becomes damning; wretched and cruel. Grogu breathes out a sharp exhale — he never gets used to the silence. He'll never let himself.

He drops all of his shopping in the kitchenette area for him to sort out later — or, more accurately, push to the side until he needs something. His much lighter credit pouch ends up on a crate he’d been using as a table, as does his blaster. That thing's always digging into his side.

Hmm, he might have to take up a couple of jobs soon. Such a shame that hunting down your father’s murderer doesn’t pay as well; neither does looting the dead or unconscious bodies of your bounty hunters. Galaxy’s greatest cruelty — capitalism.

With a huff, Grogu clambers up the ladder, and strides to the cockpit. 

The clearing out on the other side of the transparisteel windows is quiet, and calm. Grogu can see the way the wind blows through the grass. Further away, moving in and out of tents, are the figures of Mayfeld’s crew; their chatter too far away to be audible, but evident in the way they stand.

Grogu watches the scene for a while. 

They’re too far to see him. He knows, logically and rationally, that he could just take his helmet off. The bounty hunters from earlier are dead.

Here, in this ship, he is safe.

…but he doesn’t think he’s alone. And for as much as he keeps telling himself that he’s safe, Grogu doesn’t quite feel it. This haunted ship of his — they coexist.

They’re not friendly about it.

Besides, to take off his helmet would be to…stop. To rest. Grogu’s not tired, and he doesn’t need to rest. He needs to keep going. He needs to keep going. He needs to keep going.

Stopping now would be the death of him. And Grogu, despite it all, is still alive.

He’s inclined to keep it that way. At least for the time being. That's all this is, really — a need, a want, to survive; to keep going. Grogu doesn't mind if he loses himself in the process; for as long as Moff Gideon is still alive, so too will he have to persevere. He won't accept any alternatives.

It's just survival.

...and yet, he can't help but think about the Mando'ad from town.

Bounty hunters, in general, aren't...really a problem. Ver- The Daimyo, for all his wealth and power, is always intent on making sure they know not to hurt him, and is never fond of sending one of their own. It's a weakness. One that Grogu has made sure to exploit, every single time. It worked last time, it will work again.

Or, at least, up until the point where the Daimyo finally gets fed up with it. Then, he'll either call off the bounty hunters, or tell them to shoot to kill. Either way, Grogu suddenly just won't have to worry about it. Win-win. 

Yeah.

For a second, and only a second, he allows his thoughts to wander. For a second, and only a second, he allows himself to wonder.

And then that second is over, and Grogu is reigning in his own mind with a bit more cruelty than what was exactly necessary — scowling at himself, in the safety of his helmet.

It was just survival. They would've done the same thing. They were going to do the same thing.

Quietly, idly, Grogu's hand drifts to rub at his wrist; slipping under the fabric of the kute, and his glove. He can feel his own pulse. He can feel the scars from the cuffs. Grogu presses his finger against both of them, harshly, until there's a dull ache on his skin. 

His attention draws itself to the comms on his console. Dran had fitted in a new speaker, and it stands unblemished with the backdrop of scratches against it. Grogu reaches forward, fingers curling, slowly running his claws down those scratches. They’re a perfect fit.

Well, obviously. These claws were what dealt those scratches. It’d be like stepping into his own footprint.

Mayfeld had said they got the parts off cheap? Are speakers cheap? Or are they usually expensive? Admittedly, Grogu doesn’t quite know — he’s never had to buy one. Up until a few months ago, he hadn’t even been using this ship.

Hm. 

…a couple weeks ago, Grogu received a transmission. The comms of his ship did still work, after all — it was the speakers that were busted, so he hadn’t been able to hear it. He didn’t bother himself too much with it — anybody who had the comm code for his ship wasn’t anybody he wanted to talk to. People that he couldn’t afford to talk to.

And yet, despite himself, Grogu pulls up that transmission now. His fingers hesitate, for a second — this was a bad idea, this was a bad idea, this was a bad idea, echoing like a mantra in his head.

This is a bad idea, Grogu thinks.

He presses play. A hologram flickers on, alongside the crackling of the speakers, blue light flickering against the sunlight.

Grogu’s breath catches in his throat as a small, holographic version of his brother appears in his ship.

Vars looks exactly the same as how he remembers. 

Vars also looks…nervous, even with the helmet — wringing his hands and twisting his gloves. He glances around him once; peering around, almost as if he’s hiding. Then, he turns to face forward, and Grogu watches, not breathing, that familiar way he sets his shoulders back.

Gathering strength.

“Hey,” Vars says, barely more than a whisper. “Listen, I can’t explain it all right now- I’m not even supposed to be doing this, haar’chak, but-”

Vars cuts himself off, glancing at something behind him. He goes still, waiting for a few seconds, before slowly turning back.

“You need to come back. You gotta. Don’t stop the transmission. Listen.”

Grogu, with his fingers hovering over the stop button, perhaps should’ve pressed. But he finds himself caught off guard for only a second, and that’s all Vars had needed.

“We can meet somewhere else. I don’t care if you don’t come to the palace. I don’t- I don’t care if you never come back to the palace.” The quiet wobble in his voice says otherwise; Vars clears his throat, and it’s gone. “But we need to talk. I need to tell you something, in person. I need-”

Vars breathes in, quietly. It’s a motion that reminds Grogu to breathe in as well; he does, oxygen flooding into his neglected lungs.

“I need your help,” Vars says; softly, like a whisper. The audio crackles through the speakers, and Grogu wonders if the break in Vars’ voice was real. “Please.”

The transmission ends. The cockpit falls into silence. The hologram flickers off, and Vars is gone.

And Grogu is alone again.

Slowly, moving as though through a haze, he sits back, leaning against the pilot’s seat. 

That transmission is a few weeks old. Grogu wonders if Vars still wants to see him.

…he knows that doesn’t really matter. 

Grogu wants…to see him. He does. It’s damning, perhaps. It’s foolish. Weakness. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. He should just stay here, until daybreak, then get the next name and keep going. He should keep going. He should-

It’d be cruel, wouldn’t it? To Vars. Grogu was going to appear before him, like a desert mirage, and then leave. Or, worse, if Vars wouldn’t let him leave, then he was going to-

He shouldn't. He won't. He won't. It's been weeks. Vars probably already solved whatever it was anyway. He's smart. He doesn't need Grogu around. He doesn't need him. So Grogu's not going to go. He's not. He's not.

…But Grogu owes him. He still owes him, doesn't he? Yes, that’s right. He owes Vars a debt — back in the palace, when he’d been running, Vars had let him leave. It was a favour; it’s a debt. He can’t let a debt go unpaid; it’s dishonourable.

Yeah. Yeah. That’s just what this is. A debt to pay off; something to do — he'll just pop in, check in to see if Vars still needs his help, because it's the honourable thing to do. Then, when it's revealed that Vars had already fixed everything, Grogu will just go again. It’s an excuse to keep moving, while Mayfeld’s withholding the next name.

It’s convenient.

It’s fine.

It’s fine.

…Don’t think about it too much, Djarin.

Grogu straightens up. He doesn’t think about it, when he’s flicking switches and pulling levers and pressing buttons. He doesn’t think about it, when he’s reaching for the gear shift, curling his fingers around it. He doesn’t think about it. It’s just a debt. 

(And Vars is his brother.)

There’s no knob, at the top of the gear shift. He took it off when he was speeding through the silence of hyperspace, once. Right now, it’s probably drifting around in the vast expanse of space. 

It hurt too much to keep; that stupid ball at the top. A replica, a fake, just like everything else. It wasn't even necessary. 

This ship has enough ghosts, anyway.

Grogu’s grip around the gear shift tightens. Huffing a breath through that wretched squeezing in his lungs, he pushes it forward. 

Crest II’s engines roar to life.