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Bo-Katan frowns at the man cowering before her—not that he can see it through her helmet. "So you've changed your mind about supporting Pre's crusade?"
The middle-aged shopkeep nods a bit nervously, but his tone is firm, a core of steel she knows from experience cannot be bent. "I have. I cannot condone what Kyr'tsad has done to Bev Wren."
Bo sighs, the sound muffled by her helmet. She clicks her teeth to mute her external audio, then hums a few notes to activate her internal comms. "It's no use. They're set on not supporting us."
"Their loss," a rough voice replies, and a moment later the shopkeep collapses behind the counter. Bo doesn't look back, just turns and leaves the establishment. Hopefully the man's daughter will be easier to persuade with this pointed reminder: Death Watch does not allow turncoats to live. Especially not ones who could lead the damn New Mandalorians to their bases. "Where to next, alor'ikaMando'a: The diminuitive of alor, colloquially 'little leader'?"
Arla is much higher in the food chain than Bo-Katan by virtue of both skill and longevity. But Bo-Katan is leading this mission as a test of her decision-making skills: Pre wants to see if she has what it takes to be a leader. She's just glad it's Arla he sent to support and assess her and not Reau or one of the other fanatics, the ones who worship the god of war with a fervor unmatched since the era of Mand'alor the Preserver. Pre is wary of them, is trying to slowly drive them out or remove them from critical leadership roles without causing offense. It's slow-going, but Death Watch will be stronger for it. And Pre is right: they will need to be much stronger to prevail against the Republic and their New Mandalorian puppets.
She shakes her head to drive away the thoughts. She hasn't seen her sister in half a decade and she has no intention of changing that. "Next up is Gargon. We've got a mole trying to work his way in—Pre got the intel and wants us to make a statement."
"Statements I'll leave to you," Arla rasps. Her voice is more gravelly than normal today, a product of the months she had spent as Death Watch's captive before Tor had seen her usefulness as more than a punching bag for his grunts. She'd screamed her vocal chords half to death and refused treatment for them. A reminder, she called them. A reminder of what, she's never clarified.
It's a short trip back to their ship, parked under the guise of two women on a discreet 'vacation'. The galaxy is full of runaways and Bo-Katan looks young enough no one questions it. Arla's already in the hanger, dropping to the floor and pressing a knife to Bo's throat as soon as she triggers the mechanism to open the hatch. "Dead. You have to be more careful, rish'ikaMando'a: The diminuitive of rish'ak, colloquially 'little hellcat'. I won't always be here to watch your six."
Bo-Katan does not groan. Barely. "But I knew you had my six today," she argues, wrapping a hand around her mentor's wrist and gently tugging the knife away from her own pale skin. She tugs her up the ramp, impatient to get into hyperspace so she and Arla can spar. It's become something of a ritual for them, a way to kill time on long journeys from one star to the next. And if Bo-Katan gets a bit more from it than just a way to sharpen her skills, well, that's her business and no one else's.
Arla hangs back as Bo-Katan starts the ship and enters the coordinates of their destination so the computer can run the calculations for their jump while they exit the atmosphere. She hasn't removed her helmet yet—won't until they're safely in hyperspace—but Bo-Katan can feel her intense gaze as it assesses her every move. Arla stays silent right up to the moment the stars stretch thin before the viewport of the Kom'rk. Then there's a hiss of air as her helmet unlatches. Bo-Katan watches as she tucks it under her arm, shaking her head to get her hair to settle loosely around her shoulders. She gives Bo a small smile, as telling as a wide grin would be on another. "Good job, rish'ika."
It's unusual how Arla wears her hair long, reminiscent of Tor in a way Pre generally discourages, but Bo's heard the rumors: Arla Vhett is special; Arla Vhett is a prophetess; Arla Vhett will lead us against her brother when he, the False Mand'alor, calls upon his people. She'd never been brave enough to ask Arla herself, but she does love plaiting her long locks. It reminds her of her youth, tucked into her mother's lap and learning how to braid Satine's hair with her gentle guidance. She had been a devout woman and she taught her daughters to be so as well—the daily prayers, the sacred rituals, the small shows of devotion that wouldn't draw the attention of the New Mandalorians. How unfortunate, then, that Satine had fallen prey to the bastards.
"Thanks," she answers, purposefully light. "Wanna spar?"
Arla's smile widens: fighting is one of the only things she actually seems to enjoy. "Of course. Meet you in the hold in five."
…
…
"Fuck, fuck—fine, you win," Bo-Katan pants out. Arla releases her hold, grinning for real as Bo untwists herself from the pretzel the older woman had put her in. She's never actually beat Arla, but she has gotten steadily closer over her many years of training with the woman. "Can you show me how you do that last move?"
"Of course," Arla replies, her Concordian accent a bit more pronounced when she's relaxed like this. She's stripped out of her armor and changed into loose-fitting workout clothes, flowing pants and a sleeveless tank doing very little to hide the strength coiled in her figure. "I'll do it slow first. Tell me what I'm doing," she commands, then springs into motion.
Bo watches with a sharp eye as she takes down an imaginary opponent, only letting herself be distracted by Arla's biceps for half a second. She sees the precise moment where Arla overwhelmed her, makes a note of it, and imitates Arla's motions when she repeats them slowly. The tension coiling through body, evidence of her precise control, leaves Bo's mouth dry. She forces herself to focus: Arla had given her instructions. "You're feinting the punch—intentionally missing, then letting the momentum carry you past me so you can spin and kick out my knee and drop me."
"Good," Arla responds, voice warm, and Bo shivers. "Now try and do it to me. I'll go easy on you," she laughs, rolling her shoulders and settling into a loose posture. Bo-Katan nods, settling across from her, and it only takes her a few tries to successfully drop Arla. "There we go," she says. "We'll keep going until you've managed it six times." Her grin sharpens. "And I won't go easy on you now I know you can do it."
Oh, shit.
…
…
Two hours later, Bo-Katan is flat on her stomach, chest heaving as she gulps down air. Arla's got one knee on either side of her waist and an arm around her throat, but Bo refuses to submit. She wiggles beneath her mentor, doing her best to stop her from tightening her chokehold, and then decides—fuck it. She slams her head back, gritting her teeth at the pain of Arla's face impacting her skull, but it does make Arla loosen her grip just enough for Bo to squirm out of her hold and roll back to her feet. She bounces on her toes as Arla follows, blood dripping from her nose and staining her mouth and chin. Arla throws herself forward again, but the adrenaline of her success makes Bo fast. She dodges Arla's rush, catches her arms, and slams her down to the ground, landing with a knee in the middle of her back and forcing out an oof. Arla twists and squirms under her, but after a few seconds she laughs and taps out by kicking against the mat twice. Bo rolls off her and all the way off the mat to the cool metal of the deck. She lets it leech the heat from her skin, though she keeps her gaze on Arla where she sits on the mat with her head thrown back, exposing the soft curve of her jaw. "You're getting better, rish'ika. Good job."
Bo takes the praise and tucks it away, a burning warmth that'll carry her through cold days and lonely nights. She wants Arla, wants the older woman to press her against a wall and leave her breathless, but she's pretty sure Arla doesn't want her that way—doesn't want anyone that way. So instead she'll take these memories, crystallized moments of skin on skin and heavy breaths, and do absolutely nothing about it. She shoves down the quiet voice in her head—the one that sounds like her father, deep and rasping—saying to refuse risk is to embrace cowardice. He's dead; she doesn't have to listen to him anymore.
"C'mon, Bo. Time to get up." Arla stands above her, one hand extended to pull Bo up. She's much nicer to listen to than the specter of Bo's father. Bo takes it, relishing the feel of the calluses worn into her palm, and follows her away from her ghosts.