Burn down my home My memories hardened and are bright as chrome Good times escape While every mistake seems to be caught on tape
[ The galaxy had changed while Padmé Amidala slept.
Sleeping was the easiest way for her to comprehend what had happened to her. Some sort of stasis, an experimental technology kept from the Senate's knowledge, something had kept her alive all these years, unchanged, only to wake alone and without answers. It took days for her to grasp the magnitude of her situation, hiding on the outskirts of a city on an Inner Rim planet from the soldiers who walked the streets with terrible purpose. The years that had passed, the rise of a power she had fought so desperately against...
And she'd woken too late to join her children in the fight to right the wrongs she should never have allowed to happen. It is the guilt and grief that keeps her away from them now, two years after she'd woken — guilt and grief that drives her to search out any remaining Imperial units and report their whereabouts. Small as it is, she spends every day working toward erasing the scourge of the galaxy that she'd enabled through ignorance and inaction. Because she has to keep her children safe in any way she can. The future had to be protected, for the daughter she only ever glimpsed in holovids and the son lauded as a hero. Grown children who had been raised by others to whom she would forever be in debt. The shame she felt for them having to clean up the mess their parents had left behind broke her heart and made it impossible for her to reach out to them, to try to explain.
So she continued in her work, tracking down those cells and reporting them to the New Republic through a handful of contacts she trusted to act on the information. It was dangerous work that she knew would get her on someone's radar eventually — she just couldn't bring herself to worry about that.
For now, the way has led her to a backwater planet and a settlement being covered in a coating of snow. The few locals still out in the swiftly falling white move quickly toward their homes or the nearest inn or bar, seeking shelter from the brisk wind. With her hair cut and her dress far plainer than it had ever been, she moves less quickly than the others, taking her time and stepping carefully through the inches of snow already on the ground, watching her surroundings just as carefully while looking for anyone of particular note. ]
[ Everyone's been mopping up the galaxy in the wake of the war, and so there's always opportunities for someone like him: corralling thieves and murderers, imperial war criminals, runaway debutantes. The Mandalorian doesn't discriminate, doesn't (usually) mind what the target is. He takes the fob. Does the job. Collects the credits. Wash, rinse, repeat.
The remnants of the Empire are a rot that's taken hold throughout all the settled worlds: it's hard to extinguish such a persistent weed, which keeps cropping up everywhere. A snake with a million heads.
Good thing, then, that it's not his problem.
The mercenary already tended to carve out his reputation on the outer rim, and staying under the radar has become even more important now that the child is squirreled away back on his ship. That knowledge sets his teeth on edge, makes him wary, paranoid. They just need supplies, food, restocking ammunition, then they can get the hell out of here. He's walking down the street towards the market and running through that mental checklist when he notices a figure appearing on a rooftop, the distinctive glint of cold winter light on a sniper's scope.
Not again, he thinks, wearily, a little annoyed — it's been a long, long week since he took his target and went on the run — but that means he's more surprised when the sights swing over to the plainly-dressed woman in the street instead. Not him. They're not after him, then.
But the Mandalorian's reaction is immediate, unthinking, his voice a little tinny through that helmet: ]
[ Word of a possible Moff hiding on this backwater planet had drifted through the intergalactic grapevine, an opportunity that was impossible to pass up. She'd known, of course, that would make this planet more dangerous than the others, that any number of soldiers might be stationed here. It might even be a trap set for those like her working to dismantle those lingering remnants of the toppled Empire, but she couldn't let that hold her back.
The cry of warning comes in a voice she doesn't recognize, but her reaction is still immediate. Down she goes, throwing herself to the ground and using the momentum to roll herself toward a building. A blaster is in her hand in the next moment, nothing so sleek as those she'd used in her previous life but certainly just as effective. ]
[ The woman reacts immediately, hitting the ground in one quick, fluid motion — so, maybe not just an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire. And then, confirming his suspicions a moment later, she suddenly has a blaster in hand.
Like a mirror to her movements, the Mandalorian immediately takes refuge in the lee of the building opposite, out of the line of fire, and he sizes her up. It takes a while for old dogs to learn new tricks, so out of some ancient instinct, he mentally catalogs what he can see of her face, lines it up against the wanted holos he's seen lately. Doesn't recognise her as an open bounty. Means it must be going through different channels.
Not guild ones.
It's not his problem, he reminds himself— except that it is. This potential firefight is breaking out between him and the market and the supplies he needs. A blaster bolt embeds itself in the stone wall, kicking up dust just a couple feet from where she's taken cover. ]
Looks like you've made some friends.
[ The stranger's voice is dry; maybe with a small thread of weary bemusement beneath it. This isn't what he meant to spend his afternoon doing. ]
[ Of all the beings to encounter in this particular instance, she's more than a little surprised to see a Mandalorian across the way. The armor is telltale, giving him away even if his accent doesn't match what she remembers. And as strange as it is for the encounter to take place here and now, it still brings up bittersweet memories—
That blaster bolt cuts short any reminiscence and she presses herself closer to the wall, peering up and trying to get a good look at her attacker without making herself more visible. The Mandalorian's bemusement is not something she shares. ]
Unwelcome ones, I assure you.
[ She wonders absently if said friends are bounty hunters or just underlings for whichever Imperial she's upset by getting too close. It wouldn't be the first time she had a bounty on her head, far from it really, but things would be much easier if this were a contained incident. Oh, that she might be so lucky...
Leaning out slightly to try at returning fire, another blaster shot zings through the crisp air, narrowly missing her by a matter of inches as she flings herself backward again against the wall. Her mask of unwavering determination breaks for a moment, crumpling into something like panic, and when she pulls it back into place, there are cracks in the facade. She's been in worse positions than this — but never while being quite so alone. ]
[ He's too-aware of the ticking clock, the minutes sliding by, and he already wants to be back at the Razor Crest. It's too cold out for the street to be filled with civilians, but they're still drawing attention: the few people left slamming doors, windows, disappearing to get away from the trouble. There isn't much by way of law enforcement out here, which means one of them could probably kill the shooter and be done with it. Somewhere along the way, the Mandalorian's reached for his own blaster without consciously thinking about it; as automatic as breathing or the twitch of a muscle, the gun like an extension of his hand.
His other fingers fan across the edge of the whistling birds in their holster, as if considering using the weapons, but he falls away. It's just one man. Not worth it.
So he pops back out and levels his rifle, firing a few shots back, enough to make the shooter take cover himself. The Mandalorian exhales a sigh of frustration: they could be here all day taking messy potshots at each other. Time to be done with it— ]
Lure him out. I'll take the shot.
[ Whoever she is, she's the target; she'll be good bait. ]
[ Another role with which she's not entirely unfamiliar.
Somehow, it's not surprising when the Mandalorian offers his help. She's reminded of the proud and noble people she'd met so many years ago, with strength in their veins that few other planets could compare to. It makes her trust him even though they've just met, enough to accept the plan without question. She prays that it doesn't come back to haunt her later.
Taking a deep breath, she weighs her options for three seconds exactly and then takes off at a run down the street, moving out from her cover into clear view before dodging to the opposite side of the street. She hears another burst of blaster fire from above and the following sizzle of the snow as the bolts sink into the ground around her. She might even, hopefully, hear the sound of movement from the roof above as the shooter adjusts his position.
[ And just like that, she places her life in his hands.
Thanks to the helmet, there's no hint to betray his surprise, but he's taken aback by how quickly the woman throws herself into the open, carrying that faith in him that he'll have her back. It would be an unworthy warrior to betray that trust. And so he doesn't: the Mandalorian steps out from behind the building, raises the sights of his rifle with an almost casual motion. Paints the bead on the rooftop attacker, who's distracted trying to keep a target on his zig-zagging quarry, and who was expecting Padmé to be alone as she has been for years; wasn't expecting her to have backup.
One blaster shot. The other man isn't wearing beskar. It's an easy calculus, and it ends with the distant figure dropping boneless to the rooftop. The mercenary stands motionless on the balls of his feet, head cocked, letting his helmet's enhanced sensors parse the surrounding noise. Nothing from the rooftop.
Far-off, though: the distant whine of a speeder.
Ugh, he thinks. Then looks at the woman, blank featureless visor turning to face her. ]
They're not guild.
[ It's a flat statement, but somewhere, there's a question and implication sitting underneath those terse words. They're not mine; what the hell have you gotten yourself into. ]
[ The history of Mandalore and the Mandalorian people is not something Padmé is well-versed in, nor would she ever claim to be. She'd done her best to have a basic understanding of all the worlds she worked with during her time in the Senate, of course, but her friendship with the Duchess Satine had come during the war when there had been far more pressing matters than the deep cultural history that had shaped tensions between the various factions of Mandalore's people. But even with her most cursory knowledge, she knows without a doubt that honor is one of the highest tenets by which his people live, and she grips hold of hope that he is the same as she runs.
And he proves her right.
The answering single shot and silence that follows brings her to a stop, breath coming in white puffs in the air as she turns to watch him... and to process his observation. *They're not guild.* Meaning that he likely is, that he could be there for her as well and simply taking a different approach than the man he'd just killed. Perhaps there was a bounty on her head that required her to be alive, whereas the being on the rooftop had not been given such instruction.
Taking a few steps closer, she keeps her tone and expression neutral. She also keeps a firm grip on the blaster resting at her side. ]
And you? Are you here for a bounty?
[ Because she'd really rather not have a long conversation with someone who was just going to haul her off to be interrogated and tortured. She'd much prefer to use that energy figuring out how to escape — from him and the speeders she's quite certain she's beginning to hear. ]
[ There's the sound of a snort. The man, whoever he is under all that armour, sounds half-amused half-tired: ]
Not this time. I just wanted groceries.
[ He looks off into the middle distance, where they can both increasingly hear the sound of the oncoming speeders. They're coming from the direction of market, too, which means the market's likely panicked and closed up shop by now. He should just get back to his own ship, leave her to her troubles.
(Except, except. As much as the Mandalorian tries to avoid it, sympathy is contagious and corrosive: like a virus eating its way through his layers of beskar, worming its way beneath his shell. It started that day he deviated from the job and spared one little target in a crib, and it's simply been spreading since then, ripples in a pond growing larger. This might be a mistake. It's probably a mistake.) ]
What are you? Criminal? Murderer? Ex-rebel? Imperial?
[ There's no guarantee that this woman will even answer truthfully, but he's doing the same thing she did a moment earlier. They're both taking each others' measure as quickly as they can, trying to size up who they're dealing with, evaluating their unlikely maybe-ally. ]
[ He's an innocent in this, then. Just a stranger in the wrong place, roped into a situation he hadn't asked for or earned. She feels guilty for that and is suddenly even more grateful that he hadn't been injured in the attack. There's no guarantee that he won't be hurt by what's coming, though, and she can't allow that. There's a reason she's out here alone and it is absolutely by choice. ]
I work for the New Republic.
[ It's true, in a way. A version of the truth that isn't a lie but omits certain details that would just drag him even deeper into things. What they need right now is to get out of there. Fast.
Glancing around, she notices something down the road, just barely visible around the side of a dark building. One hard look at him later and she's nodding toward the hidden speeder. ]
[ It's unclear how he intends to finish that sentence. He's not with her; they don't need to flee together; this is not his problem.
But it's a failed attempt at waving her off and going their separate ways, because a moment later, more blaster bolts come sailing in. The shots are wild, messy, landing far off from their targets because the speeders are simply too far away — but the newly-arriving pursuers also aren't being particularly discriminating. The Mandalorian is with their target and that's good enough for them, enough to land him in the cross-hairs as well. Best to just get out of here first, because the backup's just going to keep shooting first and asking questions never. ]
Fine.
[ So he readjusts the rifle, propping it against his shoulder as he follows the woman around the corner to the speeder. By habit, Mando's about to plant himself in the driver's seat — but she beats him to it, hopping on and kicking at the ignition. He stands there for a second, discombobulated, before he finally just rolls with it. I can shoot if I'm not driving, he thinks, more of an afterthought than anything else as he settles in behind her. Makes sure he has one hand braced against the speeder's durasteel frame, the other on his rifle. ]
[ She doesn't bother asking if he wants to drive, knowing without a doubt that he's far more skilled at marksmanship than she. It's not her first time making a mad run from bounty hunters, either, so she's just grateful when he doesn't argue with her. An argument would be distracting.
They haven't survived this long by giving up easily.
[ Unfortunately.
Flicking on the speeder's engine, they're zooming forward at top speed the first second she can get the transport to cooperate. It's not the newest model but she's fairly certain it isn't about to fall apart on them, at least. Hopefully. Please.
She pushes the speeder to its limit, slowing down only slightly to take a corner around a set of buildings to head out beyond the settlement, away from any other innocent bystanders who would be at risk. It's a dangerous move, an open flat land stretching between them and the natural cover of a forest, but it will also give him the best opportunity to get some good shots in. With any luck, their attackers will be hit before they are. ]
He's not accustomed to having someone in his living space.
Despite the couple guest bunks in the back, the Razor Crest is still a solitary vessel — more used to carrying around bounties frozen in carbonite and stacked in neat racks, rather than a flesh-and-blood, living breathing woman. The heaters run a little too cool, since the Mandalorian's accustomed to wearing his full armour. The metal floor is too cold for bare feet, the bunks stiff and somewhat uncomfortable.
But they've made their stop at Mataou to stock up on food, drink, ammo (the three constants of life). After a moment of hesitation at the market, the Mandalorian had picked up some drinks and a few dried desserts, supplies a bit more enjoyable than the utilitarian field rations he always lived off on his own when given the choice. The stop at port had been blessedly uneventful, which means they're back on-ship now, the autopilot carrying them on to their next destination. It's evening, and the Mandalorian is firing up the cramped little galley kitchen, where he's heating up some shig — a warm spiced Mando'a drink — over the burners, and getting ready to cook dinner. It cuts a strange picture: the man standing in front of the stove but with his helmet still on, all impersonal armour.
Padme's somewhere, sparing him from having to juggle the child while cooking, but the footsteps behind him eventually signal that she's on her way back. His shoulders instinctively tense for a moment before he forces them to loosen, glances back over his shoulder.
"Do you cook?"
It doesn't sound like small-talk out of interest, more like an analytical assessment of skill: like are you a good runner or how's your marksmanship.
This life is nothing like the one she'd been ripped away from. There are no comforts or frills here, no art or music, no signs of anything she used to consider normal life. Any number of her former colleagues would have made themselves hoarse complaining about these conditions, but she... Well, this is her life now. Why waste the energy complaining when this is where she's supposed to be?
Besides, it isn't so bad. Her new companions are each charming in their own ways, each showing her consideration even while she knows one is still wary of her. It's in his nature and he has every reason to be, so how could she blame him for it?
She's already caught herself twice standing in front of the carbonite station, staring at the slots waiting to be filled and losing herself in memory. A far-away look on her face as she gazed into the past and recalls waking on that tiny moon, barely able to support life and the perfect place to hide someone frozen in time. Not in carbonite — she's still not completely sure what it was she'd been encased in, all traces of it dissipating as she woke and leaving behind a sickness that had taken days to pass. Days she'd spent learning as much as she could from the technicians who knew almost nothing of her situation; they'd woken her out of goodwill, the funding from Alderaan having finally run dry and the station thus being abandoned. They'd dropped her at a nearby planet with some credits and wished her well.
She'd had to piece everything else together on her own.
Both times, the child had snapped her out of those dark memories, his small hand tugging at her pant leg until she turned her attention away from pain and sadness. Even in the short time they've spent together, she's noticed him do it at other moments as well, watching her and pulling her away from shadows that chase her without end. It makes her wonder...
Which is why she's come to find her other companion, the one who is just as much a mystery but also far easier to read in some respects. She enters the kitchen and smiles slightly, more at the way he asks than the question itself. Yes, in certain regards, he's an open book.
"I doubt I would ever be paid for my services, but I manage well enough," she answers, stepping closer and peering at what he's doing on the stove. "I helped my mother as a child, and the last few years, I've had to fend for myself."
It's been a source of mildly discomfiting disorientation: the fact that without her even able to see his face, Padme's still able to read him so well. At the end the day, he's nothing more nor less than a man, and men are simple.
"Only the last few years?" he asks, hearing her answer.
—Alright, he might be simple enough, but there's still a calculating cunning in the bounty hunter sometimes, the ability to pick up on loose threads. She's better at dealing with people, and the Mandalorian won't ever be making speeches in front of crowds or navigating politics like a sea of sharks — but he's good at piecing things together. Noting the blanks in someone's story, because his own history is such a conspicuously patchwork thing itself, written and rewritten over itself.
"My cooking's pretty bare-bones. Occupational hazard. Sorry in advance."
His question speaks volumes for what he's reading between her lines, the secrets she's dancing around — and giving far too much away on. She knows she should be more careful, that it would be best to conceal every part of herself from him and adopt the persona she's used on missions in the past. But... this isn't a mission. This is her life now, her fate to face with him, and she's so very tired of being alone. To have someone know her, even in the slightest way, might help stave off that loneliness enough to get by.
She doesn't address his question directly, still weighing what to say and which truths to bend. Instead, she focuses on the latter statement, amusement filling her and drifting into both tone and manner.
"I've had enough lavish meals to last a lifetime. I can survive bare-bones." A pause, then she tilts her head and studies the blankness of his helmet. "Or I could help, if you'd like."
"Sure. It'll make it go faster, too." No word about her skill, or it tasting better if she helps, or the cooking being more enjoyable with companionship—
But the Mandalorian still steps to the side, gamely clearing some space for her to come join him in the galley. He's boiling up water for noodles, and gestures towards the assortment of ingredients that'll need stir-frying. It's still not fresh vegetables: all mostly dried preserved staples, cheap and durable.
"Didn't know you were used to lavish meals. Still didn't want to subject you to field rations, though."
The ship's cupboards are usually filled with tasteless stuff. Bitter jerky, dusty hardtack, protein powders. Enough to fulfill his nutrient needs and little more. There was a reason bounty hunter diets hadn't ever really caught on as a fad; they were a thing of hard necessity, ruthless bottom-line and narrow profit margins.
Whatever his reason for accepting her offer of help, she's grateful to him for it. Always preferring to feel useful and keep busy, it's better than just sitting in her tiny bunk and staring at the metal walls. She doesn't have much to occupy her mind here and with the child picking up on things already... It's better that she keeps her thoughts away from certain subjects she always tends to drift back to.
"My life was very different before the Empire took everything from me," she responds, her conversational tone at odds with the subject matter, "but this would be far from my first experience with field rations. I do greatly appreciate the consideration, though." Field rations aren't exactly known for being appetizing, after all. Quite the opposite.
Examining the ingredients at hand, she begins separating things and sorting what she knows and doesn't. There are only two ingredients she doesn't recognize, things that remind her of root vegetables, especially when she breaks off a small piece to taste. Not the most flavorful in this form, but not the worst thing she's ever eaten. Oh, the stories she could tell him of having to try 'delicacies' from planets around the galaxy... If only she could tell him those tales.
Noticing the way Padmé's picking at one of the vegetables, he advises, "That one tastes fine raw, but it'll soften in the pan. Be even better then."
And then, as he works with one of the burners, he considers. He's been ridiculously tight-lipped when it comes to personal details — to a non-Mandalorian, it's still a little insane that she doesn't have an actual name for him — but food seems a safe enough topic. Everyone eats, no? It's not like handing over the secrets of his society. So it feels less like a betrayal of the Mandalorians to let some of this slip, to fill up that silence with some conversation.
The man isn't a nervous talker, is often content to let things sit in companionable silence... but thing is, they're not quite comfortable companions yet. He's too-aware of where she's standing beside him, the space the woman takes up, the sound of her breathing. So he clears his throat, and speaks up, nodding towards the second slow-heating pot filled with liquid.
"Have you ever had shig? Mandalorian delicacy. It's a hot drink, with an infusion of herbs and spices. Made from the citrus herb called behot."
It's warm and soothing, fills you up like a comforting furnace. (He has fond memories of a battered cup being pressed into his hands as a child; the traumatised orphan with a blanket wrapped around him and the shig itself tasting like a warm embrace, like reassurance, like a new home.)
Food is a great equalizer, in her experience. Yes, everyone eats, and everyone has their own personal relationship tied to food. The dishes that one grows up with, traditional recipes from the place considered home, meals prepared by loved ones... All of them become a part of a person, no matter their species or history.
Padmé looks over when he speaks, glancing at the indicated pot before returning her attention to her companion. He's sharing something with her, something personal in a way not much else has been, and she finds herself feeling so incredibly grateful for it.
"I tried it once," she confirms with a nod, "many years ago. I remember enjoying it. A dear friend made it for me — her family lived on Mandalore for generations." It wasn't a lie, nor was it the entire truth. As all things must be now.
There's an odd twinge in his chest as he stirs the pot, watching the spices as they steep, considering Padmé's words. "I've never been to Mandalore," he admits after a pause. A true diaspora, in every sense of the word. It hasn't ever sounded like he's been missing out on much, though; he's been told the planet remains inhabitable.
Then the helmet turns, scrutinises her again. There's something else in his voice now, not picking through her history anymore, but betraying a proper curiosity. Something that's actually rather extremely relevant to his interests:
Oh, the stories she could tell him of her time on Mandalore. When she'd first met Satine, the way they'd fought side by side to find the traitors who were trying to destabilize her reign. The day Satine had been taken from them...
No, she can't think of that. All the pain in her past needs to be put aside for the sake of the child, no matter how difficult that might be for Padmé herself. But her life has never been about her and that is no different now.
"I have," she confirms with a nod and a glance in his direction before returning her focus to the knife in her hands. Cutting the vegetables, not her fingers. "Many years ago. They were good people, strong and very proud of their heritage."
"Must've been a while ago. Not many of us are left."
She must've been young. It's been about a decade since the Siege of Mandalore, since his people were slaughtered and scattered to the winds and had to turn to other ways to stay alive. The Children of the Watch had been cloistered away on Concordia when it happened, but one still felt the loss. The dissolution of a society, the slow annihilation of a culture, their armour stolen and melted down by the empire.
In order to avoid looking at her, the bounty hunter focuses all of his attention on the pot, the heat of the burners barely felt through the thick material of his gloves. It feels— strange that this complete stranger, this non-Mandalorian, has an insight to his supposed home that he doesn't. When he looks inward and tries to examine his stew of emotions at that, he realises that it isn't bitterness. Not exactly. But there is a curiosity, a lingering wistful yearning, and so he can't help but ask:
"It was unique," she answers without hesitation, a sad longing slipping into the words. "I visited the capital Sundari when I was younger. It was situated in a desert but the domed city was... beautiful. The architecture was unlike anything I'd ever seen, so many towering structures of permacrete and transparisteel that you could see straight through."
She'd loved that city and after the loss of her friend, she'd hoped to one day visit it again to pay her respects. It had nearly broken what was left of her heart to hear what had befallen the planet and the Mandalorian people, and even now her grip tightens slightly on the knife as she tries to wrestle back her emotions.
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Sleeping was the easiest way for her to comprehend what had happened to her. Some sort of stasis, an experimental technology kept from the Senate's knowledge, something had kept her alive all these years, unchanged, only to wake alone and without answers. It took days for her to grasp the magnitude of her situation, hiding on the outskirts of a city on an Inner Rim planet from the soldiers who walked the streets with terrible purpose. The years that had passed, the rise of a power she had fought so desperately against...
And she'd woken too late to join her children in the fight to right the wrongs she should never have allowed to happen. It is the guilt and grief that keeps her away from them now, two years after she'd woken — guilt and grief that drives her to search out any remaining Imperial units and report their whereabouts. Small as it is, she spends every day working toward erasing the scourge of the galaxy that she'd enabled through ignorance and inaction. Because she has to keep her children safe in any way she can. The future had to be protected, for the daughter she only ever glimpsed in holovids and the son lauded as a hero. Grown children who had been raised by others to whom she would forever be in debt. The shame she felt for them having to clean up the mess their parents had left behind broke her heart and made it impossible for her to reach out to them, to try to explain.
So she continued in her work, tracking down those cells and reporting them to the New Republic through a handful of contacts she trusted to act on the information. It was dangerous work that she knew would get her on someone's radar eventually — she just couldn't bring herself to worry about that.
For now, the way has led her to a backwater planet and a settlement being covered in a coating of snow. The few locals still out in the swiftly falling white move quickly toward their homes or the nearest inn or bar, seeking shelter from the brisk wind. With her hair cut and her dress far plainer than it had ever been, she moves less quickly than the others, taking her time and stepping carefully through the inches of snow already on the ground, watching her surroundings just as carefully while looking for anyone of particular note. ]
no subject
The remnants of the Empire are a rot that's taken hold throughout all the settled worlds: it's hard to extinguish such a persistent weed, which keeps cropping up everywhere. A snake with a million heads.
Good thing, then, that it's not his problem.
The mercenary already tended to carve out his reputation on the outer rim, and staying under the radar has become even more important now that the child is squirreled away back on his ship. That knowledge sets his teeth on edge, makes him wary, paranoid. They just need supplies, food, restocking ammunition, then they can get the hell out of here. He's walking down the street towards the market and running through that mental checklist when he notices a figure appearing on a rooftop, the distinctive glint of cold winter light on a sniper's scope.
Not again, he thinks, wearily, a little annoyed — it's been a long, long week since he took his target and went on the run — but that means he's more surprised when the sights swing over to the plainly-dressed woman in the street instead. Not him. They're not after him, then.
But the Mandalorian's reaction is immediate, unthinking, his voice a little tinny through that helmet: ]
Get down!
no subject
The cry of warning comes in a voice she doesn't recognize, but her reaction is still immediate. Down she goes, throwing herself to the ground and using the momentum to roll herself toward a building. A blaster is in her hand in the next moment, nothing so sleek as those she'd used in her previous life but certainly just as effective. ]
no subject
Like a mirror to her movements, the Mandalorian immediately takes refuge in the lee of the building opposite, out of the line of fire, and he sizes her up. It takes a while for old dogs to learn new tricks, so out of some ancient instinct, he mentally catalogs what he can see of her face, lines it up against the wanted holos he's seen lately. Doesn't recognise her as an open bounty. Means it must be going through different channels.
Not guild ones.
It's not his problem, he reminds himself— except that it is. This potential firefight is breaking out between him and the market and the supplies he needs. A blaster bolt embeds itself in the stone wall, kicking up dust just a couple feet from where she's taken cover. ]
Looks like you've made some friends.
[ The stranger's voice is dry; maybe with a small thread of weary bemusement beneath it. This isn't what he meant to spend his afternoon doing. ]
no subject
That blaster bolt cuts short any reminiscence and she presses herself closer to the wall, peering up and trying to get a good look at her attacker without making herself more visible. The Mandalorian's bemusement is not something she shares. ]
Unwelcome ones, I assure you.
[ She wonders absently if said friends are bounty hunters or just underlings for whichever Imperial she's upset by getting too close. It wouldn't be the first time she had a bounty on her head, far from it really, but things would be much easier if this were a contained incident. Oh, that she might be so lucky...
Leaning out slightly to try at returning fire, another blaster shot zings through the crisp air, narrowly missing her by a matter of inches as she flings herself backward again against the wall. Her mask of unwavering determination breaks for a moment, crumpling into something like panic, and when she pulls it back into place, there are cracks in the facade. She's been in worse positions than this — but never while being quite so alone. ]
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His other fingers fan across the edge of the whistling birds in their holster, as if considering using the weapons, but he falls away. It's just one man. Not worth it.
So he pops back out and levels his rifle, firing a few shots back, enough to make the shooter take cover himself. The Mandalorian exhales a sigh of frustration: they could be here all day taking messy potshots at each other. Time to be done with it— ]
Lure him out. I'll take the shot.
[ Whoever she is, she's the target; she'll be good bait. ]
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Somehow, it's not surprising when the Mandalorian offers his help. She's reminded of the proud and noble people she'd met so many years ago, with strength in their veins that few other planets could compare to. It makes her trust him even though they've just met, enough to accept the plan without question. She prays that it doesn't come back to haunt her later.
Taking a deep breath, she weighs her options for three seconds exactly and then takes off at a run down the street, moving out from her cover into clear view before dodging to the opposite side of the street. She hears another burst of blaster fire from above and the following sizzle of the snow as the bolts sink into the ground around her. She might even, hopefully, hear the sound of movement from the roof above as the shooter adjusts his position.
Please let this work. ]
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Thanks to the helmet, there's no hint to betray his surprise, but he's taken aback by how quickly the woman throws herself into the open, carrying that faith in him that he'll have her back. It would be an unworthy warrior to betray that trust. And so he doesn't: the Mandalorian steps out from behind the building, raises the sights of his rifle with an almost casual motion. Paints the bead on the rooftop attacker, who's distracted trying to keep a target on his zig-zagging quarry, and who was expecting Padmé to be alone as she has been for years; wasn't expecting her to have backup.
One blaster shot. The other man isn't wearing beskar. It's an easy calculus, and it ends with the distant figure dropping boneless to the rooftop. The mercenary stands motionless on the balls of his feet, head cocked, letting his helmet's enhanced sensors parse the surrounding noise. Nothing from the rooftop.
Far-off, though: the distant whine of a speeder.
Ugh, he thinks. Then looks at the woman, blank featureless visor turning to face her. ]
They're not guild.
[ It's a flat statement, but somewhere, there's a question and implication sitting underneath those terse words. They're not mine; what the hell have you gotten yourself into. ]
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And he proves her right.
The answering single shot and silence that follows brings her to a stop, breath coming in white puffs in the air as she turns to watch him... and to process his observation. *They're not guild.* Meaning that he likely is, that he could be there for her as well and simply taking a different approach than the man he'd just killed. Perhaps there was a bounty on her head that required her to be alive, whereas the being on the rooftop had not been given such instruction.
Taking a few steps closer, she keeps her tone and expression neutral. She also keeps a firm grip on the blaster resting at her side. ]
And you? Are you here for a bounty?
[ Because she'd really rather not have a long conversation with someone who was just going to haul her off to be interrogated and tortured. She'd much prefer to use that energy figuring out how to escape — from him and the speeders she's quite certain she's beginning to hear. ]
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Not this time. I just wanted groceries.
[ He looks off into the middle distance, where they can both increasingly hear the sound of the oncoming speeders. They're coming from the direction of market, too, which means the market's likely panicked and closed up shop by now. He should just get back to his own ship, leave her to her troubles.
(Except, except. As much as the Mandalorian tries to avoid it, sympathy is contagious and corrosive: like a virus eating its way through his layers of beskar, worming its way beneath his shell. It started that day he deviated from the job and spared one little target in a crib, and it's simply been spreading since then, ripples in a pond growing larger. This might be a mistake. It's probably a mistake.) ]
What are you? Criminal? Murderer? Ex-rebel? Imperial?
[ There's no guarantee that this woman will even answer truthfully, but he's doing the same thing she did a moment earlier. They're both taking each others' measure as quickly as they can, trying to size up who they're dealing with, evaluating their unlikely maybe-ally. ]
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I work for the New Republic.
[ It's true, in a way. A version of the truth that isn't a lie but omits certain details that would just drag him even deeper into things. What they need right now is to get out of there. Fast.
Glancing around, she notices something down the road, just barely visible around the side of a dark building. One hard look at him later and she's nodding toward the hidden speeder. ]
Come on, we need to get out of here.
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[ It's unclear how he intends to finish that sentence. He's not with her; they don't need to flee together; this is not his problem.
But it's a failed attempt at waving her off and going their separate ways, because a moment later, more blaster bolts come sailing in. The shots are wild, messy, landing far off from their targets because the speeders are simply too far away — but the newly-arriving pursuers also aren't being particularly discriminating. The Mandalorian is with their target and that's good enough for them, enough to land him in the cross-hairs as well. Best to just get out of here first, because the backup's just going to keep shooting first and asking questions never. ]
Fine.
[ So he readjusts the rifle, propping it against his shoulder as he follows the woman around the corner to the speeder. By habit, Mando's about to plant himself in the driver's seat — but she beats him to it, hopping on and kicking at the ignition. He stands there for a second, discombobulated, before he finally just rolls with it. I can shoot if I'm not driving, he thinks, more of an afterthought than anything else as he settles in behind her. Makes sure he has one hand braced against the speeder's durasteel frame, the other on his rifle. ]
Persistent, aren't they. I'll cover.
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They haven't survived this long by giving up easily.
[ Unfortunately.
Flicking on the speeder's engine, they're zooming forward at top speed the first second she can get the transport to cooperate. It's not the newest model but she's fairly certain it isn't about to fall apart on them, at least. Hopefully. Please.
She pushes the speeder to its limit, slowing down only slightly to take a corner around a set of buildings to head out beyond the settlement, away from any other innocent bystanders who would be at risk. It's a dangerous move, an open flat land stretching between them and the natural cover of a forest, but it will also give him the best opportunity to get some good shots in. With any luck, their attackers will be hit before they are. ]
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end
dinnertime.
Despite the couple guest bunks in the back, the Razor Crest is still a solitary vessel — more used to carrying around bounties frozen in carbonite and stacked in neat racks, rather than a flesh-and-blood, living breathing woman. The heaters run a little too cool, since the Mandalorian's accustomed to wearing his full armour. The metal floor is too cold for bare feet, the bunks stiff and somewhat uncomfortable.
But they've made their stop at Mataou to stock up on food, drink, ammo (the three constants of life). After a moment of hesitation at the market, the Mandalorian had picked up some drinks and a few dried desserts, supplies a bit more enjoyable than the utilitarian field rations he always lived off on his own when given the choice. The stop at port had been blessedly uneventful, which means they're back on-ship now, the autopilot carrying them on to their next destination. It's evening, and the Mandalorian is firing up the cramped little galley kitchen, where he's heating up some shig — a warm spiced Mando'a drink — over the burners, and getting ready to cook dinner. It cuts a strange picture: the man standing in front of the stove but with his helmet still on, all impersonal armour.
Padme's somewhere, sparing him from having to juggle the child while cooking, but the footsteps behind him eventually signal that she's on her way back. His shoulders instinctively tense for a moment before he forces them to loosen, glances back over his shoulder.
"Do you cook?"
It doesn't sound like small-talk out of interest, more like an analytical assessment of skill: like are you a good runner or how's your marksmanship.
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Besides, it isn't so bad. Her new companions are each charming in their own ways, each showing her consideration even while she knows one is still wary of her. It's in his nature and he has every reason to be, so how could she blame him for it?
She's already caught herself twice standing in front of the carbonite station, staring at the slots waiting to be filled and losing herself in memory. A far-away look on her face as she gazed into the past and recalls waking on that tiny moon, barely able to support life and the perfect place to hide someone frozen in time. Not in carbonite — she's still not completely sure what it was she'd been encased in, all traces of it dissipating as she woke and leaving behind a sickness that had taken days to pass. Days she'd spent learning as much as she could from the technicians who knew almost nothing of her situation; they'd woken her out of goodwill, the funding from Alderaan having finally run dry and the station thus being abandoned. They'd dropped her at a nearby planet with some credits and wished her well.
She'd had to piece everything else together on her own.
Both times, the child had snapped her out of those dark memories, his small hand tugging at her pant leg until she turned her attention away from pain and sadness. Even in the short time they've spent together, she's noticed him do it at other moments as well, watching her and pulling her away from shadows that chase her without end. It makes her wonder...
Which is why she's come to find her other companion, the one who is just as much a mystery but also far easier to read in some respects. She enters the kitchen and smiles slightly, more at the way he asks than the question itself. Yes, in certain regards, he's an open book.
"I doubt I would ever be paid for my services, but I manage well enough," she answers, stepping closer and peering at what he's doing on the stove. "I helped my mother as a child, and the last few years, I've had to fend for myself."
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"Only the last few years?" he asks, hearing her answer.
—Alright, he might be simple enough, but there's still a calculating cunning in the bounty hunter sometimes, the ability to pick up on loose threads. She's better at dealing with people, and the Mandalorian won't ever be making speeches in front of crowds or navigating politics like a sea of sharks — but he's good at piecing things together. Noting the blanks in someone's story, because his own history is such a conspicuously patchwork thing itself, written and rewritten over itself.
"My cooking's pretty bare-bones. Occupational hazard. Sorry in advance."
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She doesn't address his question directly, still weighing what to say and which truths to bend. Instead, she focuses on the latter statement, amusement filling her and drifting into both tone and manner.
"I've had enough lavish meals to last a lifetime. I can survive bare-bones." A pause, then she tilts her head and studies the blankness of his helmet. "Or I could help, if you'd like."
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But the Mandalorian still steps to the side, gamely clearing some space for her to come join him in the galley. He's boiling up water for noodles, and gestures towards the assortment of ingredients that'll need stir-frying. It's still not fresh vegetables: all mostly dried preserved staples, cheap and durable.
"Didn't know you were used to lavish meals. Still didn't want to subject you to field rations, though."
The ship's cupboards are usually filled with tasteless stuff. Bitter jerky, dusty hardtack, protein powders. Enough to fulfill his nutrient needs and little more. There was a reason bounty hunter diets hadn't ever really caught on as a fad; they were a thing of hard necessity, ruthless bottom-line and narrow profit margins.
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"My life was very different before the Empire took everything from me," she responds, her conversational tone at odds with the subject matter, "but this would be far from my first experience with field rations. I do greatly appreciate the consideration, though." Field rations aren't exactly known for being appetizing, after all. Quite the opposite.
Examining the ingredients at hand, she begins separating things and sorting what she knows and doesn't. There are only two ingredients she doesn't recognize, things that remind her of root vegetables, especially when she breaks off a small piece to taste. Not the most flavorful in this form, but not the worst thing she's ever eaten. Oh, the stories she could tell him of having to try 'delicacies' from planets around the galaxy... If only she could tell him those tales.
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And then, as he works with one of the burners, he considers. He's been ridiculously tight-lipped when it comes to personal details — to a non-Mandalorian, it's still a little insane that she doesn't have an actual name for him — but food seems a safe enough topic. Everyone eats, no? It's not like handing over the secrets of his society. So it feels less like a betrayal of the Mandalorians to let some of this slip, to fill up that silence with some conversation.
The man isn't a nervous talker, is often content to let things sit in companionable silence... but thing is, they're not quite comfortable companions yet. He's too-aware of where she's standing beside him, the space the woman takes up, the sound of her breathing. So he clears his throat, and speaks up, nodding towards the second slow-heating pot filled with liquid.
"Have you ever had shig? Mandalorian delicacy. It's a hot drink, with an infusion of herbs and spices. Made from the citrus herb called behot."
It's warm and soothing, fills you up like a comforting furnace. (He has fond memories of a battered cup being pressed into his hands as a child; the traumatised orphan with a blanket wrapped around him and the shig itself tasting like a warm embrace, like reassurance, like a new home.)
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Padmé looks over when he speaks, glancing at the indicated pot before returning her attention to her companion. He's sharing something with her, something personal in a way not much else has been, and she finds herself feeling so incredibly grateful for it.
"I tried it once," she confirms with a nod, "many years ago. I remember enjoying it. A dear friend made it for me — her family lived on Mandalore for generations." It wasn't a lie, nor was it the entire truth. As all things must be now.
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Then the helmet turns, scrutinises her again. There's something else in his voice now, not picking through her history anymore, but betraying a proper curiosity. Something that's actually rather extremely relevant to his interests:
"You've known other Mandalorians?"
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No, she can't think of that. All the pain in her past needs to be put aside for the sake of the child, no matter how difficult that might be for Padmé herself. But her life has never been about her and that is no different now.
"I have," she confirms with a nod and a glance in his direction before returning her focus to the knife in her hands. Cutting the vegetables, not her fingers. "Many years ago. They were good people, strong and very proud of their heritage."
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She must've been young. It's been about a decade since the Siege of Mandalore, since his people were slaughtered and scattered to the winds and had to turn to other ways to stay alive. The Children of the Watch had been cloistered away on Concordia when it happened, but one still felt the loss. The dissolution of a society, the slow annihilation of a culture, their armour stolen and melted down by the empire.
In order to avoid looking at her, the bounty hunter focuses all of his attention on the pot, the heat of the burners barely felt through the thick material of his gloves. It feels— strange that this complete stranger, this non-Mandalorian, has an insight to his supposed home that he doesn't. When he looks inward and tries to examine his stew of emotions at that, he realises that it isn't bitterness. Not exactly. But there is a curiosity, a lingering wistful yearning, and so he can't help but ask:
"What was it like? The planet."
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She'd loved that city and after the loss of her friend, she'd hoped to one day visit it again to pay her respects. It had nearly broken what was left of her heart to hear what had befallen the planet and the Mandalorian people, and even now her grip tightens slightly on the knife as she tries to wrestle back her emotions.
"I wish you could have seen it."