A Star Wars Side-Blog

—

He’d been tracking for days when he could no longer ignore the fatigue creeping into his bones. He found wilderness preferable to cities, but you couldn’t be choosy with acquisitions. The target was a Nautolan gunrunner who’d “lost” a shipment and had bounties on both ISB postings and private channels, and Mando aimed to collect on both. The Nautolan made landfall outside the most populated city in the Nylarc Belt before his ship finally broke down and was impounded by the Tannis Corp., and Mando had spent over a fortnight in a haze of constant pursuit and inquiries as to his whereabouts.

Some festival had sent lodging rates skyrocketing, the majority of hotels, inns, and boarding houses now entirely booked or occupied the further he went into the city, and he’d spent more time cramming into secluded alcoves trying to catch brief bouts of rest than he’d spent making headway wading through the throng of sentients in the streets. A dozen people had tried to pickpocket or start fights with him and the disruptions didn’t bode well for his reflexes if he couldn’t find time to catch up on the sleep deficit. Someone had sardonically offered him a place in the dovecote up top one of the buildings and he’d declined with a blunt “No, thank you.”

What he wouldn’t give for a hayloft.

The festival provided both annoyances and opportunities. Necessities were more readily available and vendors were more willing to barter if there wasn’t enough coin to change hands, but the local politicians and peacekeepers had also hastily spackled over the shanty towns and lower-class dwellings with flimsy façades that projected a veneer of respectability and progress to their visiting pilgrims, dignitaries, and tourists; be that as it may, Din knew of several politicians whose loyal patronages of the silverskin slums kept the lights on. The ruling elite and their Nevitian masks.

The hollow, paper-thin aura of “respectability” the sumptuary laws tried to enforce didn’t curb the seedy market dealings and clandestine forays, but the increased peacekeepers did. The brothels of Q’rad were forced to either take a slow week or risk the ire of the upper crust calling in authorities and legalized attack dogs. As far as anyone was concerned, festival week meant a forcefully imposed bout of celibacy for those inclined toward casual pleasure in order to keep up appearances of the holy city (despite those pleasures having never come under criticism in the codices).

However, given you had the right documents and authorization, certain people were granted some leeway when it came to crossing districts to the leisure zone, and the Mandalorian just so happened to be up-to-date on his Guild permits.

The stench of sweat and mixing bodies stuck to him like a second skin as he navigated the streets of Q’rad, the filter in his helmet the only thing keeping the cloying air at bay. If memory served, there was a bordello noted for its bathhouse above the mineral springs ahead of him. The Nautolan had a history of similar vices which provided enough justification to investigate if he was there, and enough cover for the Mandalorian’s detour if he wasn’t. The weeks of dogged pursuit were catching up to him now every hour instead of every day; he didn’t like the delayed response time that came with extended fatigue even if his reflexes were still better than most, and his irritability at the overcrowded streets was at a constant simmer. Luckily the crowd gave him a wide berth, enough so that he didn’t have to squeeze between as many of the sticky, oily bodies around him. Small mercies.

The Gilded Lily came into view and he could only hope there was still a chance something was available. He’d take a broom closet if they had one to spare.

The madame gave him a sharp look at the credentials and permit he slid across the counter. “I’m not aware of any Guild postings that should bring you to my door.”

He didn’t respond, instead filling out the form she’d given him. He saw her eye him suspiciously in his periphery as he noted his specifications and returned it.

“Pleasure then, not business?”

“I’m passing through. I just need a bed.”

“They’ve all got beds.”

Din bit his tongue. She wouldn’t believe him regardless of what he told her, so he opted to fork over the credits and present his finger for the blood prick.

She glanced over the form and shoved it back at him. “Chain-code.”

He shook his head. “I have enough credits to afford anonymity, and your discretion.”

“Chain code or no entry.”

“My Guild sequence should suffice.”

The madame looked up at him breezily, her eyes flicking to the space over his shoulder. He could feel the doorman looming, and he was growing impatient.

“Guild ID provides you with contact to my broker,” the Mandalorian gestured to the form, “And any Guild lodge nearby. Causing trouble is bad for business. Word gets back to any of them, I lose my line of work.”

“That’s hardly collateral.”

Mando grit his teeth, dug into a pouch, and slid five centicred sterlings across the counter— The glint caught the madame’s eye and she balked at the sight.

“For your discretion,” he said, his voice pitched low. “And I guarantee your employee will vouch for my conduct come morning.”

The madame weighed her options, but ultimately signaled to the doorman to step back as she swiped the credits from the counter and tucked them into her bodice. She gestured impatiently for his bare hand, typing an override command into the computer. “Health scan.”

She pulled his wrist forward none too gently and took the sample, placing it in the machine next to her. The centrifuge whirred to life as he flexed his hand uncomfortably and secured his glove back in place, absently rubbing his palm against his leg. The madame input the rest of what little data he’d provided and nodded to herself as the test screen blipped green. “The girls’ rooms are theirs, whatever you use them for. At the end of the night she’s always the one in charge.”

“Noted.”

“Any other requests, Mandalorian?”

“… Do you have a floor without music?”

—

He knew the rumors, the tall tales and salacious stories spread about his kin. He wasn’t blind or ignorant to the effect he had on people either. It was hard to go anywhere without whispers following him for one reason or another; he disliked the trains of thought those runaway tracks led people too because left unchecked, their curiosity compelled them to ask questions, or make assumptions for themselves. The rumors couldn’t be further from the truth but he didn’t indulge people who pried into his way of life, let alone personal space— His own skin still felt twitchy and uncomfortable from even the briefest moment doffing his glove to the woman downstairs. If he wasn’t so bloody exhausted he thought he’d collapse, he wouldn’t be there in the first place.

Nevertheless he hesitated at the key-code reader, hand hovering inches away despite the ticking clock. He wondered if the fatigue had gone to his head. The guard at the end of the hall watched him like a hawk.

Need ultimately won out over discomfort and he unlocked the door. Better to just get the discomfort over with.

The door slid aside with a soft shff. The B-bellan woman on the other side was waiting on a chaise lounge next to a low table and a hookah a few steps down into the room. Though she seemed perfectly at ease he knew a rehearsed smile when he saw one, and he felt a twinge of guilt at her trepidation. Six hours of unknowns on the horizon, and even if The Gilded Lily was in a more reputable part of the leisure zone, part of the allure was that weapons weren’t checked at the door.

The B-bellan woman appeared to be about ten years older than him with loose dark hair and skin the color of autumn. She was lithe and graceful even in repose, but he got the sense she was well-equipped to handle herself if her clients proved to be trouble. The madame had probably assigned her specifically.

The woman’s catlike eyes tracked him, the slightest flash of luminosity reflecting back in a flicker of calculating assessment.

Three weeks of hunting, he reminded himself, trying not to turn his neck in a way that would give him a crick, and a deficit to your budget you won’t get back if you back out now.

“Welcome,” the woman said warmly. She stood and gestured to the well-decorated room, her robe strategically falling off one shoulder. “Please, make yourself comfortable. Would you care for something to drink?”

Mando shook his head, flexing his hand. The woman’s footsteps were silent as she continued her approach, sidling up to him with a hand on his bicep. He tensed.

“There are a number of options available: Desert Bloom, revnog, even some tihaar, just for you. Say the word and I’ll be happy to oblige.”

Mando held up a hand, stopping her.

“I’m sorry for the trouble, but I’m not here for business.”

There was a flicker of doubt behind her careful façade even as she traced both hands down his arms. “I… received your information from the desk,” she said carefully. She reached out to run her thumb along the top edge of his breastplate and the tension in his shoulders ratcheted further. “You are the only Mandalorian here this evening. Six hour black-out, one break, one girl—”

Mando carefully side-stepped her and assessed the room as he spoke again, keeping his hands visible and doing his best to convey that he wasn’t a threat. “I don’t mean to insult you, but I meant I’m not here for your services.”

“… What is it you’re here for then?” The woman stepped back into his line of sight. “Meeting with another patron?”

“A bed. For myself.”

“… A bed.”

“To sleep.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “… You’re risking corpo watchdogs to rent a room.”

“Yes. Yours was the furthest from the nightlife. I don’t need— and won’t ask— anything from you, aside from what distance you can give me. Is that acceptable?”

The woman crossed her arms with a glare. “Elaborate.”

The Mandalorian sighed. If he had other options he wouldn’t have put any of the workers through this; the armor was as much a deterrent as it was protection, and Mandalorians were already met with suspicion for how closely guarded the majority of them kept. Having one in close quarters made other sentients uneasy no matter how much they minded their own business.

But he needed to sleep.

“I’m tired. I need a bed. I only came here because the inns are full and my Guild credentials could get me in the door. I’m not here for you.” He turned back to face her. “Can I sleep and trust that you’ll leave me alone?”

“… Yes, of course. Excuse me.”

She recovered quickly and tied her robe so she could adjust the space unhindered, pressing a palm to the door scanner to lock it. The sconces were dimmed as the lamps came up, instantly changing the atmosphere of the room. He could see the floor plan more clearly: a spacious bed took up most of the western wall beneath a half-circle window inlaid with tracery. Not ideal in terms of total privacy, but it’d do. He preferred that compromise over the proximity to the cabaret on ground level. There was a set of sturdy, plush chairs next to a small table off to the left, and gauzy, swaged curtains hanging from the ceiling to make divisions between the living areas. The fresher room was tucked into the back corner, extending beyond the southern wall. The lights revealed a glimpse of shelves back in an alcove to his right behind another curtained off area he assumed was an extension of her private quarters.

The woman, who introduced herself as Marcéi, had the room and bed arranged in short order. He surveyed the levels and bare tech for cams and recorders, unhooking the rifle from his shoulder and carrying it to the side of the bed near the en suite. She straightened the pillows on the chaise, earlier suspicion slowly being replaced with curiosity.

“You really paid for six hours so you could sleep?”

He nodded. “With a guarantee of privacy.”

She assessed him with a look he’d seen a thousand times. “I see. Anything else?”

“… Do you have filtered water?”

—

He spared enough time in the fresher to scrub the worst of the grime off with a hand towel before borrowing the laundry facilities and redressing. He was fastidious about cleanliness when he could be since the clothes he wore on a hunt were usually the only set he brought with him, and these were in desperate need of cleaning.

Marcéi had excused herself to make some tea and he was relieved to see that she’d changed her own clothes while they were apart. Her legs were still mostly bare and the gauzy robe remained, but she’d switched her more revealing work attire for loose, comfortable sleep clothes, a sleeveless shirt and shorts. It put him at ease to see her more casually dressed, less like there was an expectation for the evening. He wouldn’t be so naïve as to remove his armor while he was here (which he was sure did nothing to put her at ease), but she didn’t say anything and he didn’t bring it up.

Before long the two of them were situated comfortably, him stretching his back and arms on one side of the bed, her plaiting her hair away from the cranial horns on her brow on the other side of the room.

She’d offered him food, which he declined, and appeared to be studying him while he took stock of his belongings. The rifle leaned against the wall beside the bed, and he put the bandolier into a pouch beside him. The holster and boots remained.

“There is a safe deposit box available if you like,” Marcèi offered. “It’s bolted into the wall.”

He shook his head. “No thank you.”

She frowned as he swung his legs up over the covers and lay on his back, trying to get comfortable. “The sheets are clean, I assure you. You can use the bed.”

Din grunted and laced his hands over his middle. “I believe you, but I’m not planning to undress— It doesn’t matter what they feel like.”

“Will you be comfortable in your armor?” she asked. “You move like you’ve been sleeping upright for a week.”

Din absently rolled his shoulder: his entire back felt tight. “I’ll manage.”

Marcéi stirred her tea. She’d provisioned a space away from the bed at his request, now perched more comfortably on the chaise lounge with a tablet. “You don’t strike me as the holidaying type; did one of the hostels give your room away?”

“I’m just passing through.”

“I guessed as much. You didn’t seem like a local boy.”

Beneath his helmet Din smiled at her tone. Though he didn’t spend much time around the women at brothels, Marcéi seemed well-versed in playing hostess. He was still in a busy city, still in a building six stories up, still assessing his surroundings, but the longer he scoped out the room and made the necessary small talk, the more he could feel himself being drawn toward a proper rest.

He looked over to his hostess in thought. She was pretty, darker freckles over her nose and shoulders more noticeable in the changed light. He knew what happened to B-bell during the war and hoped she was here of her own volition.

“Will it bother you if I move sometime in the night?”

He shrugged. “It’s your room.”

“You’re paying.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ll know it’s you. Just… Don’t touch me. I’ll wake up on my own.”

She nodded, and from her seat she reached over to dim the lights. “Sleep then, Mandalorian. Contrary to popular belief the oldest profession was keeping the night watch.”

—

The Mandalorian was a curious thing. For the first hour Marcéi remained on guard but it appeared he had the gift of falling asleep immediately when the situation called for it. Either that or he’d been truthful when he said he hadn’t slept in several days and he’d simply passed out.

After what little conversation he offered, all he’d done was clean himself up and stow his gear within arm’s reach. He barely spared her a glance as he made himself comfortable (though she couldn’t see how with his entire suit still on), folded his hands across his stomach, and went quiet. There was nothing but the near imperceptible sound of his steady breathing, muted through the mask.

Marcéi had never met a Mandalorian, not up close. There were occasional loners in spaceports or crowded streets, sometimes a bounty hunter stopping to ask questions or nab a target, but she’d never had a reason to interact with them. The legends and reputation preceded them though; she remembered stories of conquests across every system, the civil wars that raged and the battles that were fought. Some of the most brutally efficient warriors the galaxy had to offer. This one fit the silhouette, but the quiet demeanor and complete lack of interest in her had thrown her off entirely.

All the cats in the cathouse talked, speculation and gossip passing the time between shifts. No species was left out of hypotheticals, and the tales of the masked warriors’ thirst and stamina were some of the most vivid.

When Marcéi had seen her assignment for the evening she nearly had a heart attack and comm’d the boss to make sure the readout was accurate. No amount of arguing would dissuade her and it wasn’t long before Marcéi‘s scanner pinged at the guest’s presence outside her room.

Six hours was already unheard of, and for a Mandalorian at that. She’d already put in a request for the next day off before he got to the door.

And then… nothing. He came into the room with reticence, avoided her touch, almost seeming to wait for her permission before moving. He’d done nothing to imply interest in what she had to offer, not even to indulge in a drink. He hardly looked at her.

It wasn’t often that patrons established limits in her room. Occasional provisions had to be made to accomodate species or physiology, but it was expected that she was there to meet their demands. A simple exchange of money for services, all those involved aware of what they were there for. She was a professional of course, she knew the necessities of maintaining restraint and managing boundaries— It was just unheard of that she would entertain a guest who didn’t want anything from her at all, especially and including her touch.

What an odd duck.

He was appealing though, from what she could tell, all broad shoulders and a solid build. His voice, rough-hewn and world-weary, sounded like it was used sparingly, but was one she was sure commanded attention when he raised it. He moved like a panther over foreign terrain and carried himself with the bearing of someone unafraid to take up space, but only his own space; there was no posturing or intimidation here, and though she was sure he could make himself imposing, he’d done very little to imply he would. He didn’t need to.

She was far more curious about his appearance than she knew she ought to be. It was clear his reserved approach to their arrangement was born of experience dealing with invasive people. He carried himself with dignity and she could only extend that to him in turn, making him as comfortable as he allowed her to.

Marcéi opened her tablet, settling in with the occasional glance his way to be sure she wasn’t imagining things.

—

It felt like only moments had passed between him falling asleep and the door opening with a grating slide as the lights blazed to life.

The Mandalorian leapt to his feet immediately, gun drawn as Marcéi startled from the couch. The Zabrak guard from the hallway muscled in with two blasters in hand, looking wildly around the room. Before she even saw him move the Mandalorian was in front of her, growling “Stay back,” and pushing her behind himself with one arm blocking her from view, squaring his stance and taking aim at the guard—

The Zabrak charged into the room with a snarl. Marcéi looked wildly between them and raised her voice in a desperate bid to halt any gunfire.

“SEKOTZA!”

Eyes wide, the Zabrak faltered, locking in on her position behind the Mandalorian.

“Stop.”

Marcéi ducked under the Mandalorian’s arm, putting a hand on his breastplate and stepping between them, the other hand raised to the guard. The Mandalorian was still beneath her palm. “Sekotza. Do not make me repeat myself.”

The guard deflated immediately, both guns lowering as she stared him down with a look that commanded his attention.

“What— What are you doing—?”

“I’m working, imbécile,” she said with a scowl. “Get out.”

“But—”

“I said I am working.” Marcéi stepped forward and pushed him back, blocking his scope on the Mandalorian, whose blaster remained exactly where it was. “Do you need a map?” Marcéi demanded. “I said get. OUT.”

The bulky security guy wavered. “But he’s- he’s not— It was too quiet, I thought—”

Marcéi crowded him back towards the door, her stature unintimidating from the Mandalorian’s perspective but evidently enough to cow the Zabrak into stumbling back several feet as she blocked his way, jabbing a finger sharply into the middle of his chest. “I don’t want to know what you thought. He is not causing any trouble. I did not call for you. Go take a long drop off a short ledge,” she seethed quietly. “And do not intrude on us again.”

“I’ve heard of their kind,” Sekotza snarled. “I saw him when he came in—”

“Listen here and you listen good.” Marcéi drew up to her full height and braced one arm on the doorway. “If you override my lock again I will peel your tattoos off your hide myself. Out.”

Marcéi gave him another sharp shove, forcing him and his baffled expression out the door and into the hall. The door slid shut with a soft hiss on a cushion of air and the woman looked back to the Mandalorian with a sigh as he lowered his gun. He didn’t say a word as she re-keyed the lock on her door.

“I’m incredibly sorry,” she said, distressed. “He shouldn’t have been able to barge in. I’m sorry your sleep was compromised, it was entirely uncalled for.”

Mando shoved his blaster back in place and wordlessly stalked back to the bed. Marcéi followed, feeling as though she should say something more but not knowing how to assess his temperament.

“I really am sorry for the disturbance,” she said again, wringing her hands. “I’ll ensure the next shift is informed. We don’t… It’s rare for people to stay longer than an hour or two.”

Mando gave her a short nod over his shoulder, cautiously sitting back on the bed. He rubbed the back of his neck and tried unsuccessfully to pop it. The strain of jolting awake that tense had left it stiff. It was an unpleasant combination with the dying adrenaline buzzing beneath his skin, to say nothing of his sour mood.

He could feel her eyes on him as he rolled his shoulders and laid back down, waiting as she dimmed the lights. By his chrono he figured he could at least get the last three hours in. He didn’t think she’d allow a second interruption.

He was almost settled enough to relax when she spoke.

“Thank you, for thinking to defend me,” she said. “It was… considerate.”

Din nodded, acknowledging her. He’d barely thought of it.

“… You sure there isn’t anything I can do for you, honey?” Marcéi asked quietly. “I could give you a massage. Strictly in fine fettle. Work some of those knots out of your back if you like, you’d probably sleep better.”

Din wondered if the practice was actually as relieving as it was purported to be, but the thought of someone’s hands on his exposed back, uncomfortably situated as he’d be, made his skin crawl just thinking about it. Marcéi was nice enough, he knew she was giving him options because it was her line of work, but though he trusted her enough to allow himself to sleep while she was in the room and trusted that she’d keep her distance because he’d asked her to, he didn’t think he’d be ever able to give a stranger that level of vulnerability without breaking out into hives.

“No,” Mando said. He folded his arms back over his chest, and as an afterthought added, “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

The sky outside was dark, the streets gold with lanterns that illuminated the thoroughfare, visible even from a distance. If he focused hard enough he could ignore the hum of activity, dwelling instead on the spacious bed and how it felt to stretch out and rest. The scent of clean laundry filtered almost faintly through the mask, and he could hear his hostess tapping her tablet intermittently in the dark.

He could also sense her curiosity from across the room. He knew what it felt like to be watched.

“… Can I ask a question?” Marcéi said softly.

Din mulled over the request. He’d stayed still enough in the few minutes that had passed between their conversation that he could probably get away with feigning sleep. She’d probably go back to reading her datapad and leave him be.

But she had been more accommodating than most. And her voice was nice.

“… Sure.”

“If being a Mandalorian means people are kept at arm’s length, how do you form families?” she asked. “Do you only pair with other Mandalorians?”

It was more tactfully put than others had said it in the past. Most outsiders treated them as a curiosity to mock or spin what information they could weasel out of them into lascivious exaggerations for their own entertainment. It was why it was better to simply not answer. Genuine curiosity was rare, and rarer still, he’d found, from those of her trade.

“… Bonds with outsiders aren’t forbidden,” he said finally. Her reflective eyes flickered in the dark. “Partners of most cultures are welcome. They’re difficult to find though, since our lives have certain demands.” Din shifted uncomfortably. “Most of the outsiders who seek us out only do it to say they’ve had us.”

Something about that made Marcéi’s nerves stand on edge, a solid weight dropping into the pit of her stomach. It sounded brittle and resigned, like she’d inadvertently brought something to the forefront he didn’t want to remember.

“I’m sorry,” she said, genuinely apologetic. “Having to stay on guard is a hard way to live.”

Both of them were quiet, mulling over their own thoughts. The hum of nightlife beyond the brothel could be heard from the street, a muffled chorus of music and talk amidst the sounds of the city. The mixing of voices stood as a reminder of who and where they were. Marcéi watched him, the dichotomy of a man clearly capable of meting out violence at a moment’s notice at odds with his calm voice and the clear effort to put her at ease despite his trappings.

“Could I ask something else?”

“Sure.”

Marcéi weighed her next words carefully. “What does it take to find a match?”

“… Trust,” he said. “And time.”

“Love at first sight must not be a common experience, then?”

Din snorted. “You can’t love somebody you don’t trust. You can’t trust somebody you don’t know.”

“Some people do,” she shrugged. “Sometimes it’s just a connection.”

“So I’ve heard.”

She thought about it, wondering for a moment. “Do you have anyone, back home…? Someone who has that trust?”

Din shook his head. “Vulnerability is risky. People want us picked apart for one reason or another. It’s easier to just keep our distance.”

Marcéi seemed pained by that thought, if her expression was anything to go by. “I’m sorry you haven’t been afforded that companionship. You… You seem like someone who’s worth the time it would take to get there.”

Something about her tone struck him, an odd sensation making it hard for him to swallow. It took him a moment to find an acceptable response.

The Mandalorian turned over, facing away from her on his side. It was a long time before he spoke.

“Can’t miss what you’ve never had.”

Mando’a

kar’taylir: to know (lit. “to hold in the heart”)

kar'taylir darasuum: to love (lit. “to hold in the heart forever”)

Notes

20. Has a secret admirer?

Would it be a cop-out if I said Elana😭😌

Elana has had her fair share of dates before, but has never been in a long committed relationship (on account of losing her entire planet and everyone she knew at the age of 16/17, and the fact that she pined after Silun (elegant socialite from Alderaan, she was on the same transport as Elana and stood next to her as the news for Alderaan played, and they became good friends afterwards) for so long. So while she does know when people are attracted to her, she doesn't quite KNOW which attraction is superficial and which is actual interest. She's really pretty but also knows from her past experiences that most people are interested in her looks at most, and she's a rather closed off due to that.

This means she doesn't really realise if she has a secret admirer, even when said admirer is around her 24/7 :(

Unfortunately for her Din is even worse than her in that regard, so we will have another 100k of slow burn with those idiots😌

25. Is the best person to share a bed with?

I'd say A-Ting! She is also from Alderaan and befriended Elana on Coruscant, and she's the epitome of sweetness. She has a huge passion for makeup and experimental, ethereal looks, and is a very gentle soul that makes genuine friends wherever she goes. She's soft-spoken and giggly, and when she sleeps she is like a curled up cat, not moving at all, not snoring, simply snuggled up in her covers and passed out like a stone. She's the best case scenario for a sharing a bed at a spontaneous sleepover, because you know that you'll basically sleep as if on your own, and not be disturbed in any case.

42. Has achieved revenge?

I don't think I have any OCs I posted about before that have done this specifically, but I do have one for a character in a story that I'm planning to (hopefully) turn into a novel!

Call Sign Cast

Mayday | Veetch

Hollis | Nocturne

Barak | Hexx

Djao | Crash

Rizel

Rizel’s older brother (yet unnamed). Doesn’t appear “onscreen” in the story but he’s there in places.

Potentially Rizel’s older sister (potentially her brother’s twin, also unnamed)