believe in what's unknown

After the slaying of a Harpy flock, the village you rode into just days ago is ripe with excitement. The tavern is full of who you assumed to be everyone in the village and their families, with a crowd spilling into the narrow dirt path outside. Ale flows plentifully, brought in by the barrel when word of the Witcher’s success first broke. 

In spite of it being a celebration of his aptitude for monster slaying, Geralt was unsurprisingly difficult to persuade into attending. Jaskier and yourself had spent well over an hour goading him, threatening a journey full of off-key singing and never-ending harassment if he didn’t. You'd like to think his affection for you has some bearing on his decision, but chances are he's far more concerned about being pestered for the foreseeable future. 

So along you go- The Witcher, his lover, and his bard. 

And no, the setup for a bad joke isn’t lost on you when your odd trio trots into the tavern. Though, jokes aside, the celebration is lively and cheerful. Jaskier finds himself herded to the front of the crowd, playing along with other local musicians. The tunes are upbeat and fast, and an impressive amount of townsfolk dance along. 

As usual, Geralt remains in a shadowed corner. His mug is half-full of ale and his lips stay pursed. He speaks softly to villagers as they stop to thank him and waves off frequent offers of livestock as additional payment. You kept him company for some time, but eventually let Jaskier drag you into the crowd for a sorry attempt at dancing. Needless to say, it lasts mere moments before you retreat to a table full of gossiping women who are unafraid to bat away the bard’s hands when he begins the hunt for a new dance partner. 

It grows late when you wander back to Geralt’s side and drop into the booth beside him. Your vision is bordered by a golden haze and warmth radiates from your ale-filled belly. Contentedness flourishes deep in your chest, and you’re determined to savor the rare taste of it. 

“You’re happy.” Geralt remarks. He lowers the mug and swipes foam from his upper lip. 

“Quite.” You drop your head onto his shoulder. “And quite tired, if I’m being honest.”

Quick to take note of your needs, Geralt squeezes your knee. 

“We don’t have to wait for the bard,” He rumbles, “he can find his own way back to the inn.”

The idea is tempting; Geralt’s warm body combined with a soft mattress beneath you sounds like heaven after a long couple of days. You nudge the toe of your boot into the floor as you debate it, pausing as the roar of the party quiets and everyone looks to the stage. 

Jaskier makes his way up the steps, lute in hand and quirky grin plastered on his face. He winks in Geralt’s direction, eliciting a groan from the Witcher. 

“Good ev- yes, yes, quiet down- Good evening, friends.” Jaskier is obviously in his glory with the audience trained on him. “I just wanted to give my friend, your saviour, a proper send off from this lovely celebration.”

You giggle at the exasperation that settles itself onto Geralt’s face. 

“I’d like to play a little tune for all of you, one that you may have heard already.”

Jaskier wastes no time plucking away at the opening notes to a familiar song. 

“When a humble bard

Graced a ride along

With Geralt of Rivia

Along came this… song”

You can’t help the smile that splits your face. Geralt may hate the tune, but you are a fan. 

“...And so cried the Witcher...”

The tavern breaks out into song alongside Jaskier. You cackle as Geralt drains the remainder of his mug. He gently grasps your hand and pulls, maneuvering towards the door. 

“He thrust every elf, far back on the shelf…”

“Oh, don’t be a sourpuss, Geralt.”

You dig in your heels, knowing full well that he would continue to drag you if he pleased. The Witcher’s golden eyes sweep over you, pleading for escape in the most comical way possible.

Villagers swarm, and you spot Jaskier picking his way through throngs of bodies to get to you. He’s still singing, strumming the lute and keeping pace with the chaos. Geralt seems to resign himself to his fate, leaning back against the doorframe. You push onto your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Through all of his hunts for monsters and mayhem, he’s never looked as nervous as he does now.

“I love you.” You chirp as a preemptive apology, taking a step in the bard’s direction. “And this song.”

“That’s my epic tale, our champion prevailed….”

“It’s not a great song.” Geralt quips as Jaskier thrusts a mug of ale into the Witcher’s bear paw of a hand. 

“Defeated the villain, now pour him some ale!”

Jaskier keeps the same hand free of his lute as the other string players pick up the beat. He reaches out to take yours, voice rising in volume for the crescendo of the song. 

“I thought you were tired?” Geralt tries as a last-ditch effort to keep you at his side, but slides down into the closest chair when you elect to go with Jaskier. One big hand scrubs down his face, apparently from embarrassment and vexation with his cohort. You swear there’s a tinge of red on his cheeks.

“Toss a coin to your Witcher, Oh Valley of Plenty.” You join in with Jaskier and the villagers, singing loudly.  “Oh Valley of Plenty, Oh…”

Jaskier twirls you around, forcing your feet into a sloppy jig that you’re sure would be much easier if he wasn’t just as inebriated as you. Geralt’s eyes never leave your spinning form, begging you to spare him from this public torture. 

As the final verse approaches, you break apart from the bard. Your hands find Geralt’s shoulders, surprise painting your face when he swings you in a lazy circle.

“Geralt, are you…. Dancing?” 

It only lasts a moment before his hands slip down from the small of your back, one hooking your opposite hip and giving a firm tug towards the door. Jaskier is out of sight, sucked back into the herd, though his distinct voice stands out amongst the chorus. 

“Only to get you to the door.” The Witcher murmurs, close enough to your ear to make you shiver. 

A chilly night breeze caresses your skin as he herds you out the door. You stumble on a loose stone, though Geralt’s quick hand captures your upper arm before you can go far. A drunken laugh slips out of your mouth as he playfully pushes you up against the tavern wall. Applause erupts from inside as the song closes out with a familiar flourish.

“I can’t believe you wouldn’t even stay for the song written for you.” You admonish him even as he nuzzles his nose into your hairline. His breath smells of ale, and his feline eyes sweep over your face. “The champion of the village, as I heard the barkeep say.”

“Hm…” Geralt hums and presses his lips to yours. “I don’t want to be the village’s champion, I only wish to be yours.”

Your cheeks flush at his words, but you lean up to continue the kiss anyway. One of his hands anchors itself to the wall beside your head, and the other cups your cheek. Long fingers brush your ear and the sensitive skin of your neck while his tongue traced your bottom lip. You moan against his mouth and stand on your toes to kiss him properly . One hand slides beneath his tunic, massaging warm skin and taut muscles. 

“They would disappear while I’m trying to - oh, for Melitele’s sake!” 

You startle against the Witcher, head whipping to the side to find Jaskier with one hand covering his eyes. Geralt, usually so attuned to his surroundings, merely grunts his disapproval at the interruption. 

“Do you two ever stop? Or just wait until you get to the inn?” Jaskier’s hand falls away, and he gestures inarticulately at a few passing villagers as they exited the tavern as if they had any idea what he was on about. “They do this all the time!”

Geralt’s chest rumbles with agitation, the heat of his body still pressed close. Even with such dear friends, he always exudes dominance.  “Have you ever considered that maybe you just interrupt all the time?”

“Oh, well pardon me for just existing,” Jaskier’s voice is all drunken exasperation, and you withhold a giggle. “How I manage to keep my escapades private while you both flaunt it about is beyond me.”

You scoff halfheartedly at your companion. “Jaskier, I’ve accidentally seen you in compromising positions more times than I care to count. With various…conquests. You have no room to talk.”

He opens his mouth to retort before Geralt cuts him off with a single look. “Back to the inn it is, then.”

Once again, his hand cups your hip to pull you along. Torches guide the way, and Jaskier has no choice but to follow since you are all headed in the same direction. He mumbles his thoughts to no one but himself, fiddling around with his lute and bowing dramatically to the passing villagers who compliment his performance. 

“At least someone appreciates it.” 

So you laugh and poke fun at each other while trekking across town to the inn, tucked into the Witcher’s side. Eventually you join in with the bard’s antics and all is right in the world. You walk arm and arm to placate Jaskier, teasing him about his long list of female partners as Geralt walks behind you both as a silent sentry. A few paces away from your destination, discarded on the dirt pathway, you notice a lost gold coin lying near a flowerbed. Jaskier obliges your pause, dipping down as you bend to grab it. Mischief runs through your veins and mingles with the alcohol.

“Hey, Geralt.” You turn to the Witcher and use your thumb to flick the coin to him. “Found something for you.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth. “Toss a coin-”

“Absolutely not.” The Witcher grits, though he still tucks the coin away. “I’ve had just about enough of bards and song tonight.”

Geralt steals you away from Jaskier, making a beeline to the inn. All of his grumpiness is purely a front, made clear by his request to the innkeep to have a hot bath and a meal ready for both your shared room and Jaskier’s. As soon as you make it behind a closed door, his lips set out to memorize every hill and valley of your body. Rough but attentive, Geralt’s hands grope your sides, and you moan his name when lips trail down your chest and looped back up.

“Maybe I should toss a coin to my Witcher more often.” You tease against his mouth, lips curling up in a coy smirk. 

Geralt pauses only a moment before nipping at your bottom lip, hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to draw blood. Pleasure simmers in your chest when he soothes the pain away with his tongue.

“You watch your mouth.”

Between labored breaths, with a hand tangled in locks of bone-white hair, you manage a response. 

“I don’t think I will.”

--

Thanks for reading, much love ♥

For the third night in a row, she sought the darkest corners of the forest they’d made camp in. She walked for what seemed like eons in search of solitude, away from aimless bickering and dull thumps of weapons on practice dummies. 

Shaking off the normal distractions, Shadowheart wandered into a quiet portion of woods complete with a fallen tree which made for a perfect spot to rest. A creek babbled somewhere in the background. Shadowheart breathed in deep and focused, opening the channel between herself and the loving emptiness of Shar to search for direction. 

“Mother of Night, darken my step as I walk among the light. Hear my prayer…”

She was barely into her prayers when a muffled crash interrupted her. Irritation bubbled at being severed from her daily worship, though it was quickly squashed by a spark of concern. 

Had a rogue group of goblins set out for an ambush?

Or had Selunites come to stop her from completing her mission?

Shadowheart pulled a dagger out on pure instinct, stepping in the direction of what seemed to be a continuing commotion. Footfalls thumped against the mossy forest floor in an uncoordinated rhythm, along with what sounded like the soft swish of chainmail. Her fear of an attack grew with every step, and muttered a quiet incantation for dancing lights to illuminate what was to come. When it grew loud enough to pinpoint exactly what thicket concealed them, Shadowheart lunged through the brush with vicious intent. 

“Show yourselves!”

Perhaps the outburst was unnecessary on her part, betraying her position too soon. Shadowheart’s wrist was quickly snagged by a grip too strong to be a normal humanoid. Dexterous fingers squeezed tight onto her pressure points, and her dagger fell from numb hands. She flailed, left hand rising and chants spilling from her mouth to cast a Firebolt cantrip. Licking flames from the last ditch effort reflected suddenly in orbs of gleaming crimson.  

She was late to recognize the familiar face, and her ball of fire shot past a head of silvery curls. Long, pointed ears twitched away from the heat and then pinned to their owner’s head in irritation. Shadowheart balked at the scowl sent her way, face-to-face with bone white fangs and Elvish swears.

“Astarion?!” Shadowheart yanked her wrist from his hand and knelt for her dagger. She quickly noticed the boots a few feet behind him and straightened up with the weapon in hand. Craned her head to see over Astarion’s shoulder. “Tav?! What are you two doing out here?” 

The former stood ramrod straight, a stark comparison to the disheveled Elven chainmail he wore, currently missing a pauldron, and the disastrous mop of pale hair atop his head. Upon squinting, Shadowheart was almost certain she could make out a smear of red at the corner of his mouth. Tav looked equally as disheveled, their armor- why were these two dolts still in their armors?- askew and a few too many clasps undone down the front. 

Suddenly, their tendency to pair off and explore Faerun together made all the sense in the world.

“Shadowheart!” Tav rushed to Astarion’s side, cheeks flushed pink and a trickle of blood running down their exposed collarbone. “W-What’re you doing out this late? I thought you were, uh, back at camp?”

“I was going to attempt a prayer, but I see that won’t be happening.” Shadowheart tracked the drop of blood and narrowed her eyes. “The whole forest may as well be contaminated with the two of you frolicking about in it.”

Tav may have been their unspoken leader, but they couldn’t lie worth a damn. 

“We weren’t frolicking, I was, uh-” Tav swallowed and swiped at the liquid now running down their chest. “Trying to make sure Astarion was prepared to face the hag tomor-”

Shadowheart stopped Tav with a single hand, palm facing the rumpled couple. “Please don’t. No further explanation required. I’ll find a less… tainted place to say my prayers.”

At that, Astarion’s face split into a devious smirk. Shadowheart was sure a similar look had been used to lure in all shapes and sizes of victims over the years, honey soaked and oh-so-sweet to look at.

 “Good luck with that, darling. These forests have been key to our… preparations.”

Shadowheart’s nose wrinkled in disgust. Tav halfheartedly slapped the vampire’s arm. 

“Astarion.” Tav hissed his name as a teacher would a misbehaving pupil. 

The cleric simply spun on her heel, pointed in any direction except back towards her two campmates. Shadowheart contemplated finding a new place to worship, but instead decided that a hunt for new, less disgusting companions was in order.

-

thanks for reading, much love 🖤

As winter closes in on the mountains, the sun slinks away earlier. In its absence, a dusky evening sky and crescent moon hang overhead. Kids and adults alike enjoy the excitement of sledding and snowman-building in the roadways. Calls of victory erupt from a young boy when he beats the rest in a sled race, and one ambitious dad has even saddled up a gelding to haul a sled behind. 

You’re not so keen on the snow-based activities, having grown up in the Arizona desert for most of your life before the outbreak. Ellie had begged and pleaded for you to join her and some of the other teenagers in a ‘who-can-build-the-biggest-snowman’ contest, but you opted instead for your seat near a bonfire with a few other adults all lacking interest in winter sports. It might have started as a makeshift fire pit in your yard, but has grown into an evening staple for the adults who enjoy slow nights and strong drinks.

Orange flames crackle up from a seemingly endless supply of logs, one of the men volunteering to go get more wood every time it’s needed. You sit curled up on the right side of a wooden bench, wool blanket wrapped around your shoulders and slippers on your feet. Opposite from you, the other side of the bench is vacant as it awaits Joel’s return from patrol. Tommy had walked by a few minutes ago and mentioned the group had returned, and you assume Joel is finishing up with putting away horse tack before joining. 

Joel, unsurprisingly, had taken a few weeks to warm up to the idea of sitting outside with a bunch of strangers. The first few days were tense and awkward, but he’s warmed up with your encouragement. Ellie also urged him on, even to the point where he’d bring out a guitar and strum it in the company of others besides her and yourself. If you know the tune well enough, Joel usually nudges your toe with his boot until you sing along. It’s a small semblance of normalcy in the strange world you live, for both your little family and the other residents 

These ‘moonlight serenades’, as they’ve been so kindly termed by Tommy, are a regular occurrence now. 

Tonight seems to be no exception.

“This seat taken?”

A smile splits across your face at the familiar drawl, and you look up at Joel fondly. He stands behind the bench, aforementioned guitar in one hand and a steaming mug in the other. You tilt your head curiously at the drink, prompting him to offer it  to you. Cinnamon and orange blend together as the vapor reaches your nose. 

“What’s this?” You take the mug, cold fingers magnetizing to the hot ceramic. “It smells amazing.”

“Mulled wine. Guess they’ve been brewin’ it for a while but just got the recipe right.” Joel groans as he sits on the bench, dressed in a blue button down and sheep-wool lined coat. His jeans are dirty and his boots caked in a mix of mud and snow. 

A chorus of greetings are offered to Joel, and he nods back at those he’s more familiar with. His warm brown eyes zero in on Ellie as she argues with their impromptu snowman judge, both of the man-made creatures towering over the kids. 

“She tried to get me to join.” You murmur, taking a sip of the hot spiced wine and stretching your legs so you can tuck your toes beneath Joel’s thigh. “Pretty certain they didn’t need any of my help though.” 

“I think they roped Tommy in.” Margaret, a wiry brunette whose son was also rallying around the judge says. “Not sure if that’s considered cheating or not.”

Everyone chuckles, conversations dying back down to murmurs between those who sat close. Joel spins the tuning pegs on his guitar, fingers plucking away at the strings. You imagine he’s flipping through his internal music catalog deciding what to play. He’d had a few old country songs added recently thanks to Ellie, who found a battered songbook one day on patrol.. She, at first, wrinkled her nose at the ‘70’s Country Hits’ title, but asked you later if you would help wrap it as a present for him. 

Needless to say, she hadn’t been able to wait until Christmas. 

“Joel!” Speaking of his adopted child, the girl comes trotting over from their competition, smile on her face. “We won, check it out.!”

Without a blink of hesitation, Joel follows her gaze to the snowman. You forget how much of a childhood Ellie’s missed out on, and smile at her enthusiasm. 

“You use Tommy to help you put the head on?” Joel asks, playful and accusatory. 

“There were no rules about adults helping put heads on.” Ellie bites back. She sits on the next bench over with another girl whose name slips your mind. 

Joel only hums, eyes narrowed in faux suspicion. He continues picking away at the instrument in his hands, eventually propping the bottom on his boot and squeezing your ankles fondly. 

“You have to play something, Joel.” Ellie speaks up when she thinks the instrument is going to get put away and most of the other adults have trickled off back to their houses. “Serenade us.” 

You bark a laugh. Tipping to the side lets you catch Ellie’s eye. 

“Maybe you should learn to play guitar, El. Then you can serenade wherever and whoever you want.”

Blush spreads like wildfire through her cheeks, and she looks to Joel with those eyes you’ve seen a thousand times. The eyes that he can’t say no to, ones he would run through hell and high water to see again. You scoot across the bench to make room when Ellie tries to cram herself between Joel and the far side of the bench. He leans into your space, and your heart thrums happily being in the presence of your little family. 

“What do you want to hear, darlin’?” Joel holds the guitar with one hand, arm nearest you wrapping your shoulders in a one-armed hug. His nose nudges your cheek fondly. 

“Oh, I don’t know.” You tap your fingers against your chin thoughtfully. “I suppose whatever Ellie wants to hear.”

This bickering continues, vying for different song choices until Joel ignores you both and starts strumming a familiar tune. Ellie smiles and moves back to her own bench so she can stretch out, lying on her back and facing the sky. You move so Joel can have full use of his arms, sitting cross legged and facing him. His deep voice never picks up the lyrics, just hums along until you start. 

“Delta Dawn, what's that flower you have on?

Could it be a faded rose from days gone by?”

Ellie’s hand swings back and forth to the tune, and you notice others milling about are creeping back towards the fire. In the apocalypse, live music is rare enough to draw a crowd regardless of the time of night. 

“All the folks around Brownsville say she's crazy

'Cause she walks downtown with her suitcase in her hand

Looking for a mysterious dark haired man”

By the time you get a couple bars into the bridge, the group you thought to be in bed has returned. Joel is still humming along, Ellie giggling alongside the same girl she’d built the snowman with, and you getting more shy as a group gathers. 

“And did I hear you say he was a-meetin' you here today

To take you to his mansion in the sky?”

You clear your throat nervously as the song ends, skin flushed red from both the wine and stage fright. Joel, ever calm, claps his hands despite his own part in the music. Others follow suit, and Ellie cheers your name happily. Snow still falls, peppering Joel’s gray-streaked hair with flakes of crystalline white. To mediate your nervousness, you brush it away and squeeze his shoulder. 

“Pretty good for an old man.” Tommy’s voice pulls your attention away from his older brother. 

Joel scowls at him. “Pretty good-lookin’ snowman for a ugly guy.”

The eldest sibling dodges a swing from Tommy, but they end  up laughing it off once Joel threatens him for teasing you. It’s clear that your audience is expecting another song, but Ellie’s non-stop yawning and the dark bags under Joel’s eyes indicate otherwise. You all stick around for a few jokes and a second round of mulled wine, until inky darkness chases away the purple haze of dusk and it nears ten o’clock. The snowfall grows thick, encouraging everyone back into the warmth of their own homes.

Ellie leads the way back to the house, while yourself and Joel linger behind. His arm slips around your waist, rubbing along your side to warm you up. It’s easy to let your head fall on his shoulder and soak up closeness. 

“D’you think you can do that again tomorrow?” Ellie asks on the porch. “Sing by the fire, I mean? I want Dina to hear the song you played in the kitchen the other night.”

Your eyes meet Joel’s, and Ellie doesn’t even have to think about utilizing hers. He shepherds you both into the home, muttering his agreement. She disappears right after, no doubt off to bed, and Joel tugs you in a circle to press a firm kiss against your mouth. 

“What do you think, sweetheart?” He breathes the question into your mouth, tasting like mint and mulled wine. “Will you serenade an old man and his guitar again tomorrow?”

You’re drunk on his kisses- and maybe a little too much alcohol- and scratch your nails along his nape. He kisses you again,  all the chill from being outside in the winter vanishing in a split-second. 

“I think I can make that happen.” You grin as he pulls you to the stairs. “Old men with guitars happen to be my favorite.”

-

“Why’d you ask about the kid?” 

Zakia waits until they are outside of the bazaar walls and almost to the Crest before she brings it up. They both carry supplies to replenish from the Jawa assault, a nice distraction since the question had come from Din inside the tavern. 

“Curious as to why there’s so much fuss, that’s all.” 

Zakia relents with the answer, instead choosing to watch him tap on his new vambrace. The Mandalorian must’ve been back to the ship already since his gear is synced up. He releases the hydraulics for the hatch with just a few taps. 

“I see.” Zakia hums, teetering up the ramp. She lets Din take the boxes from her, eyes dancing over the unfamiliar silver armor. “And you’ve had an eventful day.”

His helmet oscillates downward, taking in the new adornments. “I visited the covert. My armor was compromised.”

Zakia taps one black-lacquered nail against his chest plate. She lets the heat from earlier rush back to her head, voice dropping. “It looks good.”

“That so?” Zakia quickly takes note of the distance in his voice. It hides behind husky suggestions for things she’d rather save for when they’re both of sound mind.

Her Mandalorian is somewhere far away from the present. She chooses to gently run her nails beneath the fabric of his cowl rather than tap them suggestively against his chest as she had moments before. 

One hand floats up from his side to rest on her hip bone.

“Are you alright?”

“Just ready to get out of here.” He bumps his helmet into the side of her head. “I’m gonna get us into hyperspace. Why don’t you unpack and I’ll be down soon?”

Zakia can’t say that she’s opposed to the idea of leaving town as soon as possible. Karga had been left with the promise that they’d return in a couple weeks for a new set of pucks, and he happily encouraged their leave. She didn’t follow through on his wisdom about buying a camtono of spice, and opted for rations instead. 

Rations which make up the contents of the crates they just lugged back, and now fill the floor she organized upon landing. Zakia voices her agreement with Din, and starts slotting away supplies as he vaults himself up the ladder and into the cockpit. She worries as he goes, but tells herself they’re only a hyperspace jump away from a break. 

Above, the pilot’s chair is warm from the faint sun and welcoming to Din’s body. He settles into the familiar spot and begins his normal start-up. Engines and computer modules first, then a quick pre-flight assessment. Practiced movements have the sequences completed in less than a minute. The acceleration lever begs to be pulled, but Din can only stare at it.

The sphere used as a finger hold is still set aside, and his hand hovers above uselessly. Thoughts of their infant bounty removing it surface violently, and Din forces bile back down his throat. That memory clashes with another of his two Mandalorian rescuers the day his planet was plundered and his parents killed

Din chokes on his own breath and has to kick his chair release to get away from the controls. Tries to tell himself the new armor is heavier and he’s just adjusting.

But stars, he’s never felt so claustrophobic in his own helmet. Din’s right hand grips the top of his chestplate.

‘Foundlings are the Future’ 

Two saviors giving him a life after his young one is destroyed, utter those words on a loop in his mind. They clash with the recollection of his recent exchange with the Client, and Din’s psyche is poisoned by betrayal. 

HE was a Foundling. The Child was an enemy. 

A job. 

But was he an enemy of theirs?

Din’s boots push the chair back to its original position, hands knocking the controls back into standby position and eventually turning them off altogether. He runs a diagnostic with the new tech in his helmet and makes sure his munitions are full. 

And Din drops down the ladder, where he comes face-to-face with Zakia. 

She’s coming around the corner from the galley with a rag in her hands when he lands, her features twisted into confusion. 

“Is something wrong? I heard the power shut off.” 

The Mandalorian considers lying to her. 

In just a few short days, they relived many of their worst moments togethers, and it’s that thought that prompts Din to swallow his desire to keep her safe and spit out the truth. He stops at the hatch controls with a heavy exhale. Turns to his partner who he’s gone through years of bloodshed and violence with.

“I’m going to get him.” 

Zakia’s single good eye hardens. Her head tips to the side and puffy braids fall over her shoulders. Din assumes she’s going to object, given her eagerness to leave right away. 

“I’m coming.” Her blasters are secured back into their holsters as she speaks. 

If she could see his face, she would be watching his mouth open and close like a fish out of water. The woman before him continues to grab ammo from their armory. 

This woman, he reminds himself, carried his own child. She’s the same woman who had his back, healed him, and stayed with him over every hill and through every valley. Who was destroyed when their child was lost. And now, is willing to run back into the maw of evil because another child is on the line. 

“You’re… Are you okay?”  

Familiar with her Mandalorian’s preference for action rather than words, Zakia is normally unphased when his sentences are short. Right now, while she tries to keep mounting adrenaline at a reasonable level, she thinks he might be heatstroking under the helmet. His words are slow. Unsure.

“No.” Zakia yanks her long jacket on and positions the hood.  “But I know how to make it right.” 

“Good.” Din suddenly starts moving again. He crosses the hull and pulls a long case out of the netting, one Zakia quickly notes is new. “But first… I want you to open this.”

At his side, Zakia flips the latches on the case. The lid is heavier than she expects and falls open with a clang. “Din, this is-”

“Yours.” His fingers trail across the gift. “I had it commissioned for you. It’s Mandalorian-made.”

Inside, a rifle greets her. Sleek and black, with the same forked tip as Din’s Amban. It’s not a disruptor rifle though- the barrel’s too small and the scope too big. It’s also offset, adjusted over to the left side of the barrel. Even the stock is customized, with a padded shoulder and adjustable bolts. She’s never seen anything like it on the regular market. 

“I don’t know what to say…” Zakia flounders at his helmet. “Your Armorer made this for me?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” Zakia picks up the gun, surprised at how lightweight it is. Underneath she finds a strap that isn’t attached by the standard bolts. 

Din gives her a crash course on the sling while they go over a plan. His sure hands tighten the strap beneath her coat, and he explains the complex magnetizing system that allows her to pull it on and off her back quickly. Zakia experiments with the switch built onto the front while Din stocks up on blast charges, appreciative that she doesn’t have to fight with pulling a strap over her head to get set up.

When they’re both prepared, Zakia raises a hand and braces it on his helmet. Her fingers swipe a speck of dust off the visor, stroking up and down the cold surface as if she was dedicating it to memory. “Let’s go get that kid back.”

Not able to withstand the urge, Din crowds her back against the ladder. Places a hand over her eyes. 

“Close.” 

Zakia does so without question, leaving Din two free hands to remove his helmet. He tucks the Beskar beneath his arm and cups her cheek, carefully tracing the outline of her lip with the pad of his thumb. When a smile tugs the corners of her mouth, Din crushes his lips to hers like it’ll keep them alive on the hair-brained scheme they’re about to execute. He tries to convey everything he’s been feeling through the kiss but gets distracted when her fingers run through his hair. 

Din replaces his helmet after smoothing down said birds’ nest, and Zakia waits until she hears the armor latch in place to open her eyes. Din’s hand lingers on her face. 

“This is the Way.”

-

 In a dumpster just off the main drag, they locate the Child’s bassinet. 

Zakia and Mando exchange a glance. It’s clear nothing sinister has happened, at least on the inside. There's no blood, no sign of a struggle. They keep moving until Din finds a rooftop he deems suitable, halfway to the Imperial’s hiding place. They both slink across on their bellies, elbows propping them up onto the edge. Mando pulls the Amban rifle from his shoulder and turns on the noise detection, pointing the duel-ended weapon towards their target building. 

“What are they saying?” Zakia whispers. Her shoulders bump into his pauldrons due to the close proximity.

“Something about working quickly. They can’t guarantee their people’s safety.” Din mutters, slow and echoey while he repeats it to her. 

They drop back into an alley from the rooftop. Din leads the way until they’re next door, tucked into another crevice between the buildings.

“I’m going in. There are Stormtroopers who have blasters, and you don’t have armor for a full on assault.” Din starts, “You keep watch outside. If someone that’s not me comes out, kill them. Just make sure no one is around to see.”

Zakia nods her understanding and motions for him to go on. He shows her to a dark steel door, lone porthole made for a droid to look out on the right side. Din knocks on the door with a closed fist, and both hunters crowd together in their hiding spot. The orbital unit for the droid appears in short order, and Zakia lashes out to strike it with Din’s vibroknife.

“Once I’m out, there will be Stormtroopers everywhere.” . 

Zakia raps her knuckles on his helmet. “The com unit I gave you is still synced to your helmet. Call me if there’s a problem.” 

They part ways, taking off in either direction away from the door. Zakia crams herself into a small space around the building’s corner, knife waiting in her right hand and new rifle a comforting presence on her back. She hears footsteps moving in her direction, and flattens herself against the wall. 

“Clear by the entrance. Taking the corner now.”

Cheap, crackly modulators installed in Stormtrooper helmets are a blatant giveaway that they’re the enemy, and Zakia breaths in deeply. She spots the white armor round the corner, and stays in the shadows until he makes it far enough from the street that her ambush won’t be noticed.

Zakia surveys the white plasticky armor, deciding there was more vulnerability in the front than on the back. She clicks her tongue against her teeth to catch his attention, and the trooper spins around into her waiting hands. The mercenary is quick to slide the knife between the armor on his neck, effectively silencing him as he drops dead. She withdraws the weapon just as precisely, wiping the blade clean on the trooper’s undershirt. 

After she locates and terminates the second trooper, Zakia continues her track around the corner. She found a hole blown into the wall and presumes one of Mando’s charges had been responsible for that. Blaster fire ricochets around inside, and Zakia squints. Too much plaster dust pollutes the air to make anything out clearly, but she does see two troopers lying on the ground inside. More footsteps move rapidly towards her position.

“Shit.” She jogs into the opposite alleyway from before, back against a dumpster so she can peer out.

“Here’s the entrypoint.” 

Zakia watches a trio of the white-clad soldiers inspect the hole in the wall from her shadowy position.

“Thermal indicated two invaders.”

Since when did run of the mill stormtroopers have thermal detection in their  helmets? 

Zakia briefly entertains the thought that they might share a pair of binocs, but after the reward they issued Din for the Child, she figures they aren’t ordinary guards. 

“It did. Let me switch over.”

Cutting her losses, Zakia leaps from her nook and fires three shots from her new rifle. Two land on their mark, but a third ricochets off the wall somewhere. She ducks behind the dumpster as the remaining trooper opens fire. 

The Trooper closes in, and Zakia drops to the ground when greeted with more gunfire. She reattaches the new rifle to its magnetic sling just as he lunges for her. Clunky armor slows him down, but Zakia’s smaller frame puts her at an immediate disadvantage. 

“Stand down!”

Zakia gets her arms up and around her assailant’s neck when he tackles her at the waist. One of her hands makes it under the edge of his helmet, and she claws at his skin with sharp nails. Cuffs appear from somewhere on his belt, and he gets her right wrist locked up before reaching for her left.

“Stop resisting!”  He shouts at her, making a crucial mistake when he stands from her body to try and flip her over. 

“Fuck off!” Zakia spits back, pulling her knee back to her chest and launching her boot into the trooper’s groin. Despite the fact they wore armor, it’s not always effective, and her boot lands mostly behind the cup. 

“Ha. Gotcha.” Zakia mocks. Feet back beneath her, Zakia dodges a swipe from him, turns and kicks his right knee in from behind. When he drops to her level, she loops her free hand through the unoccupied side of the cuffs, dropping the whole set around his helmet until the chain is against a vulnerable section of throat. Zakia tightens her arms, holding there until he stops moving. She lets him clatter to the ground, checking her cuffed wrist for injuries and tugging at the meta.

The com unit stuck inside her hood chimes obnoxiously in her ear, and Din’s voice fills her senses

“How do I know I can trust you?” He’s yelling to someone, and Zakia stops in her tracks.

“Mando?” She asks, hand pressing against her other ear to muffle outside sound. “Where are you?” 

His next words are quiet, soft enough to avoid his modulator’s reach. 

“Just inside the gate. They have me surrounded.”

“Who?” Zakia demands.

“The Guild. I’m gonna talk quickly, pay attention.” She can hear him trying to contain heavy breathing. “Get the high ground and pick as many of them off as you can. I’ll give you a go signal when it’s time.”

“I’m going up now from the hideout.”

Zakia hoists herself onto the rim of the dumpster and hauls her body to the rooftop above it. From her vantage point, she can see the gate on the horizon and runs that way. She crosses from building to building until the arch above the bazaar’s entrance grows larger and she can see down into the street. She spots Mando’s gleaming armor near an idle speeder, the Child swaddled in blankets and resting in the crook of his arm. He’s surrounded by Guild hunters, led at the front by Greef Karga. A pang of anger strikes Zakia at the man’s actions, but she can’t count herself as surprised. Bounty hunters aren’t loyal. They go for the highest bid, not the highest moral ground.

Zakia stalks forwards on knees and elbows to the edge of the building, half a block away from the standoff. There’s an old water tank support beside her draped in waterproof canvas, and she hides herself between the bars and gets situated for a shootout halfway behind the canvas. She pulls the rifle from her back and tucks it into the crook of her left shoulder, eyes naturally ducking into the scope. 

“I’m in place, Din. Under the water tank, directly behind you.”

A click of static comes in place of a response, indicating he heard. Zakia faintly makes out Karga’s voice in the distance, and syncs the rifle to her com. She turned on the noise detection feature, but the conversation fades. Mando’s body slowly turns to face the speeder, and his whispered voice rings into her ears. 

“When I move.”

Zakia places her crosshairs on the bounty hunter nearest Din. “I’ve got you.”

Gunfire puts any ongoing negotiations to an end. Din drops the Child as gently as possible into the speeder and swivels to shoot a nearby hunter. Zakia pulls the trigger on her target, a satisfied smirk crossing her face as the man drops. The Mandalorian jumps in the speeder, lying on his back so the Beskar faces up. Zakia quickly readjusts her aim and moves to the next open target. She sees Mando encourage the speeder’s droid pilot into moving via blaster, and the vehicle takes off. 

Din shoots enemies along his path as well, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. Luckily, enough chaos fills the streets that Zakia’s shots blend into all the others and no one takes note. The sniper turns her sights sharply to the left, searching for any imminent threats. She sweeps by a few reloading and pops off a few shots in their direction. It’s not until she spots a familiar form between two buildings farther down that she halts.  

Greef Karga. 

His blasters are aimed at the droid on the speeder Mando has commandeered. Zakia growls as he tucks himself into the alley a few inches further, preventing her from getting a proper shot off. Sliding her tongue over her teeth, Zakia lines up her best possible shot and pulls the trigger. 

She sees Karga’s blaster fire just as she does, and the weapon flies from his hand. Much to her dismay, Zakia’s shot is half a second too slow and the droid is defunct in a shower of sparks. She still laughs at Karga when he yanks his injured hand back though, being sure to keep the rifle still. 

“Gotcha, bastard.” 

Karga searches desperately for the source of the shot, though Zakia doesn’t let herself tempt fate for satisfaction and stays behind cover. Her mind briefly considers the fact that he will most likely turn her name into the Imperials after their last conversation, so she’s momentarily glad that her current actions are solidifying her own bounty. Din and her will be wanted for having the Child, and she is fairly sure its value far outweighs that of a single sniper. 

Zakia breathes in and out slowly, eyes searching for another target. Mando is pinned, and the cacophony of blaster fire has ceased. He needs a distraction, and he needs it fast. She points in the direction of a hunter creeping towards the speeder, and exhales as her finger draws the trigger back. The slug strikes true, blood spraying in an arc as his arm tears away from his body. Zakia quickly reloads and fires two more shots. Hunters take note of the direction the shots come from and express enough caution to hide themselves.She switches the noise detection back on to listen for any movement. 

“That’s one impressive weapon!” Karga calls out, loud enough for her naked ears. A tinny echo of his voice crackles through the comlink. “I wonder who’s firing?” 

Zakia smirks and shakes her head. Karga can talk all he wants from behind the corner of a building, hiding from the barrel of her gun.

“Here’s what I’ll do.” Din’s voice is hard and leaves no room for argument. “I’m gonna walk to my ship with the kid and you’re gonna let it happen.”

“No. How about this? We take the kid and if you try to stop us, we kill you and we strip your body for parts.” Karga hollers back. “We’ll track down your mysterious sniper, too. Eventually.”

Zakia locks onto the hunter moving towards Din from behind the speeder. Just as the figure raises his blaster to shoot the Mandalorian, Zakia pulls the trigger and his head bursts into pieces. Din reacts to her shot instantly, lunging forward to fire at the growing group near his feet. Din eventually resorts to using the flamethrower in his gauntlet but it’s too easy for the lackeys surrounding him to duck out of the way. Out of options, the Mandalorian squishes himself down into the speeder. 

“Zak, I don’t have a way out,“ a soft coo from the child follows his words, and Zakia freezes with finger hovering over the trigger. “You’re going to run out soon.” 

“No! Din, you’re not allowed to give up now!” Zakia lines up another shot, one more skull shattering into the Nevarro street. Her throat tightens, and tears bite at her already burning eyes. 

Aim, shoot, reload, aim. 

Click. 

An empty cartridge clatters against the plaster roof.

“Zak, get out of here. Take the ship and go.” 

“Shut up, you moron. We just-” Zakia swallows, choking on her words. “We just figured this out. I won’t leave you here.”

“And I can’t leave another kid.” For the first time since they received the child’s bounty, her Mandalorian sounds sad. 

Hopeless.

“I love you, Djarin.” 

“And I-”

Zakia’s comlink falls from her hood as a massive projectile shoots overhead, effectively cutting off the conversation. She yelps as the canvas whips around and tumbles out of her hiding spot. Another blob whistles by the rooftop, and Zakia frantically scours the ground for her comlink. 

Eyes skyward, Zakia sees more and more figures drop into view. They all float midair, a familiar shape sending chills down her spine. Gunfire erupts in the plaza again, and hunters fly in all directions.

“The Covert.” She breathes.

Mandalorians of all shapes and sizes surround the bazaar. Some with jetpacks, and others with heavy repeating blasters, all fighting the same enemies as them. Facing so many elite warriors, half of Karga’s crew goes running. Others make foolish attempts to stand their ground. 

“Zak, if you can hear me, stay there. Someone is coming for you.” Din is running, she can tell by the strain in his voice, and it almost turns her lips into a smile.

“I will. You get the baby and get out of here!” Zakia switches off her com and swings the gun onto her shoulder. She observes the Mandalorians and their incredible power from her position, chest heaving. All the hunters are preoccupied with their new foes.

A bright streak of light shoots towards her, and Zakia staggers a step back as the source, a hulking figure that probably amounts to three of herself, lands on her rooftop. This Mandalorian is broad and tall, with heavy artillery guns melded into his armor. He surveys Zakia for a brief moment before tipping his head to the side.

“So you’re the one who’s stuck with Djarin.” 

Zakia senses humor beneath the mask and pulls her cowl down. 

“He’s more stuck with me, I think.” She hums, tilting her head to observe the battle. “But nonetheless, I can’t express my gratitude. Your Covert has saved us.”

“Foundlings are the future.” Her savior nods his head as Din has done a thousand times. “This is the Way.”

Zakia grips the rifle strap where it lays over her chest. “So, you’re here to save the damsel in distress then?” 

“Djarin asked me to bring you to safety. He’s getting the Razor Crest off the ground, and we’ll meet him in the air.” This Mandalorian, similar yet so different from Din, looks her up and down. “You don’t look much like a damsel, though.”

“Thanks. Do I at least get a name?” Zakia fishes for detail, stepping towards the hulking figure with more confidence than most would approach one of his culture. “If not, I get it.”

“Vizsla. Paz Vizsla. I ran with Djarin in the Fighting Corps.” An explosion rings out behind them, and they watch the hunters get pushed back in their direction. “But I must insist we get moving. I fear I will be stuck with Djarin the rest of my life if you are damaged.”

The sound of the Crest’s engines powering up is audible above all of the shooting. 

“I’d have to agree. Thank you.”

Paz only nods. “Keep your head down.”

Zakia braces herself as Paz pulls her into his massive chest, wrapping one heavily-armored arm around her waist. She folds her arms around his midsection, one hand twisting in his cloak and the other gripping his cuirass. 

“Is there a countdown, or-” Zakia’s own screech interrupts her sentence as Paz pushes off the ground. His jetpack’s heat radiates down her legs, and Zakia instinctively squirms in the Mandalorian’s hold until she can wrap them around his (which she likens to tree trunks). Zakia thinks she hears a chuckle underneath the helmet, which forces her to consider ending her embarrassment by letting go and just crashing to the bloody scuffle below.

“First time?” Paz calls over the roar.

Zakia looks up enough to convey her displeasure, and Paz laughs again. They fly for what seems like hours through Nevarro’s volcanic atmosphere until they catch up with the Razor Crest. The hatch slides open, forgoing the normal ramp and Paz propels them forward. He lands rather gracefully, and Zakia picks her head up from his shoulder to begin extracting herself from his body.

“That was terrifying.” She manages, loose pieces of hair astray and legs shaking. 

The Mandalorian- her Mandalorian- chooses that moment to clamber down the ladder. Paz locks visors with Din, and the larger steps back towards the door. 

“Ret'urcye mhi, vod.” [Goodbye, brother].

Din returns the sentiment, and the door seals shut behind Paz as he rockets out of the ship. The airlock blinks to life, confirming it’s good for ascent. Zakia tries to turn back towards Din but he saves her the trouble, arms snaking around her and pulling her into his solid body. She goes willingly, cold Beskar and hard points of weapons as a warm reassurance that he’s safe.

“I didn’t think I was getting out.” Din murmurs in her ear. 

“Don’t ever tell me to leave again, you hear me?” Zakia shakes him by the pauldrons, and Din chokes a laugh. They break apart moments later, the latter glancing at the ladder leading upstairs.

“Do you want to see him now?” Din asks, low and tentative like he’s afraid she’ll decline.

The child. In all the commotion, Zakia forgot about the little green creature.

“Yeah. “ Her heart thumps against her ribs all while a warm feeling curls itself into her stomach. “Yeah, I think I’d like that.”

Zakia follows Din up, and the Mandalorian takes his normal seat at the helm. Din switches the ship off auto-pilot and starts prepping for a jump to lightspeed. Zakia looks around and spots the child on the floor near Din’s chair. He strains towards the dash, pattering around the Mandalorian’s boots and fixated on something high above him. Zakia remembers the beast reaching for the knob on the acceleration level before and there’s no doubt the makeshift toy stuck with him as well. 

Unbeknownst to Din, tears leak from Zakia’s eyes when he frees the silver ball and drop it into the child’s waiting hand. The gesture is simple enough to mean nothing, but her heart jumps in her chest and she swallows back a sob. Zakia kneels, right hand coming to rest on Din’s knee as she lowers herself down near the baby. It looks at her and tilts its head, big ears twitching all about. 

“You’re sweet, but you caused a lot of trouble.”

Big brown eyes blink at her. The Child looks from the Mandalorian to her before offering up the toy he had just received. A small smile spreads across his tiny face, and Zakia’s heart flutters. She extends her hand to stroke a finger across its forehead. 

“I think we’re gonna get along real well.”

-

Thank you for reading, much love ❤️

PART VII: NEVARRO

Streaking through the safety of hyperspace, the Razor Crest’s occupants wander bleary-eyed into the hull.

Din tethers the child’s bassinet just outside the small living quarters, taking a brief second to ensure he’s still sleeping. Confirming the little green monster was indeed unconscious, Din hobbles into the cramped sleeping space. He hears the sad excuse of a shower running as Zakia finishes and takes the opportunity to remove his helmet. 

Nearly four whole days underneath his armor has left Din with matted hair and skin caked in dried sweat and grime. He still reeks of mudhorn despite getting rained on, and his armor is a lost cause completely, integrity shattered. Reaching up a hand, he rubs at his chin and grimaces. Growing facial hair has never been a talent, and the knowledge it was there makes his skin itch. Din’s body screams for sleep, though there’s no way he gets near the bed covered in such filth. 

Din replaces his helmet when the shower switches off. Wishes that he didn’t have to. He considers the real implications of Zakia walking in while it was off and being able to actually look her in the eye. So many years together, and he’s still faceless to her. 

Would the Mandalorians find out? 

Come for him if he tries to replace it? Though Din holds too much respect for the Creed to break it, he’s found loopholes to allow the closeness he shared with Zakia for so long. It’s the farthest thing from a conventional relationship, but undressing and sleeping in a pitch-black bunk was how they made do. 

Din can’t possibly count the hours Zakia has spent stroking fingers across his cheekbones and face, mapping it out in her mind. She asks him what color hair he has sometimes, even though she’s seen the spattering of dark body hair, and it burns him to leave it a mystery. It’s even worse when she talks about his eye.

He wants her to see him. Not a helmet.

He was inches away before all this. When she came back from the medical clinic while he was fueling the ship, eyes watery and a smile on her lips. Din mentioned removing it entirely when the baby was born, but things changed. 

And now, things are.... Different. Different since the day he carried her beaten body away from the flustered, apologizing healer on Felucia. Zakia had been unable to walk that day. Her blank stare and mute gestures are seared into Din’s brain.

 -

“Sir, she is severely wounded.”

Din paced outside a small stone door, boots wearing a path into the grass outside. A red-headed healer stood in front of him, wringing her hands together nervously. 

“She lost a child!” It had been a long time since Din had used such a tone, but his heart was beating out of his chest. Fear clawed at all five senses, and something else was creeping up his gullet. Something foreign and protective, wailing to be let out.

“I’m very sorry, Sir.” The healer was quivering slightly, but stood her ground. 

An impressive feat, considering the Mandalorian who was armed to the teeth and twice her height. 

“Let me see her.” Manda reached for the door handle, and the healer nodded. 

“Positives only. Her body is wounded, but her mind is in ribbons. Losing an unborn child can be incredibly difficult.” 

Din nodded, twisting the doorknob and nudging his way inside. The room was a soft peach color, with sheer drapes and a large bed against the center of one wall. There was a single figure curled up on the mattress. 

Zakia laid on top of the covers, knees pulled into her chest and arms holding them tightly. She was ungodly still, and Mando approached slowly. 

“Zak?” He murmured softly. Mando approached the bed, reaching one hand out to turn her onto her back. 

She had been dressed in a light purple gown, loose-fitting and comfortable. Mando could feel the bandages hidden beneath the fabric, and a pang of guilt hit him in the guts. Bruises littered her arms, but Mando was more concerned about her face. Zakia was fairly tan aside from her scar and smattering of freckles, but the skin Din saw was nothing of the like. 

Her face was pale and her skin was papery, lacking all of its normal flush. The icy blue of her eyes was dull, surrounded by red arteries and washed out by tears. One socket was bordered with the worst black eye he had ever seen. The straight line of her nose had been broken, reset by the healer who had bandaged it well but was unable to hide the yellowing of skin around it.

“Din.” Zakia’s voice almost broke him. 

Softer than when she had told him she was pregnant, and more damaged than when the Wookiee had scarred her. 

“I’m here.” He said, though his voice was barely there. The Mandalorian wasn’t even sure his modulator had picked up on the sound, but Zakia’s slight head tilt indicated she had. 

“Did you get him?” The question managed to catch him off guard. Mando’s heart skipped a beat, having expected to face the reality of their lost child as opposed to their intended bounty. 

“He’s dead.” Din swallowed. “All of them.”

Zakia dipped her head as best she could. “Good.”

Working up the courage, the Mandalorian sat on the edge of her bed and reached a hand to hold hers. “Zakia… the healer told me- she explained to me-”

“Don’t.” Zakia’s fingers tightened around hers, and water dripped from her eyes. “Please. I can’t- Din…” 

Her voice cracked as she uttered his name. Din pushed himself onto the bed further, encircling her within his arms carefully. His armor was uncomfortable beneath his arm, and the helmet was plain inconvenient, but nothing phased him except the shaking woman in his arms. Din collected her so he was on his side and Zakia was facing him. She buried her face into his cowl and her hands wrapped around the edges of his chestplate, gripping tightly onto the only thing she had left. 

-

“Everything okay?”

The Mandalorian jumps, whirling towards the refresher door. Zakia stands on the threshold, damp hair hanging, fighting gravity to shape itself into ringlets. She’s changed from her old clothes into a pair of sleeping shorts and one of his long sleeves made for the underside of his armor. 

“Yeah.” Din taps his helmet where a temple would be. “Just tired. Thinking.”

Zakia steps from the doorway, her fingers still busy rubbing a moisturizing salve onto her face. “What about?” 

“What did you and the Ugnaught talk about?” Din props a shoulder against the cockpit ladder. Crosses his boots at the ankles in an attempt to be casual. 

It’s not exactly what he’s been pondering, but he knows it is related. The Mandalorian begins methodically removing his armor while she shrugs.

“He asked me why the child had such an effect on me.”

A vambrace is set carefully in the cabinets he’d made for his armor, followed by a pauldron of the same side. “But that’s not all.”

Zakia sits on a moveable toolbox. “It wasn’t even that intimate of a conversation. I think he just made me realize the real reason I’ve been…” She trails off, a nervous hand coming to tug at her hair. “...Different.”

Din stops trying to pull away a broken cuisse. “Which is?”

“I’m scared.” Zakia’s arms fold over her chest in an awkward sort of self-embrace. “I think I’ve just been worried about losing you too and didn’t realize it? Losing the baby was kind of a reality call about hunting and… well, our life in general. But I was so lost in…”

Zakia points a finger and spins it around by her ear in the universal signal for ‘crazy’. She doesn’t seem to have any other explanation, though Din understands.

He sets the last of his armor to the side and makes his way to Zakia. Hair wet and legs bare, she looks more vulnerable than ever. Above the neckline of his shirt that swallows her, bruises still dot her skin.

“You are not going to lose me.” Din’s frees itself from the confines of a leather prison to clasp the juncture of her shoulder and neck. “Never.”

Zakia sniffles and reaches one hand up to cover his. Her eyes leak tears, and she holds his fingers tight. “I don’t think you understand how much I need you. Miss you. Miss us.”

“I think I do.” Din is almost completely sure she underestimates his reliance on her at this point. He lowers his voice as if someone could possibly hear it in the depths of space.

“I love you.” 

 Zakia is now all-out crying, something that Din normally hates. Something he would go on a rampage to remedy.

Today, he can deal with it. As long as her mismatched orbs keep looking up at him like they are now, he can take on anything.

“I love you too.” She grins, a flash of white against her reddened face. 

Din lets out a long, long breath. Pushes his helmet forward so it’s pressed into her temple and he can feel it sliding on the salve she just applied.

“Now go take a shower so I can lay down with you.” Zakia manages through her stilted breaths. “You smell like shit.”

-

They sleep for a long time. 

Three-quarters of the way to Nevarro, and all the way through Greef Karga’s transmission that instructs Mando to take the child directly to the Client. A glance back at the bassinet confirms said asset was still there. The waking of the Child is what ends Din and Zakia’s slumber, and it only relaxes when the bassinet is moved into the cockpit. Din pins it to the copilot seat with the tether chip and closes the lid, all while Zakia watches from a reasonable distance. 

She has a hip against the dashboard, watching Din pilot the ship through space since her normal seat is occupied by the quarry. 

“This is unfair.”

Din eyeballs the mercenary beside him. “It’s only until Nevarro.”

Stars rush by outside, and Zakia gazes at the balls of gas streaking by. “I’m gonna go down and find something to do.”

The Mandalorian is motionless up until she starts walking. His gloved hand snatches her leg just above the knee. Zakia startles and an undignified squawk bounces off the cockpit walls. 

“Mando!” She chastises, though a giggle fights its way out. He tugs her down until she sits sideways on his lap. Zakia’s thighs are warm on his, and Din shifts to keep comfortable. 

“The kid is in your spot.” Din says nonchalantly while he palms her hip. “I thought I’d share.”

“Well,” Zakia smirks and runs a hand down his chest, fingers finding their way between the waistband of his trousers and his tunic. She stopped there, turning back to his helmet. “I guess I can handle that.”

The Mandalorian lifts her slight weight easily, settling so her thighs are straddling his hips. Din’s hands run up her legs and follow the curves of her body. The leather gloves are cool when they slip beneath the waistband of her shorts and grope her ass. Zakia snickers at the enthusiasm and lets her hand travel further. 

Reintroducing themselves to each other, the two hunters take their time exploring. Din’s hands end up out of his gloves, and Zakia’s shorts ride up her hips. Her skin is covered with goosebumps, erupting with every trace of Din’s fingers. Neither had gotten fully dressed upon waking- Din replaced his gloves, but the Beskar still sits in the hull- and it makes for easy access. 

Until Zakia’s mouth makes contact with the bronze tan of Din’s neck, he doesn’t sense the presence beside them. He jerks at the flash of green to his right, and Zakia clambers off his lap out of pure instinct. The child ignores them both and hauls  itself onto the dashboard. He triumphantly touts the ball from the top of the acceleration lever in his grabby little mitten. It attempts to pop the item into its mouth, and Din finally regains his bearings enough to intervene. 

“It’s not a toy.” He takes the ball away and sets it near the lever. 

The Mandalorian lifts the child by its heavy robe to replace him in the bassinet and swivels back to Zakia. The Child coos at both of them and blinks with its big doe eyes. Zakia raises a single brow, mouth downturned.

“Mood killer.” 

The Mandalorian acknowledges her with a nod, but there’s no venom behind her words. He knows she’s trying to be impassive, but can’t miss the way her good eye softens whenever it lands on the green infant. 

“I’ll take him to the bazaar.” Din taps idly at the Navicomputer, locking in a landing position with ground control. “And we can leave right away.”

Zakia takes up her prior position of leaning on the controls. “I’ll go talk to Karga after I clean up here. See if he’ll give us half the usual pucks. Then we can have some time to ourselves.”

Upon touchdown on Nevarro they stick to the plan.

Mando departs before Zakia to turn in the Child. She watches them leave from the cockpit, her stomach twisting itself into knots as she thought about the Imps and what their plans were for the baby. 

The target, she corrects herself. 

And since it’s no longer in their care, she decides to not think about it anymore. It’s against Guild code to question their purpose anyway, and Zakia keeps the rule plastered on every wall in her mind as the weight of the child’s presence fades away.

Zakia repeats the cleaning routine she completed when they left Nevarro. She drops off their dirty laundry, sweeps out dirt, mops away mud stains and tidies up the arms cabinet. When it’s all done, she jogs back into town to grab the laundry and tosses it in its place. Din was planning on making a stop at the Mandalorian covert again, so Zakia’s not concerned about missing their rendezvous at Karga’s tavern. 

Freshly dressed and hair braided away from her face, she descends from the Crest and heads into the bazaar. 

Any suspicion she has about their job not being as low-key as advertised is confirmed as she takes in a palpable change in demeanor around other hunters. They stare in her direction, the normal hatred multiplied by a hundred fold. Her hands dangle over her blasters, and she wishes she had the same armor as Din. Zakia manages to ignore most of the intimidation and continues walking, not missing opportunities to throw venom-laced glares back at familiar competitors. She stops at a few booths to examine trinkets of all shapes and sizes, reinforcing her disinterest in their hatred, until the tavern is no longer avoidable.

If Zakia thought the hunters in the bazaar were the worst of it, she was deadwrong. The noise quiets, and the majority of people stop and watch her enter the catina. She scowls back, not at all hesitant to return the hostility. Fairly certain they are disinclined to approach her due to her relationship with the Mandalorian and her own reputation, she presses on. Greef Karga sips spotchka at his normal table and grins ear to ear.

“Zakia! A sight for sore eyes, you are.” They shake hands quickly, and Zakia sits across from him. Karga motions for the bar to bring another drink, and the alien behind the counter sets about his request. 

“That’s a first.” Zakia snarks and accepts the glass of spotchka delivered by a strange reptilian creature.

Karga chuckles at her attitude. “I see the mission hasn’t changed you much. Where is Mando, anyway?”

Zakia shrugs, still working on the drink. “He was delivering the asset to the Client. After that, my guess would be refueling and rationing. We had a run in with a clan of Jawas and I’m fairly certain they ate most of the food I’d just bought.” 

“Well I’m glad to hear it went well otherwise. But now’s your chance to celebrate!” Karga lowers his voice and leans close. “You know they all hate you both because you got it?”

“They already did.” Zakia waggles a finger at the gawkers with the same hand that holds her glass. “This won’t change anything.”

“More than normal, I mean. All of that reward- the Beskar and credits. They all wished for it. Hell, I got a commission for recommending Mando.” Karga shows her an ingot of Beskar hidden beneath his outer robe.

“Speaking of,” Zakia starts. She reclines back in the booth and kicks her feet up onto the table. Crosses them at her ankles. “Why wasn’t I included in that deal? You know Mando and I are partners.”

“I’m well aware, since it’s been… what, about a decade?” Karga considers. 

“Exactly. So why are you waiting for me to leave before making a deal? I don’t like that shit, Karga.” Zakia finishes her spotchka and nods to the strange bartender for another.

“I figured with your past, you’d want to stay as far away from this particular client as possible.” Karga raises his brow and jabs a finger at her. “And with such things, I’d rather let Mando loop you in himself… Maker knows he’d love to blame me if something happened to you.”

“He told me they were remnants of the Empire and looped me in,” Zakia confirms. “But my past-”

“You’ve accepted a lot of bounties from Republic sources, have you not? I hear you’re pretty good with a sniper rifle when it comes to emptying out old Imperial hideouts as well- even if you may not have known.” 

Karga’s hints do nothing for her. Zakia’s days of sniping were over as soon as her run in with the Wookie, and she wasn’t exactly picky when it came to well-funded jobs before the Guild.

Zakia frowns when she can’t pinpoint the issue Karga is trying to bring up. 

“My sniping jobs weren’t usually Guild sanctioned, so I didn’t ask a lot of questions. What are you talking about?”

Karga sighs. “I’ve known for a while, but don’t tell Mando that… I’m sure he’ll already be out to get me when he finds out.”

“Consider him managed. What are you talking about, Karga?”

“Do you recall accepting a job from a young woman on Coruscant?” Karga questions. 

Zakia blows a long breath out, errant strands of hair swaying in front of her face. Coruscant was a huge hub for picking up jobs and payment, especially those that were more clandestine.

“I’ve accepted a lot of jobs from a lot of people in a lot of places.” Zakia takes her refilled drink.

“This was before Mando. When you used to come here and fight other hunters for pucks to get in the Guild.” Greef supplies the extra information, and Zakia is thrown back to more than a decade prior.

“Okay. Coruscant… what was the job?”

“There was no bounty to be brought back. Everyone was to be killed. Reward was given in the form of Galactic Credits. A lot of them. Enough to buy a new space cruiser.” Karga raises his eyebrows in a silent question, and Zakia feels her stomach drop. 

“Wait, wait, wait. That was a hit? A political hit? I thought it was just local squabbles…” 

Zakia wracks her brain for details. Freezes when a cold wash of fear hits her. One dark blue eye zeroes in on Karga. Its milky twin leers, unfocused and off putting.

“How do you know all this?”

Of course she remembers the job after he supplied the time frame and credits. She had been looking for work, letting the mechanics of Coruscant fix her old cruiser. It was in a small Twi’lek brothel-turned-restaurant that the young woman approached her. She seemed meek and scared, but that was normal when someone wanted to remain anonymous from their hired mercenary. They paid someone else to relay the message. And this messenger had described a local gang conflict, not a post-war attack. 

“The Client who is searching for the child asked me if I knew of any mercenaries capable of it, and gave the details. Mando was my first thought, but I checked the logs, and he was on assignment for me. As well as all other snipers who I knew could have made six headshots at almost eight-hundred meters without one miss.” Karga waves a hand in her direction. “And that left you.”

Zakia swallows. Sniping is an art that demands focus and precision; before her injury at the hands of the Wookiee, she had been very, very good. Now, she has a hard time firing with her non-dominant side and rarely has the chance to get her hands on a good, solid rifle. Mando’s Amban disruptor is far from her weapon of choice. 

“So the Empire has a price on my head?” She says it around a mouthful of spotchka as if it would soften the blow.

“Not that I was told.” Karga tips his head to the side in thought. “Sounded much more like they were interested in your skill set.”

“You mentioned my name?” 

Karga scoffs into his glass. “I’m not suicidal! They didn’t offer a reward, and it wouldn’t be worth it for me to put you in danger, or on the Empire’s radar.”

“So you’re just gonna...” Zakia flaps her hand around in a vague gesture, “...keep it to yourself?”

“Unless it becomes necessary that I make it available, yes.”

Zakia’s feet sweep from the table to stomp back on the floor. The sound draws a few wandering eyes, but her snarl sends them packing. She turns the same one to their Guild boss. “Are you blackmailing me, Greef Karga?”

“Of course not. Just keep it in mind that someone else may know.”

Zakia glares, but the words circling her brain fade when a short bounty hunter, colloquially known to her  and many more as ‘Saucer Head’, makes his way to their table. He sputters in Huttese to Karga. Zakia only picks out a few words. It sounds like a bad attempt to justify a failed hunt. 

“You had your shot, dust breather, but you failed. No pucks for you. Now get outta here.” Karga barks at him. 

Zakia chuckles, watching the exchange with muted interest. It is always fun to watch the newbies. Saucer Head continues to argue back, to which the silvery-haired woman leans forward and prods his arm. 

“Hi. Yeah, down here. Why don’t you leave the hunting to the professionals, huh?” Zakia pokes fun at the man and smirks as he sulks away. Saucer Head grumbles as he traipses towards the far door. 

“We’re not going to get any new Guild members if you chase them away, Zakia.” Karga scolds her, though the humor in his tone says otherwise. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Zakia is faintly aware of the front door opening but fails to turn right away. “How are they supposed to be bounty hunters without a thick skin?”

Karga’s answer never comes since he’s too busy looking over her shoulder. She takes that moment to realize the tavern had in fact gone quiet. An unfamiliar flash of silver catches her eyes, which prompts her to turn towards the door. Her jaw drops open, and she whips back to Karga with her eyebrows furrowed. 

The Guild agent chuckles lowly when she does a double take, arctic eye lighting up as she recognizes the helmet and confident swagger. 

A Mandalorian- though incredibly fresh-looking compared hers from earlier that morning- stalks over to the table. Instead of the old maroon and brown durasteel, his entire armor set apart from a single cuisse is gleaming, silver Beskar.

Zakia points up at him, eyes still on Karga. 

“Is this my Mandalorian? He looks a lot… shinier than he did earlier.”

Zakia finally looks him from head to toe, able to appreciate the figure he cut. The Beskar shines in the tavern’s dim lights and his blasters are even updated. New explosive charges cling to his belt, and she thinks his cape might be a little longer now.

“Mando!” Karga cuts in to motion at the patrons surrounding them, who are all still quiet. “They all hate you, Mando. Because you’re a legend!”

Din is motionless, standing like a statue above their table. “How many of them had tracking fobs?” 

The extra fobs had slipped Zakia’s mind. So much had happened since they were ambushed in the canyon on Arvala-7 that the thought hadn’t occurred to her. Karga looks around, and his shoulders rise in a shrug. 

“All of them. All of them! But not one of them closed the deal. Only you two! And with it,” Karga smiled, “The richest reward this parsec has ever seen.”

Zakia finishes her glass, doing her best to ignore the thought of what exactly their bounty had been. A child. Her subconscious screams, but her face betrays nothing. 

“Please, sit, my friend.” Greef pats the table beside Zakia and she slides over in the booth to allow Mando room to sit. Her eyes lingered on the new armor covering his chest and arms, tongue tracing her teeth. The cuirass is perfectly fit for him, and both pauldrons match now. His helmet appears freshly cleaned, no longer marred by scum and dust from Arvala-7

With his rifle resting beside him, Din sidles into the booth beside Zakia. His hand finds her thigh beneath the table, and she hopes he took note of the expression on her face while admiring the Beskar. They settle at the table, and Din surprises Zakia by leaving his hand on her leg. Out of Karga’s sight, but still more affectionate than he had ever been in public. 

“They’re all weighing the Beskar in their minds.” Karga explains to him, “But not me. No. I, for one, celebrate your success. As I told your lovely partner, it is my success as well.”

“Oh, I’ve been promoted to lovely.” Zakia remarks, using a single finger to trace the rim of her empty glass. “He used to call me a pain in the ass.”

“Far from it. Now, how can I show my gratitude to my most valuable pair of hunters?”

-

PART VI: THE EGG

Dark, swirling clouds pelt them with rain most of the journey, and Zakia is grateful for Din’s water repellent cloak. His own clothing is water resistant but the same can’t be said for hers. Thankfully, the planet doesn’t have much moisture to circulate. By dawn, the precipitation subsides into mere humidity. A refreshed sun climbs the morning sky, drying Zakia’s damp hair and clothing. Her braids frizz anyway, and she pulls them out to pile her hair into a bun at her crown.

The child rests in his closed bassinet towards the rear of their convoy. Zakia and Din perch side by side on the wagon hitched behind Kuiil’s Blurrg. The Mandalorian’s disruptor rifle is at the ready, laying across his knees.Tension leeches from him into Zakia, though it’s directed at the tiny scavengers rather than her. 

Not to mention the lack of sleep between a jerky wagon and non-stop rain.

Fretful chattering reverberates from the Jawas encampment as Kuiil guides them closer. They aim strange, wide-barrel blasters in their direction, prompting Kuiil to turn to his guests. 

“They really don’t like you for some reason.”

Zakia snorts, nudging Mando with her leg. “That may be because he disintegrated some of them.”

Every step the Blurrg takes is echoed by increasingly distraught chattering.

“You need to drop your rifle.” Kuiil commands. 

“I’m a Mandalorian. Weapons are a part of my religion.” Din returns, fingers tightening around the chamber. Zakia squints to take stock of the furious creatures rallying at the mouth of the Sandcrawler.

“I don’t think they’re going to do anything if you keep it.” She decides. 

Din just continues watching the Jawa object as Kuiil attempts to greet them. 

“Zakia is correct.” The Ugnaught concurs. “You will not get your parts back.” 

After a pregnant pause, Din puts the rifle aside. “Fine.”

Zakia jumps from the small wagon, stretching her shoulders and stiff back. The child’s pram whooshes open, and he blinks away sleep . He pulls himself out of the bassinet and perches near the edge of the cart, the lip standing high to prevent him from moving any further. Zakia makes sure he stays put while she awaits Din’s departure from the wagon.

As soon as his boots make contact with the mud though, the Jawas protest again, pointing their weapons in Din’s direction and chattering angrily at the Ugnaught. Their guide faces the Mandalorian. 

“And the blaster.” Kuiil gestures to Din’s leg where the aforementioned weapon hangs. 

The Mandalorian glares for a moment before looking at Zakia and pointing- rather childishly- at her dual blasters. 

“What about hers?”

Kuiil translates his question to the creatures, who simply shrug and squeak a few words in return. Kuiil chuckles, a sound that captures the Mandalorian’s attention immediately.

“The lady didn’t try to shoot them. She may keep her weapons as long as they remain in the holsters.” The Ugnaught tosses a rather amused look in Din’s direction. There’s no elaborating, just a quick one-eighty and jaunt over to the camp.

A smile splits Zakia’s face, mischief swirling through her veins. She rounds the Mandalorian to stand directly in front of him and drag a hand down his thigh. Her fingers wrap around the grip of his blaster and pull. 

“Don’t worry, Mando.” She dislodges the blaster, looks at it coyly and tosses a wink towards his visor. “I’ll keep it safe.”

Din grumbles under his breath as she shoves the blaster into the waistband of her pants, covering it with the bottom of her tunic. Annoyance flares towards the Jawas, dampened by flourishing affection for his partner. 

He doesn’t have time to debate feeling any further now as Kuiil waves them forward, the Jawa having deemed him safe to approach. Din follows Zakia, allowing her to have the seat beside Kuiil. He sits cross-legged to her left and crams his long limbs into submission beneath him. Zakia shoves stubborn curls out of her face when they fall out of her bun and smiles at the Jawas. 

Kuiil cuts to the chase, pointing at Din’s helmet. “They will trade all the parts for the Beskar.”

Zakia rolls her eyes. Leans her weight back onto her hands, ready for an argument. 

“Here we go.”

“I’m not gonna trade anything. These are my parts.” Din growls. “They stole them from me.”

One Jawa, a bit taller and stockier, prattles at the trio, and Mando stutters out something in Jawaese that even Zakia can tell isn’t right. In lieu of getting involved she pulls her hair tie out to refasten her bun, only to be bombarded by tiny hands. She laughs aloud and rescues her silver curls away from their assailants. 

Mando swivels in their direction and hisses in broken Jawa again. Zakia lays a hand on his leg and shakes her head. “It’s fine.”

The Mandalorian relaxes fractionally and focuses back on the leader, who is giggling maniacally at his plight. It points at the warrior and more laughs erupt as it speaks. Zakia understands nothing but ‘Wookiee’, though she can tell it’s not nice. 

“You understand this?” Mando thrusts his arm forward and flames shoot forth from his gauntlet.  Zakia ducks for cover, a panicked noise akin to the Jawas’ passing between her clenched teeth.. 

“Woah! Easy, easy.” Kuiil grasps his arm, and Zakia springs up.

Their hooded friends all pop up slowly. Beady red eyes dart back and forth to check for a second assault. 

“Mando!”  Zakia scolds him while withholding a laugh at the childish action. “Do you want your parts back or not?”

He’s clearly exhausted, and it’s beginning to show. She keeps her hand resting firmly on Mando’s vambrace to prevent him from lifting it again. They wait, more patiently this time, as Kuiil jabbers back and forth with the scavengers. Their conversation pauses as the leader points behind them at the child, where two Jawas were poking at it. 

“Get away from it!” Mando snarls. The two offenders screech and take off, tripping over one another to get away. 

Kuiil ignores the ruckus to keep up the conversation, obviously trying to drive a fair bargain for them. 

“Mon Sue-kah!” They begin chanting. The phrase is repetitive, broken up by only a few other words. Kuiil facepalms comically, and Zakia leaned into Mando’s side. A Beskar helmet angles towards her.

“Mon Sue-kah, what’s that?” Her utterance sends them into a frenzy and her eyes widen at their crazed state. 

“The egg.” Din murmurs. He looks at Kuiil. “Egg? What egg?”

They only continue chanting. “Sue-kah! Sue-kah! Sue-kah!” 

Sans an explanation, they’re ushered into the Sandcrawler and up to the control room. Kuiil remains in the back talking shop with one of the crew members. Zakia and Din are directed to a spot near the windscreen with a front row seat as the massive ship traverses uneven terrain. The child floats on the far side of Din. He burbles happily in its bassinet whenever the Jawas poke at him curiously. Zakia, on her bottom with her legs criss-crossed, has some leeway between her head and the ceiling. The Mandalorian isn’t so lucky, crouched over and helmet taking a constant beating from the metal ceiling. Each time the metallic ‘BANG’ echoes through the cabin, he finds a new swear word to teach the Jawas.

“It could be worse.” Zakia offers. 

She doesn’t really know how, but she’s sure she could think of something. 

When her good eyes sticks to the Jawas gathering around the child, they take note. Another round of chanting starts.

“Sue-kah!” 

“The egg! Yes, I’ve heard.” Zakia dumps every ounce of enthusiasm she can muster into the words, provoking their excitement. The hooded thieves don’t understand a word, but her energy has them laughing and cheering.

A sudden bump sends Din’s head careening into the ceiling a little bit harder than usual. The entire room fills with high-pitched laughter. 

Zakia scratches a non-existent itch on her cheek and pats Din’s shoulder. 

“This is going to be a long day.”

Almost an hour later, the Sandcrawler draws to a halt. The two humans and their charge are herded down to the hatch where Din descends to the muddy ground below. The whole basin is sloppy from the rain, and Zakia wrinkles her nose at the smell of wet animal mixed in. 

Whatever creature’s egg the Jawas want, it stinks. 

“Great.” She dips a toe into the mud, but Din holds one hand in front of her.

“You’re not coming with me.”

Zakia is ninety-four and a half percent certain her head is going to shoot off her body. 

“Excuse me?” Even with her feet on the ramp and Din on the ground, she has to look up at him. “After everything we-”

“I’m not trying to-” Din waves off her argument, biting back a sigh. “-Listen, take my rifle up there and watch my back. Please.”

Zakia follows the slant of his visor, expert eye tracing raised ground outside the muddy crater. She chews on the inside of her cheek, trying not to be embarrassed about overreacting. 

“Hand it over.”

He does just that, pulling his bandolier off and hanging it around Zakia’s shoulders. The slugs settle comfortably on her shoulders, even when he yanks the strap tighter. One glove squeezes her shoulder.

“Be careful?” She says it under her breath while he’s slinging his Amban around her. 

Din only nods. Spins on his heel, off to face the nameless enemy. Zakia heads to the cliffside where they agreed upon. She scales it with relative ease and only slips a couple times. Fall risk diminished, she continues along the edge to scope out a good viewpoint.

“Alright, Din.” She says to no one in particular, “Let’s get in and out of here.”

Zakia pulls gravity stabilizers off the Mandalorian’s bandolier, setting two on the ground and two on the bottom of the rifle so it hovers above the ground and self-balances for the best shot. She adjusts the stock uncomfortably against her left shoulder and curses the custom weapon. Built to fit Din’s body and pauldrons, it makes her aim clunky and slow.

A few moments are spent fiddling with the optics and clarity- on her non-dominant side- before Zakia can locate Din in the scope. Already halfway across the circular clearing, the child’s bassinet lingers a few yards behind him. It remains across the muddy circle as Din proceeds to the den where the beast dwells. Zakia sweeps the scope from her armor-clad partner to the giant hole in the ground. Her heart thuds at the sight, and her fingers tighten around the trigger guard. This thing has to be massive to make a burrow of that magnitude. 

Once the Mandalorian disappears inside, Zakia holds her breath. There’s no noise, no roar.  She lifts her head to watch outside the scope. The child sits in the cradle, staring on just as intently. 

Then the firing starts. 

“Kriff.” 

Red flashes light up the shaded cave entrance. Zakia hunkers down as something launches out of the den and recognizes the shape to be Din after he hits the ground. He tumbles through the mud, layers of brown slop coating his armor and gear. Through the scope she sees his chestplate barely hanging on. Sparks fly from the severed connections underneath. 

“Get up, Din.” Zakia moves her crosshairs onto the cave entrance. 

The beast emerges slowly- starting with a large, ivory horn as long as Zakia is tall. Long, shaggy hair sprouts from a ridiculously muscular body that more than likely outweighs everyone on the planet combined. 

“A mudhorn? Seriously?” Zakia holds the rifle ready, using the sights to watch Din fumble with his blaster. He taps at the weapon, which she assumes is jammed by the mud he was volleyed into. 

The beast wastes no time charging again. It tosses Din across the clearing like a ragdoll. Zakia flinches and aims at the mudhorn, pulling the trigger on its leg. She frowns when it roars in pain, but doesn't disintegrate as she hoped. Zakia looks at the rifle, then to the bandolier around her. 

“Fuck. Really?” The slots for disruptor cartridges are empty, and only regular slugs remain. 

Which will barely penetrate the mudhorn’s skin from this distance. 

Zakia growls and reloads. Looks down on the battle beneath her. The baby has been thrust across the clearing, and the mudhorn is pulling itself out of a heap near a muddy slope. Whirling back to Din’s direction, it stomps its foot in the soupy ground as a warming. Zakia is aiming at the beast’s neck this time, pulling the trigger and watching the animal recoil sharply. 

Unfortunately, her attempt to slow it down only serves to piss it off. It charges Din, dipping its head down and using it to flatten the Mandalorian into the mud. Zakia bites her lip to keep from crying out, thankful to see the flamethrower spit out from Din’s gauntlet. The fire deters the mudhorn for a few seconds, but ends up for naught as the fuel sputters out. 

Zakia has a strong urge to abandon her post and join her partner, but she knows it won’t do them any good while Din’s still getting beaten to a pulp by the beast. She considers it only a millisecond longer, until a grappling hook shoots from the Mandalorian’s vambrace to loop around the mudhorn’s head. Furious, the mudhorn flings him around the clearing. Zakia can see Din’s futile attempts to gain footing until the cable snaps and he goes airborne from the sudden release of tension.

“Dammit!” Zakia slams her fist to the ground in frustration.

She squints through the sights with her left eye, firing off two shots as the beast paces. Din lays unmoving near the mouth of the cave, the only sign of life his heat signature in the rifle scope.

At the very least, her shooting seems to rouse him. Din staggers to his feet, his armor hanging useless from its fasteners. He reaches for the only remaining weapon, which happens to be a vibroknife, and holds it before him. Zakia goes still while looking over the scope. 

There’s no chance.

“Mando, get out!” She calls, waving her arm in the direction they’d come.

His helmet inclines slightly at her command, but he doesn’t budge. The beast charges, coming at Mando full speed once again. Zakia scrambles to her knees and grabs the rifle and stabilizers. Her boots are sliding down the cliff when a roar reaches her ears. Zakia whips back towards the fight, knees scraping against the rocks. 

“What the fuck?” 

Zakia’s seen a lot in her time traveling the galaxy, but this tops it all. 

In fact, she’s so stunned that she double checks what she’s seeing through the gun scope. 

Hovering a body’s width above the ground and legs moving as if it was still obeying the laws of gravity, the mudhorn floats. 

Zakia has to remind herself to breathe, and she rushes back to her position to get a bead on the creature. Din’s standing now and his head rotates to the bassinet. Zakia follows his eyeline with the scope, heart skipping as she sees the child. She dials in the zoom until it takes away the blue. The child teeters precariously near the edge of the cradle, one arm outstretched in the direction of the mudhorn. Zakia swings the sights back and forth between the mudhorn and the child. 

He’s protecting Din?

The animal flails about in the air for several more moments before crashing down at the same time the child drops back into its bassinet. Disoriented and unable to stand, the mudhorn stumbles around. Zakia takes its stillness to her advantage and switches to a closer magnification. The crosshairs slow to a halt on the mudhorn’s eye, and she exhales as she pulls the trigger.

Her shot destroys the quiet that had settled after the child’s actions. Din deflates when the mudhorn goes limp, and throws a thankful hand in Zakia’s direction. Just for good measure, he thrusts the vibroknife into its neck and twists. 

It’s probably unnecessary.

But not unwarranted.

 Zakia clambers to her knees. She tosses the Amban over her shoulder, picks up her gear and smiles before sliding down the muddy embankment. Din is slouched over when she makes it to him, worrying Zakia that he’s going to keel over in the mud 

“Mando!” Zakia ignores the mud. She shoves her body beneath his shoulder, and his weight instantly falls into her. 

“T-The kid…” He manages, pointing towards the bassinet. His gauntlets are also broken, she notices. Between the Blurrg’s teeth and his smackdown with the mudhorn, Zakia is pretty certain he’s on track for a whole new set of armor.

She ignores the damage for now. “I saw what he did.” 

Despite its recent tribulations, the child sleeps fitfully in the cradle, and remains that way even after the duo fetches the disgusting, hair-covered egg for the Jawas. Din leans heavily on Zakia as they trudge through the deep mud but does better supporting himself once they make it back onto solid ground. He takes a moment to crush his chestplate back into a manageable position and taps at his battered vambraces. The tethered cradle floats behind them eerily, and the strange aura surrounding the group remands them all to silence.

“What is that thing?” Zakia finally inquires for Din’s opinion.  

He’s about to explain to her what a mudhorn is when she instead nods to the cradle.

“I don’t know. But it’s powerful.” 

His voice is strained. Zakia makes the executive decision that when they return their parts to the skeleton of the Razor Crest, the Mandalorian is required to take a long nap before any repairs start.

Hoping to get him there faster, Zakia urges them on. They top the hill where the Sandcrawler was parked just as the back hatch is lifting. Kuiil remains outside, yelling excitedly to the Jawas that had been preparing to leave. 

“Mando! Zakia!”

Mando, egg under one arm and Zakia supporting the other, heaves a breath. 

“I have it. I’ve got the egg.” 

The Jawas ran down the hatch, swarming around them to grasp at the egg. Some prod at Zakia again, searching for her blonde curls which fascinated them earlier. She chuckles as Mando relinquishes the egg and rounds on them.

“Watch it.” The Mandalorian half-heartedly barks, arm sliding from Zakia’s shoulder to her waist to save her from tiny grabbing hands.  He tugs her close despite the ache creeping into his bones.

This time, the Jawas don’t react to his hostility, too busy fussing over the egg as their leader lifted it above his head. 

“Sue-kah!” 

They all rally around the egg, and Zakia hums. “You think they’ll raise it? It’d make a hell of a guard animal.”

The Mandalorian is impatient to get his parts back, but not so much so that he doesn’t allow them their prize. “I guess we’re going to find out.”

The Jawa calling the shots hands the egg off, and withdraws a small machete. It swings sharply, slicing the top from the egg. 

“Oh.” Zakia wrinkles her nose as the same Jawa dips a hand in and tastes the yellow yolk. “Gross.”

All the Jawas participated, pushing and shoving for a taste. Din pulls himself and Zakia to safety, shaking his head. Zakia gags. A hip bumps into hers.

“I don’t think they’re raising it.”

Zakia is still swallowing the taste of bile. 

“You don’t say.”

Until they are out of earshot from any wandering Jawas, their journey back to Kuiil’s is quiet. A tower of parts are stacked on the wagon, plus Din and Zakia. The child sleeps on, the bassinet floating along beside them. 

Din explains to Kuiil what happened during the battle with the mudhorn, and the Ugnaught seems strangely interested in the occurrence. They all are, but Kuiil especially. 

“Is it still sleeping?”

“Yes.” Zakia calls back, sparing Din the effort. 

She’s perched on a crate while Din uses it as a backrest. His helmet tips forward, and a gloved hand grips the edge of the cradle to give it a soft shake.

The Ugnaught pushes on with his questions. “Was it injured?”

The Mandalorian shifts so one knee is bent and he rests his elbow upon it. “I don’t think so. Not physically.”

Kuiil steals a glance back at his guests. 

“Tell me what happened again. I still don’t understand.” 

“Neither do I.”

Zakia looks down at her partner, whose head bobs about on his shoulders. It comes to a rest against her calf, air hissing out from under his helmet. She switches from him to the Ugnaught, trying to find the words to describe what happened so Din can sleep.

-

In spite of a testy disagreement about how long it would take to fix the damage done to the Razor Crest, Kuiil and Din work tirelessly to repair it. Between Din’s knowledge of his own ship and Kuiil’s mechanical skills, it progresses quickly. 

Zakia takes the available time to observe their bounty since she’s next to useless when it comes to anything mechanical. The child sleeps on, eyes remaining shut throughout the pounding and welding from the ship. She wrings her fingers as she stands over the cradle, blue eye scanning over the baby. It’s adorable, there was no denying that. Its big eyes give it an outstanding childish appearance, even in sleep. The ears multiply its cute factor, accenting just how small he actually is. 

Two fingers reach out and brush down an ear. Zakia bites her lip, trying to resist the urge to pull back like she was burned. But what could she hold against this thing, other than the price on its head?

It had levitated the mudhorn. 

And, by doing so, gave her the opportunity to lay down a fatal shot on it.

Furthermore, self-preservation played no factor in his actions- the child did it to protect Din. Zakia chews on her lip, ignoring the already torn apart flesh that stings as she continues her habit. She can’t hate something that saved the Mandalorian. It doesn’t seem to be evil, but it is a target. A bounty. 

As if sensing her discomfort, the baby’s face scrunches together. It whines in its sleep and Zakia sucks in a deep breath. On her own accord this time, she extends a hand to hold over its abdomen and soothe the dreams away.

“Sh, sh. It’s alright, no one’s gonna hurt you.”

Zakia continues to coax the child away from its nightmares, hoping whatever is waiting for it on Nevarro isn’t much worse.

-